In The Ruins Of Hope
By
R.A Brewster
R.A Brewster©2016 all rights reserved
I will strive to keep my own interruptions to a minimum however I do believe some explanation is in order. We here at the catalog hold true to that keystone belief of the Brothers of the Pen: “Knowledge is meant to be shared.” Only through arming ourselves with the sword of knowledge can we slay that monster ignorance and hope to learn from the mistakes of the past.
Now, imagine my dismay when stories with no or questionable sources were simply being logged and then shelved, forgotten. These tales of dubious origins, these dead letters, are still worthy of consideration despite their patchwork form. So I have made it my mission to pull the stories together with the folios we have here and my own resources so that a valuable asset can be added to strengthen our understanding.
~Valfor, First Brother of the Dead Letters
The following was taken from letters sent by both guard and prisoner out of Kenwork Prison, as well as from a story often overheard on stormy nights at both The Saucy Goat Inn and The Verdant Tap-House.
~ ~ ~
If the moon could talk, it would have a million stories to tell. Waxing or waning, full or new, it cannot look away from the lands and seas. So it has become, by its position, an expert on all things that happen below it. It has seen wars rip families into bloody pieces. It has witnessed a lover's secret kiss on dark rendezvous. Stared unblinking at more travesties than even the most morbid poet could imagine. Yes, it would have many things to say if it could. As it was forced to watch the lone traveler make her away down an overgrown path, it would have screamed.
Mary was sure a turn had gone wrong somewhere, as turns are wont to do and now she and Oats were well and truly lost. The tan shire horse was having a time moving through the underbrush. It wasn’t just because the trail was overgrown. No, Oats had forged through quite a few forest roads, but something felt off to the beast. The air had a touch of foulness to it, as if something were rotting up ahead, and the dirt felt wrong as well. It felt as if her hooves were treading over graves.
“I’m sorry, girl.” Mary patted Oats between the ears. “We'll bed down up ahead, first wide spot we find, I promise.” The horse just snorted at her and slowed the pace a little more. They’d just come across bit of broken cobblestone. “Whats this, now?” Mary swung her lantern low to get a better look at the uniform rocks.
Cracked and overgrown but these bits of stone were the first good turn she’d had since the trip started. You might make a path to nowhere in the middle of the woods, but no one takes the time to pave it. This road had an end to it, a destination. And while she might not know what that was, finally having a sign of progress after so long gave her hope.
Oats was far from overjoyed though. That smell in the air had turned into something much worse. The breeze reeked of unwashed bodies and rancid vomit. The stones were too smooth, too polished, almost broken tombstones. But as usual, her master did not perceive any of this. The two of them had been through a lot over the years. Racing from bandits to deliver what ended up being cakes for a wedding. They even survived a month after being snowed in at an old hunter's cabin on moldy barley and a boiled saddle. None of those things had been Mary’s fault, of course, Oats knew. But in the horse's heart, she couldn’t help but wonder why her friend never listened to her.
While Mary continued to urge her steed faster along the road, the wind began to pick up. Mary took a long deep breath of it. She always had enjoyed the earthy tones of the forest and could make out a storm tempting to show up soon. Oats stopped dead and snorted when a stone stand came into the swinging light. She bucked back and started stomping at the ground, nearly unseating Mary in the process.
“Whoa girl, easy. Easy!” Mary tried to calm the animal. Pulled back on the reins to let her get some distance and squeezing tight with her thighs. After she manged to settle her down a bit, Mary hopped off and tied Oats to a nearby tree. “Lets go see, huh? You’ll feel silly. I know it.” The horse tugged at her sleeve with its teeth, but Mary pulled away. Took out one of the precious few torches from her pack.
The stand itself was pretty eroded and overgrown with moss. The tiny statue atop it had held up much better. A small, well detailed sphinx done up in an odd black stone looked over her head in an almost regal pose. The stone it was carved from looked more like black glass than granite.
“What could be at the end?” she wondered aloud. She'd checked and double checked her maps. The shortcut she'd decided to take didn't have have anything out this way. There road she had taken wasn’t on any of them in fact, though she wasn't surprised. Many of the maps for this area were out of date or so amateur it was laughable. It wouldn’t be hard to think that this was just the way to some old family estate or one of the silk farms.
While many in Mandria preferred the safety of the walled towns and cities. There were still a fair number of outlying farmsteads and country homes. More than a few of them had something to do with raising the giant Ulchek spiders used in the silk trade. She cringed a bit, remembered a time her father had taken her to see one of those ranches. She attributed her fear of the beasts' smaller cousins to that experience.
While nothing horrid had happened to her. She would never forget the sight of those giant spiders descending from the trees to bring down whole pigs. The thought of her father brought her mood back down. It often did. Memories of him were precious but a little sour after everything that had happened. They were also tinged with anger, confusion a little resentment.
He had died on a delivery five years ago and Mary found that the business she inherited was more debt than profit. Her father had taken what had been a successful caravan company and drank it away behind the scenes. They once had twenty runners, a full stable of the fastest horses around, and not a single day without work. After she took over and had a scribe go over the books, it all fell apart. Just to keep herself out of debtors' prison Mary had been forced to let the workers go. She'd also had to auction all the horses but Oats. Now she was down to taking whatever job she could. Even running nails to an outpost across the country for a fraction of what she should be charging.
Lost in worries, Mary ran her hand along the polished statue. She debated whether to continue on to whatever was at the end of the trail. This shortcut hadn't been so short after all. She could backtrack to the main road and take the longer but surer route there. Oats struggled against her ties and tried to make as much noise as possible to draw Mary away. How could she not see how the statue was looking at her? How its eyes moved and followed every fidget her master was making? Oats feared the hate coming off it, the hunger. Mary turned to sooth her upset friend and gave a shout when something sharp dug into her finger.
She jerked her hand away and brought the torch closer to the sphinx. There, smeared across a protruding fang was a bit of her blood. Mary popped the injured digit into her mouth and scowled. The cut wasn’t deep but it stung. Oats was beside herself when Mary made her way back.
“Alright, alright. I know we’ve been at it long enough.” She kept her voice low and even. “Lets get this off and have a nice rub down huh?” Mary began unstrapping the packs and saddle. With a grunt, she slid off the delivery of nails and started running a brush over Oats’ smooth sides. The horse was still frustrated. She wanted to leave now and get away from what lurked ahead. Although, the brush felt nice and having all that extra weight off was heavenly. She nuzzled Mary in gratitude.
Mary hummed a song her mother had sang before the Gray Cough took her. It was her song for Oats. She had sung it for her since she helped pull the chestnut horse into thi
s world. It reminded her of rides by the creek. Of secret lunches pilfered from neighbor's apple barrels and this. A late night brushing before bed. Mary kept humming as she watched her friend's big eyes start to close and her legs lock in place. Oats swayed and was fast asleep.
Mary picked up her torch and lantern from the large root she had set them on. She began going through her travel bag for that tattered old tent she called home far too often. The rain might be far off. She couldn’t even see many dark clouds in the starlit sky, but the wind never lied. It was going to pour alright. That statue kept coming back to her mind. Mary was sure it was a marker of some kind.
Maybe they were close now. She had little silver but was willing to part with it if the place would put them up. And besides, she always carried a few things for trade if they weren’t hurting for coin. It would be so much better than having to brave another storm on this trip. The last one caused her to lose two inches from her cloak just to get the tent back into semi-working order. She wouldn’t be gone long, she reasoned. Just scout
Dead Letters: In The Ruins Of Hope Page 1