by Cale Madison
“Are you married?” I asked.
“Never considered it. I’ve found that I enjoy other women too much when I start to drink, and believe me I love to drink, so the odds are not in my favor. It’s too complicated so I just keep to myself.”
“You do seem to be a complicated person.” I replied, laughing.
* * * * * *
That night was as dreadfully uneventful as the afternoon before. The sounds of waves crashing against the ship awoke me more than frequently, reminding me of times when my father would take me upriver to catch our meals. I remember how he entrusted me to find the baited traps along the bed of the river; we would pull several pounds of fish on a fortunate day.
Sleeping proved to be severely difficult in these conditions. Hours passed before I gave up, ascended the ladder from the sailor’s quarters to return to the brig. Against the starry skyline of the night, I saw the silhouette of Otto manning the helm of the ship, appearing focused on the path ahead. He was a decent captain, damn-near perfect if you asked me.
“He’s a good man, but his days are just as a dark as tonight.” said the Djinn, appearing on the steps of the ship. With his legs crossed, he seemed quite relaxed as the boat rocked back and forth.
“Seems like he knows a thing or two out here.” I replied.
“As all captains do. But this one comes from a woeful descent of swine-peddling merchants, and not the most honorable one at that. He broke away as he came of age, pursuing a life at sea,” said the Djinn, “his three brothers each imprisoned for thievery or slave-trading on the open market. A rambunctious crew of unlucky charlatans.”
“You know plenty about everyone, I see.” I said.
“Only the ones worth knowing.”
I leaned against the railing, crossing my arms as I aimed to learn about the rumors surrounding North Mountain. I asked, “It seems like these tasks of yours always involve a curse of some sort.”
“So you’ve heard of,” the Djinn laughed, raising his fingers like claws, “the wolf-man? Hardly a hoax, that one. Humans fear what they cannot understand and believe in the slightest of fairytales.”
“So he doesn’t exist?”
“Everything exists, Caine. I’m saying that the probability of such a creature
living on that mountain is possible. Not implying that one’s existence is in fact probable.”
“Technicality is your strong suit, Djinn.” I responded. The chilling breeze ran across my shoulders as our ship continued its cruise through the night. Stars lit up the black sky in beautiful, mysterious formations.
“Why is that only a few of us can see you?” I asked, breaking the silence.
“Given that I haven’t yet been cast in irons below the deck and sentenced to death as a stowaway, I assume your precious captain is unaware as well. Only those who have summoned me can see me, unless I choose to be seen,” he answered, “are you prepared for what lies ahead, Caine? Diving headfirst into paintings is nothing compared to this. Many have perished atop this treacherous mountain, seeking the exact fate as you.”
“What’s the difference between them and me? I am but your errand boy, by proxy, of course.”
“You are my champion by proxy. Caine, there is no motivation stronger than
that of a man fighting for someone he loves. Men will lie to gain what their black hearts desire but a man like you has much to lose. I need you and you need me. Know that.”
The Djinn understood much about the basic ideologies of life and what it
means to carry through with a bargain. He seemed to understand the principle of love but I could tell that he has never felt a true human emotion. Attempting to gain leverage back in the conversation, I asked him, “What about you? Have you ever loved?”
“Emotions drive humans to do almost anything. Reckless and stupid as they may be, their intentions always come from a place of desire. You’re risking everything for Aketa and you haven’t even considered the possibility of losing yourself along the way,” he halfly answered, noticing my confusion, “but to answer your question, yes. I have once felt a powerful connection to someone.”
“Did that go awry like this?”
“You’ll learn in time, I’m sure but for now, get some rest. Tomorrow is a new beginning for the both of us. Listen to these words carefully, Caine - in Ataman, they live by a different code, different laws. Don’t dare depart from our path and extend our venture longer than it needs to be.”
