Call of the Harn

by JosephGeorge

  Chapter IX

  . A Turning of MEn and Times.

  - Sixth Age, year 1022

  The ground felt good under his feet again.

  Broken and torn, rippling up in the wake of the plow. Beast and man, become one, for endless hours. Only, this time it wasn’t as hot, and the ground wasn’t nearly as hard. Why his family had ever chosen to settle so far east, out there on the dry and deadened plains he never would be able to say, but one thing was for sure, he wouldn’t be going back anytime soon.

  There was one thing, though, that still drew his gaze.

  His mother and sister were still buried out there.

  But he shook his head and kept right on with the work. It had been so long, he probably could never find the place again. No marker, no way of remembering. Only their faces still locked into his vision at night when the world fell still and he stared at the ceiling boards, unable to drift into that bliss of sleep.

  And he figured it wouldn’t stop anytime soon. You couldn’t just let go of those things, despite it having been nearly five years previous.

  Much had happened, and as the plow slipped through the earth and the sound of the beast clomping through the dirt sang to his ears, he reminisced about those days. They had always been so peaceful, so perfect. Even with his father’s hard temper and their abundant lack of abundance, it was still good.

  They had what they needed, and that was more than most.

  But things were really good now. The village had finally rallied together under Draanus’ leadership, at least, they had been forced to if they wanted to survive. He was the only one with any food left, before the drought ended.

  Perhaps the Fates were looking after them, though, as those long days forged a weld between the people of Uurda and their young protector.

  Two years of intense famine.

  Several Orr-Tav attacks.

  Even a band of marauding thieves bent on surviving a little longer than everyone else.

  All conquered beneath his command.

  Yes, things were good. And he was back to what he loved. There wasn’t really a way to explain it, why it thrilled him to spend such long days out in the dust, walking behind the machine and slowly culturing the land. Perhaps it was the results that were gained, at the harvest, when the labor and the sweat and the blood suddenly became worth it as you sifted through barns full until it pressed at the seams.

  Perhaps it was the knowledge that, at the end of the day, you had lived up to the potential given by the gods.

  It felt good to look your reflection in the eye, and tell it that, today, you were a man.

  But he wasn’t quite there, not yet. Only sixteen, he still had several years before citizenship would be granted, and he could officially count himself as a subject to the King.

  There would have to be one left, though, before any such thing could happen. The northern borders had become a sea of carnage and decay, but they had won those first battles, and the Orr-Tav were pushed back through the gates.

  Lyrris did not understand war all that well, but he did know that it was not a game, not like they used to make believe in the village, running around in the blacksmith’s gear and pretending to slay dragons and such.

  Two days earlier a rider came from the capitol, bringing unwanted news.

  The news that they had feared more than the rest.

  As hard as they had fought to drive their enemy back through the gate, there was simply no way to go any farther. No man dared set foot through that misted portal into a different realm, because no man had ever returned, nor was it likely that they ever would.

  And now, Orr-Tav had been seen pressing down through its borders, seeking entrance into the world again. The plague seemed to be reacting to some sort of stimulus as well, welling up once again in the major cities and ravaging its streets, claiming all who stood in its path.

  The choice was to succumb, or die, and it seemed that more and more these days were giving in to the dark temptations that came with it. The voices in the head, a whispering into the dark where much was promised. He’d seen it before, even felt it himself at times, when others around him had become infected.

  Thankfully, under Dranuus’s direction, any and all that showed signs, even the slightest discoloring of the eyes, was quarantined and sent to Madam Hirth, the local healer, who seemed to be doing her job well.

  And so he’d been counting his blessings.

  One by one.

  It seemed that the gods were fortunate to him, at least in these times.

  . On Surviving the Plague .

  - Sixth Age, year 1020

  High ceilings revealed nothing in the blackness.

  No torch could be lit to brighten the hall, as the flames flickered for a few moments only to be snuffed out by this dark entity that resided in that sacred place.

  How fitting, that there in the Temple to Yvres, the darkness would still overcome the light. It said much about their gods, and what they cared about.

