by C. Mahood
I am sure you know the games, I take it that you also know its types? Jousting, fencing and archery are the trinity of events, exalted above all others, and to claim victories in any of the three bestowed equal honour upon the victors. Surely as you know the types, you also know the champions?
The most famous of whom is of course Falair, our most noble King. He took to the stadium on many occasions, as the orchestrator of these great events he entered as an equal. It was his very own idea to insist that all knights were to be clothed the same and armoured the same with only a single rune of their choice to distinguish them from the rest. No names or titles were to be used until after the tournament. To honour the dead and glorify the victors. Every competitor was anonymous, fair and equal. Each time Falair managed to claim the title of joust champion and expert equestrian, triumphing in both field and woodland.”
“And the feast!” Boro shouted. Round faced, grinning and patting his stomach in a pantomime fashion. Shaw laughed, welcoming the interjection and continued without looking on any of us again.
“And yes, the feast! A marvellous banquet of delicacies typically on reserve for the royal families, but on these wondrous days, Falair took it upon himself to feed the people. All of the people. His deep passions for competition infected all those around him, and I, being amongst his close company, I experienced the brunt of these unbridled passions. Now, you’ll excuse me this short moment to revere and praise the man to whom I’d been in service. I truly wish that all men could know how the mention of his name brought crowds to industrious cheer or how the adoration ran so rampant, it nearly materialized into a physical thing – within myself, it has done just as much; my heart is for him, my life belongs to him also. I stopped myself in quiet hours to reflect upon his lifetime of achievement: his many conquests and salving of the westerly lands. After the great jousts the Heaven split apart and rained down its hail; the crowd did the same, breaking from the pantheon just as a jouster was crowned, and the great King, having no love for storms, made his way on his steed. His court followed short behind and yet, by the darkness of the great storm, we found ourselves ensnared in unfamiliar territory. Only by the grace of luck did we, in a panic, stumble upon a luchorpán horde. ‘Peace upon us!’ Falair called to them.”
“Hold on a moment Shaw, you never told us this part before?” Boro interrupted him, looking perplexed and startled that the story he must have heard a hundred times was changing, he didn’t like change.
“Yes my friend, I know. I’m not really sure why I feel it more appropriate to elaborate for this traveller but the whole story needs to be told I feel. The Luchorpán are a secretive race. A culture built on magic. They believe not in war, aggression or fighting. They would move mountains before skirmishes would settle the dis-agreements they may have. They deal in kindness, generosity and trade only for goods and without currency. One supplies the needs of another in return for needs of their own. Fairness, not coin is King here. They are a gentle folk, who believe themselves to be self-appointed stewards of Northland. Planting that which is destroyed, using what is found and thrown away. They have little possessions as the mother of the land provides all that they need. As a race they are spiritual little creatures. No single God, being or deity is worshipped or preached. Every Luchorpán discovers faith in their own way and time. No belief is wrong in the eyes of these beings. Therefore all are accepted but as a secretive and silent people they always remain wary, not un-trusting but aware that cultures outside of their own scarcely behave and believe the same as them. Surely you have heard of the Luchorpán before Christopher?”
A grin came over my face from ear to ear. A proud grin, knowing that they were telling a story I had started in my mind years before. It was a strange feeling but I wanted to hear more.
“Yes I have heard some tale of them Shaw.” I gestured for him to continue and not to stop on my account.
Shaw went on; “Well on this evening as usual the peace-loving creatures took pity. As masters of that wood, they quickly ferried the King and his court along to the edge of Stream Worn. The luchorpán, though protective of their secret enclaves, provided Falair’s party fair rest, food and whisky. A fine blend long passed down from father to son for generations. Brewed and distilled through natural remedies and stored for a minimum of 20 years. To share a cup with the luchorpán was an honour known and lived by few to tell.”
“Aye, and I bet you have a little bottle back there Shaw that you keep from all of us, eh pal?” Boro chuckled, slapping Shaw on the back as he began his thunderous roar of a laugh.
