“An Æhlman witch?” Travis asked, half-joking.
Maclamar looked back at Travis and shrugged his shoulders.
“And this is supposed to convince me to take the job?”
“No, bonehead, the half million lucre is supposed to convince you. Look, this woman was spooky, but the job is simple. Just find Verkleet and give him the package. She told me to find someone I trusted and to keep it quiet. Chestertown is on the way to the Kraal. Go there, have a few drinks, and visit Aunty Jules. If this Verkleet were in my line of work, I would know him. He seems to be more of the mystic, hocus pocus variety. Aunty Jules loves that stuff. I don’t know if it will do much good for your search, but it will do some good for your soul if you pay her a visit.”
“Five of a kind. That doesn’t happen very often.” Travis looked at his friend. Now he knew for certain what he had only suspected after last night’s game.
“I gave you a chance. If you had drawn instead of held, you would have won.”
Travis shook his head. “You knew I would hold. I’m the conservative one. What if I were to refuse this job, and tell the other guys that you cheated? I could ruin your reputation.”
“Maybe you could, maybe you couldn’t. But one thing is for sure, you are not getting your money back unless you take this job.”
“I want the money you cheated out of me, too.”
“I’ll round it up to 600,000L,” Maclamar offered.
“Knowing you, I doubt if that’s setting you back much. Your cut must be about a half million, too, right? Now, what happens if I fail?”
Maclamar’s shoulders slumped a little. He scratched his head and looked at the ceiling. “She told me that the consequences would be irreversible.”
“That’s what we used to say to each other when ...”
“When someone had to be killed, yes,” Maclamar nodded.
“How does she know that?”
“I don’t know.”
Travis shook his head and rose from the bed. “Why didn’t you just come to me and ask? Why did you have to cheat me first?”
“I wasn’t sure you’d do it unless I got you thinking about money and your future. I figured the thought of an extra three years at sea might soften you up a bit.”
“Why, my old friend, how touching,” Travis replied. “I’ll take 750,000L.”
V
It is considered to be a blessing when a woman gives life to a Mikraino, and an honour to give one’s child to the mountains. Birthing one of the small people is rare enough, but it is said that only once in a generation is a Mikraino born with eyes of black.
– Jeandanian old wives’ tale
“How much longer ’til we’re there?” Rhemus asked, yet again.
“Rhemus, wait just a moment,” Filos said patiently as they reached the crest of a hill. “There, do you see that mountain in the distance?”
“Yes, I can see it.”
“We are headed to the base of that mountain. We should be there before nightfall.”
“That mountain?” Rhemus asked, pointing to a mountain south of the one Filos had indicated.
“No, over there,” Filos corrected.
“Ah, I see. I thought for sure we were going that way.”
“That way lies the capital. We have no business there.”
“And what lies that way?” asked Rhemus, pointing in another direction.
“That way lies the great Gayana Swamp, beyond that are the ruins of an ancient race.”
“What are the fire and the stone?”
“The fire and the stone? I’m sure I don’t know,” answered Filos. “Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know,” Rhemus answered. He continued looking in the direction of ruins and the swamp, motionless for a moment, then turned to Filos.
“Oh, Filos. I‘m so tired. Can’t we rest a while?” he asked as he plopped to the ground.
Filos looked down at the very little boy. His leggings and tunic were neat and fitted well, evidence of his mother’s care. His wavy blonde hair hid his eyes, and for a moment, he looked like a normal, albeit quite small, eight-year-old boy. Then he turned to look up, and reminded Filos that he was no normal child. Filos could understand why people feared a child with eyes of black. Rhemus had no pupils, no cornea, no colour; only the dark, shining eyes of a seer, like glowing black pearls, seen only once in a generation. Those eyes were disconcerting, even to Filos at first. But now, after a fortnight of travelling, he saw only the pouting face of a tired boy.
Filos pulled some jerky from his sack and handed it to Rhemus. He then reached down, lifted the boy into the air, and slung him onto his strong shoulders.
