Holtur Stories

by Cameron Wayne Smith

  “True…” Sonja said. The other slayers nodded in agreement.

  Wilbart wiped his brow. “My guess is that Derrein found out about Bertrude’s unfaithfulness, murdered her in a rage, then unwillingly summoned the tethalac without knowing the true identity of her lover. Derrick, their son, must have gotten in the way of the tethalac after it was summoned it.”

  “But what about all the others?” Zeilgen asked. “Why did it kill so many before finally going after Kab?”

  “You saw the way Derrein reacted to Kab’s confession,” Wilbart said. “He may have assumed it was him all along, but lacked conviction. The tethalac was probably the same.”

  “Fifteen deaths thanks to this tethalac,” Sonja said. “I’m just glad it is gone.”

  “For now…”

  “It will return?” Sonja asked.

  “That is hard to predict, Captain Bluwahlt.” Wilbart rubbed the grey fuzz on his chin. “If it does, we can only hope it seeks out its target before it slaughters any innocent victims.”

  “Its target?”

  “Adulterers.” Formidor sighed. “If my theories are correct, it is summoned by the anguish of a cuckolded partner. Its only reason for existence is to enact revenge on adulterers.”

  “Shit,” Sonja exclaimed. “So, whenever someone cheats on their partner, a tethalac will roam our streets?”

  Formidor laughed. “No, no, I doubt it. I’m only theorising how it is summoned. Even if I am correct, there must be a multitude of conditions that need to be met in order to conjure it. That said, it could be summoned again, if the same processes occurred.”

  Sonja folded her arms. “I don’t know what is worse: the fact that it exists, or the reason it does!”

  Wilbart cleared his throat. “Well, the only way to be sure it remains banished from Holtur, is to ensure no one commits adultery, ever.” He sighed. “However, this may be somewhat difficult to enforce.”

  “Indeed.” Sonja nodded.

  “Hmmm…” Zeilgen frowned. “I guess I should do background checks on the women I lay with from now on, huh?”

  Sonja laughed, Zeilgen was a handsome man who slept around, but was certainly honourable in every other way. “Zeilgen, I don’t think you’re the only slayer that needs to be careful!”

  “Nonsense!” Hechond shook his head in disagreement. “I have brought pleasure to many miserable house-bound wives. Nothing has ever come for me.”

  The scent of burning hair filled the air once more. An insect-like, high-pitched chirp—that of the tethalac—echoed off the surrounding buildings. Whether a warning or a threat, an expression of dread—and a shut mouth—overcame Hechond.

  RELIGIOUS ULTRACREPIDARIAN

  Tranquility settled in across the vast killing field north of Holtur; a place that regularly bore battle. The warmer-than-usual sun should have summoned beasts, wyverns, or some kind of horror to the town of Holtur. All that strode towards it was a lone man. He was not on horse-back nor moving with any urgency. This man was shorter than most, yet slightly too tall to be considered a dwarf. Volk swallowed hard, he had an idea who this man might be.

  Captain Sonja Bluwahlt had selected Volk to ride out and meet the wanderer with her. The closer they rode, the more obvious the man’s identity.

  “Red, if it’s him, I’m leaving him in your care,” Sonja said.

  “Yes, Captain,” Volk complied. “Please, Aesterus, don’t let it be him!”

  Sonja laughed. “I don’t think your fire god will help shift an identity!”

  “Perhaps not, Captain,” Volk responded. He always gave Sonja the utmost respect, but he really wished she understood gods a little better; for starters, Aesterus wasn’t simply a god of fire!

  They continued towards the man. He was wearing a simple robe, and apart from the colours, appeared like something an apothecary would wear. Oddly, it was purple with orange trim around the cuffs and hood.

  “What a benign sun to be addressed by the efficacious Captain and gingerest of crowns,” the man said in a somewhat self-righteous tone.

  Volk sighed, turned in the saddle, scratched his frizzy, red hair, then nodded to his captain.

  Sonja gave a smirk, returned the nod, then turned her horse back to Holtur.

  “Ansgren?”

