The process went on for over an hour. Jogen stood in winter robes over the heap that was Vegard who was panting and bound on the Sacellum floor. The master bent down and grabbed Vegard’s face checking the eyes which were white once more. Satisfied he dropped him back to the floor. “What am I to do with you, Pral Vegard?” The mountain word for ‘slave’. Vegard coughed up well water. The taste of pine needles and dirt coated the back of his throat.
“A drink would be nice. The irony of the situation is I am quite parched, my lord.”
Jogen couldn’t help but smile at that. “Get him cleaned up, blinded, and brought to my chambers.” He instructed the guards. “Elder Uretta.” He bowed to the elder-lady, “As always, thank you for your services.”
“Is a shame you need them so often, Lord Herald. And at such inconvenient hours.” The stone faced elder-lady responded.
“Trouble often comes at inconvenient times.” Jogen responded with a polite smile, pretending not to notice the priestess’s perpetual scowl, before taking his leave.
“Get this jarro’kind out of my presence. I’ve cleaning to be done.” The elder-lady said to the guards. They did as instructed, covering Vegard’s face once again and dragging him away.
The sky was blackened and the hour late by the time Vegard was ushered into Lord Jogen’s business room. It was sectioned off from the great hall where he would see to his more wealthy of guests. The lord sat behind his sturdy lignum wood desk covered head to toe in thick animal furs. The office was adorned with exotic predator heads from the mountains, slender enchanted blades from the islands surrounding Lesnifar, burly wooden shields from the viking warriors of Westland. All the displays of wealth and influence that one could attain with the resources of one such as him.
Vegard was scrubbed and clothed in a simple wool tunic and trousers that were bound at the ankles. A blinding mask of clay was caked over each eye and then wrapped in a thin strip of leather. The warlock could easily be skewered before he dare rip the leather away and peel the sticky clay from his eyes. His master was safe. The guards were ushered away.
A fire crackled in the hearth. Vegard could hear his master’s breathing as he sat behind his desk. Jogen was a ponderer and intellectual, at least as much as one from his rank would be. In Vegard’s experience, most lords spoke before thinking. Too arrogant to give pause to their gilded deliberations. Or, perhaps, Vegard was just a jaded slave. He couldn’t be too sure. He hadn’t a cause to be much sure of anything during his past year or so of servitude.
Jogen sipped at a glass of sweet wine, his many rings clanking loudly against the thick glass. “Why are you here, my pral Vegard?”
Vegard laughed aloud, too tired to be coy. “My master, you have your answer within your question. I am pral. A slave. Or have you forgotten you purchased me?”
“You are too clever to play stupid. As of late you have not been making any real strides towards your freedom.”
“Are you speaking of the incident tonight?” Vegard’s eyebrows rose, as much as they could under the leather blindfold. “My opponent had a weapon. I would’ve been run through if I had not feasted on him.” It amused Vegard to use graphic language when describing his dark arts. If he could not have his freedom he would at least make those around him squirm with discomfort. “Anyways, it was unnecessary to bring me to that ragged, old wench for a bath. I wasn’t going to keep his soul. Just intended to disarm him, my lord.” The title always seethed from the warlock like a curse. My lord, master, sir. He spit them out like venom.
Jogen shifted in his chair. It was more of a noise indication that he was ready to speak. Vegard would obviously be oblivious to facial cues, at the moment. “How about a drink, Vegard?”
“Best thing I’ve heard tonight, my lord.” He shimmied forward.
Jogen opened a large cask that was next to his desk. He pulled a drinking horn from the wall and dunked it in the frothing brew. “I’m enjoying a sweet Hubrie honey wine from Kruksa’s estate but I figure your want is something a tad more earthy.”
Vegard reached his hands out, grasped the horn and drank deep. He wiped the froth from his mustache. “You know me too well. I suppose a year’s time will do that.”
“Has it been that long?” Lord Jogen filled the horn again.
