by Jeremy Marr
The pair started walking up the stairs in front of them. ‘The Bladed Hammer’ was the name on the sign being suspended on a metal rod hanging out above the door. The brass work ringing the oval sign was polished and reflected the weak summer evening light with pride. It danced back and forth with the push of the warm, gentle breeze blowing off Leversa’s Basin; the large body of fresh water Bek’noni was built next to.
The inside of the tavern was finished with golden-oak planked walls that had been rubbed down until they shone. There was a vibrant smell in the air that instantly grabbed the nose and took it on a trip around the world; in the same time span it took to inhale the first lung full. It consisted of a variety food, mixed with the smell of thick ale and sweet wine. A large redwood bar, empty of people, stood on the opposite wall to the door, giving a barkeeper a clear view of customers entering the establishment. Two large lanterns hung on the wall behind the bar, one to the left where the cash box and kegs were, and one in the middle of the bar. They provided more than enough light to make one feel their dealings here were not being shortchanged by a sticky finger.
“Outta way,” could be heard from serving girls as they bustled in and out of the kitchen via a swinging door located to the left of the bar. They carried meats, cheeses, bread and stew out and if there was room on the tray, there was always a quick trip to the bar for a refill for someone. If there was no room, a second trip was made. Spirits were always needed and most certainly always appreciated and, most of the time, always paid for. Beyond the kitchen door to the left, the establishment opened up into a huge common room. There were lanterns scattered around, suspended on chains hanging down from the ceiling. There was a fireplace centered on each wall, though only two were in use. The entire right wall, with no fire burning, was left darker than the rest. Even a respectable bar needs a place where people could talk in private. Far down this wall, near the far corner, was the staircase leading up to where sleeping quarters could be found. Dozens of large round tables and benches were scattered around the room with a few smaller ones with chairs dotted in where space would allow.
One of the two men watched as a girl came rushing out of the kitchen door and veered over to the bar. A movement to one of the men’s right caught his attention. The bar keeper, at the far right side of the bar, stepped out of the only patch of shadow to be had. He was just out of sight enough that newcomers’ eyes would be drawn to the common room before to him. His short and stocky torso was covered with a green pullover shirt embroidered with the taverns name on the ends of the sleeves and around the neck. The hands that stuck out, small to match the body they belonged to, were calloused with decades of hard work before being retired to pouring ale and wiping down a bar. His head was kind of coned shaped, angling back, and was bald of hair except for the giant, white tuffs sticking a fingers length out of his enormously large, pointed ears.
“Do the two of you need a room, or just here for a pint or three?” the keep asked over his shoulder, while making his way to the left side of the bar. When he got to the keg rack, he started pouring a large mug with dark, thick, and frothy ale from one of the many large wooden kegs. He finished the pour just as the serving girl reached the bar and placed her half-full tray upon it. Setting the mug down on the tray, the barkeep sent the woman away with what was probably meant to be a smile - two thin lips parted around sharp, uneven teeth, stained yellow and brown. It was the kind of smile that would have made a rabid wolf turn around and run for its’ life. The barkeep once again settled his attention on the newcomers.
“No room needed,” the elf said as he and his human companion made their way up to the bar. The man who spoke adjusted the backpack hanging over his shoulder, and then stuck two fingers in the air before pointing them to the keg with the thick, dark liquid in it.
“Right away,” the keep said as he grabbed two pint-sized tin cups from under the bar. “Da name’s Kneesbane,” the keep continued. “I'm at your service.”
The one who stuck his fingers in the air produced a large gold coin from behind his belt and laid it on the counter. Eyeing it, the keep put the pint cups away and produced two even larger mugs. As he walked back to the keg wall from the serving station, the two men realized he was walking on a platform raised off the floor about thigh high to an average human. Short indeed. The keep walked back to the bar, set the mugs down in front of the pair, and glanced up at the newcomers. Right away, it became clear he was no greenhorn barkeep. His face took on a kind of wisdom only years of service gave a man. He certainly seemed used to feeling men out to see if they meant trouble, or if they were just here to mind their own business over a pint. The two felt as though he was looking clean into their souls and then looking at what was behind even that. Kneesbane scooped up the gold piece while saying, “If you hurry, you won’t miss the show we have here tonight. He’s the best I’ve seen, I’ll tell you.” He went over to the cash box and came back with a smaller gold piece, one silver, and two copper coins that he pushed across the counter top. The moneyman picked up the coppers and dropped them in a tip jar, which earned him an “I’m-gonna-eat-you” wide smile from Kneesbane. The silver he picked up and slipped back behind his belt. The small gold he pushed back and said, “Two eats as well.”
