A Bright Power Rising

by Noel Coughlan

  “Hard frosts in the middle of summer and now this,” Joloth muttered to Grael. “Blood dripping from the sky.”

  The snow turned to muddy water as it melted in Grael’s palm. It had an acrid smell. “It’s not blood,” he said as he wiped his hands together. “Whatever it is.” He brushed away a flake tickling his lip, afraid to taste it.

  “Blood! The sun is weeping blood for the Gilt Spider!” a Cronesman cried.

  “Shut up!” Joloth snapped. “I see no sun above us. Only dirty clouds.”

  “Utter no more blasphemies!” Saint Marden yelled from the cart. “Lest the Forelight strike you dead in his wrath. We are Stretchers. We recognize no god other than the Forelight. Only Elves and madmen put their faith in the divinity of Lights.”

  Radal joined Grael and Joloth.

  “How much further is your village?” Radal asked Grael.

  Grael looked for the Pig but it, too, was hidden behind the clouds. “Leaftea Lake cannot be far. There is a furka there.”

  The Politician of Cronesglen nodded. “Then we will camp there tonight, and Saint Marden can go to Pigsknuckle in the morning.” He wiped the blotches of snow from his pale face. “If there is one.”

  Grael crawled from under his sleeping skins and out of his makeshift shelter. The red snow was gone, like a dream. He slipped on his boots and strolled out of the copse, down to the lake. The horses and oxen were scattered across the surrounding brush. In the center of a loose circle of carts stood the furka, painted in Pigsknuckle’s colors. Radal, Joloth, and several other Cronesmen were already up and about their chores. Saint Marden stood before the furka, his arms stretched in the air and his head pressed against one shoulder in the traditional devout pose as he droned through his prayers. To the east, against a bleeding dawn, the sun shone blue. A deeper shade of red stained the summit of the Pig, proof that the red snow was not a dream after all.

  Saint Marden finished his prayers, dropped his arms to his sides, and walked over to Grael. “It’s good you are up. I will go to Pigsknuckle to announce our arrival.”

  Grael pointed to the hill overlooking the furka. “If you head that way, you cannot miss it.”

  Marden bid farewell with a nod and began to pick his way up the hill. Grael headed on to the camp to see if he could do anything.

  Radal sat by the fire, cooking breakfast. An unusually pensive Joloth sat beside him, apparently to keep him company. Grael glanced around, searching in vain for Harath.

  “Good morning, Grael,” Radal said.

  “Hopefully, it will be a better day than yesterday,” Joloth muttered as he prodded the fire with a stick.

  “These are strange times indeed,” Radal agreed. He glanced at the wagons. “Is Saint Marden finished with his prayers yet?”

  “He has already gone to Pigsknuckle,” Grael said.

  Radal Faral stood. Joloth tossed his stick into the flames and joined him. “Everyone get over to the furka!” Radal roared.

  “Do you think the carts are close enough?” Joloth asked.

  “Too late to move them now,” Radal said. “Besides, they’re Grael’s property, not ours.”

  Grael’s confusion turned to indignation. “Pigsknuckle honors its guests.”

  Radal smiled. “But we’re not Pigsknuckle’s guests yet. Don’t worry. I’m sure all will be fine. In strange times like these, it’s best to be cautious.”

  Grael joined the Cronesmen by the furka. Only he was unarmed. The rest held spears.

  “Where is Harath?” he asked Radal.

  “She is sitting in that cart yonder,” Radal replied. “I doubt she has anything to fear from her father.”

  Saint Marden returned with Saint Charlin, Grael’s brother. On seeing Grael, Charlin's somber countenance lifted. He scampered over. His arms opened as though they were about to wrap around Grael, but evidently noticing Saint Marden’s disapproving look, Charlin lifted them into the air. He leaned his head against one arm to form the sign of the furka and formally blessed Grael.

  “I hear you’ve been busy,” Charlin said, lowering his arms. “You must tell me all about your adventures. Where’s Harath Melkath?”

  Saint Marden said, “She’s in one of the carts, awaiting her family to collect her.”

  “Widan will be here soon,” Charlin said.