“Give or take. Days bleed into one another, my lord. Merely trying to survive your pits. The fate you’ve bestowed upon me.”
“Is that self pity I hear from you, Vegard? Hadn’t thought you the type.”
“Merely reflection.” He smiled and drank once more.
Jogen sank back into his plush, emperor’s chair. He set his hands behind his head. “Let us speak about this reflection of yours, then.” Jogen said. “The pits are a good place for a man of your abilities and background. You were a soldier. Am I to send you to collect herbs on the hillside? Reap the fields, gather stones from the mountain? No, that would be a waste of your talents. Not to mention it would take you thrice as long to purchase your life again, Vegard. The pits are so much more lucrative.”
“And deadly…so I hear.” Vegard sneered.
“So what? War is deadly and yet that did not stop you from joining. And, let me say this, you are a slave, Vegard. I have never had to remind a man of his station more than I’ve had to remind you.”
“You seem to remind me more and more as of late.”
“I remind you because your choices have brought you to where you are. You dishonored yourself on the field of battle.”
“How!? By being a warlock? The Alder hadn’t a care when it was turning battles in their favor. It’s only after the blood has been spilled that they find their piousness once again.”
“Your black heart was an impetus, yes. Although I have heard tales of darker deeds.” Vegard had no response to that. He stood steady, his spine straight and drinking horn empty. “However, unlike those that have shunned you, I have no intention of doing so. Every man has a past, I don’t care who you are. Even that ‘old wench’, as you so put it, has regrets I’m sure she keeps hidden from the world.”
“What is your point?” The warlock was getting impatient. The barbarian’s soul had soothed him like he hadn’t experienced in months but the forceful extraction of that energy had left him exhausted.
“You’ve set yourself on a sour path and I have the feeling you will burn yourself out before your debt is paid in full to me.”
“How much more is owed? How many more must I bloody before I can take my leave?”
“If it was just in blood that you paid me you would be free as of now.” Jogen let the statement sink in before continuing. “But you accumulate more debt with your comforts, with your disobedience, and with your drink. You have become clumsy in the arena. Repairing you and my help expends the amount you make, if not exceeding it at times.”
Vegard was incredulous but his words were trapped in his stomach. The empty horn fell to the floor by his bound feet.
“I will not deny you hospitalities, if you want it, Pral Vegard. These choices are yours. It is why you are indentured and why you are still so. If you desire to run at this pace then I will reap the profits from your wins…and your eventual loss.”
The hearth crackling was the only sound for many moments. Vegard was lost in his thoughts. He couldn’t quite decide who he was more angry with. His master or himself. If he could set the whole village ablaze he would. Swallow this forsaken mountain town into the realm of the jarro.
“Take that information as you will. I’ve given it freely.” Jogen continued. “As you know, we are preparing for the End of Autumn festival.”
“I am aware.” Vegard said through gritted teeth.
“The Mountain lords are bringing their best fighters for show. There is a lot of money to be had, Vegard. Now, I will make a profit either way. I am holding the event. I provide the venue, service, drink, hearth. I will be reimbursed for my effort many times over…whether or not you perform well. Now, I tell you
this out of courtesy. Prepare yourself diligently, win many a fights, impress the lords and ladies, and you will be well on your way to earning your freedom back.”
“However, disobey and die, is that it?” Vegard asked.
“The fact of whether you live or die falls upon the mercy of the slave warrior you are up against, Vegard. Some of these deep mountain lords can be a little blood hungry, I warn you.”
“And I am judged for my dishonor…” Vegard scoffed.
Jogen merely shrugged at this. “The way of the world is not fair. You made it to adulthood which is more than can be said for many. That aside, I have warned you justly. Perform well and become that much closer to paying your debt to society. Prepare naught and you may find your fate in the hands of savage lords with heads swimming in wine. I am the host this fall, Pral Vegard. I will not deny my fellows their whims.”
That ended the conversation. Lord Jogen Herald needed his sleep. There were still many preparations to be had for the End of Autumn festival and the lord needed a clear head to plan the merriment.
