Through the cover of the night a shape came staggering, tired, blinded by the curtain of falling snow. Horse guided by its reins, useless in the raging storm. Made little difference in the end.
He squinted, eyes little more than slits, with ice flocking his vision. Blotched white obscuring the outstretched black. Can’t see shit.
A sheep bleared in the distance. Art flinched at that, surprised he heard it in the first place with the roaring ‘round his ears. His lips formed a shaky smile. Can’t fool a tyran’s ears.
He waited, hunched and with his coat around his neck. Felt his rough beard prickle, the horse nudging impatiently, the snow clinging to his already frozen face. Where?
He swiveled his head. Right, then left and right again. The snow never relenting. Always there to clutter his eyes, block his ears, stuff his nose. It laid so thick there was no telling where the road led. If there was a road at all.
The animal screamed again, careless, hungry. Art’s grin grew a little wider, his grip on the reins - tighter. There you are.
He turned to his right and walked past the carefree trees, idly pilling snow atop. The forest split, and light spilled through. Dim and blurry through the snowfall. But it was there. A town.
---
Bored. It was the only way Cos could describe his current self. After all, his company were trapped in what could only be called a run-down village. The inn, little more than a hovel really, was small and cramped. Or at least it appeared so, with travelers all crowded inside. And most of the band was even staying in farms and barns. Really, only his family was claiming the inn. Them, and some other travelers.
His eyes panned around, dully, at the gathering, just as he had done some hundred times already. Wrapped in white, yet stained with mud, sat a priest of the goddess Solis. His advice and prayers had run dry some days ago, when no one bothered looking his way whenever he started blabbering on about Almighty this, righteous that. Now, he just sat in a corner, hunched over his ale, gathering dust.
Two farmers had decided to spend about the last of their sum on watered-down beer, and were holding the mugs in their hardened hands, savoring every drop as if it was God’s finest nectar.
Next to them sat a fiddler, leisurely plinging away at his lute, birthing only lousy, broken tunes. His traveling coat well-worn and draped loosely around his sharp shoulders. He had given up on entertaining anyone when he realized there was no coin to be found. Not here, in this corner of the world.
Cos didn’t know why, but the people here were rock bottom poor. They had homes, and fields, and livestock and grain. Yet, the money seemed to seep between their fingers. To the mud, and then? Cos didn’t know. Didn’t care much either. Not anymore. Being hovelled-up inside a creaking excuse of an inn does that, after a while.
“And wherever his mightiest o’ wings blocked the scorchin’ sun, a roar, so terribly loud and frightening that even the bravest o’ knights a stood trembling in their bright suits ‘o armor, would be the only thing heard for miles o’ end!” Cos looked at his little sister, staring wide eyed at the Teller of Things, and was happy to know at least she hadn’t suffered under the monotonous tedium of their situation.
Cos’s eyes wandered over the bearded man, telling one of his many tales. This one with the same vigor and interest as the last, and the one before, and the one before that. Syn taking in every word, any gesture, all the miraculous victories and heart-tearing defeats. With eyes wide and observing a world full of wonder. She had always liked her stories.
Cos looked at the Teller, and his road-worn clothing riddled with holes and tears. He was stitching them together as he told story after story. Thick fingers struggling with fine needles and rough cord. There was some entertainment to be had, besides his tales after all, Cos thought.
“His speed so great it be warpin’ the very clouds through which he soared!” His Verkath accent laid thick on his words, but Syn didn’t appear to have trouble making out what he said.
“And how strong was this dragon?” Cos asked, slightly mocking, somewhat challenging. He had heard this story before, hundreds of times. By Tellers from here and far, and in books from even further. So, it was safe to say there was little for him to learn here.