  A question always on the minds of those that had come here to put an end to this madness, only, they weren’t progressing very quickly at all. This group of magic wielders and other highly educated men and women had come from all corners of the kingdoms to aid in a push against the dark.

  To root out the source of this plague, and finally end its reign over the land.

  So far, things had gone their way, and they were able to present detailed reports of what it was, and what had made it such a deadly disease.

  But as of yet, there was no answer to the question of why? Or what they could do to stop it. This had been the topic of their research and discussions for weeks, spanning into months now, and the king’s royal ambassadors were breathing down their necks, demanding information.

  They just wanted to know how to stop it.

  “…sure that it’s actually an infection, It’s possible that it’s something else entirely.” One lanky gentleman finished his thought, met with a few moments of silence before another entered the conversation.

  “No, that’s not possible. We’ve seen it passed from person to person with as little as a scratch, but until there’s an open wound, nothing happens. Definitely an infection.”

  “I agree with Kestirre.” A third joined in, adding their oh so very intelligent opinion.

  There were seventeen in all.

  Including the turned one.

  Black eyes reflected only a small bead of light, piercing through the shadows and haunting their very steps. It had been one of them, not so very long ago.

  She, to be more precise.

  And now?

  It did not seem to matter whether one’s station was that of a lowly peasant or the richest of kings, nothing could stand before the blackness and hold their own.

  This one had turned, and stayed that way for one reason, and one reason only. They all knew her to be a conniving, angry sort. A genius, in her own right, but still lacking in manners or even the slightest indication that she cared about others. Of course, the world wasn’t very hospitable towards those that did not take care of their own.

  Remember the buzzards?

  She was one of them.

  That’s why she wasn’t dead, yet.

  And now look at where it had brought her. Stare into those empty holes that once had done so much learning. The abyss that was now her own consciousness. These beasts, those that had changed, could only be fitted with that terrible title of a monster, because there was nothing human left about them.

  Animal.

  Instinctual and seeking only for the next chance to satisfy its carnal desires.

  And that was another question that they could not answer; how did these things survive? There seemed to be an uncanny ability to exist, despite the lack of food and water, so obviously they were gathering nourishment from some source.

  Or no source at all.

  She’d been tied up, there in the temple, for well over two weeks, changing all the while, feeding off of her distempe
r and growing darker day by day.

  First the eyes cloud at the edges, as if they’ve not been getting quite enough sleep. A sapping of the blood around the lips and fingers, growing cold, clammy and gray. Next the teeth seemed to lose any and all color, forming a chalky froth at the lips that was always dribbling out.

  Gnashing, tearing at flesh and bone. They wanted only a chance to sink whatever pointed weapon into some sort of living thing.

  This was where most of them deteriorated in a matter of days, first falling into a violent bout of shaking seizures and emitting wild screams, then falling silent against a high fever that eventually burned them like the mid-day sun out on the White Wastes.

  No place to hide.

  Here, though, seemed to be a bit of information that both caused their curious natures to ignite, and also pointed the way down the path of discovery. What separated those that died, and those that continued to succumb to the disease and let it change their being? Was it a conscious decision?

  As of yet, few of the ideas they had presented held little gravity in this world of science and knowledge.

  Except for one, of course. It was really a whim, not even a presentation in it’s own right, but still pulled it’s own weight.

  The fattest of the bunch had laughed, and meant it as a joke when he said, “Aye, I figure that she’s just ornerier than the rest, and the bug couldn’t take her out. By Yvre’s ear, she’s a mean sort.”

  Yes, ornery.

  More than the rest.

  . Premonition .

  “Don’t look up….”

  That voice seemed to come from behind him, but trailed off into the distance, leading him onward down that dusty and forlorn path. No one else to comfort him as the village homes passed by step, by step.

  Each one holding a single memory of his past.

  Sometimes they would call to him from behind those doors, even knock and seek entrance into the world, and into the recognition of his mind. But something urged him forward, refusing to let him turn in to those memories.

  They were dead, despite being lodged in his mind.

  And the dead did not belong out here with the living.