“No, no Boro, none here.” He continued “It was only fair, Falair decided in his good grace, to repay food and shelter with a spell of amusement for his hosts. He gathered the curious creatures around an open flame, hushed the lot of them, and with me at his side, recollected a great legend. It went like so…” Shaw clapped his hands and all seemed to go dark around us. Like the lights dimming in the cinema, when he began to tell the story it was as though we meditated into a state where we could all see the same vision. I cannot describe it to you but it was truly amazing.
“I know little of your people, and less of your tales. I however would take the greatest of joy to share one of mine. In your solitude, I take that you are unaware of Aidan. He once stood as Thane of Renir – a Kingdom nestled in the Gulf of Antomn. The Thane had fallen deathly ill from a terrible plague. The blight had spread throughout most of the Kingdom. Cloaking in its clutches man, woman and child. Stealing breath from lungs and hope from hearts. Even his greatest priests could not shelter him from it. They summoned enchanters and priests from every land to discover a remedy for his condition. Most passed through without shedding a flicker of light on his condition. Until a strange man, trained druid he was, entered the village. He brought with him strange knowledge and advised the Thane to seek out a red-eared albino mare. Supposedly, the blood of this horse could cure the condition. Aidan, proud man as he was, commanded his advisors that he would seek out the mare himself. But it was ultimately decided that his first-born son, Prince Kain-Finn, would seek out the mare in the Thane’s stead.
Kain-Finn was an excellent trapper and located the steed within a fortnight. He followed it covertly to its dominion: the shack of the Black Hag.”
“You don’t mean the Black Hag from Fish Heaven, do you?” I blurted out before I could stop myself. It was a story I had in store for Dertrid’s deed but couldn’t find anywhere to place it.
Shaw must have smiled, impressed at my knowledge because the pause before the story continued was longer than was natural
“Indeed, I do. Perchance, you’ve heard of her? But of course you have! Who hasn’t heard of the beautiful wench who grew brittle before her time? The very same woman to whom the Heaven owes infinite debts. The King meant her exactly, and it was exactly her who held the key to saving the Thane of Renir.” Shaw explained with the tone not unlike that of a teacher explaining a theory and reason.
“The Black Hag was well-known for the quality of her land. As well as the crops it produced. Wives tales told of vegetables as large as sheep. Cabbages, potatoes, tomatoes, beans and onions. Too large to carry, each enough to feed a family for a week. At first people came from far and wide to buy them but once the whispers of witchcraft spread like locust. The townsfolk stopped buying the vegetables and pies she sold at market.
When Kain-Finn arrived, he found it in shambles. Many seasons had passed since the days of her market stalls. Long had the oven stood cold and bare. Still, he approached the Black Hag’s porch and humbly and politely requested her company.
A cold, croaking voice, strained with age answered him. The Woman appeared from the shadows of her shack. The title of ‘Hag’ fitted well. A long black cloak draped around her shoulders. She shuffled on feet black with dirt. Dust and mud covered her long cloak that was tattered and dragged on the ground as she walked. Twigs and grass stains were reaching up her cloak towards her waist. She was doubled over with a crooked
back forcing her to be ever watching the floor as she moved. Relying totally on a thick, varnished staff. Hanging from the top were small skulls from rodents and birds. Her face was in total shadow as a cowl covered her head. No features could be seen except her pointed, bony chin, white like thin parchment, wafer thin skin drooping over her bones. The eerie figure complied with his request, but when Kain-Finn offered two sacks of gold in exchange for the horse, taking pasture in the small patch of grass behind the hut, which was the only part of her property in good health, she shook her head.
The Hag explained her situation. She told the prince how her home and land had deteriorated. The horse was the last item of value she had and she refused to sell it. Fearful for his father’s life, Kain-Finn refused to give up the pursuit so easily. He waited for the woman to leave home for her daily hunt and summoned his entourage to her home.