“We have a great lamb stew tonight that comes with a loaf of fresh baked bread and cheese, if it pleases you,” the keep said. “Also comes with two more mugs.” Seeing the nod given him, he pulled back the gold and told the two he would have the stews brought out to the common room in just a moment or two.
Picking up their mugs, the pair walked into the sitting room. All eyes throughout the large area were settling on one man who was starting to sit down near the center fireplace on a fold-up, three-legged stool he had elegantly produced from a large canvas bag on the wooden floor by his feet. The two found chairs and an open table deep within a patch of shadows midway down the right wall. It gave them a view of the entertainer, and as they gazed at the one becoming the center of attention, the elf leaned over and whispered into the human’s ear. It seemed the taller man started to study the one on the three legged stool a little more intently.
Of middle height and weight, the tavern’s entertainer was wearing fine woolen pants tucked into brown, tanned boots. A white shirt could be seen under his heavy gray wool cloak pinned at the collar with a gold clasp. He gazed slowly and purposely into every eye he could catch. Smiling and nodding his head, he smoothly "pulled" a tin cup out of the air and set it down on the table to the side of him. It looked good... this man was a professional. The man then reached out fast as though catching a fly. When he opened his hand, there was a large silver piece in it where none had been before. He dropped the coin into the cup, just to show what the cup’s purpose was, before he began to speak.
"Even'nun ladies and gentlemen, if 'un you’ze doonn't," he said with a thick accent. His voice was smooth and carried well. "Scoundrels an' Skallywagon'rs if ‘un you’ze dooze," he drawled out, while tipping his head and producing a wicked grin and a wink towards no one in general. A few of the nicer dressed women gasped loudly, which set many of the men folk around to grinning. A few copper pieces plunked into the cup. This was certainly a professional, and one who was in his element. “My name is Brystal Silverhand, the finest glee-man and bard around.”
Someone from the crowd shot out, “If you are the finest, why are you not performing up on the hill for the higher bloods?” His question made others brave enough to shout out other comments like it.
Brystal took an exaggerated breath in, and said, “I like to associate with those that WORK for what they have, not those who TAKE what they want because not only did birth give them the so called right to do so, but also because they are too lazy to work for it at all.”
If any nobles were in the crowd, he very may have been brought up on some form of charge or another, but the higher blood were smart enough to stay up on the hill after the sun st
arted setting. His comment also awarded him with applause from the tavern’s occupants, saying what everyone else wanted to, but feared.
A bearishly large man entered the room through the kitchen door and came strolling through the crowd toward Brystal. Long, thick, and black hair, with touches of gray highlighting his temples, cascaded down the back of his neck and overflowed past his hulking shoulders. Nothing about this man cried small or weak, including the impressive black beard growing over his massive chest. Wiping his hands on his stained apron, he parted the standing crowd, which showed up late and found no seats available, with shear girth alone. In very short time, he came to stand by the now sitting gleeman.
"Tis nice ta see you again, Brystal Silverhand," he said. "Come ta tell another tale, have ya? My lasses still talk obout the last one ya told when last ya graced the establishment. T'ould sure be nice ta get them talking 'bout som'tin else o'dder than that.” The big man smiled and patted the sitting ones shoulder. “Hearing things from ya is worth the ale ye charge, and hearing it from them... well now, that’s not even worth the ale I drink meself to drown their chattering out," he bellowed while laughing. His laugh, a kind of deep in the belly rumble that shook his middle, was heartfelt and cheerful. The very sort of laugh that was a vicious, contagious virus that spread through the common room like a wildfire in a pine forest. He was still laughing when he waved over to Kneesbane while nodding his head.
