“For the gods’ sake, please close the door,” his mother admonished without looking from her work.
“A rider approaches,” answered Pel.
Indeed a hooded rider on a black horse plodded through the snow, which was over a foot deep, the road only distinguishable as a slight depression from the ground on either side. Seeing light spill forth from an open door, the rider turned off the road towards the house and approached slowly. Both the horse and rider were clearly in bad shape; they were exhausted and shivering, ice and snow clinging to them from head to toe, nose to tail.
“Might I stay by your fire tonight? You’re the first home I’ve seen in miles,” came a gravelly voice from the hooded figure.
“It is some distance to the village,” answered Cor’s father. “I couldn’t allow you to pass us by. Please put your horse in the barn. You’ll find water, feed and dry bedding for him. Then come in to the fire.”
“My thanks to you sir.” The rider dismounted and walked his horse to the out building. Pel closed the door to keep out the cold and put another piece of timber on the fire. Erella stood and began warming a broth.
“Father, we don’t know him. Should we let him stay here?” asked Cor.
“Don’t fear him Cor. He is just a man and you mustn’t refuse help to those in need when you are able to give it. One day it may be you in need of charity.”
A few short minutes later, a knock came to the door, and Cor’s father allowed the man in. He wore a heavy dark wool cloak with a hood and the normal wool tunic and pants of Westerners with soft riding boots. Cor’s mother bade the man to take off his cloak and hang it by the fire to dry. The man lowered the hood revealing an aged face, perhaps twice the age of Cor’s father, with a sparse white beard. His hair was also white, thin and cropped close to his scalp in a style not common to educated men of the West. Most striking about him was his left eye; it stayed closed while his right was open, and his left eyelid carried a dreadful scar. He unclasped the cloak at his neck and hung it on the indicated hook near the fire.
“I am Portus,” he said with a voice like two rocks being ground together, “and again I thank you for allowing me in your home.”
Introductions were made, and Portus took a chair, moving it closer to the fire to warm himself. Little was said for some time, and Erella served him a light, hot broth with bread and a small portion of mead. Portus took these with gratitude, offering to pay for the trouble he had caused them, but Cor’s parents would hear none of it. As the old man surveyed the room, Cor couldn’t help but notice the eye behind the scarred eyelid still moved in coordination. While this made sense, like most children he could not fight the grim curiosity.
“Lad, I was blinded in a smithy when I was younger than your father. That is why I have the scar. The eye is there, but it sees nothing,” explained Portus; Cor hadn’t realized he was staring and guiltily turned his gaze to the fire.
“I am not offended Cor Pelson. I have noticed your oddity as well, but choose not to stare as I have seen many oddities in my life,” the old man said, noting the boy’s gray color, a pallor that never changed.
Significantly warmer and dry, Portus spoke, explaining that he was a merchant of sorts, and that his business had him travel the breadth of the Shining West. He had no set path or destination, and merely went where he felt led. Cor thought little of this, though it clearly seemed odd to his parents; but they allowed their guest to talk as he pleased. They offered little explanation of themselves, as there was no need for any; their life was little different from thousands of others. It grew late, and Cor yawned deeply. His mother had stopped her needlework, and his father was becoming disinclined to conversation. He looked to the stranger and was startled to see Portus staring at him intently.
“I know why I have been led here. It was not clear to me at first,” exclaimed Portus, bringing a questioning look from Cor’s parents. Then, quite suddenly, the scarred eyelid opened, and the old man stared at Cor with both eyes. The blinded eye was colorless, dead and gray with a horrible rend in it the same size and shape as the scar on its lid.
“This boy is not like you; he is stricken with something you cannot imagine or understand. He has a destiny. To destroy or save, which path is not clear,” he whispered, now looking beyond Cor and into the fire
Pel jumped from his seat, interposing himself between Portus and the boy, and Erella put her arms about her son, telling him to immediately go to her bed and go to sleep. Cor stood up uncertainly and headed for his parents bedroom, but old man’s hand shot out and caught the boy as he walked past.
“Leave him be,” shouted Pel at Portus.
“No, the boy must hear,” continued the old man. “A gray man in steel will come, and you must give your son to him. If you do not, there will be others that come and take him. You must release him wholly to the Dahken and not hope to see him again.”
“Release him!” raged Pel. He moved forward to break the old man’s grip, and Portus released Cor as quickly as he had taken hold. Erella hurried her son out of the room.
Cor lay down on the bed, barely understanding what was said. All he knew was Portus frightened him, and it was more than the blinded eye. He heard his father shouting at the old man, and Portus replying in a calm, low voice, though he could not understand what the man was saying. The shouting continued for several minutes before being cut off shortly by the slam of the door. Cor could hear the protestations of a horse outside and the sounds of galloping that quickly receded into the distance. His mother then came into the room and held him, crying, until they both fell asleep.