  “Undeniably,” the man said, flinging back his hood and revealing a beady pair of hazel eyes—really they were of normal size, but his bulbous nose made the rest of his face seem smaller than it should. Neat, brown hair rested behind his ears and, despite his time in the wilderness, he had a clean shaven face. “Ansgren shall reestablish Holtur interdependence succeeding an expedition of self-realisation.”

  “An expedition?” Volk asked, his voice high-pitched with annoyance. “You do realise it has been three years?”

  “Gyrating suns are extraneous when capitulating a deity’s divine intervention.” Ansgren lifted his hood back up and continued walking towards the town. “A worshipper of a menial god comprehends indefatigable devotion?”

  Volk had difficulty understanding Ansgren before. Somehow, his dialogue was even more out of place than it had been three years ago. Still, he comprehended the gist of it, and understood an insult when it was thrown. “Menial god?”

  “Your god of incongruous passion: inordinately reckless, unreasonably destructive.”

  Ignorance annoyed Volk, but Ansgren’s blasphemy downright frustrated him. “You know nothing of Aesterus!”

  “Ansgren’s provocation was unpremeditated,” Ansgren said. He continued to walk, his eyes not shifting away from the gates before him. “Apologies coercing offence. A majestic sovereignty of monumental import has favoured Ansgren.”

  So, the weird little man has found a greater power to worship? Volk highly doubted that a man who had just found a deity would gain their blessing, but decided to entertain the idea for a laugh. “And who, may I ask, granted you their blessing?”

  “She who cherishes and adores our perishable souls with resplendent conviction.” Ansgren looked up to Volk and smiled. “The god of love, Tethaya.”

  Volk wasn’t one to laugh at a man’s spiritual choices, but the buildup—and smug attitude of Ansgren—made holding it back similar to not peeing after walking home from a late and drunken moon at a tavern. Volk burst. The explosion of hilarity almost threw him from his steed.

  Ansgren didn’t respond to the outburst. Instead, he continued towards the Holtur gate at an increased pace.

  Volk focused on his breathing and pulled himself free of the laugh-induced shakes. He couldn’t wait to inform Sonja that Ansgren believed himself a champion of love. He fixed himself in the saddle, then urged the horse to catch up to the purple-robed moron.

  “That was uncalled for,” Volk apologised, his voice forced through a tight chest that still held back laughter. “I’m glad you found a higher power to guide your path.”

  “You’re erroneous, for Ansgren’s apology is requisite.”

  “Yeah,” Volk scoffed. “You did mock my god first.”

  “A contrary stipulation,” Ansgren said with a shake of his head. “Ansgren forebodes, the prophecy Tethaya admonished may be undesirable for you. No Lodern will abolish Tethaya’s resolve.”

  “What prophecy?”

  Ansgren’s nose twitched with a delight-fueled smile. “Taringa Lodern professing her perennial endearment apropos to Ansgren.”

  Taringa was the closest thing Volk had to a sibling. She was actually his cousin, but he had always protected her from the horrors—and men—of Holtur. When it came to Taringa, Volk was like an older brother guarding a sister. “Ansgren… what are you planning?”

  “Prophecy, not plan. Tethaya’s declaration, not Ansgren’s.”

  Volk urged his horse ahead of Ansgren, then reared it to the side to block Ansgren’s path. “Alright, prophecy, spill it!”

  Ansgren stroked the horse’s neck, then crouched down and walked beneath the beast. Being short had its obvious advantages. “When the wyvern’s wounds spill c
andidly, a blooming creation will exchange ownership from Taringa to Ansgren. The physical transfer will conduit the ethereal, amalgamated with Tethaya’s most celebrated power: love!”

  Volk rubbed his eyes, chewing on the odd man’s words. Taringa worked at the Wounded Wyvern Tavern; she’d done so since before Ansgren’s disappearance, so he would have known that already. Was he going to take something from her and steal her affections? Volk didn’t quite understand, but he knew his cousin was too smart to be outwitted by this weirdo.

  “Look, Ansgren, you’ve been gone for three years now,” Volk said. “No one knows what you’ve been up to. That entire time, the rest of us slayers have protected Holtur. But, know this—regardless of plans or prophecies—if you hurt my cousin, you will regret it!”

  “Ansgren assures Volk, no torment materialises from Tethaya’s speculations.”