“All right! Let’s go for a ride!” Rhemus shouted.
Filos considered his duties as he walked. It was not uncommon for a woman of the short-lived to give birth to a Mikraino, as it was not particularly unusual to give birth to a child who was blind or deaf. A Mikraino merely had the handicap of being about one third the size of a regular person. Otherwise, the Mikraino were quite normal, except for those born with Rhemus’s special condition.
Rhemus did not see as a normal person did. Filos had come to understand that Rhemus did not really see at all. It was a difficult concept to grasp. It seemed to raise one of those unanswerable questions that his favourite teacher would pose from time to time. Besides sight, hearing, touch, smell or taste – in what other manner could one possibly perceive the world? Little Rhemus had eyes of black. They were called eyes because they looked like eyes, and his perceptions were regarded as some kind of sight because, as Filos was beginning to believe, it was impossible for someone without Rhemus’s gifts to understand in any other way.
Travelling with the boy for the past weeks, Filos came to feel that Rhemus somehow sensed certain energies around him. Filos imagined it as shadows and light coming from the trees, the earth, the water, everything. Sometimes the way Rhemus would describe his perceptions was more similar to sound, or to touch, but one thing was clear: it was none of these things.
Normally a Mikraino was taken at birth straight into the mountains. Filos did not know how, but their people knew ahead of time when and where one of their kind would be born. The Mikraino were very secretive, and did not interact much with the outside world. Filos had come to know a few of them, however, and had earned their trust. Occasionally they would ask Filos to retrieve a Mikraino child. This was the first time his charge was not an infant. Filos did not know why it had taken them so long to find this boy, especially considering his special condition, but he guessed it must have been due to the boy’s location.
Rhemus had been born to a family that lived far in the eastern lands of Nevulia, in a very remote area near the sea. His parents were unfamiliar with the custom of sending a Mikraino child to be raised in the mountains, and Filos had a difficult time persuading the family to let the boy go. It was obvious that they cared very deeply for him. In the end, it was Rhemus himself who convinced them.
Filos had been sitting with them, explaining the Mikraino culture, and that giving one’s child to the mountains was considered an honour and a blessing. It was said that the remaining members of such a family would be looked after for all of their days by the Mikraino people, and by creatures of the forest. Rhemus’s family understood this, but asking a parent to give up their child is an unthinkably grave matter.
After several hours, Rhemus’s mother replied simply that Rhemus was their honour and their blessing, and that she would not give him up.
With tears falling, Rhemus stood and faced his parents. “Mother, Father. I have to go with this man. There is something I need to do. I am not sure what it is. I just know I have to go.”
“How do you know that, Rhemus?” his mother had asked him softly.
“I can see it in the trees,” he replied.
Rhemus’s father gathered his tiny son in his arms and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “I dreaded that this day would come,” he said. “I have always thought you were des
tined for something greater than working our farm. I’m just happy that we had you for eight years.”
Filos had been moved by their affection for each other. Among the Gantas, it was considered foolish to develop relationships with the common men. Most Gantas felt compelled to work and live together, and to leave the common men to their short lives. The bulk of his kin lived in the snowy south. Some chose the other extreme, north of the desert in the equatorial mountains. Both groups worked hard in tough conditions through the day, and in the evenings maintained the tradition of the communal meal, sharing the spoils of their labour. The evening gathering would always go well into the night with conversations of the state of their people, of local gossip, of civilisation and of romance. Then the Gantas would take the little sleep they needed, and start another day. This was a lifestyle that suited most of his kind for the many centuries of each one’s life. Now the Gantas were becoming extinct. Their civilisation had once dominated the world, as had the Walvaai before them. But now the short-lived controlled the world, and the men of the older orders were drifting into their periphery, reluctantly relinquishing the future to their violent and irrational successors.