“How strong!?” The teller asked, befuddled, round-eyed, his grey hair messy and greasy. Wild. Just as his eyes at that instant. Awfully wild and so very, very deep. Sunken way beyond anything. And Cos was suddenly scared, then. Scared of what lurked behind that faint shimmer of anger. Beneath those layers and layers of endless knowledge and knowing. He regretted his arrogance. Kindness to a Teller is doubly repaid, offence thrice, as was known.
The Teller scoffed, and the pressure was gone.
“Well, there be no records o’ his fightin’ prowess. But I be reckoning it to beyond any mortals knowin’.” He leaned back in his chair and the old wood groaned. The Teller scratched his cheek, flakes of skin peeling off like paper.
“How long has he been alive? The Silver Dragon?” Syn was sat on the wooden boarded floor. Legs crossed, eagerly leaning forward. Staring hard at the Teller. Drowning him in her eyes of endless emerald.
Cos knew there was a correlation to be found between age and power in many stories and legends, and it wasn’t far from the truth. The longer one lives, the greater the knowledge he can gather. And it is well known that power is birthed from knowledge, as the strongest mages and swordsman could count well on their years. Cos wondered how many ages the Teller had seen…
“Hmmm…-” The wrinkled man pondered for a spell, rocking his jaded chair back and forth.
“Long before us, little lass. Long before the wicked, too, I reckon.” His eyes grew all distant. Peering at the low ceiling, or what laid beyond.
“Long before the age of glass, and the eon of ash. Perhaps even before any gods be settin’ a foot on this land…” There was an interesting thought, Cos found. Very unorthodox, as most would say there was nothing before the Almighty.
“Before the All-powerful, Almighty, eternally wise and all-knowing Solis, there was nothing and no one!” screeched the priest, drunk on ale or boredom. Perhaps both.
The farmers, right next to him, recoiled at the sudden outburst, but remained quiet otherwise. Seemingly having no want for conflict left inside of them.
The man clad in stained white raised himself from his crooked chair and grabbed his amulet tight. Fingers whitening from the stress of it.
“Solis, holy in her name, was the shaper and architect of this land and all of which surrounding it! So it was written in the seven books of gospel! So it be told and so it be done!” The priest’s face was red with rage or alcohol, and his teeth bared like a rabbit dog.
“Calm down. I be meaning no offence,” said the Teller, raising the palms of his hands in a sign of peace, “only tellin’ the tale as it ought to be told – as it were told to me.” But there was no quiver to his voice, no doubt or worry. His hands weren’t shaking, and his lashes weren’t batting.
“As it were told to you!? AS IT WERE TOLD TO YOU!?” The priest took a wobbly step forward while pointing an accusing, trembling finger towards the Teller. Another stirred in the far-right corner of the room.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
“Will you just shut up, for the love of God!” The fiddler growled, setting aside his instrument. “The staleness is enough to kill a man, but you might just do me in completely, with al that blabbering about your stupid God!” The man moved his table aside, getting up from his seat. Eyes flaring, fingers twitching.
“YOU DARE!? YOU DARE SPEA-” The priest grabbed for his blade, and the fiddler reached inside the folds of his coat. Cos moved to protect his sister, and the unwanted bystanders prepared to make way.
But before the farmers could lurch aside, and chaos could ensue, the inn’s door slammed open, letting the raging storm blast its icy wind through the room. And all within sobered. Cos knew, just as the priest, and the fiddler, and all others gathered – you don’t make a scene with a Tyran around.
---
The tavern looked a broke-down hovel from the outside and a step indoors revealed no grand deception. A sorry tongue of fire squirmed inside a hearth blackened far past the point of rescue, a sour fragrance of wood-smoke and damp and rank bodies unknown to soup wafted through.
The counter was little more than a slab of old wood, full of splits and cracks, polished by years of elbow and warped in the middle, where the keep stood, wiping away at his cups with and old rag that ought to represent a towel.
