Then he spotted the sack near the man’s head. It was full. Full of what, Gel didn’t know. Food, water, maybe even a weapon. And then it didn’t matter; there, lying right beside the sack, was a skein, clearly full. It could be water, or wine, but Gel couldn’t care less.
The thirst that had ached through Gel for hours hit him with a painful surge. Before he realized it himself, he was creeping slowly towards the sleeping man, tiptoeing as quickly and quietly as he could.
He reached the man, looked at him again, making sure there was no movement. Skein and sack, Gel would take them both.
He reached down, his hands inching slowly closer to the skein on the ground.
His hands clamped down silently on the sack and the skein, a grin breaking out over his face as his eyes stayed locked on the man’s immobile form.
And then there was a hand around his wrist; intense blue eyes and a cropped beard staring into his eyes.
Gel was stunned, frozen, by the blue eyes in front of him.
Then the beard laughed. ‘Finally found you again, Boy.’ A grin. Teeth. The skein and sack fell from his grip, ignored and forgotten.
And then Gel was pulling back, stumbling, trying to wrench his arm free, failing to break free from the man.
Falling.
Gel flailed, he kicked, he punched with his full left fist.
And the beard held on. His grip was like a vice, held tight and fast around Gel’s right arm.
‘Settle down, boy,’ Gel heard the words come out from behind the beard; ignored them. ‘I’m not like to hurt you.’
A grunt as Gel landed a kick, hit the man…somewhere. Gel had no idea where; it didn’t matter.
More struggling.
Somehow the beard snagged Gel’s left hand out of the air, in mid swing.
More struggling.
Gel cursed as well as he knew how. He yelled and screamed, pulled and twisted, but he couldn’t break free.
The beard just laughed.
It took a while, but Gel eventually stopped struggling; accepting he wouldn’t be breaking free. The bearded man was too old, too strong; Gel too tired from walking.
Instead, Gel affected an angry, accusatory glare, staring down through the tops of his eyes at the man, his hair falling angrily, messily, over his vision.
The bearded man hardly seemed to notice the anger, the hatred that Gel was directing his way.
‘We done now, boy?’ the beard asked.
‘It’s like he’s making fun of me’, Gel thought to himself, struggling again briefly. The man sat up, pulled Gel to a hobbled sitting position. Gel tried to get an arm free, but his struggle was short and in vain.
‘Boy, don’t make me tie you up.’ The beard said, letting go of Gels right hand and pulling a length of rope out from under his cloak.
Sullen, Gel realized he was stuck. He couldn’t break the man’s grip, even with one hand free. Not yet anyway. He’d have to think it through, stay calm, escape later. He was young, clearly smarter than the dirty old man. He’d find a way.
‘I’m done.’ He grumbled, dejectedly, letting his arms fall limp at his sides.
The man let go of his arm.
‘Bout time,’ he chuckled, shaking his hands out at either side of him.
‘Not yet…’ Gel thought to himself as the temptation to bolt for freedom rose, ‘Have to catch him off guard…’
And so he sat, glaring, as the bearded man sat in the dirt of the road opposite Gel, stretching his back and smiling.
Gel wouldn’t be fooled.
***
‘Boy’s going to be a problem’, Dan’r thought as he sat across from the glaring youngster. ‘He’s young. 11? 12 maybe? He has no survival skills. He’s scared, and too angry to think clearly.’
Dan’r smiled, almost a wry grin. He never had children, never even had brothers or sisters. He had no idea how to deal with a child.
‘Kid knows nothing’ he thought, wondering how to start talking to the boy.
***
The bearded man just sat there, grinning stupidly at him. After a minute or so, well, Gel started to get angry.
Angrier.
‘I’ve already given up, haven’t I?’ Gel asked himself, scowling, ‘what more does he want?’
They sat there for a minute longer, Gel glaring and the man doing…nothing really.
Then the beard seemed to shake himself out of whatever strange world he had drifted off to in the first place, and spoke.
‘So, boy. What’s your name?’ His voice was harsh and low, with a slow, muddy rasp and a strange accent.
‘What do you care?’ Gel spat. Stupid old man, trying to be nice.
‘Do you want some water?’ the beard asked, motioning towards the skein that lay on the ground between them.
Gel wouldn’t say it; wouldn’t give the man the satisfaction, so he just glared.
The beard shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’ He said, grabbing the skein, drinking deeply, and putting it back on the ground.
‘My name is Dan’r’, the beard said.
‘That’s a stupid name.’ Gel interrupted sullenly. What did he care what the beards name was.
‘Probably,’ the beard said, shrugging again, ‘but it’s the only one I’ve got, so I live with it’.
‘Still stupid’
Silence again.
‘That was quite the storm…’ the beard tried again.
Gel glared.
‘What, ah, what happened to your village?’ the beard asked.
‘You know, you did it!’ Gel thought, glaring more angrily.
‘You’re…not going to talk with me, are you?’ the beard asked, shaking his head slightly.
‘No.’
‘What happened to your lute?’
Gel’s glare softened immediately, and he looked away from the beard, his eyes seeking and finding the dirt ground beneath them.