A moment later, a bar maid, balancing a tray on one hip, made first a stop to one table on the right wall and dropped off two large bowls of steaming stew with a plate piled high of bread, butter, and cubed white cheese. Then she made her way up to stand next to the large man, who was the taverns owner. She lifted a tall dented tin stein of thick, black ale off her tray and started to hand it to the sitting man. The owner grabbed it just as it was being wrapped up in a pair of eagerly awaiting hands and asked,
"Now, how do I know ya really are who ya say ya are, though?” He wrinkled his face up in mock confusion and added, “Da last time ya were here, ya had a’nudda cloak ‘bout ya shoulders.” His thick sausage fingers combed through his beard as he looked up, raising one bushy eyebrow as a frown curled on his mouth.
When the sitting man grinned and started to stand, the owner backed up a pace with wide, excited eyes. The common room erupted with questions like, “What’s he doing?” and “Is this part of the show?” Many moved their chairs back a hair or two, with looks of unease painted on their faces as they gazed at one another.
Brystal unpinned the broche holding on the thick, woolen cloak upon his shoulders and placed it in the serving girl’s palm. He cupped her hand so she was fisting it, as though she held a large gem. He then grabbed the cloak by the neck and, with over exaggerated movements, twirled it by its collar from his backside to his front and let it dangle there for a breath or two until all ripples and movement were gone from the fabric. Then he lifted it over his head and with a rush of downward speed, snapped it like a launderer would a bed sheet freshly taken off the drying line at folding time. Both lit fireplaces seemed to flare up at that same instant and a loud “snap” was heard from one end of the common room to the other. Multi-colored confetti suddenly floated down in front of the man holding the cloak. No, not confetti; confetti did not glow. Moreover, the way the multi-colored objects moved, made them appear to be heavier then colored paper as they descended down. Some colors were tumbling towards the ground faster and farther than others were. Then, time seemed to stand still. The glowing objects were no longer settling to the ground, but now were being somehow suspended in mid-air, horizontally from several feet off the wooden floor, to just below the man’s outstretched arms.
One fellow in the crowd looked very queasy, like he may sick up. He looked from his ale to the thing floating in mid-air and back to his ale before slowly pushing his drink to the center of the table. For the second or two the balls of light were held suspended, it was unclear as to what they were to most of the crowd, even to those sitting right up where the action was. With an even more exaggerated motion, Silverhand lifted his arms and the whole conglomeration whipped up and flipped over him, coming to rest once again upon his shoulders.
It took a few moments before the crowd realized that his gray, woolen cloak was no longer gray or woolen. Thousands of colored, tiny, glass beads, grouped in bunches, all merged seamlessly with each other and reflected the light radiating out of the fireplace behind him. This was no ordinary multi-colored bard cloak, just as this was no ordinary bard. He reached his hand out to the serving girl and she opened her hand. If the crowd was confused about the cloak change, then they were completely flabbergasted by what was in the girl’s outstretched hand, as she herself was. Gone was the golden broche, replaced by a red, palm sized, flat disk as thick as a thumbnail was long. The man picked it up out of her hand and held it with his index finger and thumb in front of his face, as if he was holding up a little window. It must have been stained glass, being that it was translucent and things behind it were easily, though with an overpowering red tint. He frowned. The man did not look happy while glaring at it… something seemed wrong to him.