Narrow and low, and too cramped for Art’s liking. But what can you expect on a night like this? With the weather as it is…
The door shut with a bang, and the whole place shook with it. The people within all bloodlessly pale. Some cowering, some sitting, some standing. Surprised, frightened, impassive, curious – an expression to dress each face. Am I interrupting something here? Don’t mean to be rude.
Those who stood quickly sat back down, and those sitting shifted uncomfortably. The usual response, I see. Can’t say I’m surprised.
Art eyed the gathering, his face hard and leer harder. Every person he set his scowl on looked away, except for three. An old man, who seemed aged way past reckoning, yet holding himself with a strange feeling of danger. Art felt something tingling, and scowled some more. A Teller, huh? Here to weave some tales? Sure, I’ll give ye one. You can call it: bloodthirsty Tyran butchers pitiful town. How’d the crowd like that ‘o one?
But the Teller didn’t budge. Art even had the feeling the old fart was smirking slightly. Hard to tell with that thick grey beard.
He noticed two pair ‘o eyes looking at him. One pair dark brown, the other a bewitching green. The former was a young man, placing himself between himself and the latter. Half crouched, half sitting. His hand suspiciously close to the blade, hidden underneath his woolen tunic. But there’s no hiding from me. And even then, what would you do?
Art’s eyebrow rose. A challenge. The boy seemed to calm down, his fingers first forming a fist, then relaxing again. Smart.
But the girl, however. She seemed fascinated by him. Art felt himself being analyzed, as if he were a piece of art, or perhaps a book. Or an animal.
This time it was Art who looked away. No sense or pride in scaring a little girl. Even if it is irritable.
He walked for the Keep, fatigued weighing on his strides, the floor boards complaining with every step. Everyone’s attention was focused on him, how he moved, where he looked. The heavy blade dangling from my waist. Silver, try and take it, if you like.
He shrugged the sodden coat from his shoulders, let it drop on the counter with a splat. To say the Keep looked worried would be an understatement.
“What can I do for you, Master Tyran?” The man asked politely, nervously twisting the cloth ‘round his dented cup. Art found the man oddly on edge, even for his standards.
Art grabbed in his coin purse, safely tucked inside his banded armor, heard the metal tinkle and clatter, retrieved two crowns and pressed them onto the wood between himself and the Keep.
“I’ll take two baskets of dried meat and hardened sausages, and another one of cheese as well,” He watched beads of sweat trickle down the man’s face. Strangely tense, even borderline hysterical, if you ask me… But who does? It is generally I who askes the questions.
“I’ll have some meat right now, and ale to go with that. A room, too, if you don’t mind.” The Tyran looked through his furrowing brows, saw the Keep’s eyes flitting around. Why? What’s there to worry about? Got something to hide?
“S’cuse us, Master Tyran. We ain’t got no rooms left.” Art looked at the stairs where a freckled girl was stood, dressed in a barmaid’s dressing. He raised an eyebrow.
“No more room left for old me?” He posed, slowly turning to face her. And with every second that passed the girl seemed to shrink more and more, trying to hide in the shadows that their puny fire left.
“forgive her master Tyran!” The Keep interjected, “she’s mistaken! We’ve got another room left. ‘T aint much for ye, but I reckon it be a better fit than a barn, or rather…” His mind trailed off and his voice grew quieter under Art’s gaze. What is it with these people?
“I’ll take that, then, no point in making an issue of this…” Art said, “I take it the lass can lead me to my room? And have her bring me the food as well.”
“Yes, understood, Master Tyran. It will be done as you said.” He slid the crowns inside his apron and retrieved a couple of pigs and iron bits as change. Art did some quick math in his head and came to the unsurprising conclusion that the food was expensive as Acrean silk. Little shock considering the weather and winter. But it was frustrating none the less.
Art sighed wearily, grabbed the coins and his coat, turned and made for the stairs when an eager voice stopped him.
