The Alterator's Light

by Dan Brigman

  Before Baka could respond, the Unnamed strode south along the road. Within moments the sanctuary was dozens of paces behind him. I’m sure Holli will be pleased to see me, he thought as he heard the Guardian waking the party.

  The smallest of Sacclon’s farming communities held little interest to neither Einar nor Saen, other than for one purpose. Relief flushed their minds upon seeing homes, businesses, and the occasional smiling farmer passing by on a cart. Einar and Saen glanced around the village’s scant wooden buildings. The rhythmic clanging of a hammer on metal reverberated outward from the smithy. Seeing his hand raise, Saen followed Einar’s finger to the second-largest wooden structure in town, which was dwarfed in size only by the grain mill. The mill’s massive water wheel turned slowly due to the water flowing from the narrow river. The wheel’s continual rotation kept ice from forming.

  Saen couldn’t remember the waterway’s name, yet she knew the water powered the mill’s grindstone throughout most days and late into the night. Tallvon had survived un-walled for so long because of its fineness and constant monitoring; the high quality of its grain caused the Lord Mayor to ensure the town’s protection with an excess of guards.

  “Come on, Saen, the Death’s Dance is waiting for us. I need to talk with Vos and get warm.”

  Turning, Saen caught up to Einar as he strode to the village’s only inn. The squat building held only one floor, a few dark, dirtied windows, and a steeply pitched, gray slate roof. The front wooden door stood beneath the inn’s wordless sign. The carefully-painted image of a black-cloaked figure dancing with a young maiden provided unmistakable evidence for the building’s purpose. Reaching the door, Einar grasped the handle and was nearly bowled over by a departing patron.

  “Excuse me, sir,” the patron offered and was met by Einar’s mumbled apology.

  The patron, needing to bend over to get through the opening, glared at Einar’s hooded face before seeing Saen. Reaching his full height, the patron’s head did not reach Einar’s forehead, yet the man’s black leather and chain armor caused him to appear larger; the symbol of Sacclon was emblazoned on his chest, its golden sheaf of sacc dulled by lack of care. Pulling his plain, rounded black helmet over his head, the patron gave a quick, friendly smile at Saen.

  The patron placed a hand on his sword’s hilt then stated, “Good day, ma’am. I trust the road hasn’t been too terrible on your travels?” His smile broadened while his blue eyes scanned her entire form.

  Saen stared at the armored man and couldn’t find words at first. Einar had already entered the inn and was out of sight.

  “Not at all, sir. Just resting here for the evening. Then moving south.”

  “Well, good to hear. Please enjoy your time in Tallvon. May the sanctuaries provide you with safe and watchful travels.”

  “You, too,” was all she could muster before striding through the opening. Turning to close the door, Saen noticed the guard’s confused and crestfallen visage. Saen, herself confused, moved through the cramped and cluttered main room of the inn. At least two young women still served breakfast, yet the amount of dirt on the floors and used dishes on the empty tables nearly pushed Saen to help them clean up the inn’s filth. Intermixed odors of old sweat and spilled alcohol did not help her mindset. Quickly realizing that this was not her inn, she grinned and thought, Vos should be ashamed of himself at the state of this place.

  Looking ahead through the smoky, gray-tinged air, Saen watched Einar take a seat at the bar and shake Vos’s hand. The innkeeper hadn’t really changed since she had last seen him four years ago. If anything, the man looked healthier than ever, yet even more gray-headed, despite his middle-age. A quick glance in her direction over Einar’s shoulder stopped his gaze. Vos’s grin took up most of his wide face, and his large hands beckoned her over. Readying to say her name, he looked at Einar and hesitated.

  Saen smiled as she saw the grin had touched his eyes regardless of his hesitation. She sat upon the empty stool next to Einar. As she readied to pull back her hood, Einar grasped her hand. He leaned over and whispered, “Leave it there.” Shrugging, she looked up at Vos; he had engulfed her other hand. The man’s warmth caused her to sigh, and unwanted images of their long-ago relationship flitted through her mind. Despite the hood and the relative darkness of the room, Vos must have seen her blush as he began a low and knowing chuckle.