* * * * * *
The next morning, I awoke to the screeching of seagulls and the sounds of waves crashing against a shore. Our ship rocked no longer, sitting perfectly still. Startled, I rushed to the deck, tripping over my own clumsy feet as I clothed myself and found the captain. He stood at the helm, conversing with three of his deckhands.
“I thought you said we’d make it by this afternoon?” I asked him.
“And a good morning to you, as well! Wind was in our favor, Caine. Are you not pleased the Gods have saved you some precious time?” he replied, smiling. I nodded and returned to the brig, moving past sailors running to their assigned stations. After retrieving my pack and clothes from the quarters, I made my way to the deck again to depart.
Ottoman waved to me as I left the ship, finally allowing me to take in my surroundings. Ataman was truly remarkable - patrons and passing travelers emerged from the brothels and inns, walking about the town square while merchants begged them to purchase their cheap wares. Aside from the sizes of the buildings, lack of trees and silver roofing of houses, this city was not much different from Mercia. The golden sand shone from the coastline where it met the sea, casting a bright glow along the shore and beyond. In the distance, a mountain outstanding in both magnificence and beauty stood overlooking Ataman.
Children playing their harmless, imaginative games ran throughout the streets while traders haggled over prices and pelts. Farmers led their cattle, carried bushels of crops and shouted at one another over their right to walk down the bustling road. Armorers pounded life into their craft, pulling hot iron from pots of water to hang among countless weapons, displayed across their shops.
I felt right at home.
Still, I needed to learn about the possible routes I could take to gain an audience with the great King Ramses. None could provide better information than market square merchants, desperate to make some extra coin. I had kept a few crowns in my pocket in case circumstance required. I approached a merchant’s stand, where a couple of finely-dressed gentlemen heard me approach. They turned around to greet me appropriately. One man seemed to be looking me over as if analyzing my stature, or more likely, the depth of my pockets.
“Morning, gentlemen.” I announced.
“What the fuck do you want, then?” one of the men asked me.
I was taken aback by their hostility. I replied, “Looking to buy something, I suppose. What are you offering at this stand?”
“What? You lookin’ for trouble, are ya?” the taller man snapped. I stayed silent, maneuvering myself between them and the other carts pervading the market square. People were not as bitter and unkind in Mercia.
“Got something against foreigners, I suppose,” I replied, “I’m not in the mood for cock-measuring so, if you’d please, show me what wares you’re peddling before I get agitated.”
“Cock measuring? Cock measuring?! This fucker’s out of his damn skull, he is,” the man told the other, “you think you can prance back into Ataman and demand to buy our shit from us? Some kind of nerve, after all you’ve done. Must be lookin’ for a bruisin’, this one, Henwik.”
“Clearly you’ve mistaken me with someone else. It’s been a long day.” I said, clenching my fists. I had to be ready for a fight, preparing myself to release the mounds of boiling anger from the previous week. The shorter one whispered something into the other man’s ear, apparently changing the man’s tone.
“Wait...Releviene?” the taller man asked me suddenly.
“What? Caine...Mercer?” I repli
ed, confused.
The two men erupted in bursts of apologies and sympathetic grunts after hearing this news, saying, “We apologize, good sir, we thought you were the scoundrel, Lance de Releviene! Apologies upon apologies, sir!”
“Yes, yes! A thousand pardons for me and my brother!” the other cried out.
“Easy, now. No harm done. What did this Lance de Releviene do to you? Must’ve been something horrendous to deserve such foul treatment.” I replied, brushing away their insults like dust from my shoulders.
“He means, fowl treatment,” the taller man laughed to Henwik, as if knowing a joke I did not understand, “my brother and I manage a pheasantry here in uptown Ataman, good sir. Most pristine pheasantry in all of this glorious city, I might add. We cook game like no other. One night, as we were closing the shop, a man entered our establishment with a naught but a wooden club in his hand and a mask over his face. He beat my brother and I senseless and did the most...despicable thing imaginable.” the man said, while starting to trail off.
“I literally can not imagine.” I said.