With a whistle, guards waiting in the halls came within and took the squirming warlock away from the lord of Dunesmir. Vegard let the men work for their pay. He slammed an elbow into one and let the other take his feet out from under him. The two men dragged the accursed dark one away as the heavy sighs of Jogen could be heard fading in the distance.
CHAPTER THREE
A Godly Task
Vegard Orlo spent the next couple days in his living quarters. He was only permitted leave to spar in the sand pits or to see to his injuries, otherwise he was confined to the third floor tower of his cell. His room was little more than a storage area. Barely beyond the dimensions given to some herd animals. He had room enough for a mattress stuffed with hay, a sturdy wooden rocking chair, and a rough rug laid upon the cold stone floor. A small slitted window faced to the east with a dangling piece of cloth that pinned shut to keep the biting wind at bay.
A piping hot basin of water was brought to his quarters each night, along with a towel to help soothe his aching muscles. Jogen kept true to his accommodations when it came to ale, though. Vegard may have been forced to train like a madman but he wasn’t about to be sober doing it. His anger burned too ferociously to sleep unaided.
The festival was only two nights away and promised to be the biggest since Vegard became an indentured servant. Never before had pit fighting been the main draw. Combat competitions were usually amongst the freemen, the warriors, those with honor to give and to take. Not for the honor-less.
Vegard was deep into his fourth cup of ale. The pain of the day’s training was a muffled drumbeat in the background of his drunkenness. The warlock was sprawled out on his cheap rug daydreaming about if they had forgotten to place the glyphs before the tournament, how he would make all the mountain lords pay. He imagined tearing the souls so forcefully from their host bodies that a bit of rib and skull would tear free as well. He giggled and hiccuped, pushing himself up from the floor. He crawled over to the keg brought to him. It is stronger than normal. Must be their winter batch. Vegard filled his cup to overflowing and staggered over to his rocking chair. He plopped heavily down.
“Gods! If I had more of this I’d conquer the entire realm!” He laughed.
“Is that so?” Another voice said.
“Who’s there!?” Vegard’s legs kicked out as he spilled ale over himself. His cup clattered to the stone floor and rolled across the room to be stopped by a metal boot dangling from his bed. The boot was platemail—smooth, sharp, and beautifully crafted. Every square inch of it inscribed with elegant, splendid artwork. Vegard’s eyes traveled the length of the boot to the knees, thigh, breast, and finally face of the most picturesque woman he had ever seen in his life. Lounging on his bed and decked as if prepared for war. She wore a cloak of a massive beast Vegard had no recollection of. It was gold with a large mane that rose over her shoulders like the sun. Her head was bare of armament with blonde hair that swayed about her as if suspended under water.
The woman’s plated leg tapped a couple more times on the cup before kicking it across the room. “And how exactly to do you plan to conquer the world, boy, drunk and on your ass and trapped in a tower?” The woman was smiling a predator’s smile although her eyes spoke of scorn. Vegard had seen this look on many women’s faces in the past…although he could not figure why this one would be staring at him so.
“You will have to excuse me.” He slurred. “The ale has impeded my thoughts, miss. I have a handful of questions.” He forced himself unsteadily up from the floor. “One, who in the hells are you? Two, how did you get in my room? I had not heard the door open and I’ve been far more in my cups than this.” He gave a large smile. “And third, why do you look at me as if I have wronged you, my lady? I am quite sure I’ve never seen you before.” He slowly drank in every inch of the woman again just to be sure.
The woman’s hair continued to sway like silk floating in a breeze. She pushed herself to a seated position, resting upon her hands. “Is that the order in which my lord would prefer them answered?” She purred.
Vegard laughed. “I’m sure you know, I am no lord, but I could sure get used to the title. And, that order is fine, or any order you see fit. I am not a picky individual.”