  “When he arrives, I wish to speak to him privately, as one politician to another,” Radal said, handing his spear to Joloth.

  “Do what you must,” Charlin said. “Matters of politics are not the concern of saints.”

  Joloth directed everyone’s attention to the top of the hill, overlooking the lake. Widan Melkath was unmistakable. He was as broad as he was tall. The stiff frond of dyed red hair extending proudly from his jaw was reminiscent of a rooster’s comb. From this distance, his thorny crown looked no different from any other villager’s halo. The men of Pigsknuckle fanned out on either side of him. Everyone held a spear.

  The concerned murmurs of some Cronesmen made Charlin chuckle. “Two saints and a furka protect you. Do you really think so little of the Stretchers of Pigsknuckle that they would attack you on this hallowed ground?”

  At Radal’s suggestion, he and Charlin walked up the hill. Widan strode down to meet them. The two politicians exchanged greetings.

  Widan laughed.

  Grael answered the politician’s wave with another before realizing that it was intended for his daughter. Probably at Saint Marden’s prompting, Harath had drifted to Grael’s side. It was the nearest that they had been since their separation in Cronesglen. Her presence made him blush all the more. Hopefully, distance hid his embarrassment from the Pigsknucklers on the hill.

  Radal said something to Widan that made him react with confusion and then anger. He and Radal locked in heated debate.

  The Cronesmen around Grael glanced nervously at each other.

  “Remember, here you are guests not only of Pigsknuckle but also of the Forelight,” Saint Marden said. “Any man who commits violence this day will suffer an eternity in Hell.”

  Charlin intervened in the politician’s wrangle.

  Radal nodded.

  Widan shrugged and fell silent. He fixed an icy stare on Grael. Did he suspect Grael had taken advantage of his daughter?

  Widan began to plod down the hill. Radal and Charlin trailed after him.

  As Widan neared the caravan, he smiled, but only with his mouth. His eyes looked like a dead man’s. “I have you to thank for my daughter’s rescue,” the politician said, shaking Grael’s hand. He yelled back up the hill, “Lahan Erol, come down here and greet your son.”

  Grael’s father detached from the far left of the crowd of Pigsknucklers and slowly made his way down the hill. The gray frill of beard hiding his halo’s chinstrap accentuated the raw redness of his face. His shoulders were hunched as though the world pressed down on them. This was the last thing he wanted—this celebrity.

  “Welcome back,” Dad said, his gray eyes nervously darting about the gathering.

  Grael moved to hug him, but thought better of it, and offered his hand instead. His father had suffered enough embarrassment already without an over-ostentatious display of affection from his son before the entire village. Dad seized Grael’s hand with both of his, and shook it with gusto, his lips splitting into a smile. Grael grinned. At last, he felt at home.

  “Saint Charlin, would you mind blessing the carts before we take them back to Pigsknuckle?” he asked.

  Saint Marden straightened. A frown clouded his face. “I already blessed these vehicles and their contents. The blessing of one saint should be enough to dispel any Elfin magic tainting them. A blessing from Highsanctum is as good as one from Pigsback.”

  Charlin’s eyes narrowed. “I am sure my brother meant no offense. He doesn’t appreciate that a saint is but an instrument of the Forelight’s will. Your blessing was not made in the name of Highsanctum or Saint Odran’s, but in the name of the Forelight himself.”

  Saint Marden nodded.
“Indeed.” His gaze drifted to the furka.

  Widan clapped Grael’s shoulder. “What makes you think your treasure is cursed? It’s a wonderful boon for the village in these troubled times.” He glanced at Radal. “Of course, these carts and their contents are yours, Grael.”

  “Dad, I’ve a present for you,” Grael said. He retrieved the leather parcel he had discovered in one of the carts, and placed it in his father’s hands.

  “I’ll look at it later,” Dad said.

  “Why bother to wait. Open it now,” Widan said.

  Dad fumbled with the knotted strings holding the wrapping together. He unfolded the leather sheet to reveal a long-handled hammer with a leather grip and an ornate metal head.

  “It’s too fine for work,” Dad protested.

  “Keep it,” Grael insisted. “It’s my gift to you.”

