by David Welch
“Don’t worry, western man,” Tark reassured him. “I have done this for years. I can hear a lie or embellishment the moment it leaves the lips, and you are an honest man. And apparently quite a well-traveled one!”
The two scribes said something in their native tongue, and Tark waved them off. They scampered out of the room, eyes heavy. The illustrator remained, pouring through the parchment to flesh out the landscape sketches.
“I want to show you something,” said Tark, motioning for Gunnar to follow. “Since you have told me so much.”
Gunnar shrugged, figuring he’d already stayed up through a night’s worth of sleep; a few more minutes wouldn’t hurt. He’d probably have to stay another day just to catch up on rest.
They walked outside and then to a large cabin twenty yards away. Young men and women, acolytes, scuttled about doing morning chores. Tark unlocked two heavy locks on the cabin door and pushed inside.
The building contained exactly two items, both hoisted up on display stands.
“Come, look. Not many see this. Kings, perhaps, but few others.”
They walked to the first object. Built of an impossibly shiny metal, it looked like a square basin. A chunk had been smashed free, and cracks ran through the metal, but it remained bright and clean. A strange tube extended over the basin, looking like a metal version of the faucet you’d tap into a barrel of ale.
“This has been here since before the kingdoms of the Freshwater Seas existed. It is a piece wrought by the ancients. In the seven hundred years it has been in this Sanctuary it has never rusted,” Tark proclaimed reverently.
Gunnar motioned to touch it, asking, “May I?”
“We all have. Go ahead,” Tark said mischievously.
He did. It felt smooth and metallic, but not all that different from the steel of his sword. Still, the strangeness of the design, and Tark’s words, cast an ancient pall over the object. He didn’t know whether to believe the man or not, so he said nothing.
“And this…” Tark said, motioning towards the second display. A strange beige material lay there, unlike any he’d seen. It looked like a shattered piece from a broken urn or pitcher, based on the curve in the middle of it.
“You have to touch this one to understand it,” Tark said.
Gunnar reached out and ran his fingers over the material. He instantly drew them back, not sure what to make of the object. The material was smooth and rigid, but it wasn’t metal. It didn’t feel anything like metal. He couldn’t describe it; the closest thing he could think of was horn. He touched it again, pressing in with his fingers. The material flexed slightly then returned back to its shape without the slightest sign of deformation or pressure.
“What is this?” Gunnar whispered, awestruck.
“We do not know,” replied Tark. “It has been here longer than the first. We assume it is the work of the ancients, the ones you think became gods, but we do not know. It is certainly unlike anything man can now produce.”
“It is,” Gunnar said, his fingers still touching the odd material.
Tark quieted, a contemplative look coming across his face.
“Vadid brings kings and lords here, to impress them,” Tark said solemnly. “He thinks seeing the great works of the past will inspire people to worship the Carpenter and look for what was lost.”
“You disagree?” Gunnar asked.
“I do,” said Tark. He bowed his head and took a deep breath, clearly coming to a decision. He looked up, his wizened face years older than it had been moments ago.
“Think, Gunnar of the Langal. In the legends of your people, how old are the ancients? The ones you believe became your ‘Gods Above’?”
“Well, nobody is sure,” Gunnar said. “But all the legends say four hundred and forty lifetimes.”
“Averaging fifty years per person, that comes out to twenty-two thousand years,” Tark announced. Gunnar nodded his head respectfully, impressed by the man’s skill with numbers.
“I’ve heard many legends about the ancients, both from people who think that they’re gods and those who don’t. You know what the shortest period of time between them and us is said to be?” Tark asked.
“No,” Gunnar replied.
“Eighteen thousand years, according to a nomadic people of the grasslands. Many say it was much more, up to a hundred millennia,” Tark said. “Vadid thinks looking back to the past will help us regain the wisdom of the Carpenter and his faithful. Yet so little is left. So much time has passed that nothing remains of their homes or cities, just these two objects. Their words and wisdom have also vanished, forgotten. No matter how great they were, nothing of that remains.