“He opened every last cage of our new batch of hens and released them through our cook’s window! Freed every last blimey one before he left. Forty-seven chickens fell into the lake and, well let’s hope they can adequately swim.”
“I didn’t teach them to swim, good sir. They must be goners.” Henwik added.
“Gripping story,” I said to the brothers, “how did you catch the bandit’s name in all of the ruckus, anyhow?”
“Before he left, I cursed his mother’s name and vowed that we would get revenge for this blasphemous act. He turned around and said to Rowel and I, ‘If I catch either of you taking our hens again, I shall return’. After that, he trashed our shop and broke some eggs on his way out. The charlatan.” Henwik explained.
I found myself surprisingly intrigued with the two brothers’ story.
“So you know this man?” I asked them.
“He wore a black mask, see,” Rowel explained, “didn’t catch his face.”
“But you know his chickens?”
“Well, yes. The Releviene Vineyard. We’ve taken eggs and hens from his farm outside of Ataman’s city boundaries normally, but we stopped about a month ago! Only recall his name, though. We concluded that it has to be the old man’s son, Lance. Same voice as you, good sir, all gruff and deep,” Henwik replied to me, “must have tracked us down, that fucking degenerate. Apologies for the confusion.”
“What is the logic in him freeing your own hens? Why not take them?”
Both brothers seemed stumped with this question. Henwik replied, “Never considered that. Perhaps he had not brought a cart to take them all. Lots o’ chickens he freed, there were many, indeed.”
“Why not raise your own hens instead of stealing them?” I asked them.
“Clearly you’ve never worked a farm,” Rowel replied, “it’s not easy containing fowl, let alone forty-seven of those bastards. Much easier just stealing them.”
“Well, gentlemen, I hope you find what you’re looking for.” I said to the two brothers. I realized quickly that, rather than become involved in another intricate tale about chicken thieves, I would prefer to question someone else in the market; I needed to find someone to help guide me to Ataman’s mountain.
“You too, sir! Should you come across that bastard, Lance de Releviene, tell him the Namural Brothers are looking for him! We will not rest until he pays for this fiendish act!”
I left the brothers and continued on my path. Squinty-eyed dwarves and imps traded coal and mining equipment from small tents, their faces covered in soot from a previous day’s labor. Small creatures that resembled mice with human arms and legs ran between my feet, disappearing into the gutters and sewage entrances while shop owners chased after them, shouting, “Thieves! Catch them!”
Trolls lumbered through the scurrying humans below them, carrying what their masters could not: iron crates with cows or heavy containers, filled with bags of rye or flour. I gazed upon their twisted faces in astonishment, bewildered by such monsters that could peacefully live among us; white, beady eyes darted between their path of movement as they tried not to step on anyone.
I continued strolling through the bustling streets, several onlookers had gathered around a priest shouting their disdain with the Gods and such. I overheard as much as I could.
“Opheria is displeased with us. She hates us, for we are naught but incompetent and spoiled. She gave us rain and good fortune, yet we show little to no gratitude! Now, we wonder why she allows such a monster to dwell in the mountains, preying on our loved ones and living in obscurity. Its very existence is our earned punishment. We must pray, yes, pray for aid from the almighty Goddess. Taxes are paid to the King and to our officials but they cannot fight this fight alone! This battle does not require our coin, but our faith. We must stand together for our families. Look at what the creature has given us!” the priest then removed a tarp which concealed a mutilated carcass, dismembered with entrails visible for everyone to see; children screamed, women vomited and men turned away upon first sight of the carnage.
“This is our fault, people! We shunned the Gods and have thus condemned ourselves to a life of fear from these monsters. We must pray away our terrible nature and beg Opheria for forgiveness. Only when we need something, do we ask from the Goddess...no more!” the priest continued. I left the scene to avoid risking another glance at the grotesque victim lying in the cart.