  They were almost at the north gate now. Volk kicked his horse into a canter, the short man was in no need of a steed to aid his approach, and Volk had listened to enough of his ramblings. Neither the portcullis nor gate had been closed, this quiet sun showed no sign of disturbance—other than that offered by Ansgren.

  Bar a few newer and younger slayers, the north gate’s courtyard was barren. Word of Ansgren’s approach must have caught on. He was far from the most pleasant man to converse with three years ago. Volk could confirm that Ansgren’s time away hadn’t improved his social skills.

  Walking his horse to the stables, Volk noticed Sonja grooming her own steed.

  Sonja turned to him and asked, “So, Ansgren, what brings him back to Holtur?”

  “My cousin,” Volk said, doing his best to keep the anger from his voice.

  “Taringa?” Sonja tilted her head. “I can’t imagine he is her type.”

  “I know!” Volk’s face reddened. “He rambled on about Tethaya giving him the power of love. The power to seduce my cousin. It’s all a steaming pile of kuhvi shit, the lot of it!”

  Sonja snorted. “Don’t tell me that we’re going to have another slayer talking to invisible friends?”

  “The god’s aren’t imaginary friends, Captain.”

  “I never said imaginary, I said invisible. No one I know—you included—has actually met the being they devote themselves to.”

  “Glacious Divine Ones have seen—”

  “Are we really going to argue this now?” Sonja interrupted. “I need at least six ales in me before discussing the true nature of Glacious, you know that!”

  Volk locked the horse’s stall and began hanging up the tack. “Sorry, Captain. The bastard’s just got me frustrated!”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Sonja said. “Get back to guard duty. I’m not looking forward to the debriefing. Hopefully between the Commander and I, we can decipher his words. The important stuff anyway; it’s been a while since I’ve had to understand Ansgrenese! Pray to your god that some wyverns or something have been stalking Ansgren. At least then we’ll have something to vent our frustration on!”

  “Doubt it would matter.” Volk shrugged. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Ansgren scared everything off with that tongue of his.”

  Sonja rolled her eyes. “You’re probably right!”

  ***

  Words were a powerful tool of men. Words could fill a slayer with confidence, turn a lover to mush, or fuel an enemy with anger. As far as Volk was aware, words were unable to repel the creatures that stalk the surrounds of Holtur. Ansgren’s return proved that belief otherwise.

  The sun’s final rays struggled to splash a last hue of crimson across the western plains. Soon it would be filled with a ghostly darkness that kept both men and monsters away from Holtur’s surrounds. Not a single battle had occurred under the light of the setting sun. Ansgren was the only creature that had approached the town.

  Sonja slapped Volk on the shoulder, interrupting his dreary gaze over the darkening land. “I need an ale!” she said.

  Volk stretched out his arms. “Or five?” A quiet sun always required a few ales to stimulate the mind. A rough one required even more to calm it! Greeting the moons with sober intentions was a rarity among slayers.

  “Not six.” Sonja smirked. “If it comes to it, I’ll skip six and go straight to seven.”

  Volk blinked at her smirk, then chuckled remembering their earlier conversation. “Rough sun?”

  “What do you think?” Sonja shook her head, then started down the stairs from the wall walk. “Your cousin-in-law, Ansgren Glilaz! He is a bloody pain!”

  “Fuck off!” Volk shoved Sonja. She began to trip, but Volk pulled her back to her feet. He narrowed his eyes at her, face turning red. “He’s not—and never will be—a relative of mine!”

  “Hit a nerve have I?” Sonja laughed.

  Volk rolled his eyes. “Let’s just get to the Wounded Wyvern Tavern. Quick, before dehydration claims us.”

  “Why not try a different watering hole for a change?”

  “No!” Volk swiftly responded.

  “Ah, that’s right,” Sonja said. “We need to protect Taringa!”

  Volk’s face reddened.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it too much,” Sonja said. “He really isn’t her type.”

  Unclenching his fists, Volk nodded and allowed his face to return to its freckle-covered, snowy complexion. “Yeah, you’re right. Still, the Wounded Wyvern has the best ales.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah!” Volk didn’t know for sure. What he did know, however, was that Sonja couldn’t tell the difference between ales herself. She had a dreadful sense of taste.

