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‘Larn’
Thirty
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The sinewy man placed the bloody chunk of meat on the washed flat stone and worked at it diligently. The razor thin blade removing the skin first and then the fats. He threw the first away, a simple toss that sent the flapping pieces into the small river that hugged the base of Forestfort from the northeast. The latter, he turned to thin white strips before patiently inserting them one at a time into a vial using a small tong. The man placed everything inside his leather bag after he finished.
Washed his hands using water from the river, paused to listen for anything other than night predators moving about in the forest and satisfied nothing did he sat down, sharp blade again in his hand. Working without rushing he proceeded to cut the clean meat into smaller pieces. Long pale fingers danced not alike an artist’s, turning it this way and that, and creating identical small cubes, which he put aside on the rock to count later.
The count gave him the number thirty. He filed it away in his brain, a glimpse of future or past, the man didn’t yet know. The meat cubes themselves he placed into a separate small bag filled with salt crystals to cure.
All but one.
Walking lightly, soft leather boots making no sound on the muddy terrain, he reached the river bank and kneeled to clean his blade. He’d need to use the whetstone on it before the morning. Do it now, the man urged himself on the return trip to his indistinct campsite. And I’ll give you a treat.
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He played the numbers game for a while. Thirty times, thumb pushing the short blade’s spine easily on the wet surface, then pulling it back. And again. There was no hurry. When he finished, whetstone and the now wrapped in cloth blade went into his leather bag, in that order. Placed the bag next to the spot he’d cleared before the sun went down, on the left side of the cut stick he’d pushed into soft ground to use as coat rack for his black cloak.
The other side was still occupied by the dead man.
The corpse had started turning, the humidity not helping in that department, but it wouldn’t smell bad until the morning. He placed the fresh still bloody cube in his mouth, left it for a while on his tongue. A rare delicacy, forcing a smile on his thin lips.
Always keep the promises, you make to yourself.
With moderation.
The first bite was orgasmic almost.
Five minutes later a smile still on his face, the man went to get the axe from his horse.
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He had finished washing up his face and mouth, cleaning his clothes and site, even placing the fake tracks, before the sounds of hoofs announced the arrival of a visitor from the castle. Its walls now completely hidden by darkness and the overgrowth, but there, not a hundred meters from the last tree trunk of the grove. Taking a deep breath, the man read the stars above his head for a moment, before turning to the southwest to offer prayer to Oras for the finished job.
The light from the torch hurt his eyes.
“Didn’t see ye there,” The Issir said. “There was some problem with the guy that came asking for you."
He nodded taking a couple of steps back to let his vision adjust. It was a stupid mistake, he thought, unhappy with his oversight. The man seemed to understand and jumping down he approached the site, keeping the torch away. Almost dropped it with a curse, when it revealed the now headless corpse, a small surprise since you’d expect a man working in the kitchens to be accustomed to the sight of blood.
“What… is this him?” He gasped before catching himself, a sleeve before his mouth. “When I heard he went missing, I thought he run away. This… who would do this?”
The visitor turned to look at him, saw the intensity in his eyes and almost panicked. Greed and ignorance stilled his spine.
“He didn’t even know your name,” The man said, trying to control the pitch in his voice. “It was gibberish what he said. You’ve known me twenty years Larn,” He stared at the corpse again, this time more carefully. “That’s brutal,” Even stooped over to pour more light on it. “There’s a clean cut on his thigh—”
Larn sighed. “Animals.”
The man turned to look at him. “Haven’t seen—”
“It’s the middle of the night,” Larn explained, taking him by the shoulder to lead him away. “Didn’t you see he was also missing an arm?”
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He tried to look back but Larn kept guiding him to his horse. “Nay. You mean except the head…”
“You’re in shock,” Larn said stopping before his mount. “It’s easy to miss things.”
“Aye, ye may be right,” The man replied scrunching his face. “Did you know him?”
A child of the Guild.
“Heard he was a wanted criminal,” Larn said instead.
“He was? What did he do?”
“Tried to murder Lord Nattas.”
“You don’t say. Wait… who is Lord Nattas?” The man asked.
Larn gave him a piece of paper and a purse heavy with coins. “These were on him.”
“Huh,” The man grinned. “What’s the paper for?”
