by Sean J Leith
Why is he so afraid? Saul wondered. “Yes, why?”
The man shrunk back from Saul’s bold tone. “You have no need for armor and weapons, not here. We live in peace, without war.”
Saul left his sword in his sheath, and he only wore leather currently, for the sake of travel. “Why do you not arm yourselves?” Saul asked gruffly. He noticed more glances on them as the Broken looked around, seeming nervous.
“We live on good terms with the other cities and the plateau. We have no need for a blade, aside from a few guards, in quite a few years. My name is Gurin Togg, the assistant to the city leader. What is your name?”
No weapons or armor?
These people would be squashed by any city or clan north of the Fissure. He did not like the meek demeanor of Gurin, let alone the strange atmosphere of the city. “My name is Saul Bromaggus. I was of the Gadora clan, in the Vale.”
“Welcome to Rhoba, Saul,” he said calmly. “Will you come to meet our city leader? He would speak with you.”
Saul saw no alternative. Besides, speaking with the mayor may give him more answers, as well. “I will go.”
Saul followed through the crowds out of the marketplace, along the dusty stone walkways intermingled with short grass. Everyone around them wore linen and silk doublets and tunics, sandals, or thin leather shoes. Some kept stables for herds, ranging from cows, to bulls, to goats, and even some beasts he knew not the names of. He even spotted one of the spider-legged horned beasts that passed him in the wastes.
“What are those?” Saul asked.
“Craghorns,” Gurin said. “They live near the wastes as well as mountains, feeding on the flesh of beasts of those regions. They have no interest in us, strangely—although, they’d tear a Hydris to pieces. They’re good for carrying gear, but they are not safe around children, hence the cage,” he explained, meandering at a slow pace.
Could he walk any slower? They passed tiny farms that sprouted plants of corn, potatoes, and various fruits he hadn’t seen before. The smell of wine filled his nostrils as he saw a large barrel with several individuals stamping their feet, legs covered in deep purple liquid. Many Broken of the Vale drank wine and mead, but Saul did not partake much.
“How do you grow so many different things on your farms here?” Saul asked.
“Some Broken here are alchemists, enriching the soil with various potions to give us a variety of options. You’d be surprised at what people can accomplish when they do not focus on battle.”
Gurin’s words were like poison.
Saul felt insulted, as combat was his greatest skill. There were vast farms in the Vale, but those Broken preferred utility over quality, and time making alchemical salves for farming could be used for something more useful.
“Here we are,” Gurin said as he led Saul to a large building. The wall stones were grey, with greens and blacks in various places, held together with white mortar, and featuring a thick, wooden slab roof with straw. He knocked on the door, which was promptly answered by a large white-bearded Broken with a long, black silk robe and a gnarled wooden cane.
His face was covered with scars along his eye, cheeks, and forehead. His demeanor didn’t match his appearance, as he greeted Saul with a happy smile. “Oh! You must be the new resident of our town. Come in, Come in.” He opened his door wide for Saul and Gurin.
Am I really that obvious? Saul wondered. The city leader’s home had many paintings and drawings, tools for building, and many, many, many books. No weapons, no armor, and no deities or gods.
“Tell me, friend, why have you come here to Rhoba? Where are you from?” the leader asked, inviting Saul to a soft cushion chair across from his. Gurin sat in another chair, beside Saul.
“My name is Saul Bromaggus, and I am from the Gadora clan, of the Vale.” Saul said, stone-faced. He was suspicious of the man. Any Broken without a weapon or armor was more than strange.
The leader’s eyes widened, but he swiftly hid his surprise with a calm demeanor. “Ah, the Vale, of course. Tea?” The man asked, offering him a small ornate marble teacup with a delicate, steaming steel pot. He took a drink from his own cup.
“No,” Saul replied. He was thirsty, but there were other things on his mind. “Why is everyone here so afraid of combat?”
“Oof, this tea is hot. What did you say, my son?” He got up from his seat and grabbed a new pot. “Ah, here we are. This tea is much cooler.”
