“You are radiant. I’ll put on a fire for when you finish my love.” he said bowing grandly before retreating back towards the camp in search of his warm cloak leaving her to float alone in the water playing his words in her mind and committing wonderful sights to memory.
Aye, he was her love too.
The History of the World According to a Goat
The path they took opened up and traces of other people began to appear. Tilled fields, felled lumber and fenced off livestock replaced the lonely wilderness. When they spotted a sign at a crossroads saying “Keri” five miles east they both directed their mounts down the new path, keen for a break from the monotony of the road.
Soulful, wailing notes from pipes filled the valleys. As sad as the instruments sounded, the tune they played was upbeat and the closer they neared, other instruments accompanying could be heard. The familiar song would play all the way through and then begin all over again.
They passed through a few more fields with crops, vibrant, plentiful, and ready for harvest and Erroh’s hesitation began to wane. They spotted the first living souls in months working one of the fields. It was a father and his young son. They seemed at peace with their labour and offered easy waves as the Alphas passed. They walked their mounts the last of the way. The music filled the air as hooves and feet left the dry earth of the road and touched upon cobbled stone of civilisation.
The town of Keri was ancient and impressive. It won him over from the first sight of the tall towers, turning windmill and clusters of neatly thatched roofs. There were great mountains reaching into the sky all around the settlement. It was a natural protecting wall of stone concealing the town from the world. If it hadn’t been for the signpost and the pipes, they may easily have passed by. A roaring river flowed through Keri’s heart. Each bank was alive with colour from the end of season’s bloom. The buildings were remnants of the ancients. There was no decay to be seen, only whitewashed walls, glimmering windowpanes and neatly trimmed gardens. He looked back up at the enclosing mountain range. The fires had not penetrated this town’s defences. No war had ever been fought in her streets. This town had hidden from history. He loved it already.
“Here for the festival?” an old farmer asked, leaning against a wooden fence with a tin of paint in his hand and a few brushes strapped to his waist. It was a long fence. He was well prepared. He wiped his hand on his shirt and offered it to them both.
“Aye, we are indeed,” replied Erroh warily.
“You have no idea what I’m talking about do you young man?” laughed the old man. Erroh shook his head. After the last few days of bitter cold atop the sky road, the warm sun was pleasant upon their faces. It almost felt like the beginning of a summer season instead of the end.
“This is Keri and sure ’tis the festival of the Puk. It’s near two decades old now. Nothing but an excuse for food, drink and a few fights in truth,” he announced happily, massaging his worn knuckles. Painting was apparently hard on the knuckles.
“Sounds perfect,” said Erroh, looking down the road towards the tightly clustered buildings. He’d never heard of such a thing but it sounded like this festival was everything he’d been missing in his life.
“There are quite a few inns, but I doubt there are rooms this late in the season,” the old man suggested. He shook his wrinkled head slowly and ran his fingers through his snow-white hair. “Very late in the season,” he added.
“I sense a proposal,” replied Lea, smiling her most Alphaline goddess smile.
The old man could only but smile. “The name is Holt and I have lovely stables.”
He led them up behind his house to a large barn and its straw filled loft. They cut a fine deal for the night but with few coins on hand, Erroh agreed to leave their mounts as collateral until he could acquire some additional funds. He filled his front pockets with helpful playing cards just in case the game at the table was competitive and open to a stranger with his own set of cards. Holt returned to his painting while Erroh and Lea walked into Keri, excited to taste the hospitality the town had to offer.
Wooden stalls were set up, just like in the market district of Spark, in the town centre. People haggled, laughed, and enjoyed the festivities. Music blared loudly from a little stage where five dancing musicians played their parts loosely. A few eager revellers clapped and sang the accompanying words fuelled on by pints of clear ale served at a stall by a large and boisterous barkeep outside a beautifully preserved inn. Erroh looked skyward. The shadows of the mountains were both unnerving and comforting. The founder of this town had chosen wisely. While the world struggled, this town had flourished. Were it not for seeing the skyroad in all its glory he never would have believed such a thing possible.
