by CW Thomas
“Bits and pieces,” Tenri answered. “Thalmia still enjoys open trade with Aberdour, but since the fall they have had little to offer.”
Broderick felt his heartbeat quicken. None of them had heard anything about Aberdour since the attack more than three years ago.
“Tell me more,” Broderick said. “Who rules the kingdom now?”
“The king there is a man by the name of Dearg Mordoch, though, to call him a king would be an insult to all true kings. Regardless, he is a passionate supporter of Orkrash and not a man easy to disagree with.”
“How is it there?” Brayden asked. “The people, are they well?”
Tenri looked hesitant, almost like he was afraid to speak. He gazed down at the ground for a moment, thinking, before saying, “They are struggling. Aberdour is not what it used to be. When Orkrash sent his army to attack the city it was not like the times he besieged Montrose or Tranent or Turnberry. His forces came at Aberdour to destroy it, and they nearly did. All the outlying towns were burned, the people of the region were scattered or killed.”
“Why?” Broderick asked.
“Orkrash hates Aberdour. No one knows why.” Tenri folded his arms across his leather and metal chest. “The man who led the attack, a knight by the name of Sir Komor Raven, was given permission by the high king to keep any spoils of war he desired. What The Raven desired was money, and so he had made a deal with a wealthy northerner to sell him the kingdom.”
“Sell the kingdom?” Nash repeated. “Sell Aberdour?”
“To Dearg?” Broderick added.
“Indeed. Dearg is a mad king, they say, but it was his arrangement with Sir Komor that spared most of Aberdour.”
“So in the end,” Nash began, “The Raven got rich, King Dearg got a city, the outlying towns were demolished, and half of Aberdour was destroyed.”
Tenri just looked at him, a deep frown on his lips.
Broderick realized how unprepared he had been to hear this news of his homeland. It made him furious to know that Aberdour had been conquered and traded like a piece of merchandise.
And then there was Dearg. Broderick’s insides clenched at the thought of what the mad king was doing to his home. His muscles ached for vengeance, yet his mind knew there was nothing he could do, not now anyway, not from Efferous.
Proditous came ambling back from the garden, his eyes like orbs and his smile wide and fat. He slapped Khalous on the back, laughing at some joke. Khalous must have told him a brilliant tale indeed.
“I extend to all of you an invitation,” he said, opening his arms in a grand gesture. “Tomorrow we shall have an opulent fete, and in exchange for my hospitality I request that you all spin me wondrous tales of your adventures. Embellishments encouraged of course.”
Broderick looked at Khalous, surprised by their good fortune. To go from being humble orphans taking refuge in the crowded confines of Halus Gis to honored guests at a massive banquet felt like a dream.
“We would be delighted,” Khalous said.
Proditous clapped his hands. “Brilliant!”
BRAYDEN
Brayden twirled as a trio of street performs flipped and cartwheeled past him. When he turned back around he had to shuffle sideways to avoid being run over by a man balancing atop a rolling sphere of wood.
The festive music pouring out of the dining hall had attracted dozens of entertainers to the public square. The evening air was thick with the scent of wood smoke, spiced meats, and beer while acrobats tossed themselves about, jugglers wowed spectators with twirling torches, and weapon masters demonstrated their skills with throwing knives and swordplay.
“There’s good money in entertainment for a performer who knows when and where to showcase his talents,” said Tenri Hollandara. He walked up to Brayden with his hands clasped behind him, flawless armor reflecting a hundred tiny torchlights.
“Thalmia has many talented people,” Brayden remarked as he watched a man swallow a flaming sword and then pull it back out again.
“The only place you might find better is in Konia,” Tenri said. “There you will find the home of the gladiators and the largest war reenactments on Efferous.”
Tenri walked with Brayden among the crowded square as they made their way to the dining hall. Vendors offered them sales on sharpened steel, brand new pieces of armor, jackets, and colorful silk shirts. Farmers and bakers showcased fresh produce, sugary tarts, pies, and frosted cakes topped with raspberries.
