Across The Lake

by Doug Kelly

  Old stories said that many men, motivated by greed, had perished in the attempt to enter that forsaken place. Because those tales were so common around communities of the lake, there was no disputing that untold treasures lay hidden in that region, abandoned long ago, but guarded by things more terrible than any nightmare. In the midst of summer, after long hot days become the norm, the deadly fog rose and dissipated into the sky, and then through the dispersed and rising haze, adventurers might find an entrance, but always at the cost of illness. If the explorer was unable to leave before the cool of night, his death was certain. Rumors said that some bold and adventurous men had succeeded in getting gold, silver, and jewels, but since then, the marsh had become more dangerous, and its perniciousness increased year by year as the stagnant water penetrated deeper into the bowels of the earth.

  The superstitions of the less intellectually capable said that demons resided in those swamps, and at night, daring explorers could see fiery shapes, which to the ignorant confirmed their superstitions. The fog, where it was most dense, could burn and these flaming clouds floated about hauntingly. The foolish might then see, in the glowing haze, the outline of demons and fiery ghosts. To a lesser extent, the same thing had taken place with other flooded ancient cities. There were not always swamps, but the sites were uninhabitable because of the foul and sometimes fatal fumes seething from the ground around the ruins. Therefore, people avoided them. The hunters in the woods even avoided the spot where a single house had existed.

  Sickness, fever, and chills were often the result of contact, unintentional or otherwise, with an ancient habitation. The ground could not be cultivated near the ancient towns, because it caused sickness, too. No sooner did the plow or spade turn up an ancient site than something primeval and devious condemned a person with illness. If a hunter, when setting up camp for the night, stumbled on so much as a crumbling brick, they would hastily leave and travel a safe distance away.

  Aton continued peering at the old parchment as if it were a window to another world. He noted its warnings because they were a serious caution to those who might travel there. Aton could see that the only way to get near the ancient city was by boat, so he tucked that piece of advice into the back of his mind. The lake was large, so he thought his chance of stumbling across this forbidden zone was not that likely.

  When Aton finally looked up, the oil lamp was low, and the moonbeams had entered the window and fallen upon the floor. From the window, he could see a long white ghostly line of mist where a stream ran at the base of the slope near the forest. There was only the sound of a horse outside the window. Perplexed after poring over that mystic scroll full of demonic signs and hysterical warnings, neither of which Aton believed in, he went to his bed, and being extremely tired, instantly fell asleep.

  In his unsettled state of mind, he had not noticed the books on the table. Rare as they were, owners did not usually put their books on the tables of guests, and at an ordinary time, he would certainly have thought it peculiar. The fact was that Esina, who all day he had inwardly accused of forgetting him, had placed them on the table with her own hands. She had very recently bought the books from a merchant who had come from far away. She knew that Aton had read every scrap of writing there was in her home, and thought that these other books might interest him, too. Not aware of her gesture, Aton fell asleep, angry and bitter toward her.

  Soon afterwards, Briand staggered into the room. The aroma of ale floated behind him like an invisible cape. Regardless of his mighty strength, intoxication, and the clumsiness that had accompanied his excessive drinking, he carelessly picked up the delicate roll of papers. Briand glanced at them without concern, maybe even with contempt, then flung them down and immediately was sound asleep.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Early the next day, another feast began in the open air. While the banquet was still progressing, a selected group assembled for a procession, and just after noon, at the sound of the midday horn, Olar, with his lovely wife beside him, started to march. With a battle-axe in his hand, he walked with his fully decorated warhorse. On his right was his family flag, suspended from a long pole. Some distinguished warriors followed closely, organized by rank. Immediately after walking through the gate of the enclosure, the gathering crowd surrounded the procession, throwing spring flowers before their warlord and his wife. The route was through the town, where Olar stopped and pardoned all citizens, except those guilty of a capital offense. Then he went to the field just beyond. Instantly, music began to play and the feast really commenced. Innkeepers freely distributed ale. Carts came down from the warlord’s estate, loaded with food. Olar and Nessa returned by the same road to the enclosure, after wishing everyone happiness. They were just in time because the domestic slaves were serving the evening meal.

