Leaving a tavern brawl before I can be drawn into the fray does not make me a coward, and judging my new companion’s size and the collection of scars that nick the grizzled features of his face, he is no craven either.
Sometimes, however, you have to pick your battles and determine when a fight is best avoided.
Tonight just feels like one of those nights. A night fraught with peril I would much rather avoid.
My place in this world is behind the shield walls, in the commander’s tent, along the sidelines of battle as brave men stand against dragons only to be roasted in their armor moments after the fight begins.
And though it seems silly of me to compare the battle between knight and wyrm to a simple tavern brawl, in the end I am only an observer in this world. The teller of tales, spinner of yarns, historian for hire, if you will. From my vantage point I see enough spilt blood and shattered bone, hear the clashing of steel and splash of blood as bodies break and severed limbs fly in sprays of violence to satisfy any yearning within my soul for the more masculine pursuits of this world.
The art of war was born with creation itself at the dawn of time, in that moment one man possessed something his brother wanted and he took that thing by force.
It is in our very nature, a taint upon the blood. War is a part of who we are, and though there are some who wave the banner of peace and proffer its merits, without war the world would hang out of balance.
I need only close my eyes for the briefest of seconds to summon the smell of battle to my senses, an overwhelming and invasive memory powerful enough to quicken nausea in my gut. It remains within me, nestled alongside the rolling curves of women’s bodies I’ve committed to memory for moments of inspiration such as this.
And though Death cannot touch me, a curse I will relate to you in good time and when the mood strikes me, I can assure you there is pain enough in deathlessness that it serves me best to avoid situations in which I might find myself spiraling through ethereal waves of terrifying confusion that result in my waking, unscathed and whole once more, in some realm so distant from where I fell it would take months, perhaps even years to return to the place Death tried to spirit me away from this world only to miserably fail.
Again, a story for another time. For now I say these actions of war and battle I commit to memory because I know how to do nothing else, and for enough coin I will spin the tides of war in your favour, be ye king or guttersnipe, prince or pauper, coward or thief, and I will make you a hero this world won’t soon forget.
Caragern who fought the dragon Golonthiid, no doubt you’ve heard the tale. It was I who crafted it, and so you must believe me when I confess it was not Caragern who slew the mighty wyrm, but his brother Hamden who filled my purse with enough coin to change history, to write him out of the battle entirely—omitting the truth that while he cowered in the shadows, his knightly brother was cooked alive in a stream of dragon fire. The dragon was so distracted, tearing the shell of steel and iron from its meal it did not hear Hamden sneak up behind and drive his spear between the scales of its neck with such force it startled the dragon and Golonthiid choked on a bit of iron that lodged in his throat while Hamden hid and watched.
Guilt changed the tune, and in a flourish of feather and ink, my purse heavy with Hamden’s shame, Caragern became a hero who managed to land a killing blow before dragon flame burned him to a noble crisp.
And this man who walks beside me now, he’s seen battle too. Been tangled in the throes of it and barely held on long enough to tell the tale, judging from the haunted look in his slate-grey eyes. Most men have, and though there are some who live to speak its throes and horrors in taverns and great halls, there are others still who do not wish to share that broken part of their spirit with the world. That is the kind of man I believe him to be.
At our backs, the tavern brawl escalates, its raucous calamity spilling into the streets and only slightly muffled by the half-closed doors and thin, oiled-paper windows that will likely need replacing come morning. That melee echoes through the quiet streets, the cobbled stones of the road glistening with spent rain that stopped falling sometime after sunset.
The wetness drips from the leaves, tapping soothing patterns on grass and stone in a song I wish I could capture the sound of.
I hitch my pack a little higher, my lute thrumming hollowly with the movement. The sound mingles for the briefest of moments with the drops of rain, nearly capturing the song I hear in my mind.