  He passed one house that was ablaze, the horrific and terribly recognizable screams bursting from the walls and dragging him towards their source.

  “Lyrris!” They cried. A plea for help.

  But it was all fake, he knew, because he’d seen it before.

  He’d strayed from the path to open one of those doors, and what came spilling out was not the thing he had expected.

  This was no collection of his memory, but a city of bones, filled with the corpses of every vile experience that had permeated his perfect life, or what would have been left of his life, had those things never happened.

  An open door here did not offer any sort of comfort.

  And so he kept walking.

  Eventually it would end at the edge of that great void, where he would stand at the cliff and stare off into the nothingness that was doubtless his future, with nothing to do but wait for the next addition to this gallery.

  This time, though, it was already there. He didn’t recognize it, though. From the road he could glimpse into the home, staring through the dirtied window panes and into the eyes of a man, a very familiar face and one that he was used to seeing often.

  A reflection of what he was, only, the difference being what lay in the misted fields of its white eyes.

  Dark tendrils crept in at the edges, and pale lips mouthed soundless words that broke against the glass and never filtered any farther.

  It had changed.

  Turned, before he felt it coming.

  And this was no memory, because it hadn’t happened yet.

  . Who Hidden Treasures Find .

  - Sixth Age, year 1022

  He burst out of sleep like a Targ smelling fresh blood, ready for the kill, but there was nothing in the room besides Mrs. Trottent come to change the water in his basin.

  Lyrris smiled as he watched her.

  She was such a kind person, and always looking after those that found their way to their hospitable home.

  Of course, he was grateful that conditions had improved greatly over the past few months there in the village, because he had been growing tired of the constant menagerie of people scrambling all over the manor in search of their next meal.

  It was funny to him, though, because Dranuus seemed to care far less than his wife, which was odd being that his was always the complaining mouth.

  People do strange things to mask their true emotions, he had found.

  Dranuus truly cared about them, each and every one of them. They were like his family, or rather, his children to be exact. But no one would question that feeling, as he’d saved their lives on more than one occasion.

  It was the same for Lyrris, and he contemplated on that point for a few moments. He owed a great debt to the man.

  And now he was just trying to repay him a little.

  Kicking sheets off and dressing quickly, he stole out of the room and jogged two flights of stairs to the main level.

  “Aye! Lyrris, thought you’d never wake up.”

  He chuckled and threw a glance at the man before turning to pour himself a mug of their light nut ale. The kind that just pretended to be a drunkard’s dream. “Long day yesterday, figured I deserved it.”

  “True, true, but still….”

  Lyrris spun around and looked at him, smiling as he stared into that thick and unkempt beard.

  Sausage and bread, with a bit of gravy to top it off.

  You could always tell what he’d had to eat most recently, just by looking into that bushy nest of hair.

  “I pulled fifteen acres yesterday.” Sipping at the cool liquid, he rested an arm on the table and looked across to hold onto those beady eyes, squinting between thick flesh. “And I doubt even the immortal Brevann of Stormhold could do as much.”

  The man chuckled, then pulled features into a stern look and wagged a finger at his friend. “You be careful. That’s a challenge if I ever heard one, and I’m liable to take you up on it.”

  Lyrris lightly slammed the mug to the table, being sure that a bit of the nutty liquid sloshed out onto the wood surface. He planted both hands down and leaned forward before saying, “Bring it.”

  Truth be told, though, Brevann was a good man, despite his rough appearance. They didn’t call him the “animal” for nothing. A master with beast and tool, he had been farming these lands since he was a young boy, living off the land. He’d taught Lyrris a lot about the trade, and the ways of the soil.

  And now, they fed the entire town.

  A little bet between friends on occasion had never put any strain on their relationship.

  Lyrris sat and began to think over what they had left to do now. The south fields had been planted, finally, and were now only awaiting a layer of fertilizer to be spread.

  But that was a job that he would pass up to some of the younger ones, thankfully.

  White Creek’s fields were nearly ready to receive their first harrowing, with crops now standing waist high. Based on what they had already seen, it was going to be a good harvest at the end of this season, and that was something they all looked forward to.