  Vos’s voice, deep and confident, reaching her down-turned ears, whispered, “I remember the good times, too, madam—”

  “I think you two can catch up later,” Einar interrupted in gentle tones. “Vos, I do hope you have two rooms you can spare for old friends.”

  “Why, of course, you and I’ll have to share a room. Mistress Lorst here will have a room to herself.” Pulling his glance from Saen, he continued, “Strange time to plan a trip, I’d say. The storm is readying to set us in place for few days. By my reckoning, at least.”

  “We’ll explain everything later; if we could get a meal, a warm drink, and those two rooms, we would be grateful by even your esteemed reckoning.”

  Vos released Saen’s hand then reached under the bar for a small, iron key and handed it to Einar. “For you, no questions need to be answered. Your presence is welcome enough.”

  The two companions took no notice of the heavily cloaked stranger sitting alone at a small round table; he carefully covered the red and gold symbol hanging from his neck. No other chairs provide even the temptation for others to join me nor would anyone else want to, he thought. Even the young server bringing food to the man didn’t attract the companions’ attention. While he ate, the stranger scanned, listening to both companions and the innkeeper as they briefly chatted.

  Chewing his food slowly to provide a realistic distraction for anyone catching his true purpose that day, he watched as the two cloaked figures stood up and walked to the back door of the poorly-run inn. The taller one with his head angled down noticed nothing around him. The smaller and slighter, a woman he presumed, looked from side to side with no strict focus. The stranger looked back at the innkeeper and nearly swallowed a piece of food whole. The innkeeper stared straight at him; the innkeeper’s eyes belied someone old. Very old. The eyes held the stranger’s attention for what seemed to be hours but could have been a few breaths.

  A laugh from across the room broke the spell and the innkeeper frowned, turning his gaze back to his other patrons. Not wasting a moment, the man placed a few coins on the table, grasped his shortsword, and departed the inn without a backward glance.

  Stepping outside into the crispness, the man breathed in the fresh air and let his rank insignia of the Xavad Guardian’s come into open display. I must report this to Gorgion, crossed the man’s mind before he departed the village.

  11 — The Alterator

  As Melek turned his head, he placed his right hand upon the faintly glowing rune. Melek caught sight of a man staring at him with penetrating blue eyes. While the man’s head nearly reached the lintel piece of the doorway, his height caused many people to think he loomed rather merely stood. Slight lines of age etched his eyes and forehead. His immaculate deep blue tunic and black woolen trousers showed his fastidious nature. Long brown hair pulled back with a strip of leather showed not a bit of gray, yet those blue eyes belied his age to anyone who studied him. Melek knew the man to be in his late sixties but time had seemed to have no ill-lingering effect upon his body or mind.

  “Hello, Malkari. It’s been a long time,” Melek stated without waiting for the man to speak. “Pardon me for the lack of pleasantries, but can you get blankets for this man?”

  Malkari nodded in acquiescence. Without question, he turned and quietly closed the door behind him. As Malkari exited the room, Melek sighed in relief. He turned his gaze to the end of his cloak and unsheathed his dagger. The threadbare cloak had small holes in several places from years of wearing it during his travels throughout the hills. The cloak felt as if it were part of him, yet he began cutting two large strips from the bottom of
it without a second thought. Both strips still held the rain’s dampness and would serve to cool the man’s fever.

  Melek laid the first strip directly over the man’s still-glowing rune. He fashioned the second strip into several layers and put the layers directly on the man’s forehead. Melek watched him intently for several moments to witness any change before attention turned outward to the rain’s continuous pounding on the roof. He stared upward while his mind turned over the events of the last few days. How can I keep this secret from my master? The despondent thought bounced around his tired mind.

  Peering down to the stranger, Melek noticed he had stopped stirring, and his labored breathing had lessened considerably. Instead of the harsh breaths, Melek heard only the gentle breathing of sleep. Melek cut one more strip from his cloak and exchanged it with the strip on the stranger’s forehead. Melek placed the strip and noticed his hands tremored. He breathed deeply to calm them, but after a moment Melek placed them on his lap to stop the movement. After waiting for a few breaths, the movement continued. Melek placed the back of his right hand against the stranger’s forehead; he felt for a fever. Melek pulled the hand back almost as soon as he placed it and cursed in frustration.