  Later that evening, there were horse races and athletic competitions, and the revelries continued far into the night. The following day, early in the morning, the guards opened the barriers again, and competition of skill with blunt swords and wrestling began, continuing almost until sunset. On the morning of the next day, there was a mock battle between teams of men armed with shields and sticks instead of swords. The final day was for Aton. He had waited ever so eagerly for that day, the day of the archery competition.

  All along the green meadow beneath the enclosing wall stretched tiers of benches and booths, one above the other, which were for the clan leaders and rich merchants from near and far. No one except specially invited guests were to sit there during the games. The noise of many voices talking and laughing came from the elevated stands, and attendants ran in and out like ants from an anthill. At the end of the archery range, near the target, was a raised seat decked with ribbons, scarfs, and garlands of flowers, for Olar and Nessa Regalyon, who had not yet arrived. The range was forty paces broad. At one end stood the target, at the other, a tent of striped canvas. From the poles of that tent fluttered many colored flags, streamers, and various clan banners and pendants. In that pavilion were casks of ale and plenty of food, free to any of the competing archers who might wish to quench their thirst or satisfy their hunger. Across the range, opposite the raised seats for the upper class and special guests, was a railing to keep the common people from crowding in front of the target. Already, even though it was early, the benches were beginning to fill with people of quality, or rather, people with political connections and money, who kept constantly arriving in little carts or upon elegant horses that pranced vivaciously to the tinkle of bells on their bridle reins. Behind them came the poor, who sat upon the green grass near the railing that kept them off the range. In the great tent, the archers gathered, some talking loudly of their skill, some looking intently at their bows and arrows, drawing a string with their fingers to see if it was frayed, or inspecting their arrows, shutting one eye and peering down a shaft to see that it was not warped, but straight and true. Never had there been such a company of competing archers as were gathered at the warlord’s estate that day. The very best archers of all the surrounding clans had come to this year’s spring festival.

  Honored guests, traveling merchants, and ruling families filled all the benches, and then the warlord himself came with his wife. Olar rode with a stately appearance on his horse, as did Nessa on her brown filly. Upon his head, Olar wore a purple felt cap, and on his shoulders, a purple robe, all trimmed with mink fur; his jacket was white linen, and his shoes were black leather suede. A golden chain hung around his neck with a pendant that anybody with a sense for high fashion and expensive jewelry would best describe as something only a very wealthy man could afford. Nessa was dressed in blue linen, all trimmed with flamingo’s down. This bird was so rare that its pink feathers, as fringe on clothing, indicated how special the person wearing it was, and how significant the occasion was, too. They made a gallant sight as they rode along beside each other. Then all the people rose and shouted for the tournament to commence, so that their voices sounded like a storm upon the coast, like the dark waves that
cascaded upon the ocean shore and broke, surging amid the sand and rocks. During the roaring and the surging of the people and the waving of scarfs, Olar and Nessa came to their place, where guards providing their security with sword and spear stood about waiting for them. Getting down from their horses, they mounted the broad stairs that led to the raised platform, and took their seats on two thrones decorated with colorfully embroidered cloth and tasseled fringe.

  After Olar and Nessa sat down, Olar signaled the announcer who blew mightily into an ox horn and sounded three blasts that came echoing cheerily back from the gray walls of the enclosure. Then the archers stepped forward to their places, while all the onlookers shouted with a mighty voice, each spectator calling upon his favorite.

  Aton had no one to encourage him except for Esina, who silently waved a red scarf, the color of his fletching, instead of openly cheering for Aton and urging him to do his best. Briand’s singular voice was lost in the crowd.

  While the field crew set up ten targets, each bearing the pennant of a different clan, the announcer loudly proclaimed the rules of the game.