Brayden looked curiously at Tenri. The man was a perplexing character. Although he talked and dressed like an Efferousian, his hair was too light and his eyes too dark to make him a native. When he spoke the language of Edhen, however, his accent disappeared.
“Sir?” Brayden asked. “You are from, Edhen, aren’t you?”
“Turnberry, to be exact,” Tenri said.
“I always liked Turnberry.”
“It’s a kingdom rife with notions of honor and family, yet bereft of grace and mercy.” His tone was cold, and Brayden didn’t get the feeling that he had much fondness for his homeland.
“Why did you leave?”
“For the same reason as you. For the Kriegellians.” Tenri rolled up his right sleeve, exposing an arm covered in black tattoos. “I found them. I joined them.” He paused to let Brayden examine the plethora of dark mystic markings. He pulled his sleeve back down. “And then I lost my place among them.”
“How?”
“A Kriegellian can lose his place within the brotherhood through one of two ways, death or by losing his sword in combat, though most who lose their swords pay with their lives. My opponent was far kinder.”
“Are you a servant?”
“And Proditous is my master.”
Brayden tried to hide his surprise. The thought of the oafish Proditous besting a man as lean and athletic as Tenri was laughable.
“Oh, he did not fight me himself,” Tenri said, noticing with a smirk Brayden’s dubious expression. “But it was he who commanded the soldiers who bested me, thus my life went to him.”
“Soldiers? How many soldiers did it take to best you?”
“Twelve.”
“It took twelve men to defeat you?” Brayden lifted his brows in awe.
“If you don’t count the thirty who died in the process, yes.”
“I want to be a Kriegellian warrior,” Brayden said. “Are you going to teach us?”
Tenri chuckled. “Unfortunately, I am forbidden. Even were I not, that decision doesn’t lie with me.” He clapped Brayden on the shoulder. “Come, we should make our way to the banquet hall. It is never polite to be late for dinner when the herus has invited you to be his honored guest.”
They passed by a pair of big dray horses standing latched to a stationary wagon piled high with barrels of ale. Behind the wagon sat the dining hall, a broad building of stone and plaster, its sand colored pillars carved with a pattern of vines and flowers and illuminated by towering bowls of fire. The sensual aroma of roasting meat wafted down the steps and spilled out onto the plaza below. When the scent touched Brayden’s nose he felt his stomach lurch in anticipation.
The entrance was guarded by a massive set of doors standing a good twenty feet tall.
A guard stopped them before they could pass through and said, “The herus has requested that all weapons be left outside the dining hall tonight.”
Brayden’s eyes went to gauge the reaction of Tenri. He appeared to be stifling his annoyance even as he removed his sword and passed it to the guards. “The herus does this from time to time, Master Brayden. Nothing to be worried about.”
Brayden followed suit and surrendered his weapons to the guard even though doing so created a hollow feeling in his chest.
Inside, flickering torchlight enriched the pale angles of the hall’s architecture while a large bonfire crackled in the center of the room. Deep shadows hid a plethora of corners while the foreign chatter of the surrounding guests made Brayden feel uneasy. Above him, however, the open roof
of the dining hall gave way to a pleasant view of the night stars that he found calming.
“Decorus Ferrum,” Tenri said, greeting a sharp looking man in a trim brown and gold jacket.
The man turned. His devilish look surprised Brayden. He had a short ponytail of coal black curls pulled straight back from a dark, angular face.
“Brayden, I want you to meet the greatest swordsman on Efferous, and possibly the known world,” Tenri said.
Brayden extended his hand toward the dark skinned stranger. “Nice to meet you.”
Decorus shook it methodically, staring at Brayden with scrutinizing brown eyes from under dark, low set brows.
“You words carry the taint of an Edhenite,” he said.
Brayden wasn’t sure how to take his remark. “Is that bad?”
“Only if you’re an Edhenite,” Decorus said.