“I am not your son,” Saul growled. “Why is no one armed here?” Saul hated delays in conversation, especially in matters he felt to be serious.
“Just like the Vale, Saul. Quick, to the point, and far too brash. Have some tea, and I’ll tell you.”
Saul’s fists clenched. How dare he analyze me, he seethed, but knew he had to cooperate, as it was not wise to disrespect the leader of a city. Saul was so bewildered by the city itself. The Broken focused on combat, yet these individuals lived with an absence of it. It made no sense. He took the small cup and pot and poured himself some tea, to which the old one across from him smiled. It smelled like sweet grapes mixed with honey fruits. He took a sip, and it tasted good.
“Combat is needless, as violence breeds violence. Do you not see this?” The leader carefully placed his teacup on a delicately-carved wooden table beside him. “A sword is important to a point, yes.” He folded his hands and steeled them in his lap. He glanced deep into Saul’s eyes. “I was of the Vale once. Since you haven’t asked, my name is Gorum Kaelidan.”
Kaelidan. Where have I heard that name before? “I recognize your name.” Saul took another sip, as Gorum did.
“It’s not surprising that you would. I was a Council member of the Vale, once. The member representing the Gadora clan, coincidentally.” His gaze never left Saul’s.
Of course, how could I forget? He remembered him from when he was a young boy. Gorum proposed a loss of arms, and a changing of their ways. He promoted a society of peace, to stop the needless violence. He had been executed—or so Saul thought.
“I can see by your expression that you remember me,” Gorum said calmly. “Yes, I was supposed to be executed, but escaped. I formed this city with those that have crossed the Fissure since, by either choice or exile.” He sat back and let out a sigh. “I made this city to make our people happy. Look around town—everyone here is happy, don’t you see?” His dark eyes shone in the lantern light, dancing and flickering to the resounding tone of his voice.
Gorum was right, the people were happy. The children, the merchants, the farmers, and everyone else were high in spirits. Saul was conflicted over the thought. Am I to stay here? Or risk the south—and for what reason? “It does seem nice here.”
“Do you read, Saul?” Gorum asked.
“No.” Saul knew how to read simple things, short notes and letters, but not well. His father ushered him to learn, but Saul rejected it. He learned instead by practice, through swordplay, tactics lessons with maps, and other demonstrations.
“That’s too bad. There are many books that can teach you so many useful things. If you ever wish to learn, you can always inform me. I am always open, especially to a former clansman.” Gorum spoke with a honeyed tone.
“I’m not much of a reader. But I could try.” Saul felt relaxed, and willing to learn.
Gorum sighed. “Your manners could certainly do with some work, but that will come in time,” he smiled widely again. “We have a few homes set up right by here, actually. You may enjoy staying here, if you would like to try it.”
Saul wished to stay a little while. They all seemed nice enough, and he was weary from his journey. “I think I will stay,” Saul said, finishing his tea. “This tea is pretty good.”
“Yes, I brewed it myself. I am glad you enjoyed it. If you ever want more, I welcome company. The shop by those winemakers makes it as well.” He chucked. “Would you like some more?”
“Yes, please,” Saul said. “How do you deal with outsiders when they come here?”
“Outside
rs do not like the Broken, so they do not come. We are a peaceful group, so the other cities leave us be,” Gorum said solemnly. “We live a self-sustained life, where blade and shield are unnecessary. We find combat to be more hurtful than helpful, don’t you agree?”
Saul couldn’t help but agree. “Yes, you are right.”
“I’m glad you think so. We are sort of—selective—about who we choose to let live here, as we wish to maintain a happy society. I’m feeling nostalgic. Perhaps it’s a connection between us, due to our markings. May I see yours?” Kaelidan rolled up his robe from his right arm, revealing yellow markings: the three crashing winds, the drop, and the cross through a horizontal line. Saul loosened the plate on either arm and showed his. “Ah, there are two. How interesting. A great burden,” he said with a raised brow. “I too had a fate—to die in the service of my people. I almost had, but fled. I believed I would be of greater service if I lived. Look around town. What do you see?”
“I see many Broken, happily living in peace.”