The next morning, Cor asked his parents about the strange old man; Cor wanted to understand of what the old man spoke. Cor asked why he would have to leave his parents, and it took few questions along this line for Cor’s father to tell him to forget about the crazy old man. But Cor was both intelligent and tenacious and wouldn’t leave it at that. He ended up with a thorough tongue lashing from his father. Cor spent the next several days sulking indoors because his father would not let him play outside, saying that it was too cold and the snow too deep. Occasionally when his father went outside to check on the livestock or some other chore, he would try to talk to his mother about the visitation. Sometimes she would simply refuse to talk about it or tell him not to speak of it; other times, she would break out into tears, embracing him.
As the weather warmed a bit, Cor began going outside with his father. He helped where he could and more than once, ended up throwing snow at his father. At times, he was scolded for this behavior, but often his father would reciprocate with laughter. The surreal event never faded from Cor’s mind however, and his parents knew they needed to answer his questions. They also wanted to teach him more of the pious ways of Garod and explain to him why the sorcery of other peoples was dark and evil and to be condemned. They tried to teach him these things, but found they were unequal to the task. They knew what they knew, but the why of it eluded them.
As winter ended, they spoke to their long time friend and priest in the village. They explained their concerns and inability to explain things properly to Cor, but left out the old man and his cryptic prophecy. Jonn was all to happy to help in Cor’s education, saying that few children had such precocious interest in such matters, and that they should be proud of his curiosity; he might even make a fine priest one day. He agreed to teach Cor one day each week for several hours, so long as the boy’s mother would bring him to the village temple in the morning and return for him during the afternoon.
The priest found Cor to be absolutely delightful; the boy was happy to converse on virtually any topic. Even at such a young age, he showed an ability to reason, and his vocabulary expanded daily. Jonn read to him from holy scrolls and taught him the values of Garod and the other gods of the West. He explained to Cor that the Western gods were the only true gods, and the others were mythical or charlatans. Cor had difficulty accepting this and argued the point. Surely the other gods were true also, as th
ey endowed their followers with power much like the priests of Garod. The priest gently, but solidly denied this to be true.
Jonn also taught Cor of the great sins of the world. Most of this Cor understood easily; he simply accepted the explanation that certain acts such as murder and killing were evil. Though, slavery was one that Cor could not understand, having never seen or heard of it before. The priest explained to him that slavery was perhaps the greatest sin ever visited upon a people in history. The Loszians had enslaved the Westerners once, forcing them to serve every whim and desire. Slaves have no will, no desires of their own, and live only to be forced into action by the will of their masters. Nothing is as much an affront in the eyes of Garod as slavery. Cor listened to this, attempting to understand. He had no real point of reference, and the priest hoped that Cor would never truly have to comprehend.
The subject of slavery continued to bother Cor even outside of his studies with the priest, to the extent that he felt a need to discuss with his father that evening while feeding the livestock. He could see his father’s naked hostility toward the subject, and Pel could only explain to him that to take another’s free will in such a way was appalling and disgusting. Now, Cor knew something of his mother’s life before marrying his father, and Cor asked if that was not the same thing. Pel patiently explained that servitude to a noble in such a way was not remotely equivalent; such servitude, while Pel would never enter it himself, was considered a business relationship. Either party could end the agreement if certain conditions were met. His mother’s family were paid with a good, if modest home and were able to make a fair life for themselves. Cor accepted his father’s explanation, though it seemed to him that the difference was only a matter of words.
Cor grew quickly; he was well over five feet tall by his twelfth summer, and it was on one of these summer days that a rider followed he and his mother home from his lessons. Erella noticed the man on the road behind them, but paid little mind, as he seemed to be keeping his distance. Erella only became sure that he followed them when he passed by their home, then turned around to come back to it. As she saw him coming, she bade Cor go find his father. The man approached the family slowly on his horse, a large black stallion. He was clad in steel plating, breastplate, armguards, sabatons and legguards, all with a curious blue sheen to them. A shield was strapped to his back, extending out of which the hilt of a longsword could be seen. The man had straight black, unruly shoulder length hair that he kept restrained merely by a gemmed leather circlet about his head. At first glance, he was clean shaven, but on closer examination, one couldn’t be sure he ever shaved at all. A short gray stubble blended with the man’s skin, skin gray as a corpse, which could only be seen on his hands and face.
“What do you here stranger?” Cor’s father challenged the man.
“I am Dahken Rael,” the man announced as if that answered all questions. They stood in silence for a moment before he continued, “I have traveled far for what I seek, and I was not sure he existed. But now I see I was right. I have come for the boy.”
“Be off,” Pel commanded, motioning his wife and son behind him with his arm. “He is my son, and no man has claim to him.”
“Farmer, this boy is no more your son than I am your father. He is not of you, and there are those who would control the power in his blood. I must show him how to use it,” he said in a very matter of fact manner.
“I said be off Dahken Rael. My son stays with me; I’ll defend myself if I must.”
A smile touched the man’s lips. “No doubt you will,” he said quietly. “I will leave, but know something farmer. There are those who would take him from you regardless of any fight you put up, and they may not be so respectful of your wishes.” He wheeled his horse about and galloped away.