I know in my heart it is a sound that would make women swoon into my arms, forcing the sweetest whispers from their lips only moments before those kisses press against my neck as she whispers her desire to know just how I brought beauty itself to life with a simple plucking strum of delicate fingers across strings.
“Do you have a destination, friend?” My new companion’s voice cuts through that elegant, musical sound, reverie broken by the mundane reality of our footsteps on the paving stones leading toward the city gates.
“I go where the road takes me,” I say, glancing up at his broad back. He walks just a few steps in front of me, my friend who’s yet to offer his name. “And you?” I ask. “Have you a particular destination?”
“Home,” he tells me. “I’m not sure I’ll make it, though it’s where I’m headed nonetheless.”
It seems a peculiar reply, but I wait a moment to see if he will offer further explanation. When he doesn’t lend clarity to his words, I clear my throat and ask, “And is your home far?”
“Far?” he laughs. “No, not far at all. Never far, not really.”
He slows his step just enough that I can catch up and walk beside him.
“Home is just over the horizon,” he adds once I match his stride. “It’s always just over the horizon.”
Even in the dark I can see the rising, rolling hills beyond the city walls and gate. Lit and glowing soft red beneath the tilted crescent of the first moon to make appearance in the sky.
“Not far at all then.”
“It never seems far when my feet touch the road,” he tells me, “but every day is a different horizon and I’m still no closer to home than I was the day before. It’s a curse, you see, passed from my father to me, and before that, from his father to him.”
I don’t pretend to know what he’s talking about, though in truth I know far more than most when it comes to curses. To wander, that is my curse as well. To never know the comfort and safety of the one place we all long to rest our heads: home.
I say nothing, however. Engaging in such discourse is dangerous, and for a long time as we wind down the incline, toward the looming city gates, he says nothing either.
The guards don’t pay us mind, moving inward with almost mechanical instinct to draw back the gates and leave us to our fate beyond their protection. They don’t even say farewell as we pass through, our feet carrying us further down the hillside upon which Lothanslur perches.
We don’t talk either, not until we’re approaching the stables.
It is me who finally breaks the silence, confessing, “I know not how far we will travel together, but it occurs to me now I’ve lost good manner and failed to inquire your name.”
He’s hesitant to answer, peering tentatively away from me and toward that rising horizon again before clearing his throat, spitting and leveling a sharp look in my general direction. Even with the hesitation of it, the chill is undisguised, softened only slightly by the barest hint of a smile.
“Rusten. Though most folk call me Rust.”
Rust, like the color of his hair, I think. I wonder if it was intentional, or if he’s had the slight misfortune of arriving through a long line of rusted fellows who share his name.
“Rust,” I nod, but before I can offer my own name and tell him how pleased I am to formally make his acquaintance, he confesses to already know me.
“And you are Morovio,” he tells me. “World-renowned singer of songs and teller of tales.”
I do not hide my pride
, a sin I’ve never quite mastered, I’m afraid.
“That is correct.”
“Morovio,” he repeats, drawing out the final o with an almost enviable musical quality. “I believe you knew my da,” he tells me, “And his da before him. Seems you likely knew my great grandmother as well, though I doubt you’d recall her face or name after all this time.”
Not strange, considering the name I’ve made for myself, but there is motive in his desire to travel with me, motive he reveals in before I’ve had chance to say a single word.
“I’ve been searching for you, actually.”
I scarcely hear myself utter the words, “I beg your pardon?”
“You are him, right?” he asks. “The legendary bard Morovio.”
And though he’s offered little more than statements, insinuations of my affiliation with people more than likely gone from this world, something inside me tightens and prickles with fear. It is never good when I’ve been exposed, and a wolf that’s come calling, searching for answers, must be culled before the exposure spreads.
Because for me there are far worse things than death in a world that does not accept that which it cannot understand. There are some who’d say I am a monster, and there is only one thing to be done about monsters: they must be destroyed.
FOUR
A Picture’s Worth
Rusted Memory: A Wanderer's Tale Page 3