  “It is astounding,” Widan said. “I knew you would make your fortune, but to do it so quickly… Astounding. And you saved my daughter. I am so delighted to have her back.”

  Harath’s smile was as false as her father’s, but the others did not seem to notice.

  Widan leaned close to Grael’s father and mumbled something. Grael’s heart fluttered. Did he hear right? Did Widan mention something about a match?

  “Well, no harm in discussing it,” Dad said, almost choking on his words, his face bleeding embarrassment.

  Widan threw an arm over his shoulders. “Come now. Your son and my daughter were together alone in a forest.”

  Memories stirred of that moment when Harath’s eyes met his by the brook, when anything might have happened. Grael rubbed his cheeks with his trembling hand to conceal his blush. Hopefully, nobody else noticed.

  “My son is an honorable man.” The vehemence of his father’s reply stirred a prideful tingle in Grael.

  “And my daughter is chaste. I’m sure not even their shadows touched. But you know rumor can rob a reputation as easily as truth. Is that not so, Radal?”

  “You know your village best,” Radal said coldly.

  Widan took no notice. “It’s our duty to protect our children and their honor. I can think of no better husband for my daughter than your son, and I am sure you consider Harath an excellent choice for a wife. I would provide an ample dowry, though young Grael hardly needs it.”

  Grael silently urged his father to say “yes” and put the matter beyond doubt.

  Dad smiled. “I’ll discuss your offer with my wife.” His positivity veiled the lack of commitment in his response. Grael wanted more, but it was the best that could be hoped for now given Dad’s cautious nature.

  “Very good,” Widan said. For the first time, his smile reached his eyes. “Women give wise counsel on such matters. I’ve always found Harath to be a font of sagacity.” He winked at his frowning daughter. “I’m certain Grael would find her opinions as useful as I do. Of course, she’s by no measure a nag. She knows her place.”

  Harath directed an icy stare at Widan. “I promise to be as obedient to my husband as I have been to my father.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Widan said, oblivious to her sarcasm. “What do you think, Grael?”

  “I’ll abide by my parents’ decision.” Hopefully, it would be the right one. His parents would see sense. He just had to have a little patience.

  Widan waved to the other Pigsknucklers. “Come down. See this great trove that Grael Erol has brought home. Leave your weapons up there. These good men from Cronesglen are our guests.”

  The clatter of cast aside weapons filled the air as the men of Pigsknuckle spilled joyfully down the hillside.

  One figure lingered on the hill in the midst of the discarded spears and knives. His complexion was like worn leather, and his black hair was splashed with white around the temples. But his clean-shaven jaw gave his face a certain youthfulness. He sat down on a rock and coolly regarded the boisterous celebration whirling around Grael.

  “You look worried,” Widan said. He followed Grael’s stare. “Don’t mind old Garscap. You know him. He’s a fly always looking for an ointment to swim in. I bet he’s just sore with jealousy.”

  He snorted. “So much for the big mercenary from Formicary. It took him half a lifetime to make his fortune, and he has boasted about it for what feels like another half a lifetime. It was nothing compared with what you’ve brought back to the village in a handful of days.”

  Widan looked about the assembled Pigsknucklers, his voice getting louder. “I hope those reckless youngsters who so admire the great Garscap Torp see him now for what he really is, which is nothing. He’s not even a has-been. He’s a never-was. He couldn’t live as a saint so he moved to the village. He couldn’t survive as a villager so he moved to Formicary. He couldn’t make a living in Formicary so he came back to the village. I’d call him by the only true name he deserves, but I would not utter it this close to a furka. Even his own mother disowned him. A sad tale.”

  He patted Grael’s shoulder. “His day is past, and it was not much of a day, either. Yours is just beginning.”

  Grael had been one of those same youths whom Widan mocked. Though Grael never followed Garscap around like Evram Erath, the mercenary’s adventures had been the inspiration for his journey to Formicary. It seemed so childish now, so simple, and yet Grael’s dreams were on the verge of becoming reality.

  “Perhaps you intend to set out for Formicary again,” Dad said.

  Grael shook his head. “This adventure has cured me of such audacity. I want nothing more than a quiet life.”

  Dad nodded. “Then you’ll be wanting a wife.”