  Then suddenly, he swore under his breath and slid the mug into the center of the table, loosing all desire to consume food or drink.

  Brevann sat quietly, just watching for a few moments.

  “You alright?” He finally asked, tilting his head to the side and scratching at his beard, only to find a small morsel of something there. Plucking it from the wiry bed, he shrugged and popped it between his lips.

  Lyrris winced and then laughed. “Yah, I’m fine. Just thinking about the news from the capitol.”

  “Aren’t we all. It’s been the topic of choice ever since that rider came through.”

  “Aye, that it has been….”

  He lied, though.

  Something else entirely was occ
upying the space in his thoughts, dragging him back to that box stashed in his room where he knew Tainya wouldn’t find it.

  It was hard as any rock, made of metal and forcing the plow into a violent upheaval as it chipped over it, tumbling it through the dirt until he could finally gain control.

  No sign of a lock or anything on its surface, just a rectangular form, with an obvious top and bottom to it. Something clunked around lightly on the inside. Something heavy.

  I should probably show it to Dranuus. He thought, but then quickly dismissed it, or rather, his curiosity did that. Once he’d figured out what it contained, then he’d show it to the rest. But it was his find, and he had every right to keep a secret. At least for a short time. But it still belonged to Dranuus, if he were to be honest with himself. It was his land, after all.

  He’d show it to him later. For now, they had another day of pleasant work prepping the fields to the east.

  . Control .

  - Sixth Age, year 1022

  If there was ever a thing that could cause his emotions to rile into anger, it was that man.

  A thief.

  A drunkard.

  And an all around slob that sapped off of the world and gave nothing back in return. If he had his way, they’d toss him out of the walls and lock the gates. The shadows would be better company for him anyways.

  “Think what would happen to the people, though.” Dranuus had countered when the idea was suggested forward. “Think of their reaction to it.”

  “They’d probably cheer for joy.” One stated, trying to push for the offensive. “They’d sing our names in the great halls for ages to come!”

  Everyone laughed, even Dranuus, but he couldn’t back down. “Yes, I agree. I’d be happy to see him go myself. But with that joy, comes an attitude, a content for violence. First him….” He paused to look them all in the eye, really reaching deep to hold their attention and drive his point home. “And then who’s next?”

  Silence pervaded the room, because there was no answer that they wanted to give, so their leader kept on talking. “Believe it or not, but that man is actually what’s keeping us all together. You take him out of the picture, and we’d start to fall apart.”

  One man raised his hand, then began speaking before he was given the floor. “We’re not following. How is that miserable drunk doing anything good for us?”

  “It’s not the good that he does, but it’s what we do because of him. You see, if we throw him out, then he’s no longer the worst we have. We’d forget what it was like to have a sneak and a thief, and we’d look for more places to point our fingers. Eventually we’d end up pointing them at one another.”

  There was wisdom to his words, and they almost always listened, so the attitude of the group simmered down.

  “But I still say that we do something about this. He’s gotten entirely out of hand.”

  Lyrris agreed, but in the end they could only do what Dranuus suggested, and that was, not for the first time, the thing that they hadn’t wanted. But things always seemed to work out when they listened, so no one was complaining. At least, not too much.

  He had been essentially assaulted by the man, though. In a playful bout of energy, of course, but when you’re head is stuck in the clouds and feet barely touch the ground, you don’t have much sense to understand that people don’t like to be tackled in the street and have their name sang in a thousand different voices all down through the town.

  Every person disliked him, but what could they do?

  Dranuus said he would stay, so stay he would.

  But for how long?

  Lyrris agreed with what he had said about their attitude towards the whole thing. He greatly disliked the man, but he was still Adonai after all, and should at least be given the respect, and maybe even care, that they showed to one another.

  It was quite literally the least that they could do.

  He also knew that soft center in Dranuus’ core that led him to shelter any and all that were in harm’s way. It was why he had settled in this miserable town so many years ago when it was nothing but dust and half raised shacks for homes. It was why he had given up his home and his stored food and much of his wealth to aid those that hadn’t prepared for such hard times.