Tenri laughed, diffusing the tension that had unexpectedly sprung up. “You’ll have to forgive, Master Decorus. He is suspicious of everyone and has not a shred of kindness. But a finer warrior you will never meet. It’s a shame he no longer accepts students.”
“If one were worthy enough, I might.” Decorus gestured to Tenri. “I was wondering if I might have a word with you.”
“Of course.”
Tenri excused himself to converse elsewhere with the mysterious sword master.
“This Proditous fellow knows how to throw a party,” said Nash when he found Brayden standing near the entrance of the dining hall. The young man had made himself comfortable in the dress clothes that had been provided to him by Proditous, an embellished gold and yellow jacket that hung to his knees, silk shirt, embroidered slacks, and a leather belt bejeweled with blue stones.
“Don’t you look… lovely?” Brayden said, trying not to laugh.
“Hey, just because it’s not a style where we come from doesn’t mean I don’t look amazing.”
“You look like a girl.”
Nash put a hand on Brayden’s shoulder. “Don’t take this personally, but impressing you with how good I look is the last thing on my mind. Impressing them, however, is of utmost importance.” He gave a nod of his head toward a pair of beautiful young women eyeing them from across the room. The girls noticed them looking in their direction and turned into each other giggling.
“Incredible aren’t they?” Nash said.
Clint attacked him. He wrapped his arm around Brayden’s neck and dug his knuckles into his scalp.
“Take that, cousin!” Clint said, slurring his words.
Brayden shoved him away, annoyed.
“Someone’s been at the herus’ ale,” Nash said as Clint staggered on his feet.
“I could take all of you drunk when I’m drunk, but only when… when, um…” He belched. Brayden noticed that his eyes were glassy and moist. “You’re a bunch of ducks, you know that?”
Brayden chuckled. “Ducks, eh?”
Clint nodded and lifted his goblet to his lips.
Broderick walked over to them. He had exchanged his leather armor and worn slacks for a formal black tunic with a dignifying high collar, matching black pants, and polished leather boots.
“Did you hear?” he asked.
“Hear what?” Nash said, tipping back a mug of ale.
“Khalous says the Kriegellians don’t recruit outsiders,” Broderick said. “They’re a pretty superstitious lot, he says, always fearing they’re going to bring evil into the ranks or something.”
“So does that mean we came all this way for nothing?” Nash asked.
“I guess so.”
Brayden lifted a quelling hand. “We don’t know that yet. I don’t think Khalous and Tenri are done talking about it.”
“What does Tenri have to do with anything?” Broderick asked.
“He’s a Kriegellian,” Brayden said. “He’s the one we came here to see.”
Nash’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Tenri is a Kriegellian warrior?”
“He used to be. He has their markings on his arms. I saw them.”
Nash swiped another mug of ale off a passing tray.
“How can you drink that salty, sandy… whatever that is,” Broderick said with an expression of obvious disgust.
Another server walked by with a tray of small pastries. Nash snatched one. “It’s called indulging. And I plan to do a lot of it.”
Proditous had planned a grand indulgence indeed. Among the many rows of tables and guests were serving platters piled high with roasted boar, fish in a red mackerel sauce, large baskets overflowing with fruit, deep bowls containing a variety of nuts, and loaves of fresh bread still warm to the touch.
Tenri led them to a table at the front of the room where they seated themselves before a wide platform. Atop the stage, several women in flowing wisps of cloth entertained the guests with elegant dances until the herus arrived.
When Proditous entered he started at the front of the room. He strolled among his guests on his way to his table so he could receive their compliments, thanks, and kisses. He was wearing chocolate leather and silks and his head was wreathed in green leaves. At his side was a beautiful young woman in a fine silk dress colored a deep red and embroidered with birds along the neckline that plunged to her navel. She swept her skirts aside and seated herself at the table across from Brayden. She looked sad and distant.
Proditous stood at the head of the table and stretched out his hands. When the room quieted, he offered thanks to their gods and then permitted the crowd to eat.
