The Final Life

by Andrew Mowere

  ***

  “A m-monster of the Trials!” yelped the bard when Azrael began to explain away their encounter with the guardian of the forest like it was but a brush up with a fox. His blue eyes were wide open and he jumped up from where he had been sitting on the ground behind an enormous rock as large as a house, awaiting his companion’s return “And you came back alive? No, not only that, you beat it! Incredible! I wish I was there to witness the act... in fact, why didn’t you call me?”

  That day, the bard refused to move from his spot. He made Azrael and Glint pitch their tent alone, get dinner ready, and then tell him everything that happened in detail. When that was done, it was late despite the brightness outside the tent set up to block off all outside light as well as the rain, then pouring in earnest. Drops cluttered against their tent, drowning the world in incessant tapping sounds. They had set up in the shadow of a large boulder. When all was said and done, Vladimir demonstrated his knowledge about the subject, and it was he who enlightened Glint on what Sklaver’s pilgrimage actually was and how the giant bear with the metal fur fit into it.

  “You see,” he started, only their fire’s cackle accompanying his deep voice, “this is an extremely old tale. It all started after the Second claimed a large area of our world for himself and the creatures that he created, in the southern part of the continent of Ya’ab far across the sea to the west. When he still lived, the Second was a beast tamer, raised alone with animals, and he goes by that nickname to this day. However, in truth he is far more than that. Sklaver is a maker of monsters. It was the manifestation of his ability as an Unchained that allowed him to take a lizard and change it into a dragon, a bird into a gryphon, and so on.

  “When he became sure that no large infestation of men was going to intrude upon his domain, he called the leaders of some of the most influential guilds to his jungle and the ruins of an ancient castle. There he showed his grace as a host, then he proposed a deal: he would unleash some of his beasts in the world, around abodes of his making filled with magic and wonder. Men may challenge these beasts in battle for honour and glory. He called those the Trials of Sklaver, although they are collectively also known as the Second’s Pilgrimage. His beasts would adhere to certain rules so that they do not overrun humanity, such as not leaving their designated areas or leaving offspring, and in return man would not enter his kingdom or hunt anything bearing his mark unless it proclaims that it is part of the Pilgrimage or beyond it, for he had created other, even more dangerous monsters. When a beast becomes old, its master himself comes to replace it, and in its memory he would change a piece of the habitat it had inhabited.” The man paused in his story to gratefully accept the sweet herbal sap tea Azrael offered him, taking a long sip from it to wet his throat before he ventured on with the tale.

  “Those who defeat one of his ranked beasts receive badges to prove their prowess, and once a person has defeated all of his one hundred beasts, they would be allowed to enter Sklaver’s continent unchallenged at any time and fight in single combat against anything within or without it, including his three sacred beasts and other beings.

  “This is considered an extremely high honour, and those who receive it may be invited from time to time by the Second himself for feasts or meetings men dare not encroach upon. Few can boast of it. I believe there are less than twenty in the whole world currently alive. This is the tale of the Trials, which started more than eight thousand years in the past.”

  When he was finished telling his story, Vladimir took out his instrument and played some celebratory music for the due to congratulate them on their victory. He asked to see the badge time and again, inspecting its green metallic surface under the light of the campfire with reverence, as if it were something holy. Under the bard’s scrutiny, Glint felt uncomfortable for having such a thing. He wondered why Azrael relinquished the right to hold on to the brooch despite being the person who contributed the most in the fight. Glint had fought Urek, true enough, but Azrael’s ability had brought the guardian to a fraction his original fighting prowess.

  As if to confirm his suspicions, Vladimir translated the runes engraved upon the badge, which he luckily understood, to Azrael’s surprise. The bard informed Glint that Urek was in fact ranked the sixty fifth amongst Sklaver’s monsters of the trials. To defeat such a thing with only two men was rare, he said. “It seems like having you two is quite the bargain for me!” the moustached man exclaimed with laughter, running a hand over his shaved scalp. After a few more tales he allowed everyone to go to sleep in the large tent as he himself curled into a fetal position as far away from the warmth of the fire as possible, and they continued their journey quite early the next day.

  The rest of the trip was uneventful in comparison, being spent largely in joy and song and laughter. Of course, Glint and Azrael bickered from time to time, but certainly not in a way that would cause a rift to appear between them. No, the two had gotten to know each other well enough to understand where their respective boundaries lay, and never delved beyond these very clear red lines.

  Things were not so fortunate for Vladimir the bard, however. The man had spent little time with the two, and despite his practical nature he still had the habit of asking a great deal many questions. Glint decided that this was due to the man’s profession, for in Azrael, Vladimir seemed to see a very interesting story to tell. Azrael did not let such things get to him, and he managed to dodge every question and inquiry that the bard made of him with the grace of a dancer. This frustrated shorn headed man to no end, but after a week or so he let things go and the balance between the three was restored. All in all, Glint had to count himself blessed to be travelling with the bard and necromancer duo.

  The only major incident that happened to the three was being “jumped” by a number of bandits, just a day shy from the forest’s exit. Glint and Azrael saw the attack coming, of course. Both decided to pretend they were unaware of the peasants hiding behind trees along the road, even though the warrior could almost hear the frightened thieves’ shaking and smell their fear. Azrael and Vladimir rode past their hiding spots in a walk while Glint kept pace in between the two’s horses leisurely. When the would-be-robbers leapt out of their hiding spots, Glint simply clove their wooden clubs in neat halves and left them begging for their lives.