  This was unreal. It could not be happening. It was like a fairytale, but in this case, the hero was not some ancient warrior-king but the son of a goatherd. Everything he had ever wanted was suddenly within his grasp.

  Dad drew Widan aside. Their conversation was lost in the chatter of the crowd, but every gesture suggested deep negotiation. They moved apart a little and stared at each other with closed mouths. Something was wrong. A standoff. The match would not be agreed to today. It might never be.

  Forelight, don’t let it fall apart now, Grael begged.

  Widan whispered something in Dad’s ear. Dad smiled. They shook hands and walked back to Grael.

  “The deal is done,” Dad said, blushing.

  “Your father drove a hard bargain,” Widan said.

  “The dowry is very generous,” Dad said. “But no more than you deserve.”

  Grael’s smile stretched till it hurt his cheeks. A giddy joy washed through him. He looked around for Harath. Surely, she, too, would be delighted by their match. Nobody understood her better than him. Nobody could love her more.

  His glance met hers. No delight sparkled in her eyes, only the accusation of betrayal. She looked away, her face turning scarlet with anger. What was wrong? Did she not understand that the match was for her benefit as much as his?

  So much for the fairytale. Perhaps, the Gilt Spider had hexed the treasure, and this match was part of the curse. All of the treasure in the world was worthless in the reflection of Harath’s hate.

  The triumphant celebrations below mocked Garscap as he watched his rival fawn over Grael Erol. Widan was far too happy, which meant that the fat fool thought he had turned this unexpected event to his advantage.

  Old Thomol Mangal crept slowly up the hillside toward Garscap, bent over his walking stick like a three-legged goat. It must be a horror to rot away so, to know every day was just a wait for death.

  A sandy-haired youth raced by the ancient. Evram Erath was almost unrecognizable. His mouth lacked the habitual, conceited slant that had given him his nickname—the Smirk. His face was crimson, his dark eyes were teary with rage.

  “Widan Melkath is mocking you,” Evram hissed. “You have every right to go down there and strike him dead.”

  Garscap raised an eyebrow. “Beside a furka, in front of two saints?”

  “You must do something!”

  “I am. I’m not making a fool
of myself.”

  Garscap relished Evram’s scowl, but testing his patience too much was pointless. Evram had so little to begin with.

  “Anything I do or say today will play into Widan’s hands,” Garscap explained. “Let the Melkaths enjoy their victory. Let them have their sport at my expense. It’ll do them no good in the long run. Now, no more talk of this. Thomol approaches, and his excellent hearing contradicts his general decrepitude.”

  The old man walked up to Garscap, tilted his head quizzically, and smiled. “Grael has amassed a tidy fortune. When you came home from Formicary, you brought a horse-load of metal goods and amazed everyone. Now, Grael arrives with three wagons laden with riches.”

  Garscap’s stare warned Evram against taking the bait.

  The old man continued. “You boasted at the very furka below us that you tricked Widan into letting Grael go to Formicary by feigning your opposition to his departure. Now, Grael is the richest man in the village and will soon be Widan’s son-in-law. I guess your jape did not work out quite as you intended.” Even this miserable old cripple suddenly felt brave enough to mock Garscap to his face.

  Garscap stiffened and growled, “Evram, please find my spear. It is somewhere up there.”

  Startled, the old man began to hobble back down the hill with surprising speed. “I meant no offense.”

  “The truth cannot offend a Stretcher,” Garscap assured him.

  “Are you going to attack him?” Evram whispered.

  The sheer stupidity of the question was painful. The rock on which Garscap sat had more subtlety than the Smirk. The rock had enough sense to stay silent. “You don’t cure an itchy nose by hitting it with an axe. The old man chose to needle me, and I needled him back. Nothing more than that. Evram, never forget the importance of patience.”

  Garscap’s advice was aimed at himself as much as the Smirk. This business with Grael Erol had been a mistake, an unnecessary error. A few cheap guffaws in the immediate aftermath of Grael's departure weren’t worth looking like a fool now. Frustration had gotten the better of his usual shrewdness. His campaign to topple Widan had stalled. Winning over the disgruntled fringes of the village had been easy, but the majority preferred the devil they knew.