Filos was different. He loved the traditions of his people, but he was one of the few Gantas who possessed the spirit of an explorer. He sympathised with the fate of his people, and was frustrated at the violent and political nature of the short-lived, but most of the Gantas failed to appreciate what Filos saw in the common men. Their short lives seemed to shorten their patience. Filos felt this was the reason why they were so temperamental and violent. Filos’s brother was fond of saying, “You can’t really blame them. We are patient and wise because we live for six hundred years. They are impatient and reckless because they must fit it all into sixty years.” He was right in a way. Where most Gantas saw naiveté in the ways of man, Filos saw passion. He had witnessed utter tragedy in the face of a child who had just broken his favourite toy and utter triumph at a victory in a sports game. He had also seen the sublime joy of a marriage ceremony or the birth of a baby, and the wrecking sorrow of the death of a spouse or a child. And most importantly, where his brethren saw the essence of man in kingdoms and cultures, Filos could see, from time to time, the dignity of ages embodied in a single person.
The fate of Jeandania seemed bleak in the hands of her current King. Arconus embodied all that was worst in the common man, and seemed to confirm the elder Gantas assessment of their fate, that one day their killing of one another would bring them to extinction. But Filos remained hopeful.
All day Filos and Rhemus had walked through the eastern forests of the country. It was springtime and the scent of new growth and spring flowers invigorated him. Here the trees were high, and the vegetation was lush, but there was room enough to wear down wide paths under frequent traffic and to see through the trees to the sky above.
Filos wondered what he would do after he parted company with little Rhemus. He would miss his young companion. Perhaps he would return south to visit his people. He felt compelled to turn away from Jeandania, away from the terrible rule of King Arconus.
“Who is Arconus?” Rhemus asked.
Filos was startled. He had never mentioned the name of the King. He had made a point not to. He put the boy down and looked into his dark eyes. “Arconus is the King of Jeandania, little one. Why do you ask?”
“As we have been travelling, the land has grown a little sadder, and a little more fearful with every step,” Rhemus answered. “That name has been swirling around, just out of my reach, until now.”
“You are very talented, Rhemus.”
“What is that?” Rhemus asked, shielding himself behind Filos’s leg.
Filos could hear the rustling in the vegetation ahead, like a boar or a small antelope. Filos couldn’t tell what it was, but knew that Rhemus would have known had it been a common animal of the woods.
Suddenly, bursting through the brush and onto the path in front of them, appeared another Mikraino, who excitedly greeted them in rushed words, punctuated with claps, jumps, skips and whistles.
“Filos, Filos, Filos. I am so happy to see you. You brought the seer, you brought the seer, I can’t believe ...” babbled the little man.
Filos estimated this Mikraino to be about fifteen-years-old. He did not seem to be very bright, but he was certainly enthusiastic. It was the first other Mikraino whom Rhemus had ever seen, and he was a bit frightened. A strange sort of dance ensued as the little man moved around Filos to get a better look at Rhemus, and Rhemus tried to keep at least one of Filos’s legs between himself and his new acquaintance at all times.
“My friend, my friend,” Filos said and put a hand on the Mikraino’s shoulder in the hope of calming him. He settled only slightly. “This is Rhemus. I assume you are to guide us the rest of the way to the caverns.”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir,” he replied sheepishly. “My name is Dantun. I am to take you and the boy, look its true, he’s a seer (clap, whistle, jump)...”
By now Rhemus was smiling, then giggling, at the funny little man who obviously meant him no harm.
The last league was spent with Rhemus and Dantun carrying on, giggling and talking, with Dantun asking most of the questions. He asked Rhemus about his life as a boy outside the caves, away from the mountains, a life most Mikraino never knew. He asked about the food Rhemus ate, and about Rhemus’s home and about the big people.
Filos was patient with them. They were slowing the pace considerably with their playfulness, but Filos was happy to stretch his time with the boy a little longer.