Legend has it that while the old hag was away during the day, the prince’s party was able to lay down new stone foundations and treat the soil to restore its fertility. They were all tired and sweaty at the end of the deed, but when the Black Hag returned, her jaw dropped.
The once fertile beautiful land that fell baron years after had returned to the once pristine, and even improved, state it once resembled. The stream ran clean and fish could be seen in the pond. The Prince had trudged the scum from the base and skimmed the lime from the surface. The dust mound beside the hut and been newly tilled, rows and crops were freshly planted and watered. Even the thatched roof of the hut that had previously collapsed was made new and slated with wood to re-enforce its strength.
The Hag was pleased and as she turned to see who had cast this illusion spell Kain-Finn presented her with the two bags of gold. She was overwhelmed with joy at her new home. She scavenged her finest foods and prepared a feast to thank the prince and his men. Kain-Finn was reluctant at first, firstly for his selfish and spoilt fear of the food. That it would not be of the standard he usually ate in court but secondly, hoping to get back to his father as quickly as possible. The Hag insisted. Staying for dinner became a prerequisite to their deal, and Kain-Finn knew he could not afford to slip up. So he accepted. It was dark before he finally arranged the exchange of gold for the horse, and the Black Hag saw him off with but one final condition. Kain-Finn feared this. He knew of her supposed witchcraft and the stories folk told of disappearing children and strange happenings in the forest which she patrolled. However he heard her out. Her final condition was in exchange for his acquisition of the horse, in accompaniment to the gold, she requested he return to her with four other horses. She gave no reason or clue. Just a simple request. No muttering of curses or spells under her breath, no cackles, just a simple request. A small one at that to be requested of a prince. With that, Kain-Finn and his men saddled up, raised the banners of Renir and departed her place.
Rain fell hard in the forest as the group sped back to save the Thane. Nearly halfway home, they reached a small inlet carved in rock and sought refuge there; their horses were worn and their clothes soaked. As desperately as the prince wanted to get home, he knew the weather would not permit much more travel. Now, while the group rested, they received a strange visitor: a messenger raven, carrying news directly from their Kingdom. Kain-Finn removed the letter uneasily, the raven dashed away, and he unrolled the parchment.Word had arrived. His father was dead. The royal court had decreed that the ceremony for Kain-Finn’s crowning would commence upon his return. Sadness filled Kain-Finn. Upon entering the shelter he sat in now he was a returning hero, filled with pride, joy and fulfilment. Now, sitting in the dark corner under a failing fire of embers hissing from rain drops, sat a boy. A spoilt prince with no victories to wright about under his name. A son that wept on the realisation he had failed his father. On the crack of morning he ordered his men back through the rain to make haste to the Kingdom, and in his emotion-fuelled stupor, the prince entirely discarded all notions of returning to the Black Hag with the payment of four healthy steeds. Who knows whether this was intentional or a slip of the mind, but the fact remained that his negligence would not go unpunished. Of course, he managed to return safely home and was indeed crowned in the aftermath of his father’s burial and service. All the while feeling empty, un-worthy, a false King sitting on a stolen throne.”
Shaw stopped, a look of sadness on his face. I could tell that he could feel the emotion of the tale he was retelling. Repeating words of someone else had a way of inflicting the emotions onto one self.
! I clearly remember that sadness filled the faces of the luchorpán listening to the tale. They told stories of joy and happiness with punchlines then ended in Congregational laughter. They had no experience of tales of threat, danger and loss. The storyteller saw the eyes drill into his own, he held the hearts, dreams and emotions of the entire village at the tip of silver tongue.”
Shaw continued farther. Once again the vision returned and he could see the story being told to the luchorpán.