“Exactly. I lived, and now I can be of service to my people in a much better way. Don’t you see? These markings are not truth. They are inclinations, which we interpret as true, but we choose our own fate, in the end.” His words were wise, and undeniably true. “This is what I have discovered. Those that wished to run from the Oracles before they are marked come here. There are those who run after, but sadly, they are few.”
“How did they cross? Is the cart not guarded?” Saul asked.
“Oh, it is, but you can lie your way around it. There are also other ways across.”
“Like how?” Saul wished to know, if he one day decided to return. However, now he wasn’t sure if he ever wanted to leave this place. He was with his people, and they found new purpose.
He felt compelled to stay.
“I think that’s enough tea for now.” Gorum placed his teacup down beside him. “Maybe I can tell you another day, my friend? I am quite tired. Must be my old bones.”
Saul couldn’t help but agree, but something fought within him.
“My dear friend, will you stay with us? We are in need of strong farmers, and you fit the part, truly. You have no need for a blade now, and you can rest well here.”
Saul wished to stay, he truly did. He enjoyed the chat, and he believed every word about purpose, about the markings, and about this new place. Yet something still dug at him. A feeling that was once a jagged knife, reminding him of his beliefs was now a mosquito’s bite, but it still remained.
He felt a second guess, and a change of mind may be in order. “I must think about it. I am not entirely convinced. May I have some time to consider?”
Gorum’s expression hardened, then turned to a smile once more. “I see. Yes, you may have some time.” He struggled up from his well-cushioned chair. “Gurin, would you see him to the guest house? Our guest must rest—he’s had a long trip.” He moved toward the front door, opening it slowly. “Perhaps I will see you tomorrow when you have decided.”
Saul bowed. “Thank you for your hospitality, my friend.”
Gorum smirked. His dark eyes shone in the dim light outside. “Of course. Do have a good rest, Saul Bromaggus.”
“I shall. Thank you, sir.” Saul exited through the wooden door and followed Gurin. He felt relaxed. The voice of Gorum was soothing, and the tea was redolent. He meandered through the streets, walking by several Broken who glanced at him oddly. Saul thought nothing of it, as he was in too good a mood. They soon came to a modest venom-bricked house with bright white mortar.
“Here we are,” Gurin said, opening the small wooden door.
Saul closed the door, looking around to see a modest set of ornate wooden furniture. He walked straight to the bed, finding that it was softer than he would have liked. He missed the hard beds of the barracks, the clash of steel, the roars of victory, and most of all, his father. He, alongside his Warmaster of a mother, taught Saul everything from lessons of respect, honor and tactics, to the beginnings of fighting before Saul even entered training. He was gone now, burned by the Dragon Obelreyon, the dastardly serpent who ruled his people. However, now his people were in Rhoba, as well; peaceful, happy, and with a complete lack of a need for conflict.
Saul’s mind and body were tired from the long day. The tea he drank was seemingly somnolent, however, he marched for hours upon hours, for days. Saul’s people lay far to the north, his clan damaged, and possibly desolate.
Am I a man of nothing? he wondered. Saul contemplated the question as he slowly drifted into a dream. He wondered if these were his new people, since he was an exile now. His mind felt more than tired, and he couldn’t help but nod off. Before he slipped into a deep sleep, he thought, maybe this is where I belong.
But why do I feel so uneasy?
Chapter Seventeen
Revenge Served Hot
Zaedor Nethilus
Zaedor’s armor seared with heat. His mouth was drier than the cracks of Krot’ahk’s valley, muscles so weak from exhaustion he could collapse at any moment. Yet, he’d reached his destination. It was more than a fortnight that he wandered through the deserts.
Five days without food and two without water, Zaedor slept in nothing more than a tattered, ice blue cloak he found on a dead body in the sands. His armor and greatblade were heavier than ever. He smelled of stale sweat and death. The grand cliffs of Zenato extended high above him, ascending half a mile with a well-crafted stone stair spiral from the base to the tip. It was many miles wide, the cliff as straight as a perfectly chiseled stone. Men of Amirion who went to Zenato and returned said Rawling’s favorite execution for those not deserving of a battlefield death were catapulted from the cliffs.