He wondered were there other such untouched settlements out in uncharted regions of the world.
The innkeeper’s laugh pulled Erroh from his thoughts. He practically threw a free mug of ale to both of the Alphas who received them gratefully.
“To the Puk,” he roared, raising a mug of his own “the king of the travellers,” he added and drank down heartily. Before they could thank him, he had already turned to a wild-looking young man eagerly waiting a refill.
“You’ve already had six Emir,” he laughed as he poured the slightly swaying Emir his seventh. Behind the innkeeper stood his wife, shaking her head in mild disapproval and pouring drinks where needed. Some customers would offer a shiny piece that she pocketed quickly before her overly generous husband could refuse payment. All around them was merriment, and Lea linked her arm in his as they walked through the crowds. At the centre of the square stood a huge bronze bell supported by two large wooden posts. Erroh tried to read the carvings in the metal but the language was archaic, the numbers resembled no date he recognised. He could have spent the afternoon gazing at things of quaint beauty in this place, enjoying some rest and forgetting about miserable things, but there were words of the road he needed to share. The massacre of the townspeople of Cathbar had occurred only a few hundred miles away. The leader of Keri would need to know.
His name was Jeremiah. He was small, stocky and an immaculately shaved holy man. Lea was beginning to think of him as a holy idiot. It wasn’t religion she had issue with; she had studied a few written forms of religion as a young cub but found little to interest her. He was an idiot because he was not listening to her mate. Watching Erroh’s control in the face of such delicate stubbornness, she now discerned that her mate had the patience of a saint. She smiled to herself for her wit but offered nothing else to the conversation. It was difficult to argue with any zealot at the best of times. There was little to know of the gods, absent or not as any books or capsules on religion were rarer to find than anything else. Beliefs were just another part of the lost history of the human race and its slow declination into extinction and its slow redemption thereafter. She was a little indifferent to these matters. If there were absent gods waiting in the wings above them, she assumed they would return whenever they felt like it. Perhaps there would be trumpets.
“I don’t think you understand the seriousness of this threat,” Erroh repeated. Lea had taken a seat behind him on the ledge of a great window where she seemed content looking down at the revelry far below while he continued to argue. The Holy Mayor’s office was similar to the rest of the town in being ancient but meticulously maintained. It had pale white walls, supported by dark brown beams with only an oak desk and a few padded chairs that passed for decoration. Upon Jeremiah’s desk lay a little wooden stick that resembled a basic sword. It was only the size of a fist but Jeremiah touched it absent-mindedly every few moments when speaking. The holy man ruled the town of Keri with a satin grasp. He was a gentleman and he was a gentle man. He carried the perfect emotions on his seasoned face whenever Erroh recited each horrific incident but he was not interested in thorough answers or further investigation.
“It is tragic, young cub but there is little to fear in Keri. This great town can withstand any attack,” he replied confidently.
Lea was bored. Everyone below in the square seemed to be having a great time. She felt stimulated to be around the energies of people again, and she was eager to spend some time with Erroh away from war and death and bad decisions. She wanted that constant crease on his forehead to disappear for a little while. He was prettier that way. She had a plan, a simple plan.
“This town would fall in a day to anything more than fifty swords,” muttered Erroh.
“I’m sure it would take a little more than that, my wandering friend,” replied Jeremiah gently.
Erroh played his first ace of the day.
“We’re Alphas.”
The holy man tilted his head and nodded in agreement. “I thought as much and it changes little. The report is appreciated and noted. We’ll keep our scouts on alert,” he replied as if speaking with children. Then he smiled a politician’s smile and gently insisted that Dia’s whispers travelled as far as this hidden place. He assured them he knew of barbaric attacks but she had ensured him this town was under no threat. He even suggested that two young Alphas would recognise its strength soon enough.
He wasn’t a bad man, thought Lea. Just a fuken idiot.