‘Broke.’ He mumbled.
It was…they were both broken. His lute, the one he had used, had carried with him almost everywhere for years; the one he had taken from old lady Vaen’s house…they were both gone. And he wasn’t likely to hold another.
Lutes were, well, expensive. And no-one was likely to let a child hold one. Gel was the best, he KNEW he was the best, with a lute, but no-one else knew. Everyone else would just think him likely to break it. Everyone who had known he was the best was…
‘Broke.’ Gel said again, to get his thoughts clear of what had happened to his home, his life.
The worst part was he could feel it. He could feel the desire to sit and play, to continue what he’d been doing under the tree. He wanted to play almost more than he wanted to find whoever had attacked his home, whoever had…
‘That’s too bad,’ the bearded man said, and Gel almost imagined he could hear sorrow in his voice. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’ He sounded…sincere.
Gel looked up to see the man rummaging through his sack, pulling out what looked like paper, and charcoal.
‘What are you doing?’ Gel asked, curiosity overwhelming some of his sullen anger.
‘I’m going to give you something; try to prove I’m not going to hurt you.’ The beard said, as he started making quick, accurate lines on the paper in front of him.
He was holding the charcoal lightly, looking like it was more likely to fall out of his fingers than make a mark on the papers pressed tightly against his thigh. It looked awkward, out of place, but also…right.
Gel leaned forward, curious and confused. It took him a minute, but the lines slowly started making sense. Stupid, useless sense.
‘You’re drawing me a lute?’ Gel asked, his anger returning. ‘You’re making fun of me. First you attack my village, then you trick me and capture me, and now you’re making fun of me?’ Gel’s voice rose quickly ‘What’s wrong with you?! You…you…’
‘Quiet, boy.’ The beard cut him off, not even bothering to look up from his drawings.
Gel was left spluttering; wide-eyed. It didn’
t make sense. The old man was insane, he had to be.
‘Good enough for now’ the man mumbled to himself eventually.
And then everything got stranger. The man took the drawing he had just made, frowned, and crumpled it into a ball between both his hands.
‘What…’ Gel started.
‘Quiet. Watch.’ The man said, almost before Gel had started talking.
And then he pulled his hands apart, and the air, it shimmered. It looked almost like the waves that appeared sometimes in the air on hot days, making waves out of whatever was behind them. Only it was magnified a hundred fold; a thousand fold. Gel couldn’t see through the waves, and it hurt his eyes just to look at them.
It didn’t last long. The man spread his hands, the air shimmered, Gel’s eyes rebelled in confusion; in pain, and then the man was holding a lute.
Not a drawing of one, not a sad replica made of charcoal and parchment.
A true, honest, lute.
The bearded man hefted the lute once, twice, and shrugged, then held it out to Gel. ‘Haven’t done that in front of anyone in a long time’ the bearded man said, rolling his shoulders and shaking his right hand.
Gel stared at him. The wide-brimmed hat, the blue eyes, the beard. The lute.
‘How…’ he started, shook his head. It didn’t really matter right now.
Gel reached his left hand out towards the lute slowly, looking at the bearded man sitting still across from him.
‘Gel’ he said, then wrapped his hand around the neck of the lute. ‘My name’s Gel.’
***
Dan’r watched as the boy took the lute, slowly ran the free fingers on his right hand down the strings, before stopping and shaking the bandages off the hand angrily, impatiently.
The boy sat up straight and played his left hand along the neck of the instrument, as if to get a feel for it. He breathed in, closed his eyes, and started to play, two clear notes ringing out under the afternoon sun.
And stopped immediately, looking angry yet again.
‘It’s out of tune’ Gel complained as he started playing with the pegs at the lute’s head. The pegs cracked and squeaked as the boy turned them slowly, sounding a single string and listening each time he turned a peg, till he was satisfied with the sound it made.
Dan’r laughed. ‘Look, kid, I just made you a new lute. What’s more, I made it out of nothing. You don’t get to complain about it not being in tune.’ He said, putting his hands on his knees to stand, and grimacing at the cracks his knees made as he did. Besides, you can tune it later. And play it later. For now, we should move. Get out of the sun at least.’
‘What makes you think I’m coming with you?’ the boy said, suddenly suspicious again.
Dan’r looked at the boy, brushed a hand back through his hair, shorter and cleaner now than he could remember it being in years. ‘Do you want to know how I made that Lute?’ he asked.
‘Well…yes…’ Gel said, nodding.
‘Do you want to know what else I can make?’
‘Well…yes…’
‘Well, then you’d better follow me, hadn’t you?’ Dan’r answered, holding his right hand out to the boy to help him.
The boy looked at Dan’r’s hand, shrugged, and stood up by himself, folding his right hand into a ball to push himself up while holding onto his new lute in his left.
‘Lead the way then, old man’.
II
He entered his office quickly, the door swinging shut behind him the moment he crossed the threshold. His strides were quick, purposeful, and in three he reached the dark, polished wood desk in the middle of the floor.