  It was why he had taken Lyrris in. Given him a home. A family. A job and a way to break out of the poverty and become a success.

  And he wasn’t about to turn back on that gift anytime soon.

  So the man would stay, for now.

  All his thinking had led him back to his room where he’d already undressed down to his shorts and was washing the grime from his face and arms. Looking into the mirror, he saw patchy, but dark hair on his jawline.

  This was not the vision of the boy he once had been, and not all that long ago.

  There was this man staring back at him. A man with aged lines under his eyes and a series of scars marking into his flesh, branding each experience on like a badge. He had seen so little of the known world, yet felt as if he’d already conquered it. But there was also a deep sadness pervading at the eyes, sunken and deep, singing the ballad of one that had witnessed many hardships.

  He was seventeen, at least, he should be. Age wasn’t all that important, but he still liked to keep track of the years as best he could.

  And no boy should have been required to pass the tests he had. So many were being called upon like that during these difficult times. Children, even those who were hardly old enough to help their mothers with chores around the house, were being handed sharpened blades and told to defend their homes and families.

  Dark times, filled with dark dreams.

  But at least he had the farms, and Dranuus had recently agreed to sell him a small section out past the river, when the time came. He would make it his own personal estate.

  He would settle down, and spend his days with the earth.

  Just him, and cold soil between his toes….

  That box was still sitting there, lying beneath the floorboards.

  Suddenly remembering back to his discovery, Lyrris jumped to shut the door, quietly, and then began easing a knife between the cracks in the floor, prying up a single plank and sliding it out of the way. He’d discovered a loose board some time ago, and decided that it was a great place to hide any valuables.

  It lay heavy in his arms, and sharp like ice, not stinging, but definitely cold. The metal gave off a dull ringing when it knocked against the floor, just once.

  And that object rattled on the inside again, pleading to be set free.

  Lyrris knew, because his curiosity fueled him to find a way in. But again, his attempts at locating any sort of lock or latch were futile. It was just straight, flat surface the whole way around. Like an egg, only, unbreakable and probably guarding something infinitely more valuable.

  But it wasn’t a treasure hunt to him. The thought of becoming rich off of the box’s contents never actually entered his mind.

  He just wanted to see what it was as that would be reward enough.

  Eventually, he found something there on one of the ends, right below the small black strip that ran lengthwise around the box, separating the top from the bottom. It was a small etching into the metal, barely visible, but there nonetheless. Upon a closer inspection, he found it to be a rune.

  A character of the Ancient Tongue.

  Suddenly, things began to become all the more exciting. Perhaps this was some artifact, buried for thousands of years and finally unearthed, right there in the field? Or maybe it was some strange object created by another race, brought from a different realm altogether? Whatever it was, Lyrris became frustrated as any and all attempts at messing with the mark were to no avail.

  An idea did come, though, and one that made the most sense to him. Scrounging hurriedly around the room and knocking a lantern from his side table, he finally located a piece of parchment and began sketching the character’s shape with a charcoal stick.

  He had no idea what it meant, of
course.

  But there were those that did.

  . A Note on You .

  I never was too keen on the concept of working with them. I suppose you would find it rude, or harsh, but to me it is simply fact.

  Adonai are not the brightest creatures I’ve met. And I’m sure at this point that you are disagreeing with my opinion, and to be honest, I would do the same, were I in your shoes.

  Plagued with your limited vision. But allow me to help you understand something about yourself; you’re completely and utterly selfish. I’m sure that if you be honest with me, you’d have to agree. I’ve seen your kind choose personal gain over another’s life countless times. To sacrifice that which is of most value to you, at least for that which cannot last?

  It’s your most beautiful quality.

  So much to work with. So many possibilities sprouting from that one, terrible seed.

  I could shiver in anticipation at the thought, at what I could do were I to harness such raw ability in all of you. Think of what could be accomplished. Think of how I could mold the fabric of the world, of nature, of the very universe itself, were I able to even so much as tap into that well of power.

  There’s also something also which I find nearly as potent a concoction.

  Anger.