“Now my friends, here’s where our little tale becomes interesting. Several long, cold years followed the 10 years of joy. Kain-Finn led the forces of Renir on many campaigns, lending aid to many other Thanes and Kings that called upon him. His time on the throne had grown the town of Renir to a city of industry, wealth and prosperity. He was adored and kind to all subjects and even to those who wronged him. He fought cruel tongues and armed hands with kind words and outstretched arms. However after a few years of silence the need of a Thane was not so important. The city stood on its own legs. It made its own deals and guilds there in ran the day to day of trade and commerce. Kain-Finn sat idly on the throne for too long. The joy turned to boredom, halls filled with dust. No feasts were held. Routine was the poison that weighed heavy on the Thane’s back. Several more cold years fell from the hourglass and post-coronation Kain-Finn had been filled with agony. How appropriate it was that on the 15th anniversary of his father’s passing, a strange visitor paid his Kingdom a visit.
The prophetic woman who had provided the rare horse – all knew her by name and description – made awestruck the Kingdom upon her arrival, face streaking with crystal tears that tore through the dirt caked upon her worn skin. She demanded audience with the new Thane, a request no one quelled with fulfilling. In good time, she stood before him in his audience chamber, tears still rolling down her face. To see her again after the cold year, Kain-Finn was somewhat perplexed. Ah, but he wouldn’t be for long. Her presence there reminded him of long ago when he promised to return to her bearing four strong horses.
‘You!’ he exclaimed, softly, unable to meet the woman’s eyes.
‘You fiend! She shrieked a response, staggering across the chamber to reach him at the end of the table. Her arms and legs trembled like a great thunder, sliding across the floor and table.
‘Calm yourself and hold your tongue before it writes your demise’ warned the Thane. ‘I can provide what you seek. Gold, jewels, land.’
‘A promise unbroken,’ came her shrill cry once more ‘cannot be mended with gifts. No gold. No land. They’re all gone. I lost everything.’
‘What do you mean by this?’
By her account, the warrior-King Daragh raided her lands, raising all to dust. Her home burned to the ground and the ground, trampled by flame and death, blackened the green. The name Daragh had been growing like a weed in the cracks of Renir’s walls. The whispered stories, like vines wrapping around the throats of the memories past in 10 years. Chocking all recollection of security from the minds of Renir’s people and leaving a poisonous fear. This was Daragh’s greatest weapon. Before he even arrived or a single weapon was drawn, his victory was almost sealed by surrender of towns. Kain-Finn knew in his heart the nature of war and the desire of those held under its mighty thumb. He expected nothing less than to hear the Black Hag conscript his assistance as repayment for neglecting his prior promise, and having nothing but guilt, regret, and pity in his heart, he could not refuse her offer. Many battles and skirmishes followed but none re
levant to this tale. Gratitude ran rampant about the Kingdom, for all respected the Black Hag’s sale of the steer that might have saved their late King. In a fury of rage, they took up armour and arms, driven to crush Daragh’s forces against Kain-Finn’s better judgement; as you know, dedication to one’s goals holds no tangible form, cannot cut a man, and cannot defend against swift sword strokes – oh! And were there ever sword strokes!”
The storyteller chuckles amusedly to himself, as if recalling some timeless joke.
“Somehow, the overpowered army diverted defeat, even if only for a short and gruelling month. Many defeats brought them to their knees, and the archers’ gambit stripped away what remained of blood and dignity. Word travelled like a great wildfire across the land, quickly breaching into the Northland.”
“And the people fled?” I asked.
“That, indeed, they did do,” Shaw laughs again, breaking from what I now believed to be a vision spell. Cast again by words and we were under once more.
“They ran like cattle from a predator, too spineless to defend their land against impending invasion. The signs were clear. Daragh commanded powerful legions of witches that blackened the lands the conquered, and word of the black’s trajectory made clear the army’s intent. But perhaps it was Daragh’s arrogance that undid him.
Every Kingdom to encounter `the Black’ sent messengers to other Kingdoms, ravens were often shot from the skies and messages burnt on their landing but sometimes the birds could make it from the walls. Word eventually fell upon the ears of a Chieftain named Mattock. He was the unappointed but socially elected leader of a misfit band of rangers native to the Goblin Isles. The history of these rangers has never been written. No scrolls were kept. No drawings or relics. Although historians in the great city of Shann researched the history of the Goblin Isles.