The desk itself was ancient, and he knew its every intricacy by heart. Hand carved with the images and symbols of Ragn; the names of his disciples and prophets. In the center of the desk, in testament to the religious fervor and god-given skill of the carver lay a burnished flame, depicting Ragn in his most pure form. Underneath the dark desk was a bright red rug, luxurious, and patterned throughout in black and gold.
The desk, the rug, the heavily polished and waxed wood floorboards underneath, even the lack of windows and the oil-burning lanterns that lined the sides of the room, they were all there to convey a particular image, a particular feeling.
And it was a beautiful image; striking, powerful, evocative. Seeing it always brought him some measure of peace, a moment of tranquility, much relished and deserved, from the normal hurricane of activity that was his every day. Just as seeing it would give any other that entered the room a feeling of inferiority, of powerlessness.
Of course, that was when he could see the desk. Covered in letters and reports as it was at the moment, it simply angered him.
He briefly considered sweeping an arm across the desk, scattering the assorted papers across the floor, freeing the holy symbols of the desk from their dark confines.
But as he sat, as he began to skim through one of the many papers, he knew he wouldn’t. His land, his people, were in danger. He would show resolve, strength. He would act in a manner befitting his role in the church.
So instead, he read, the lights of a cool dozen oil lanterns steadily lighting the words in front of him.
Riin’s defenders in the southern desert were still keeping the Church’s armies at bay. Horse-mounted saboteurs kept destroying water caravans. Always just the water. General Chae was apparently at his wits end with how to proceed, not that he had ever had many wits to begin with. Hereditary positions for the army were a mistake, one he would rectify. Eventually. When he had time. Still, no water meant no concerted attack could be made against Ceyl, which meant none against Riin itself.
Annoying, he thought, but with perseverance, Ragn would prevail. He always did, after all.
The forced evacuation of the North was still proceeding, the refugees moving slowly towards Wraegn. The ruse was still working, thankfully, as he had been promised it would. What would happen to him, to the church, if it were discovered? He shuddered to think.
Food shortages were starting around Wraegn, some anger beginning to afflict the populace. More soldiers would put a stop to that. More soldiers, and more work camps. Further out from the city this time.
The reports were endless. No word had come south from Heyle in weeks, not that they concerned him. Heyle was a backwater, a haven of whores and inbreds. Someday they would be brought to heel under the arm of Ragn, but they mattered little. Heyle could keep its fancy of freedom and independence, could keep its forests and mountains for now. There were lusher, more important places to deal with first.
Dhome and Dheme continued their incessant bickering, as if there were no more important matters to be dealt with. He wondered how they could ignore the Fog, the war, the spreading famine; how they could ignore everything but their constant bickering, and still not come to blows. But again, more important matters.
As he flipped through the papers on his desk, jotting down quick notes and replies for each, he waited. He knew what would come, eventually. Bhede, his secretary, always put it at the bottom. It used to matter more, weeks ago, used to interest him more. But it was always the same report now, always the same. And it angered him each and every time. Bhede was right. Best to leave it to the end, till all the important decisions were made, till the problems he could solve were solved. Best to leave the anger as long as possible, as close to when he could retire to bed, and entertainment, as possible.
There were dozens of reports to go through, maybe closer to a hundred of the blasted things. Some could be ignored, could be thrown in the trash to be burned later, but more required at least a cursory response. Many required more. But eventually he reached it, that final report. It was small, neatly written, and frightening, as it always was these days. Sent by pigeon, the few scratched sentences were close together, inked in a steady hand.
‘No changes. Fog still advancing. Experiments continue. Require more subjects. Recommendation remains same.
Staen.’
The same. Always th
e same. The fog was still coming, and the fool man was running through test subjects faster than the army could provide them.
He scribbled a reply. He’d send refugees if he had to. He could not fail.
He had planned everything. Everything! And it was all working too. Had been working anyway. The enemies of Ragn were going to be crushed, and he would lead the Church when it happened. He would be heralded through the ages, his name would echo through the holy halls for an eternity, and he would sit at Ragn’s right hand in the After.
But then the fog had come, and now it was throwing all his carefully laid plans awry. What good were the carefully laid plans of men when God intervened?
‘Why is Ragn testing me this way’, he wondered silently as he stood, slamming his hands on the desk in anger. ‘What more must I do to prove myself?’
The door to his office opened, and Bhede bowed his way in, shuffling as he did so. He must have heard the slam, known what it meant. He often did lately.
‘Come, my Lord, they are ready’ he wheezed as he bowed the way out of the office.
The Meiter, chief of the church, Master of Ragn’s armies and ruler of Rognia, strode willfully past his servant, robes billowing out behind him as he absently wondered how many he would go through before he could sleep tonight.
***
Staen hated having to move the camp with such frequency. Twice a day, all tents, all equipment, all prisoners, would have to be packed up and moved further towards Ragn as the Fog continued its relentless, inexorable march. So far nothing had stopped the fog; not even lines of torches set out as a barrier. Yes, the torches had slowed the fog for a time, kept it at bay anywhere the torchlight hit. But a long enough line wasn’t possible. Eventually the Fog just flanked the torches, took them from behind, and continued, unabated. Staen still didn’t know if the torches continued to burn after they were surrounded by the Fog.
The Fire and the Fog Page 17