They were getting close to the Mikraino caverns. Carnivorous cats, seen no more than once in a lifetime by most, prowled the area like sentries, protecting the Mikraino. It occurred to Filos that this was an observation that Rhemus never would have missed. He watched his companion laughing and chatting with his new friend, and wondered if Dantun was especially chosen for this task in order to distract Rhemus. Filos pushed away the worry. He had no reason to believe that the Mikraino might want to harm the boy, and it was not his place to judge.
Finally they reached the entrance. It was marked by two large boulders, one in front of the other, so that the path between them was not apparent, even when looking directly at them. Filos sighed, realising that their time was done, and he leaned over to say goodbye.
“Keep well, little one,” Filos said.
“Filos, why are you afraid?” Rhemus asked.
Filos stared at the ground for a moment and looked again at Rhemus. “I wonder if perhaps you see too much with those eyes, my friend. There’s nothing to fear, Rhemus. All is by the will of the fates.”
Rhemus reached for a hug. “Goodbye, Filos, and thank you. I’m afraid too, but I think I must go now.”
Rhemus kissed Filos on the cheek and turned to follow Dantun into the caverns. Filos resisted an urge to call to the boy, to warn him that something was not right, but it was not the way of the Gantas to interfere in the affairs of other peoples.
VI
Of all the afflictions the fates may cast upon us, nothing has the insidious, persistent power to consume one’s soul like regret.
– The Tomes of Æhlman
Liam was woken by a nudge. Opening his eyes was a struggle. It was mid-afternoon, and the sun shone through the trees with an unbearable brightness. Instinct worked to lift his arm to shade his eyes, but fatigue rebelled, and his arm stayed at his side. Then a figure was leaning over him, blocking the sun’s harshest rays. Liam blinked until he could make out the silhouette of a large man. Friend or foe, Liam reasoned, it didn’t matter much.
Liam was lying half-conscious on his back, unarmed. As his eyes adjusted to the light, a face emerged from the bleary glare, a face covered in tattoos. Liam blinked repeatedly, and tried to focus on the man, who was holding a bowl of water to Liam’s lips. Liam guessed him to be in his twenties. His nose had been broken, and healed, more than once. He had broad, muscular shoulders, and the tattoos on his face were th
ick, swirling lines that sprawled across his forehead and over his bald pate.
Liam sipped at the water from the bowl. He tried to sit up and was met with a searing pain in his left side.
“Don’t move,” said the man. “You are wounded. It’s not serious, but you don’t want to open those stitches.”
“Who are you?” Liam managed to mutter.
“I am Dilano, a Talon. We received a message that Gastious was coming, and that you might need help. When we arrived, we saw you fighting.” Dilano paused for a moment and looked at Liam. “What you were doing, it was impossible.” Dilano looked around as if to see if anyone was near enough to hear, then whispered, “May I ask you, sir, are you a magician?”
Liam sighed and closed his eyes without answering.
“I’m sorry, sir. You need your rest. We will be moving again tomorrow morning.”
Liam dozed off. He slept through the rest of the day and into early the next morning. He finally awoke before dawn and lay there a while, silently assessing his injuries. He had several cuts and bruises, and he could feel stitches in his side. The cut was fairly deep, but he had suffered far worse in his past. He realised that Dilano was probably right, and there was nothing serious to worry about. He was tired enough to go back to sleep, but his strangling thirst proved too much to deny. As he slowly rose to his feet, he found he was in almost as much pain from the soreness of his muscles as from any of his injuries, simply because he had not picked up a sword for so long. The aching in his body added heaviness to his steps, but the memory of his daughter, the haunting image of her cold, dead eyes, weighed on him like an anchor.
He looked around the encampment, attempting to assess what sort of predicament he was in. In truth, he did not care. His life was over. His tavern was burned to the ground. He could never go back home. Wiersch was probably rummaging through Liam’s closets already. As a younger man, perhaps he would have had the strength to start over, but now any reason to live, any cause to fight for, was dead on the floor of a burnt down building.
With Footfalls of Shadow Page 6