“The name. In case you forget.”
“Clever,” He put the purse inside his tunic and after a small hesitation the small piece of paper too. “I’ve a couple of messages to give ya. Last one arrived as I was leavin’.”
It took him a couple of minutes to locate the small scrolls in one of his horse’s saddles, either still shocked from seeing the corpse or unsure whether he should return all the coin in that purse. It didn’t make a lick of difference. News would get out.
It was a warning.
Don’t cause waves child.
“There it is then,” The man said, quite relieved their meeting had come to an end. “Better head back and start the fire. I can keep some breakfast for you.”
“Hmm,” Larn replied trying to read the first missive on the light of the torch and failing. Better to use his oil lamp later, he decided. “What was the gibberish?”
It took a good moment, for the man to answer. Much as he could.
That, or he was inwardly cursing himself for offering to feed him.
“Dur… esket… bah, I just can’t make the words. Swear I had it ‘fore. Kept repeatin’ them… not to forget. Darn it.”
Dar Eherdir.
“I’ve written it down.”
The man looked up. “Aye, maybe I’ll find—”
“The Lord’s name. On that paper I gave you,” Larn explained patiently. “So you don’t forget it as well. If you do, just show them the paper.”
Get the message out.
“Aye. What about the other? Don’t I need to write that down too?” The man asked, all happy to be of service now that the ‘matter’ of the coins was relegated to ‘not as important’.
“No you don’t,” Larn said simply, ending the meeting.
You’ll just know.
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Forestfort was built on a very important junction, where the aptly named big river coming from Granlake petered out into the marshy, almost impassable terrain, of the great Greenforest. A wetland birthed between the rivers and the big lake one needed to cross on sturdy and paved royal road, or forfeit the journey. A kilometer from the imposing castle the road from Riverdor turned to the west and split in two. One continued towards Scaldingport and the other headed towards the bridge over the Mudriver and from there to Issir’s Eagle.
If one avoided that turn and continued southwards, he entered the Kingdom of Regia and its first coastal stop, the vaunted Sabertooth Castle that guarded the road to Aldenport. In other words, if that person –let’s say currently in Riverdor- wanted to get out of the continent in a hurry, because he feared an ambush from well-informed bandits, then he was in a conundrum. The roads towards the bigger ports were well known. Also well patrolled by royal troops, but this helps only assuming bandits is your problem.
Not a comfortable position to be in. Unless you attempted a mad-dash towards the abandoned coast between the two kingdoms. The fourth option. While regarded a breadbasket, Alden coast was extremely dry when water was not present. A desert almost. Bombarded by the scalding winds coming from the sea with the well-deserved name, it couldn’t be helped. The road always follows the water, Larn thought letting the dry and salty breeze rap his face.
Unless you task the Legion’s engineers with building one anyway.
No Legion here, Larn decided taking in the shade-less terrain. But for the huge, weather beaten boulders sprouting out closer to the shore. It would have to do, he decided and clicked his tongue to move his equally wretched from journey mount that way.
Three days of travel without stopping would kill a Lorian or Issirian horse, but his Dar was a rare breed from a faraway land, a gift from a Prince that thought he’d married a demigoddess. Larn scoffed at the vanity of all beings.
But had enough sense to keep his thoughts to himself.
Most of the times.
He picked the shaded part of the biggest boulder, jumped down to secure Dar and relaxed in the tolerable cover to count the numbers, just as he was taught in the Circle.
Thirty cubes of cured flesh, minus one.
Thirty arrows in a quiver, minus two if made of Wyvern’s bone.
Thirty days in a month; not for this, but the one before it.
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Hours later Dar snorted irritated sensing a mare’s scent and Larn opened his silver colored eyes. There she is, he thought, calmly walking around the opposite side of the boulder than the one she led her horse towards. Stopping when she arrived to his spot.
“Master, I’m tired,” Selussa complained, voice hoarse from the road. “And I bring troubling news.”
“Death comes for the weary,” Larn told her in the horselords tongue, standing right behind her. “Same as for those ferrying news,” Selussa let out a sigh and jumped off her horse. Seeing her taut face, Larn opened his arms and she walked right in them for a tight hug. “Whatever these news may be,” he whispered in her ring covered ear.
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