“Now would you kindly go enjoy the Puk?” he insisted, rising from his chair. Lea hopped from her ledge silently and laid a calming hand on her mate’s shoulder. She wanted to hit some sense into Jeremiah too but this man’s priorities lay in the clouds with the festival. They had tried. Perhaps he was right.
Perhaps everything would be all right.
Perhaps there wasn’t an army marching upon this doomed town, whispered the absent gods in her mind.
“As you wish,” she said and led her mate from the office down the wooden steps to lose themselves in the crowd. It took only a moment to attain fresh mugs of ale. After receiving the blessings from the barkeeper, they decided to investigate the great and apparently famous festival of the Puk.
“Nothing more to be said or done,” she said pulling him through the crowd. He thought about giving the holy man his full title but dismissed the thought immediately. Magnus’s name commanded little respect in this part of the world and would unlikely have helped his cause. Now, if he’d been trying to intimidate the older man, it was something else entirely.
Keri was a fighting town and proud of it. Whenever many of its inhabitants weren’t grinding out a living in the fields, rearing beasts or hunting the lands, they honed their skills for battle. It was common for settlements to develop their own customs and traditions out in the wastes and Keri took their love of violence to godly levels. In their words and in their actions there was a fervent love for all manner of weapons and warfare. It should have unsettled Erroh but instead it was oddly comforting. It almost felt like home. Swordplay was a religion among these wonderfully naïve peasants and had Erroh displayed his prowess, he could have been their god. As it was, he was content to walk with his mate arm in arm to view the most important sermon of this festival, the grand contests of blade and bow.
The event took place on the outskirts of the town where two sides of the mountain met. The battlefield was lush and green with festive buntings and flags commemorating mock battle and harmless glory. Lea was drawn to the freshly painted archers’ targets, while Erroh was impressed with the largest sparring ring, floored in wood chippings, that he had ever seen. Proud young men full of boasts and heckles marched around like caged beasts while females portrayed a little more poise, simply warming up and preparing themselves for combat. Erroh and Lea sat beneath the steep valley wall watching the competitors prepare excitedly. All around them children played with sparring swords, screaming, laughing, and scoring killing blows. Their parents bunched together, discussed odds on each potential fighter, making whispered wagers from tips they’d received. As per tradition, last year’s champion would not be present to defend her title. Such a rule left the door open for another town favourite to reclaim his prize, but a few strangers had entered the competition this year so all bets were off.
“You should enter, my beo,” she suggested giddily.
He smiled and shook his head. “I prefer to be here with my beo,” he said gently.
“There’s money to be made,” she proposed, taking his hand in hers.
“I could win this too easily. Cards are more of a challenge,” he declared taking note of the slope running across the mock battlefield. Whoever held the higher ground would have the upper hand, he found himself thinking. No, he shook the tactics from his head. It was time to relax.
She started to laugh at him.
“Of course you could win this easily,” she said.
“You could win this too you know. You are fierce. If there was a war, you’d bring far more to the fight than little old me. Most days you match me with the blade and there’s also the bow,” he said. She started to laugh again but his eyes were serious. She spent a moment enjoying the compliment and another moment thinking of its merit.
“You wouldn’t win as easily as me though. You are a female after all,” he said laughing and she tugged his hair sharply. “Perhaps you could win us a night’s lodgings,” he said pointing to the painted targets. She smiled and shrugged but made no move to leave. She was happy here in the shade with her mate.
The winner of the first duel was quick but carried his blade too low. He left himself open with every attack yet the crowd never noticed. The man was skilled but it was crude and ungainly and any true swordsman could take his head off in moments.
“Watch her shoulders as she strikes,” whispered Erroh of the next bout between an older lady and a young man.
“The cub hasn’t noticed yet,” Lea added.
“Neither has the crowd,” he said as the older female sent her junior flying.
“That poser would slit his own throat if he tried that with a real sword,” she whispered watching the next round of competitors.