“Even the name ‘ancients’ is vague and practically useless. Once, centuries ago, all the shores of the Freshwater Seas were ruled by a powerful empire, so great it could mobilize fifty thousand men for battle in a week! Yet it crumbled, and the smaller kingdoms rose, and consider themselves the brightest light of the world. Yet we speak of ‘ancients’ as one people. How do we know their civilizations didn’t rise and fall like ours? How many great nations walked amongst the stars in the twenty thousand years you believe rest between our time and theirs?”
“I have no idea,” Gunnar said.
“Nobody does,” Tark replied. “I worship an old god. I believe he has been here from the beginning, but when men learned of him, I don’t know. It’s lost in time. And the great people who worshiped him are gone, joining him in the next life and leaving this world fallen. It is so far gone that to look backwards means looking into a void, seeking knowledge that isn’t just missing, it no longer exists!”
The old man took a few deep breaths, his face red from excitement.
“Then why worship the Carpenter? If you can’t recover the greatness of his people?”
“I worship the Carpenter because he is God, god and man. Because he wishes forgiveness for us all and has given us a mission to preserve what knowledge remains. Our legends say this has happened before, in previous dark times, but I have no interest in looking for lost knowledge,” Tark said, his chest puffing up with pride. “I say we have to earn the knowledge. We have to discover it on our own! The Carpenter wants us to do the work and be worthy of his fortune! There’s no secret scroll or hidden city with the knowledge of the past. If we want to be great again, we have to spend generations learning, using our reason to pry apart the secrets of the world!”
Gunnar nodded, saying, “That’s why you take down the stories. You explained earlier.”
“Yes!” Tark agreed. “But it’s not just for me and my god that I do this! You know the lamellar armor of the Bailor, with the overlapping scales? You spoke of it when telling your story.”
“I am aware,” Gunnar said.
“That pattern was not native to them! It came from a land far to the south and east, along the salted oceans. Generations ago, a traveler from that place stopped here and described the armor of his people. Our scribes wrote it down and sketched out pictures! Then, decades later, the king of Bailor came, saw the design, had copies made, and brought it home. His armorers fiddled until they made it, overlapping scales pulling tight into a rigid plate. An idea from far away came here, somebody else saw it, applied his own knowledge, and changed the world!”
The man took a few more deep breaths, his stout body humming with excitement.
“If we can bring people here, to where the ideas of so many lie, think of what we could do. We could begin to relearn, through our own trial and error, what made our distant forefathers so great.”
Gunnar thought it over, seeing the value of the idea. He’d seen many schools, but most had been focused around training young men for war or instructing youngsters on the superiority of their own people; their own culture.
“Even that greatbow I saw you trying to draw after you’d settled in, the Duahr weapon. Bring that to another land, put it in the hands of a bowyer unfamiliar with it, and imagine what changes or improvements they could make!”
“It’s hard to imagine anything improving on a Duahr bow,” Gunnar said, remembering the heaps of dead Bailor warriors who had fallen to the weapon.
“Maybe for you, and for me, but somebody out there will see something, and tweak it, and a better bow will result,” Tark declared. “That’s why I love it when men like you come here. Most talks are interesting, and we learn from them, but they go into the surface vaults near the bottom of the hill. Tales like yours, well…”
“Well?” Gunnar asked.
“It’s going in the crypt!” Tark declared.
“The crypt?” Gunnar pushed.
“Deep beneath us, built into the heart of the bluff. When I find a story that truly has something to say, I bind the pages in leather and send a copy into the crypt, safe from fire and raiders and all the evils of this world. Your words will last long after you and I return to dust,” Tark informed him, beaming. “And others who come here will read them, learn what you’ve learned, and who knows? Maybe something good will come of it!”
Gunnar smiled at the man’s optimism, feeling a little proud at the thought of somebody changing the world based on something he’d spoken tonight. He knew he’d seen a lot, fighting and wandering for so long, but he hadn’t thought it all that remarkable.