It was simple, effective, and despicable.
Zaedor looked to the outer city once and again, feeling as though he climbed either to his death, or his destiny. I will have my revenge, he thought bitterly. After a day, or so it seemed, he climbed the final steps to view the great sandstone gate of Zenato. Its pale, sandy color was lined with cultured jewels, and the skulls of large beasts.
The sand-covered city was the opposite of Amirion. Gambling was prevalent, and brothels were common. Laws were minimal, and the people liked it that way. Zaedor cringed at the concept. A city of savages, he viewed them to be. Full of traitors bent on savage magic and destroying the innocent. They have no respect for anyone.
The city was primarily made of tented homes, along with some mud, brick, and wood houses. The people were dirty, the streets were filled with sand and loose rock, and stray animals were everywhere. It was pitiful and disgusting—especially the smell.
In his weeks alone, Zaedor thought of nothing more than his destruction. His beliefs were destroyed when they were ignored. His city was decimated by the city he came to. His King was killed by their King. Rawling may not have been there, but it was him who gave the order. His fists tired from clenching them so tightly. The flames, the screams, and the dead silence after the battle haunted his nightmares.
He tried to keep faith. He tried to be resilient—but that was gone.
Now he came to the city that brought the terrors upon him. He felt like years passed, with how much changed within him.
Zaedor’s thoughts didn’t match the happy music being played nearby. A ridiculous song rang out from a mandolin. He hardly believed music was played in a place like this.
“Pitiful,” Zaedor croaked. His throat was barren from dehydration, and he could barely speak. His strength was drained from walking for weeks on end. He dropped to his knees from exhaustion, and not even his drive for revenge could pick him up.
“My friend!” an elderly, hoarse voice called.
The music stopped, and a pair of sandaled, mottled-skinned feet appeared in his vision, with and long, gritty toenails. “What’d you say is pitiful?” the voice said again, from above him. A large, mottled hand held a waterskin before his eyes. Zaedor was enraged that this man would even ask him such a question, but couldn’t resist his
need for water. He ripped it from the hand and chugged every last drop of the incredible, satiating water.
“My, you’re a thirsty one. My name is Nargosh, Nargosh Shagon. What’s yours, my young friend?”
Zaedor looked to him with a fierce eye. Nargosh was short for man, probably five foot four, with crooked teeth spread widely on either side of his mouth decorated by a scraggly white beard. He wore tattered clothes, old, sweat-stained, and wretched smelling. The man looked at him with a sweetened smile and large, lemon-yellow eyes.
“Zaedor of Amirion,” he said bluntly.
Nargosh helped Zaedor up. “Now why would you be walking through the desert all alone? That’s a dangerous task, you know!” Nargosh said. “What would you say is pitiful, Mr. Zaedor?”
Zaedor was angered at the question alone. How could he not know! Who is this fool? “How could you even say that? Look at me! Where do you think I’m from?” Zaedor yelled. He was never this way, but cared for little now. Revenge was all he had left in his heart.
Nargosh seemed taken aback by Zaedor’s comment. His eyes drooped. “I was just asking a question, old bean.” Nargosh quickly turned away and began walking. As he went, he turned his head. “Trying to help a broken man. What goes around comes around, old bean.”
Who cares what he thinks. It will come around to them, all right. Zaedor wanted to give this city what they deserved. It was filled with a bunch of rambunctious, gluttonous knaves who cared for nothing. His stomach roared like an Ogre’s call.
He walked through the city, slowly dragging his feet through the sand. The wind blew through his bright blond hair. Gasps came as he passed through the streets. What are they looking at? Haven’t they seen a citizen of Amirion before? he thought miserably. The townsfolk wore simple clothes, whether they were carpenters, clothiers, or scribes. There were seemingly no nobles among them. Everyone was dirty and wore tattered clothes, and there were minimal guards. Due to the casualties of war, possibly. He scowled at every person he saw. He wished to hit them where it hurt. Where he hurt. Their king.