I overheard a loud outcry from ahead; a thin man, tied by rope to a wooden stake, could be seen being pelted by stones. An armored knight reading a parchment beside him was wearing a bright, noticeable insignia: a blue wolf with two daggers conjoined at the center. I joined the furious crowd overlooking this strange, unfamiliar act taking place.
“And by the King’s decree, I hereby sentence you to execution by fire. May the Gods have mercy on your wretched soul. With this torch of justice, I send you to the depths of an eternal hell-fire.” he announced. His soldiers began lighting wooden stakes, as ordered. In Mercia, we did not conduct our laws in such a crude manner. Rather than avoid the situation, something deep within my soul pushed me to yell the next few, fate-altering words, “Wait, now! Stop! What exactly is this man accused of?”
The soldier reading the decree snapped his attention towards me as the civilians surrounding stepped away quickly as if avoiding a spreading disease. He continued to read, ignoring me.
“I’ll ask again: what has this man been accused of?” I repeated.
“You dare oppose the rule of our great King?” he asked, angrily.
“No, not at all. I simply ask what of this man is being charged with. Doesn’t look like he could harm a fly, let alone be condemned to such a fate.” I answered, hearing the soft whispers coming from the startled crowd.
“He is accused of witchcraft. By the order of King Ramses, he is to be burned by fire until death. Any further questions, my bumptious friend? Light the stake.” the soldier commanded. His men began to close in on the accused prisoner.
“Hold on, now. If this man is indeed a witch, would he not use his magic to break free of these pitiful human bonds? Surely, someone of his divine power could escape without difficulty.” I asked the soldier. The crowd began to murmur for a moment before joining in with my perspective.
“Indeed! Why has he not used his magic for me own eyes?” one man shouted.
“Tie him to a stone and toss him in the sea to find out!” cried another.
“Be calm, everyone, be calm,” the soldier barked to the crowd, “this man was spotted on the edge of the forest, making offerings to false Gods. Credible sources claim that he is of witch descent.”
“Let him prove it, then!” I responded. The crowd shouted in agreement.
The soldier appeared startled by this turn of events, stammering out orders for the crowd to be silenced. Uproars began, causing the soldier’s men to brace their weapons for an accumulating mutiny. “He should be
tried by a justified court, not by your ears, alone!” I shouted, feeling a surge of power with my words.
“Watch your tongue, boy or I’ll cut it from your mouth.” he threatened.
In this moment of high tension, the accused man tied to the stake began laughing an uncontrollable laughter. The crowd took heed of this, becoming quiet as he began to speak directly to me.
“You have acted valiantly today, sir, but this jest is over.” the bondaged man announced to me before dematerializing into a puff of black smoke and then reappearing at my side. With a handful of crowns and a devilish smile, he winked at me before adding, “Much thanks for your bravery, samaritan.”
The man then vanished into the air. Everyone in attendance at this sentencing realized in an instant that their pockets had become lighter; they were robbed by a clever sorcerer and I had helped him abscond with the loot.
“Seize him!” the head knight commanded, pointing at me.
With absolutely no intention of being arrested in this foreign city, I sprinted out of the crowd to disappear into the bustling streets. Farmers leading their goats and carrying bushels of hay or wheat cried out in surprise as I ran past them, hearing the shouting of the knights at my heels. My path led me through a narrow alleyway which opened up into the Ataman dormant square, not providing enough cover or places to blend and hide.
“That man, there!” a knight called out, “grab him now!”
I threw open the doors of a tavern, seeking a roomy cupboard or some spare chamber to hide but found nothing. As the heavy clinks of armored boots bounded against the wooden steps outside, I knew that I could not stay. Through the back door of the tavern I ran but discovered a militia searching for me in the city square.
The rooftops. They would never expect that!
I scaled some overhanging ledges, protruding from the tavern and climbed to the roof, from which I could see the majority of Ataman’s population as they frolicked and made their ways throughout the city. Once atop the building, I pressed myself hard into the terracotta and waited for the knights to pass in search of other hiding locations.