A bloody scream ripped from a man’s throat somewhere outside, interrupting his thoughts. Gunnar’s hand flew to his sword, and he sprinted from the building. In front of the long, stone building, a man lay on the ground, a deep gash across his chest. Kamith stood over him, her sword in hand. Nearby, two men stood, holding Turee’s arms. One held a spear, the other was Vadid.
“Gods Above,” muttered Gunnar. He pulled his sword and ran forwards, his thoughts darkening back to those of a soldier. Just when things had been looking up.
***
Many hours before, Turee had lain beneath a bison hide with Kamith, listening to the woman sleep behind her. She usually slept a few feet apart to give the couple some privacy, but with Gunnar gone, Kamith had let her sneak in and cuddle up beside her. The older woman was naked, something that had shocked Turee at first. Apparently, that was the way Kamith had slept every night of her life, never knowing that people slept any other way. Turee lay in her thin, linen dress; the only piece of clothing she’d salvaged from her old life. She’d been wearing it the day King’s Hold fell. It had dried since their escape, stained and no longer lovely. She had taken to wearing leather during the day, usually an old dress Kamith had given her, but she still slipped into the linen dress at night.
She had to. Her first night with the pair, before they’d bought her a small tent and her own hides, she’d been forced to cuddle between the two. Their bodies had been pressed together to keep under the hide, and she’d discovered that Gunnar, despite being a prude, slept naked too. She’d spent that long night between the two, female nipples and male hardness alternatively pressing against her. It had been torturous. She’d alternated between awkwardness and lust, finding escape from neither.
Without Gunnar, that seemed to vanish. Kamith was a beautiful woman, and Turee had known a few maids in the royal staff who’d looked at each other with loving gazes normally reserved for men, but Turee didn’t feel that way about women. Kamith was more like a sister, though she didn’t know for sure, since she’d never had one. She didn’t mind hearing the woman’s soft breathing behind her.
She felt a little bad over what she was about to do. She’d known Kamith would assume she was feeling vulnerable when she crawled under the hide, seeking a reassuring presence in the dark of night. Kamith had fallen asleep while they gossiped back and forth, comfortable and friendly, off-guard. Turee slipped from under the hide.
They did not understand her. Yes, they had rescued her and stood by her, but they didn’t understand her needs. She wasn’t some savage who could wander the wilds without speaking to a single person. She’d been surrounded by people from birth; she’d always loved talking with them, listening to them, being around them. She may have been a bastard to many, but her father had raised her with more love and attention than his legitimate children. He’d made her part of processions and ceremonies, and made sure she had plenty of playmates when young and girlfriends when older. So, it wasn’t just her body that craved the nearness of others. She needed to interact, to feel and love and be loved.
Not that she wasn’t also looking for a warm body. Gunnar and Kamith just didn’t understand where she was coming from. For nearly a year, before being forced to flee, she had lain in Malyar’s arms. The young man had been the stableboy of the palace. He’d always kept a stall free of horses in the back, covered in thick straw. She’d picked the stable on purpose. Across the great yard from the palace, distance and thick stone walls had muffled her joyous shrieks. They’d made so much love there, free and eager as they explored and pushed each other’s boundaries. Yes, Malyar had had a young wife, but he’d still looked up at her with awe in his eyes. He had still caressed her as if she were the only woman in the world, expertly playing her passions.
Heck, even the soldier she’d lain with while fleeing across Starth had understood what Gunnar didn’t. His sighs and quips ran through her mind, again and again. She fumed at the thought. So she’d slipped away to bed with the horse trader at their last stop. So what? They’d both enjoyed it, and nothing terrible had happened! The ground hadn’t opened to swallow them, and hordes hadn’t swept into the camp and slain everybody. She’d simply gotten a needed release and then gone on with her life.