  “Why now?” Melek asked no one in particular.

  A gentle voice whispered behind Melek, “If you are asking the question to the man in front of you, then I am afraid that you are wasting your breath.”

  “Malkari, I speak to myself sometimes.” Melek turned his head and pain raced up his back to the base of his neck. He gritted his teeth while he blinked wearily at Malkari, black spots forming in his vision. Melek felt himself falling forward. I must get the man to his room, Melek thought. I can’t let Malkari see the rune. With beads of sweat streaming down his face, Melek stood and faced the Alterator. He noticed Malkari held several blankets under his right arm and a wooden bucket of water in his left hand.

  “If I weren’t feeling under the weather, so to speak, I’d be laughing at your expression,” Melek mumbled through clenched teeth. Malkari’s eyebrows rose high on his forehead in a questioning manner with surprise lining his face.

  “Why, Melek, you do not look well at all,” Malkari replied. Concern filled his voice. “I wonder. Will I be taking care of two ill men tonight?” He paused with his head tilted slightly. “Come, come. Let me take you to a bed. There is no reason to stand here. You have done enough for the man. I will take care of the two of you, as is my duty.” His frown emphasized deeper wrinkles as he moved forward one step.

  “Stop!” Melek expelled forcefully. “I’ll see to the man until Bregoth can speak to me again.”

  He began panting after the short outburst. Beads of perspiration dripped down his cheeks in rivulets, soaking into his damp shirt. The surprise on Malkari’s face did not stop Melek from standing and moving next to the stranger. Melek reached forward and grabbed the blankets with no argument. Without saying a word, Melek turned. When he faced the opposite direction from the Alterator a grimace shadowed his face. Melek moved toward the stranger catching his boot on a tile and stumbling forward. Melek heard a muffled gasp come from behind him and the quick shuffling of feet.

  Melek stopped for a moment to regain his footing and his breath. He looked askance at Malkari and saw Malkari reach forward with his hands in a pose to help him. Barely shaking his head, Melek strode to the stranger and knelt next to him. He laid a blanket over the man to cover everything but his head. Melek drew in a deep breath to steel himself for the weight of the man. I’ve only one chance to get him to his room, he thought blankly. I wish that friend of mine would show his face. With that thought, Melek positioned himself to lift the man.

  The stranger’s body seemed to be nailed to the floor. Melek took another deep breath, closed his eyes, and lifted with a reserve of strength which nearly unbalanced him. With an audible grunt escaping Melek’s mouth, he lifted the stranger without falling over. Good. One step at a time. Hammers pounded inside his head. He did not open his eyes as the pain shot his head backward. He barely managed to stifle a cry as pain lanced the back of his eyes. Melek palmed his eyes with his bare hands and collapsed to his knees. He kneeled and took in great breaths with his head between his knees for an indeterminate time. Pain forced all other thoughts from his mind. Meditating on his breathing helped to suffocate the pain.

  After what seemed to be days, Melek felt the pain subside like waves at low tide. Finally, a dull throbbing remained, and he slowly opened his eyes. The light in the room had been dimmed to allow enough to see the walls and doors. Then, a thought flew into his mind so quickly that Melek nearly jumped to his feet. Where is that man! I dropped him. Without another thought he stayed on his knees and looked upward to discern who had taken the man.

  The stranger lay in Loken’s outstretched arms. Loken held his slight grin but his eyes belied the forced emotion. Concern etched itself upon the corners of Loken’s eyes as he stared at Melek. Loken’s head, slightly at an angle, was poised to seemingly catch any word which might come from Melek’s mouth. However, a single, low groan is all Melek emitted. A slight, but sudden clearing of someone’s throat brought Melek’s attention back to Malkari’s presence. Melek looked back down to the floor while slowly pinching the bridge of his nose.

  Melek whispered, the strain apparent to the men standing, “You two had better take the man to a room. I cannot seem to step without my legs giving out. I have taken ill from the man in your arms; I suffer the same affliction.”