“Is it true that all Tyran have bones made from crystals?” Art pivoted slowly until he was once again staring in mirrors of lively green. The girl was looking at him as if he were the only person in the room. Clear green eyes and a pure skin encased in the darkest hair he had ever seen. So dark it seemed to swallow the light around. Breathtaking, was what it was. Even for me.
“Syn! What are you thinking? You can’t just ask-” The boy started interjecting.
“Yes, that is correct,” Art said, shutting the boy up. “Once we are fully formed, that is, power dwells inside our crystal bones and abide to our kaude.”
Art peered at the Teller from the corner of his vision, but the man seemed impassive. Wasn’t even looking, just moving his hands back and forth, stitching together what was left of his ragged clothing. But Art guessed the man would be listening. They always do. Trying to gather what little knowledge remained unknown. Thinking they can catch up with her. Fools.
The girl lit up, shifted her weight, and leaned closer.
“Do you…-” She started, but Art had already turned and started to leave. He wasn’t going to spill anymore beans. Trade secrets were meant to be kept.
The stairs protested underneath his weight, and dust fell as he ascended, following the lass towards his room. And by the Gods did he crave a decent night’s sleep.
“Like I’m telling ya, we aint got no food left to give ya!” Briar said, cursing his own fate. Why? Why him of all people?
His neck was strained from looking up towards the looming savage. By the Seven, he had heard tales about giants, but this man was even bigger than that.
“We ain’t askin’,” The savage-looking man next to him barked, “We simply sayin’ we gon’ take some. And that’s that. you can choose, either fight and die, or stand aside and live,” he flashed a bestial grin, “T is all the same to me.”
His guts were all tied up, his throat so very dry. There was no bargaining with these brutes. So, fight them? Briar shook his head at the mere thought of it. There were at least twenty of em’. Well-armed, and with a lot more fight in ‘em then him. What could he do ‘bout it now?
The giant shook his head, crossed his burly arms.
“We need to remember the balance. For every life taken…” He stared his companion down, not finishing his sentence as if it were unnecessary. The red-bearded one stared back a moment, but then abided.
“Aye. S’pose yer right” Briar felt a great deal of weight lifting off himself.
“Didn’t some chump say there was a large fort further east?” The giant asked an oaken-haired man to his left.
“Yes.” He confirmed, flatly. And the weight came crashing down, then. Only now weighing twice as much, felt his boots sink through the snow, into the mud. Lord Imgrint’s estate! If they were to attack there... They had no idea of what powers were held there. What was kept in the well…
“We can’t let you go there!” Briar protested loudly, louder than he had wanted. But the words had come out on their own, and he was surprised himself that he had the courage to speak ‘em. But the brutes didn’t take kindly to it. The sinews in the red one’s neck were bulging and swelling. The giant’s frown had grown darker than the night. And even the slim one’s eyes were sharp all the sudden.
“Can’t? You think, I, Grizzled crag from the Deep Green, have to answer to you?” steam was hissing from his nostrils, his giant hands were squeezed into fists. Briar didn’t want to say anything anymore, not a peep. But he heard a voice whisper, then, and his body did the rest.
“Huh?” Briar looked at his hands, stained in red, holding a dagger he didn’t even knew he had.
“Huh?” Again, Briar didn’t know what to make of it. Why was he, the village chief, stabbing some savage?
The giant looked down on the shallow wound in his side. At the knife that barely pierced his pelt. And he gave a furious roar which tore through the raging storm.
The heavy blade of his axe soared through the air and cleaved down Briar’s shoulder, and kept going, until it came out the other end, near the stomach. Blood and intestines seeped from the gaping wound and fell in steaming piles on the ground to melt the snow.
“Guess that leaves us no other choice, then.” Crag said in his native tongue to the rest of his clan, turning himself to the three man the dead chief had brought with. Each more horrified then the next. Still nailed into place, frozen, like the fish in their ponds.
“Aye.” Said Red hawk, no complaint in his voice. Off course not.
“So it would seem.” Said Swift hare, with no less pity in his.