Determined, she quickly changed back into her leather dress and stole across the courtyard. Kamith slept on quietly as Turee slipped through the great double door, out of the cloister. She moved across the grassy hill, snaking between dark cabins toward her destination. It was very dark, and no moon hung in the sky, but she found the cabin.
The door was unlocked, and she slipped inside. The cabin was one large room. A hearth lay on one wall, embers smoldering inside. A single candle on a small table cast weak light about, falling on rough-hewn, wooden chairs. Against the back wall lay a bed.
Vadid sat up in the bed, his naked chest muscled and gleaming in the candlelight. She smiled hungrily at the man.
“Does your god forbid you from lying with a woman?” she asked seductively.
“Only the acolytes,” Vadid replied.
“Good,” Turee said, licking her lips and pulling the dress over her head. “Because I will make you call His name before this night is over.”
***
She didn’t know when her unconscious mind realized that the warmth and weight of her companion had vanished. Her eyes fluttered open, searching. She could not see Turee’s silhouette.
“By the gods!” Kamith swore, glancing about. She saw sleeping parties and horses, and a few dark silhouettes moving about, but none of them looked Turee-sized.
She scrambled out from between the two great buffalo hides, the night air cool against her skin. She quickly pulled on leather pants and a tunic, then attached her sword to her hip. She looked a long minute at a pack containing her chain-mail, and at the buckler shield strapped to the top, but decided against it. It was unlikely Turee’s mystery lover would be armored.
Vadid. It had to be him. Showing her Sanctuary’s treasures, the long looks, the man’s great handsomeness. Gods Above!
Gunnar had yet to return, so she slipped out of the courtyard. How long the girl had been gone, she didn’t know. She didn’t even know where Vadid lived, but she bet he had one of the larger cabins, not the small cells of the cloister. All she could do was wait until somebody emerged from one of the cabins and then get close to see if it was her.
Then what?
She didn’t know. It wasn’t like the girl was her daughter, or even family of any kind. She didn’t know what would happen, but she was sure it would involve screaming.
***
“Are you—”
Vadid shuddered as he released within her, his bulk looming above her. It had been barely five minutes!<
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“You are!” complained Turee. “I thought you’d done this before.”
“Shut up,” he snapped, rolling off her. He leapt to his feet, moving to a chest near the table. He pulled out clothes and dressed.
“Unbelievable!” Turee snapped, getting to her feet. “And you call yourself a man.”
She moved to grab her dress from the table, but Vadid moved quickly to stop her. He flung the dress away and pressed a knife against her neck.
“Now, don’t scream, little slut. I have a confession to make,” he said with a vicious smile. “I never saw your father. He never came here.”
Cold fear paralyzed Turee. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Vadid’s body, minutes ago so warm and welcoming, now pressed hard against her back. His arm locked around her stomach, pulling her to him. Vadid pushed her over to the chest, where he removed a piece of parchment. He waved it in front of her face.
“I have seen your likeness, though,” he said.
She stared, jaw gaping, not believing what she saw. Her face had been sketched on the top of the paper, lifelike, lines converging perfectly to create her image. Below it ran lines of text:
Reward! A wagon full of gold pieces for the person who returns Princess Turee of Starth, brother of King Ythell II, kidnapped by savages around the time of the planting moon.
She gasped, frantic, and he clapped his hand over her mouth, muffling her cries. The blade pressed hard, just shy of cutting into the soft flesh of her neck.
“I can see why he wants you back,” Vadid laughed, removing his hand from her mouth so he could fondle a full breast, “even if he is your brother! Now, move, toward the door. Scream and I’ll send him back your body!”
She walked slowly, tears streaming from her eyes, the cold metal never moving an inch from her jugular. He led her out of the cabin. The cool air pebbled her flesh with goosebumps.
“Alright!” he growled. “Let’s go!”
Two men with spiked war clubs appeared from behind the cabin. One held a metal lantern, a candle burning inside. The two soldiers leered at her, grabbing her by the arms. The party walked towards the stables, not far from the front gate. They had opened it, revealing the fields and dark forests beyond.