Brystal reached to the side of him, took a white rag from the serving tray, and wiped the side of the disk closest to his face. He smiled a little at this and nodded his head. He then moved the rag to the other side of the disk and made a few circular motions and held the red disks… wait, no, he held the now blue disk in front of him. He really seemed impressed with the thing he held, as his large smile indicated. He turned to the firelight and held the disk up again towards it. For those looking through the disk, it was astonishing to see the fire looking like it was burning blue flames, but not as astonishing as when he brought the disk to the front of him again and it was now orange! He then changed the way he held the disk. Placing his thumb and index fingertip to the middle of the circle, he spun it like a wagon wheel rolling down the street. Every heartbeat or two, the disk changed colors. Red. Gold. Blue. Orange. Green. Purple. Like the cloak, never the same color for long, and never the same color often. He threw the disk up in the air and quickly spun around in a full circle. When he faced the crowd again, he lifted his hand to catch the disk, but it never came down. He kept looking up at the ceiling until someone saw the disk and started laughing hysterically while pointing to the man and his color-changing cloak. More and more fell in beside the laughing man, all pointing and cheering until the whole room was beside themselves, clutching sore sides and stomachs and slapping their knees. It was at this time the gleeman acted hurt, as though the whole mass of people were laughing at him and not with him. That lasted only until he “looked” down to see what everyone was pointing at. The color-changing disk had somehow fastened itself to the multi-colored cloak where it should have been from the start. Looking pleased with himself, the man made a grand show of bowing with the cloak and returned to his chair once again.
Once the crowd calmed down, the burly owner, being the last to wipe the tears streaming down his face, reached down to the table next to him and picked up the now half empty mug of ale. He looked down at the liquid and started laughing all over again, spilling half of what was left of the ale down the front of his already stained apron. “Guess we know what happened ta the rest of ya drink, Silverhand,” he was finally able to get out between bouts of laughter. “I tried ta putting it down quick like, when I started rum’blin in ma bully.” He lifted the mug to his lips and, in one gulp, drained it of any liquid remaining. Still giggling, he set the empty mug down on the serving tray and whispered something into the server’s ear. She nodded her head and darted off in the direction of the bar, lost in the crowd packing tightly around the bard and his table.
“I’ll not only get ya a refill on the ale that ‘twas lost, but here,” he said digging under his apron into his pants. He pulled out a small gold coin, thought for a second, laughed again while shaking his head, and dropped the coin into the t
in cup on the table. “I think that’ll give me people som’tin ta talk ‘bout for a long, long time. This,” he gestured towards the floor around him and on his apron, “is som’tin I don’t think I’ll grow bored of easily!” More laughing erupted and more copper coins, mixed with a silver piece or two, flew into the cup from the crowd. Brystal Silverhand let the crowd carry on laughing and talking with one another as he watched the grizzly bear make his way back into the kitchen where he now spent much of his day.
“Ahhh, Mikel Bourque, best of friends for over twenty years,” Silverhand thought. “The Gods be willing, maybe we can add another twenty to that tally,” he finished, almost aloud. “There I go again,” he argued with himself, “if I keep that up, I’ll be waking up one morning as a monk.”
He did believe in the Gods and knew they did exist at one time. His life has been long, as any in his position, and he was still debating the multiple ‘what if’ questions. What if the Gods still played an active role in the world? Or, what if they could have eventually faded away, or what if they moved on to another world a little friendlier? He, at one time, had thought they were not involved any longer at all. Not once in his lifetime had he heard from his God, not even one ‘thank you’ for all the work he had done in His name, and all the work that was yet to be done. Then again, after he had found that cursed book, and oh, how he hoped the book was not right, or that maybe he was not accurate with the translations, all the doubts he thought before had changed.
His ale arrived via a different serving girl, and he helped himself to a long pull off the mug. The future used to fascinate him. All the unknown variables in life, and the unknown equations for that matter, not being played until its’ time; prophecy was an addiction to him. Whenever a new page or manuscript had resurfaced, he used to grow giddy and almost child-like with awe and wonder. Now the future scared him. “Damn book,” he mumbled under his breath. Thinking back, over two years ago, he wondered where his life would be now if he had never made that trip to the Verrainin Ruins within the Sinisin Swamp. If he had never gone there, he never would have found it. He would never have worked to translate it. He would never have learned that is was possible to find writing as accurate as those were. True prophecies, as well as the Gods, really did exist. It was like holding on a double-bladed dagger. His was a true book of prophecy there was no doubt. It began with scriptures of him finding the book, with enough detail to leave no trace of uncertainty about the writer’s prophetic gift. Brystal’s mind pulled the book out of his mental storage and read, again, the beginning:
-----------------------------
Who I am is not important. You must know that two, for my knowledge and for the power that such knowledge holds, are now seeking after me. Neither will be able to use my words, but each has one of their own who can, and will. One, to gain wisdom and knowledge found in the words. The other will care not for the wisdom or the knowledge, but seeks the power the words possess.