  A slight scuffling along the floor brought Melek’s vision upward. He saw his friend readjusting the stranger in his arms as if he were trying to not touch the man despite the proximity. The sight nearly brought a chuckle to Melek’s lips. Instead, he stated, “Thank you, Loken. I reckoned you’d be still wrestling with the guard.” He lowered his head to his knees and panted shallow breaths.

  “I still would be, if someone hadn’t told me you had gone off on your own. You are sometimes a fool, Melek.” He paused, then inhaled deeply before continuing. “We have traveled all this way, and for the last part of it, you left me without word of your departure.”

  “Loken, I’m in no mood for this discussion—I’m out of sorts. Besides, the stranger needs your help because I’m no more help to anyone until I rest.” Melek raised his head, and through pressed lips he stated, “Malkari, please take Loken to drop that man into his bed. I don’t have the strength to move him.”

  “Of course, Horselord Melek,” Malkari stated without missing a beat. Before Melek closed his eyes, he saw Malkari gesture for Loken to follow him. Prior to leaving the room, Loken’s withering glare caught Melek’s eyes. As the two men exited the room, Malkari turned and slowly pulled the door shut. Melek heard only the turn of the doorknob as it clicked into place. Immediately after the men departed Melek closed his eyes again and fell sideways onto the floor. His head rebounded off the tiles, pushing pain up and down his spine. He could do nothing but lay on the floor feeling its coolness against his head. His teeth began clacking uncontrollably. The clicking echoed eerily throughout the unadorned room.

  Visions of fear and a lingering shadow figure seemingly dominated the room, and the figure’s presence balled up Melek’s body. Fingertips seemed to press upon the base of his spine while he attempted to focus his mind wholly inward. The fingertips moved upward to his skull. He no longer could feel the torment of the malady afflicting his body.

  “No, not yet,” Melek whispered just before his mind forcibly pushed him into unconsciousness.

  “I do not know what has brought this affliction over Melek. His demeanor has changed considerably since their last departure into the hills.” Malkari whispered as he spoke to the clan leader. His raspy voice sounded like coarse sand rubbing over wood. “Loken does not seem to know what is affecting his friend. Or, at least, he does not seem to be hiding anything from me. Loken does not want to discuss the matter of the unconscious man until Melek awakens, so all I can do is assume both will quickly regain consciousness.”<
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  Bregoth scanned the room from his place on a vacant bed. The large square room held four simple wooden beds long enough for a tall person to lie without hitting his feet on the base board. The beds butted against the wall to allow enough walk space for one person between each bed. Opposite the beds, a single, simple door offered the only exit. A small table sat adjacent to the door with an array of medicinal jars placed in perfect order. A bowl-sized mortar and pestle contained a brown herb already ground into powder.

  Under the table a well-worn three-legged stool remained out of the way. Next to the table, in the sole open corner, stood a squat cabinet made of white marble. Black veins swirled throughout the white in random variations. A basin of water lay in an area carved out of the cabinet’s top, which came to the height of a man’s chest. A metal pitcher of water and four short glasses were next to the basin. The bottom of the cabinet held stacks of gray woolen sheets and towels. Two four-paned windows hung slightly ajar, one in a wall between the beds and the cabinet and one in the wall above the beds. Next to the bare wall stood a small cast iron wood stove that piped up to the ceiling.

  A small fire burned, warming the pot on the stove’s top; a putrid odor emanated from the pot, and Bregoth’s nose constantly wrinkled in repugnance. The room held enough wood to keep the fire alit for eight hours. Many varied herbs and flowers—rosemary, wild onion, thyme, and rose—hung from the ceiling, drying until Malkari readied them for use.

  Only two men, still asleep, lay in the beds. Drizzling rain lured coolness in through an open window. Malkari stared sourly out the window at the rain as he waited for his leader’s response. Large puddles had already formed while mud became a nuisance which would probably last for days, if not weeks. A month from now when the roads are clogged with dirt and the heat oppressive, we will be wishing for rain again. Human memory is a short and fickle phenomenon.