“He doesn’t know what to do with his free hand,” Erroh added as the flashy combatant broke through his opponent’s guard and struck a killing blow. The crowd roared in approval while the Alphas merely applauded politely. And so the afternoon went on, watching the fierce competition between brave but inexperienced warriors, and they loved every relaxing moment of it. When she sat against him and her warmth sent cool shivers down his spine he thought of no greater peace than this. Her perfume was intoxicating and he tried not to take deep breaths. In all this time, he still couldn’t decipher its aroma and she would not say. She teased him by leaning across and placing her delicate fingers on his thigh and whispering seductively in his ear. “You’re prettier than all these men.”
“I aim to please,” he replied pompously, but inside his heart began to beat faster. He wasn’t quite used to compliments.
“Aye, you do and sometimes you please me,” she giggled before looking at her drink as if it had betrayed her trust. “I’m not that easy to mount after a few drinks,” she warned and shook her mug absently. It was time for a refill.
“I’m aware, my beo. I’ll have to get you more drunk,” he said, watching the next participant warm up. He was a burly monster of a man with a red shaggy beard who appeared drunk. More than that, he looked familiar, but Erroh couldn’t place him.
“I like you calling me that,” she said gently.
The monster was a force and he attacked relentlessly, ignoring any blows he received until his far smaller opponent collapsed in a useless battered heap. “I am the Quig,” he roared much to the approval of the crowd.
“Well done the Quig,” called a tall female standing near them. She was a few years older than both Alphas with long brown hair and a hardened face but she was regal and curiously beautiful with piercing serious eyes and a confident stance. She muttered a curse looking at the ruined man on the ground and spun away as if looking at any further violence was too much to bear.
Someone passed “the Quig” an ale, which he ignored until he had pulled the trampled man to his feet. With that feat accomplished, he passed the drink to the van
quished and patted him affectionately on the back. Some people called him Quig. His actual name was Quigley. “Next year Emir,” he said and Erroh immediately warmed to the monster of a man.
The semiconscious man accepted the beverage gratefully and with assistance from his best friend was propped up against a tree to enjoy the rest of the festivities. His lip was pouring blood but it would not get in the way of his drink. Erroh respected his determination. He raised his glass to Emir who returned the toast with a bow. Emir then spotted Lea and smiled the most attractive, blood soaked smile he could muster. She returned the gesture and returned her eyes to the fighting. He was already a distant memory.
“This is a nice town Lea,” Erroh said quietly and upon noticing her empty mug poured half the contents into hers.
“Perhaps it won’t burn like the others,” she whispered. Perhaps the holy man had good reason to be so confident. This was no little settlement in the middle of the wastes. This was no fleeing caravan of immigrants. For all their flaws in the competition, there were many who could wield a blade. There were fewer things fiercer than men and women protecting their homes.
They watched the rest of the fights merrily and fitted in with the rest of the locals. They cheered where necessary and booed unsporting conduct. The gorgeous young winner of the entire tournament was cheered on deafeningly by the masses. He had danced around the Quig easily enough. Leaping in and scoring blow after blow despite the bigger man’s infectious laughter after receiving each strike.
Erroh thought this was tremendous, as did Lea.
The laughing giant eventually fell to his knees and waved his arms in defeat. The crack of the wooden sword across his face from the swift swordsman was a cheap but acceptable blow and it sent Quigley to the ground. The victor with extravagant blonde hair raised his sword and most of the crowd roared in appreciation. Emir ceased his drinking for a brief moment to boo and shout ridiculous profanities. A few others joined him. The big man pulled himself to his feet as a young girl with blonde hair and tightly fitting clothing presented him with a new mug of bubbling white ale. A few people chanted his name and both Lea and Erroh joined in while the new champion of Keri, Stefan, did a lap of honour around the sparring circle roaring to the many gods of war above. A few female supporters surrounded him and escorted him away for the ceremony. The champion of Keri would pay for few drinks tonight.
Spark City Page 26