These words are writ on me to give strength and power only to one. In the end, which one that will be only time will know. The words will make the difference between life and death for all but those already dead. Allow there to be no doubt as to which side I lay my head. May good prevail. That was why I was written on. It was my choice to make. I feared that not having the words would damn the living just as well as if the wrong one finds them.
I have been blessed with the knowledge that the first one to find me has no desire to plunder the world into darkness. I only pray that his might will protect me from the other looking. Know you, the other will never stop searching.
I have scythed your name from the void, and with the help from several Gods, I was able to see your face in my dreams. THEY have let me glimpse you from afar in both time and distance. I know you, and you must not fail. You have been known by many names, but when the words are found, you will answer to Silverhand.
I see in your heart, as well as I see the broach you wear, given by your mother. The broach will ensure you safe passage to where you will find me, and the words that may change all. From then, until I am used, my safety is your responsibility
You shall be drawn with the thirst for knowledge that has never been quenched, to this house where I lay in hiding. It will be so very cold; the night will be, when to me you come. You will be alone, and you will stumble into my humble abode. You will discover that which you will wish you never did, and you will be glad to have done so.
I am not meant for you, whose mother was a whore, and whose father is not known. I am not meant for you, whose temper has destroyed the good in the past. For you, the words will remain simple words upon my skin.
Read these pages, and keep them in your heart. Destroy me if you need to, if that is how you must protect me from the evil that is Coming. I beg you, do not let the words die, though. The other will not stop searching until I am found by him, and if I am alive, I fear the worst. Beware the danger of words, and those who would know them. Realize that all that is writ will aid a vision to come true. I have seen both. Light and dark matter not except if you are on the opposite side of the user.
Read you true, and guard the knowledge. Let your heart guide you. Most important, leave your temper locked away.
Read, remember and guard what you learn. Your life, as well as the lives of all, depends on all three.
Treerot Perdemshium
-----------------------------------------
The words proved the Gods were still around, for sure. They are always in the background, always in connection with their lands, if not their fellow Gods.
“Damn them all,” Brystal added to himself, throwing all the prophets, the book and the Gods in one large, black cauldron for the cooking. “If they were all cooked, though, then we would not have this chance to save our future,” he thought.
“Alright then,” he argued with himself, “they can all still stay in the pot. We just won’t light the fire.”
Thinking about the book made him think about the group of people who set out to help him translate the words written in it. The Wisdom Seekers, as they called themselves, consisted of eight people, if you could consider trolls, gnomes and grass runners “people”. Brystal deemed this handful intelligent enough to help with the needed translations, and trustworthy enough to guard what knowledge they uncovered with their lives. Even still, he had only given each one small and random fractions of the text at a time, for his conscious told him even these elite could be swayed with unmoral impulses with the impending doom written within the pages of the book.
They made him think about tonight and his reason for being here. They were not going to like what he did, what he had to do for the larger good. Time was slipping away like the grains of sand in an hourglass, and he had to stop that sand from flowing down.
“Or at least slow it down a little to give us more time,” he thought. It did not matter though. He still did what he did regardless of what the Wisdom Seekers may or may not have thought, or would think. He knew at their meeting later that night that he was going to be in the same cauldron, splashing around with the Gods and their prophets.
“No sense worrying about what can’t be undone,” he thought. They were going to be angry, and that was that. “Think about it later,” he told himself and pulled another heavy hit of ale into his mouth. He swallowed. “Time to earn the title,” he finished in his head. Setting the mug down on the table, he stood.
“As I said earlier,” Silverhand nodded. “Good evening.” His thick accent was gone, replaced by a more normal voice that pulled all eyes back to him smoothly. “You, sir,” he said. He pointed to a man sitting down at a table to his left, “Why are you here?” The man looked unsettled at being put on the spot, as though this were some kind of trick question. “Good ale at a fair price,” was his reply. Silverhand, looking pleased, scratched at his chin. “What about you?” he asked the woman sitting next to the questioned man. Her re
ply came quicker and with laughter, “‘Cuz he’s holding our coin.”