  “Each man will shoot three arrows at the target that bears the colors of his clan until the three best bowmen in each clan are chosen. These three will shoot three arrows each, and the one that shoots the best from each clan will win and will represent their clan under their banner. The top archers from each clan will then shoot three times. After this, the top three archers will continue. These three final contestants will again shoot three arrows each, and the one who shoots the best will have the first prize.”

  The warlord leaned forward, looking intensely among the group of archers to find whether Aton was among them. In the crowd, he was indistinguishable from all the others. Olar knew that Aton was a skillful archer, but at this festival, and while his preferred suitor for his daughter’s hand in marriage was in attendance and also escorting Esina to this event, he did not want Aton to even place with the finishing contestants. All of his daughter’s attention should be on Lanzo and his accomplishments, wealth, and political success. Olar had even considered rigging the event to ensure that if Aton competed, he would fail, but Olar and his advisors could not determine a covert way to ensure Aton’s loss. At one point he even considered bribing Aton to leave, but that overt gesture might bring with it grumblings of discontent from the lower classes because of Aton’s father’s popularity with the common people.

  The contest began, the archers shot, and Aton steadily advanced. Of all the men that continued, there were no surprises because all of the archers in the surrounding clans understood each other’s reputations.

  Under a red banner, Aton advanced to the final three contestants. One of his opponents shot under a banner of green, and the other had a black banner. Green was to shoot first.

  With fine sportsmanship and eternal confidence in his own skill, Aton wished his opponent well as the man under the green banner took the field. After politely tipping his cap to Aton, he drew a long arrow fletched with a very broad feathers and fitted it skillfully to the string, then drawing his bow for barely an instant, released it. The arrow flew straight and hit a finger's width from the center. His clan cheered and Aton could hear the warlord cheering as well. Aton wondered if he was cheering for the green clansman or simply against Aton and his clan, wishing for their defeat.

  Then Aton stepped forward, and all the people laughed as they saw him stumble awkwardly on a loose stone. He bent the bow quickly, and released a shaft that he had fletched with his characteristic red feathers. Aton had chosen the color red to distinguish his from all the other arrows because he wanted everyone to know to whom the winning arrows belonged. His arrow lodged nearer the center than the other, by a slim margin.

  The warlord grumbled, but Nessa, Esina, and even her younger sister, Malina, each cracked a smile of satisfaction.

  Then the man competing under the black banner shot, carefully and cautiously, and his arrow lodged close beside Aton’s arrow. Then they all three shot again, and once more, each arrow lodged close, but the black banner’s was farthest from the center, and again Aton’s shot was the best. Then, they all shot for the third time. This time the green banner took great mindfulness to his aim, acutely measuring the distance and shooting with the sharpest care. The arrow flew straight, and all shouted until the very flags that waved in the breeze shook with the sound, because the shaft had lodged close beside the spot that marked the very center.

  “Well done!” cried the warlord. “I believe the prize will be yours.”

  Aton was last to shoot and his aim would determine the victor. All was hushed, and no one spoke or even seemed to breathe. The silence was so great because people wondered what he would do. He could not have felt more insulted by Olar’s cheering for his opponent, but he said nothing and took his place on the field. His anger was brewing, but to admonish the warlord in such a public venue would be suicide. He clenched his fists, took twenty paces farther away from the target, and then turned back around. By doing this, no one could doubt his skill. He stood very still as he held the bow tightly and sensed the direction of the wind. The crowd seemed to disappear and all he could see was the center of the target and two arrows he would have to nudge to become victorious. He drew his trusty bow, squinted one eye, imagined where the tip would land, and let go. The arrow followed the imaginary path he had set for it. The swift arrow flew true and lodged in the very center of the target. No one spoke a word for a while and no one shouted, but everyone looked with amazement into their neighbors’ faces.