The meal that followed contained nothing but the most succulent foods Brayden had ever eaten. They began with small plates of oiled bread and garlic. When they were finished Proditous motioned to the servers who took their plates and replaced them with cuts of spiced meats and boiled vegetables seasoned with sea salt. The servers kept their goblets full with wine and beer while a single musician serenaded the crowd with a large U-shaped stringed instrument that resembled a harp.
A manservant stopped by their table with a pitcher of mead and offered to refill Brayden’s mug. As the man reached out to take the cup, his tunic parted and the hilt of a curved dagger glinted in the torchlight. The man refastened the button, poured Brayden’s drink, and glided away from the table.
“Master Brayden,” Proditous said, “word is you have felled a mountain troll.” He pointed to the left side of Brayden’s face, which still bore the scars of his encounter with Kette. “Do entertain us with the chronicle. Please, no prevarication and do embellish the details.”
Brayden found it difficult to weave the tale of his encounter with the beast so spontaneously. He did the best he could, throwing in a few spectacular additions in an attempt to please the herus.
His wounds no longer hurt, but the scars along his jaw, cheek, and forehead were still healing and would likely be there for the rest of his life.
Through the dim firelight of the dining hall Brayden saw a pair of shirtless male slaves carrying a large pillow upon which rested what looked like a pale, hairless dog. They brought it to Proditous and set it on the ground next to his chair. The thing on the pillow was a wretched sight, the torso of a limbless man. He lifted his emaciated head up toward Proditous who stroked the man’s stringy black hair. The herus dropped a piece of meat on the pillow that the man began to eat.
“What is that?” asked Broderick, his face wrinkled in disgust.
“Broderick,” Khalous said, his voice tinged with caution, “it is not polite to question our host.”
“Oh, no bother,” Proditous said. “He is merely a curious boy.”
“What happened to his arms and legs?” Nash asked.
“I had them removed,” Proditous said.
“Why?”
Proditous tented his fingers over his generous belly. “This is a tale I do love to expel.”
Brayden had a feeling it wasn’t one he would enjoy hearing.
“His name is Beggar. He is one of the Niqua. You could say the Niqua are to us when the Fellians are to the people of Edhen.
What do you call them? Krebbers. A wonderful term, by the way. Belonging to no one. Apropos, don’t you think, for slaves and the weak?”
Beggar craned his neck up to look at Proditous. When he opened his mouth to moan Brayden noticed that he had no tongue. Proditous placed another piece of chicken in the man’s mouth.
“When I conquered his people, an importunate and primitive race, I told his sire I would demonstrate forbearance from taking his son’s life, but that he would live the rest of his days like a dog by my side beseeching from me the scraps from my table.” He dropped a greasy husk of chicken skin on the floor. “I am a man of my word. So I truncated his limbs. I uprooted his genitals and removed his tongue.”
A wicked smile crossed the fat man’s lips.
“You see, it is not enough that we conquer our enemies. We must make examples of them. It is how the world learns peace.”
Brayden forced down the nervous lump in his throat created by the hideous creature on the floor.
A male server bumped into Brayden’s back as he squeezed past him. “Pardon, my lord.”
“Herus,” Nash began, “would it be impolite to ask one of those dancing women to come a bit closer?”
Proditous glanced over to one of the stone pedestals upon which stood a beautiful woman swaying to the music of the stage musicians. Apart from a strip of fabric across her breasts, she wore two long panels of fabric on her hips, one slung low in the front and one in the back.
Proditous tipped his head back and bellowed.
“Do they not have women on Edhen?” Tenri asked.
“Few so lovely,” Nash said.
“You have to forgive my brother,” Preston said. “He suffers from a lack of respect for the fairer sex.”
“Your brother is in good company,” said Proditous. “Some peculiarities that you might see as ill-mannered foibles are actually nothing but social commonalities here on Efferous. Women, for example, are treated quite differently than they would be on your homeland.”
“On Edhen we respect and love our women,” Preston said, “but here women are treated much like servants, which I think is disgraceful.”