Brystal went around the room, randomly, in this manor. Once the people realized it was part of the show, they become bolder, some even raising their hands to be picked. All kinds of answers came out from cheap ale, good food and fine company, to the location of the tavern, boredom, and unwinding after a hard days work. The more answers he got, the more excited he became. Silverhand started adding his own comments to those of the crowd like, “Yes! Yes!” and “You don’t say!” or “Good for you!” This continued for a spell until answers started dwindling. It was then he stood up straight and his face became a stone mask void of any expression.
“Wrong,” Brystal said. Odd, how one little word, spoken in just above a whisper, could change the mood of an entire audience. No one remained willing to speak. Most started looking around the room with guilty expressions carved in their faces. Some even looked as though they were trying to crawl back inside of themselves to avoid having anyone look at them. “Why ARE you here?” he asked again. “From the beginning of our time on this land we were given a task to do, a job that has all been but forgotten.” A few in the crowd started taking off their hats as if it were Sunday and the common room was their church. Some of the men towards the back stood to walk out in protest to a Sunday morning sermon on a Saturday night. “I’m not a man of any one God,” Brystal Silverhand lied to the crowd. He did have his one God above Gods, but that was not for these people’s knowledge. That one statement made the four men sit back down, if for no other reason than to finish the ale or wine left at their seats. He took a twelve-string guitar out of his bag and sat back down. “I guess I was just looking for a way to introduce you all to the oldest song I know,” he said. “It’s said to be as old as the Gods themselves,” added he, while plucking the strings to check the sound. “I don’t know who wrote it, and I don’t think anyone really does.” He set the guitar on the bench next to him and bent back down to his canvas bag. He pulled two pieces of birch log out next and set them on the wooden floor in front of his feet. Each piece was about two hands round and stood up to almost his knees. They had a charcoal black material pulled tightly across the top with shiny black strapping running a weave from top to bottom to top again, over and over. There were extra pieces of strapping attached to the bottom, which were left dangling. Two arm length rods, thumb thick, came out of the bag next. There was more of the shiny black strapping attached to one end of each and on the other end was what looked to a round ball of crystal. These he set on the bench next to the guitar. Brystal then picked up his ale and drank another long swallow.
“I’ve been doing too much of this lately too,” he thought to himself looking at the ale. “You can’t drink enough to forget the past, or the future, you know.”
“Oh ya?” he thought again and gulped the remaining ale down sourly. Setting down the empty mug on the table, he realized he felt better. “See? I told myself more ale is what I need. Now let’s do something.”
He reached down to the logs while saying aloud, “Quite the invention I’ve got here.” He took the loose strapping on the bottom of the birch pieces and placed the toe of each boot against the bases. “They were given to me by the Clan Chief of one of the Zopolie tribes far to the west,” he added. Using the strapping, he tied his ankles to the base of the drums. “No self-respected tale-teller should be without ‘em. The design, as you can see, is simple, but the sound is truly excellent.” He moved his feet back and forth experimentally, and the drums moved back and forth with them. He then tied the strapping of the rods to each thigh, right above the knees. The rod extended past his bent knees and the crystal spheres hung over the black drum tops. “See?” he asked, as he pivoted his feet up and down with his toes. The crystals came up and then, “BOOM” down on the drumheads. “By moving my feet in and out and back to front it changes the noise of the drum.”
Boom - Boom - BOOm –BOOM – BOOM – Boom
He lifted the twelve-string off the table and added the sound of the guitar to the drums. They both seemed to melt together beautifully. The beat of the drums stayed constant enough that some in the crowd found themselves thumping along on their tables or knees.
“As I said earlier, no one knows where this song came from, and not many even know it exists, which is good for me, for if I mess it up, who would know?” he chuckled. “It is about the creation of where we are now. I don’t mean the Bladed Hammer, though I could think of no finer place to be tonight, but of the world we live on in general.” He let the music carry on for a few heartbeats and as he began singing, his voice became soft and sweet, not the kind of voice you would expect to hear from looking at his face.
CHAPTER TWO
THE KESSELIAN RUINS