The woman rose to her feet soundlessly. Her plated leggings didn’t so much as whisper as she made use of the space in the cramped tower room. “For the question as of who I am; I am the goddess Flaro Rei’Lind of Storrhale. As for how I came upon this room without your notice you may refer to the first answer and I’m sure that would be suitable, don’t you?” The goddess didn’t wait for an answer from the now white faced Vegard. “And how have you wronged me?” She mocked curiosity as she tapped her finger to her lips. “Ah, yes…” The goddess appeared in front of Vegard in an instant. She grabbed the warlock’s face and slammed him backwards into his rocking chair. The old wood groaned loudly, rocking the full length back before tipping Vegard backwards in a humiliating heap.
“You have wronged me by living your life like an utter ass!” Flaro flared although her voice did not echo like a mortal’s voice would about the small room. It seemed to be a volume set just for him. Vegard moaned as he picked himself up from the impossibly strong throw.
“Oh…I think I’ve broken something.” Vegard complained.
“I have broken nothing, warlock, although I should.” Flaro folded her arms. Vegard dusted himself off before taking a seat next to his busted chair.
“So,” Vegard started, “You are a god, eh? And I am a failure. Excuse me if I am still a might bit lost into what you are doing here or how I have failed you, goddess.”
“Clearly.” She arched an eyebrow at the slumped man. “I suppose an explanation is in order.”
“If you do not mind.”
“You are Agaeti. My Agaeti, Vegard Orlo.” She said earnestly. Her eyes shone a beautiful morning blue like the color of a clear bay. Vegard stared at the goddess’s deep eyes before shaking his head.
“Was that an explanation?” He said, confused.
“By the realms!” Flora wailed. “How has this gift fallen upon a man as dense as fog!? You are Agaeti; kissed by the gods. When the gods’ realm of Storrhale touches down briefly with the mortal realm of Vlero there is but a brief moment for our worlds to mark one another.” Vegard was trying desperately to follow and shake a sense of sobriety back into his form. “We gods are emotional creatures. If we are to be in one of our heightened states just as one of yours is being brought into the world, it marks the individual. As important. As Agaeti.”
The goddess allowed a moment for Vegard to process the information. “We are connected, you and I. You are my Agaeti.” She said in a more soothing tone.
The warlock was dumbfounded. His life had been a series of one misfortune after the next. He thought of it as a twisted joke for it to be revealed that he was somehow ‘privileged’. The revelation curdled in his stoma
ch like sour milk. “You must be mistaken. I am not a special person. I am shamed. I am a prisoner and a slave.” It must have been a cruel joke, he thought. The gods entertaining themselves by poking at a broken soul. “I have done bad things.” He said, shaking and angry.
Flaro scoffed at this. “Every creature has done bad things. Stop your self-loathing and pity. That is not the emotion that marked you.”
“Then what marked me?” Vegard said, his anger rising still. “You did this to me! Finally a face to the misery and contempt that has been my life! What act were you caught in, goddess, to have this inflicted upon me? Marked? Ha!” He spit. “More like cursed.”
“The kiss does not have to be a positive one, I’ll grant you that, warlock. But yours was not of misfortune but rather of redemption.” Vegard went breathless. “I will not go into the details of my life with you…but it was in a moment where I had risen once again. I reclaimed my honor. Oh, yes! The gods can have their tribulations, as well, mortal. We do not merely sit on thrones of furs and gold. There are stories all over the realms. We have ours, you mortals have yours. Even the jarro in their demon realm or the giants in theirs have hardships. We do not live the gilded lives your story tellers go on about. There are horrors everywhere.”
There was a tone of loss in the goddess’s voice. Even Vegard, with all his newfound confusion, was aware of it.
“Us mortals love a good story, Flaro Goddess. Maybe you will entertain me with yours one day.”
She smiled. “Perhaps, Vegard Orlo. If and when you’ve earned it. But now that you understand the situation I am afraid I must give you a slight bit of motivation.”
A Forgotten Soul: The Vegard Orlo Saga Page 2