  Slayers had abandoned the north wall and were all scattering through town. A few moved in the opposite direction—generally juniors and older slayers—for the moon-shift; attacks without the sun’s presence were incredibly rare.

  There was something about strolling towards a drink that gave the legs a certain wind of swiftness, and they found themselves before the Wounded Wyvern Tavern in no time. The place was packed with punters—both familiar faces and many Volk was officially unacquainted—hunting an end to their parched throats and sober minds.

  They pushed their way through bodies covered in furs and leathers. It was easier for Sonja, people seemed to give way for the woman; whether due to her gender, title, or battlefield prowess, Volk was unsure. Volk may seem scrawny—especially when standing besides Sonja—but he was still a force to be reckoned with in battle. Originating from Altkruga, and lightly blessed by Aesterus, he also had a few skills the folk of Holtur were alien to.

  On their quest for the bar, Sonja had advanced far further than Volk. The mischievous ginger rubbed his hands together, focusing on his passion for quenching his thirst, and summoned a burning heat that shot from his heart and down his arms. Volk’s hands had ditched their snowy appearance, now appearing like they should belong to a tomato.

  Red-hot hands reached up for the necks belonging to a pair of large men in front of him. The repugnant odor of burning hair wafted through the air. One of the giants twisted away, holding his neck. The nice man left just enough room for Volk to squeeze through and move closer to the bar.

  “Volk!” a low voice grumbled. “You use this power for trickery?”

  Volk turned back to see Kaarm Weissen glaring back at him. Of course, if Volk was going to play with fire, that man would just have to appear. Kaarm was the other man blessed by Aesterus—but not to the same level as Volk—in Holtur. “I’m really thirsty?” And Volk was, he had no intention to start an argument.

  Kaarm shook his head. “You make a mockery of our blessing from Aesterus.” The hand that wasn’t nursing his drink balled to a fist.

  “Look, Kaarm, let’s just get along this moon?” Volk requested. For some reason, two Altkrugan slayers were two too many for the north wall; civility between them did not come often.

  “Volk!” Sonja called out. “What held you up?” She took a swig from a mug while pushing another into Volk’s hand. A belch rumbled up from the depths of her chest. “Kaar
m, don’t tell me you two are discussing gods? It seems to be the flavour of the sun. Well, moon, now.”

  Kaarm grunted, then relaxed his hand.

  Sonja nodded her head sideways, towards a table that sported friendly faces. “Oh, you won’t believe what I saw!”

  “Granitus punching on with Paterra?” Volk asked.

  “Who?”

  “Just stirring! They’re gods worshipped in the north.”

  “Fuck! I’m sick of all this talk of deities!” Sonja sat at the table, rubbing shoulders with Rigst, a fellow slayer. She offered him a slightly affectionate smile, then looked back to Volk. “No, it was Ansgren!”

  “Oh no,” Volk said. He sat beside Knoch, a bald brute of a man. “Who’s he upsetting now?”

  “I think the little fella might actually be helping out!” Sonja raised her mug and clinked it against those belonging to the other slayers. She gulped down a good swig of amber ale, then continued, “He took some old flowers that were messing up the bar. As you could imagine, he was spitting out some nonsense about his duty fulfilling a prophecy. Or something like that.”

  “What?” Volk slammed his fist into the table, forcing a brief pause in the conversations that flowed around them. He stood up, dismissing himself, being sure not to leave his beverage behind. He was thirsty.

  “Don’t worry, he is not her type,” Sonja called out as Volk disappeared into the sea of bodies.

  “By Aesterus, I hope you’re right…” Volk mumbled under his breath.

  After some careful maneuvering—and being cautious not to bump into Kaarm again—Volk made his way to the bar. Along with five other bar-maids, Taringa was pouring ales and managing drink distribution. The Wounded Wyvern served meals too, but you’d have to wait half a moon for a feed when it was this busy. Ale was always the priority once the sun had gone down.

  “What happened with Ansgren?” Volk abruptly asked his cousin.

  “Who?” Even when confused, Taringa’s warm smile could soothe through frustration. It didn’t always work on Volk though. If anything, her joy, along with her low-cut top that revealed a little too much cleavage, annoyed him right now. At least her straight, red hair was long enough to cover some of the excess flesh on display.