  Then Olar came down from his stage, in all his fine clothes, to where Aton stood leaning on his bow, while the common people and ruling families alike whispered in amazement. Without a doubt, Aton was the obvious winner. It was everything that Olar could do at that moment not to explode with unbridled fury at Aton’s accomplishment, so the disgruntled warlord dropped the leather purse of silver coins at Aton’s feet and quickly exited the field. The leather artisan had ornately decorated the purse made from supple goatskin, and Esina had secured it tightly closed with a thin leather strap. She had wrapped and tied the cord into a knot around the twisted neck of the leather pouch. The purse was as much a prize as the five small silver coins in it.

  More feasting came on the last day of the spring festival. The final dinner continued until early in the evening. After the horn blew that evening, the guests who had come from greater distances promptly left because they were anxious to pass through the forest before nightfall. Those on foot and those women who had come in covered wagons stayed until the next morning because they could not travel very fast. By late evening, the yard behind the walls was comparatively empty and quiet.

  During the whole time, Aton had not gotten a single moment alone with Esina. He had noticed that she always spent her time with Lanzo. Aton, after the fleeting pleasure he had enjoyed in watching her just briefly, had endured days of misery. He was among the crowd, he was at the festival, and he had sat near a table with the most honored visitors, but he only vaguely existed in the eyes of so many. There was no sympathy between them and him. Aton could not contain his anger. At that moment he felt like the world had betrayed him, but he was angriest with Lanzo.

  Aton decided to confront Lanzo. He was overtly livid with him for monopolizing Esina, his true love, but subconsciously his resentment was with Olar and the way the warlord and Trahan had treated his father, too. He was looking for an opportunity to start a fight when a cooler head and calmer nerves should have prevailed. He was at the home of the warlord, with only Briand as an ally, and his true love was hiding behind the festivities of a social event, ignoring him. He knew Lanzo was going to be on the main floor of the warlord’s grand home because that was where Olar would be that evening, listening to the patriotic songs of the clans of his realm. That was precisely where Aton wanted to make a stand, in front of everybody.

  In his impatience, Aton arrived for the performance before the revelries had begun. Briand was there, socializing,
and had just stepped away from a ceramic carafe of wine when Aton grabbed his arm. Aton confessed his anger to his cousin and took a seat after he told him everything, things Briand already knew and understood. Aton had no need to explain anything further to him. The idea of a son seeking revenge for his father’s honor and the serial disgraces freely handed to Aton was so natural that Briand did not attempt to dissuade him, but merely repeated his assurance that he was at Aton’s disposal.

  The warlord’s family had not yet arrived, but Aton knew that he rarely missed a performance given in his honor. After impatiently sitting for only a few moments, Aton wandered around, waiting for the event to begin. He did hope to meet Lanzo, either in the main room or in the hallway next to it; location did not matter. Briand called Aton to his seat and he went to sit where he could see the arrival of the man he most despised. His eyes remained fixed on the entrance, but Lanzo remained absent throughout the first set of choruses.

  Finally, after an intermission, as Aton was anxiously reaching for his hidden dagger for the hundredth time, a silhouette emerged from the hallway, and Lanzo, dressed in black, came in and leaned on a chair while he looked around the room. His entourage followed him. Esina was not with him now, and Olar was uncharacteristically absent from the performance, too. The warlord was most likely too intoxicated, with his wife tending to him in his room, or more likely her servants were comforting Olar during the sickness that followed an all-day drinking binge.

  As Lanzo ran his eyes over the audience, he noticed a pale face and shining gaze that seemed eager to draw his attention. He did recognize Aton, but the expression he saw on that devastated face must have warned him to give no sign that he had actually seen him. Without any indication of what he was thinking, showing no emotion, Lanzo sat down, his entourage assembled around him, and they turned their attention to the performers. However, even though he appeared not to notice Aton, Lanzo did not lose sight of him; and when the performance was over, his eagle eyes followed the hot-tempered young man as he left his row of chairs with Briand. Then he saw Aton appear beside a closer row of chairs. He anticipated the approaching storm and, when he heard the clatter of Aton’s shoes rapidly approaching, even though he was at that moment speaking to another invited guest, Lanzo forced his most cheerful expression to appear because he knew what to expect and was ready for it.