Pel turned and embraced his family. “Tomorrow,” he said, “We go to see Jonn. The priests know more than they would have us believe.”
Cor could not sleep that night, every sound pulling at his consciousness just as he may doze off. From the angle of the light coming through his window, he could tell the moon had climbed high into the sky.
His mind continued to wander back to Portus; children’s memories faded from their mind, sometimes even after only a few years, but Cor had never forgotten the strange and frightening old man. On that winter night years ago, he spoke of a gray man in steel that would come for him. He also said that others would come to take him. Images of “others” came unbidden to his mind, dark shapes of people without detail stealing Cor from his home. Some of them did harm to his parents.
It would not happen. He would leave.
It occurred to Cor that an armored figure on a black stallion watched from far off as Naran’s ship left port that first time.
5.
“Will you fuck him Miri?!” Naran asked the whore boisterously, causing Cor’s face to flush.
“I think he is too young, not ready to be a man yet,” Miri answered.
She was a Westerner, having left her home years ago to find wealth in Tigol. She had rudely found that she had few talents anyone would pay for, except for one, and that one sailors would pay for mightily. Miri had dark brown eyes and matching long hair that she forced to curl around her breasts. She was generally lithe, but buxom in the places that men cared about. She wore a bejeweled brassiere and sheet of gilded sheer fabric that wrapped around her waist, both easily removable. She wore other jewelry as well – gold bangles, rings, a pearl necklace and silver jeweled tiara. It was all fake of course, but her patrons cared little for that.
They had sailed back to Hichima after the battle with Kosaki to port for a few days. Naran spoke at length with Cor on the way back and decided it would be best to take Cor home. Cor needed answers, and he would not find them with Naran on the Narrow Sea; it was time he returned to his parents. Eventually, the Loszian lord would know that Kosaki failed and more privateers would be sent after Cor. They needed to find that he was no longer with Naran.
Naran decided to have a celebration in a local tavern.
“He’s man enough Miri. I took my first whore when I was younger than he!”
“You Shet,” she sighed, “are so very vulgar when you will. All this time, and you have never learned to be civilized?”
“Civilization! Ha! You speak of civilization, and yet I find myself wading through blood amongst civilized peoples. Cor here killed a man with cold steel only a few days ago! Killed him well,” Naran said and then continued almost as if to brag. “Only I was strong enough to rip the sword from the deck where it impaled the dog.”
“Really?” she asked, perhaps feigning incredulousness. “I’m not sure he is strong enough for that.”
“I do not lie Miri. Does it matter anyway? My coin is good enough for any whore,” Naran said as if to end the matter.
“I fuck who I want to, when I want to Naran, not just who has money,” Miri said red faced with anger and stormed off.
“Too bad,” Naran said wistfully into his flagon. “I’d have paid double for you my young friend.”
Naran slapped Cor roughly on the back, nearly spilling both of their ales. Cor stayed silent throughout the entire exchange and was actually glad for the way it ended. It wasn’t lack of interest on his part, but rather sheer embarrassment.
They sailed late the next morning, Naran allowing the crew to sleep off the night’s revelry; Cor’s head pounded. He occasionally drank, but never so much; it seemed the ale just kept appearing in his hand. He vomited over the side of the ship at least twice in the early morning hours. Naran let Cor sleep later than most of the crew, teasing Cor incessantly throughout the day.
“Not quite a man yet,” Naran said. “You have to learn to drink like one!”
It was late summer when they arrived; Cor didn’t even know the name of the small city, the same in which he had joined Naran’s crew. It had not changed. Naran was not one for goodbyes; he handed Cor a large canvas bag full of silver coins, claiming it to be Cor’s pay. The big man bi
d him farewell and good luck with a bear hug.
“I will miss you young Cor,” he had said, “But I believe our paths may cross again one day. You know to find me on the Narrow Sea.”
Cor endeavored to move quickly; the knowledge that a Loszian lord chased him dispelled any desire to linger. He purchased a horse, only partly to decrease his travel time, but also to replace the one he had stolen from his father’s barn. Pondering, he realized that he truly had no idea how to return home, only that he had fled south from his home. But if he could find Martherus, returning home from there would be easy; he’d made the trip with his father many times as a child. When he reached the outskirts of Martherus, he knew exactly where he was and changed direction for home.
Cor spurred his horse to a gallop over the last mile or so near his parents farm. He had no idea what to say to them or where to start; all he knew was he wanted to feel his mother’s embrace again, see his parents’ faces. The place almost hadn’t changed at all, but something was somehow different. Everything was where he remembered, and the fields looked as they should for the time of the year. The farm felt subdued, older.
His mother saw him first as he turned off the road toward the small thatched roof house. She watched as if curious as to the identity of this visitor, and as she watched, recognition came over her face. Her son had grown substantially, becoming tall and his body changing into manhood, especially with the hardships of sailing, but their was no mistaking his face and the obvious coloration, or lack thereof, of his skin. She held a small wooden bucket that, now forgotten, dropped to the ground spilling water into the dirt. She ran to him screaming for her husband.
Blood and Steel Page 4