  Naturally, when the poor men explained how they were being left with nothing, how the guild’s taxes were too much for them, and how they were actually good people being taken in by those who were in power, Glint laughed at them. When they accused him and Azrael of being uncaring about the misfortune of others, the necromancer simply announced, “I have met Quicksilver’s Alfjötr Christon, under whose protection you walk. If he’s a robber, then I’m a bright coloured pixie.” With that the three left the bewildered men alive and continued along the road. Anything north of the forest was under Quicksilver’s direct protection. All the way until central Shien, at least. Kern to the northwest belonged to the council, and far to the south Firefaery claimed its throne of Shien’s most powerful guild. Whereas Glint could understand Quicksilver’s indirect control over subguilds being lacking, as was the case near his old manor, here he was certain that Normals were treated fairly.

  Less than three weeks later, Glint lead his two companions over the wide dirt road leading to his village of birth. Somehow everything looked strange to the young warrior, as if he were staring upon a miniature clay sculpture of the place where he’d grown. The large boundaries of the village, so safe and strong as a child, were now but a simple wooden fence, reaching no higher than his midsection. The place looked peaceful and serene, yet despite it being almost identical to how he’d left it, nothing looked the same to the young warrior. Of course, nobody recognised Glint, although a few people stopped to chat anyway. This was the way it was in smaller villages, you could just speak to anybody in the street and they would make time for you. How different it was from the tales Azrael told of his own homeland, where all moved with a determined stride
, eyes locked forwards and ignoring the passage of the world around them.

  The village was little more than a scattering of about thirty one storied buildings with planked roofs, added to a tavern and a town hall with its white walls standing right in the middle. It was towards that tavern that the company of three headed first. Taverns were simply the easiest way to gather information in a new place. They left their horses outside, tethered to a watering stall sitting under the shade of a large tree. For a moment Vladimir hesitated with his hand upon his mount’s neck, asking, “Shouldn’t somebody stay with them?” but Glint simply waved the question away, answering, “In a place like this, who’s going to steal them?” The warrior squared his now rounded powerful shoulders and pushed open the creaky door to the mostly empty tavern, followed by Azrael and the bard.

  The first thing Glint noticed about the place was the unmistakable smell of nostalgia. A stew, which Glint knew simmered unseen out back, let off a scent he was familiar with. The darkened room let only a single ray of light in through a hatch high in the roof. However, Glint saw enough of the bar counter to remember trying to look over its top as a child, hoping to climb over and peeking at the mysteries on the other side while men laughed after spending a good hard day at work. The voice of the man who called out, “What’ll be your pleasure?” was instantly recognizable to the youth, and he almost greeted Keti by name before stopping himself. Glint was going to reveal himself soon enough, it was better to gather information as a stranger first. Thus he feigned ignorance.

  Besides, he didn’t want to startle the man. It was advisable to first start the conversation, allow the barkeep to warm up to the warrior and his companions, and then tell him who he truly was. That was what Glint told himself.

  Really, he was just afraid, wanting to delay the inevitable as long as he possibly could. Despite how much he reassured himself before he slept, his heart never quieted down, and it beat like a drum at that very moment. His companions had surely noticed, for the two of them kept their peace even when the barkeep looked over to them in response to Glint’s silence, allowing the warrior precedence. The necromancer stood to one side of him, and the bard on the other, each an emotional pillar of support. He appreciated each deeply.

  Glint ordered drinks for the three as well as lunch, a meal of roasted lamb over a dish of potatoes. The gruff man with his soiled apron cooked the dishes himself over a roaring fire in the kitchen. The food came and they took their plates to a small round table. He remembered having something similar many times here, yet had forgotten how good a cook Keti was. During their meal, Glint asked Keti, who stood behind the bar counter, a few general questions about the village, as if he didn’t know anything about it: where it exactly lay, what trades and services were available, where to buy supplies for the road. The room remained quiet except for Glint’s continued questions, which were starting to become more details whilst simultaneously annoying the bar keeper who tried to answer them.

  “And I heard there was a craftsman living here, moved in from the east,” he commented casually, causing Keti’s eyebrows to go up in a familiar way.

  “Yeah, there’s a man like that in this village,” the barkeep answered, drying his massive forearms while stepping out from behind the bar counter to come over to Glint in a fashion only slightly threatening. Then the barrel chested man cracked his knuckles in a decidedly more intimidating fashion. “What’s it to you?” He was now standing over their table with nostrils flaring. Glint remembered how much of a temper the Keti had, for he’d once broken a man’s nose right in front of the youth for calling his profession “maiden’s work”. That barkeeper could obviously tell Glint had asked pointless questions.

  Glint smiled. “His name is Baldur,” he dropped the name off in a way that made the Tavern keeper’s eyes widen at his knowledge. “He lives next to a Blacksmith who goes by Horst Stryger.”

  By now Keti was looking from Glint to Azrael, who was smiling in his usual nerve fraying way, sitting across from his companion. “Your friend is getting on my nerves, he is,” the barkeep growled, and Azrael replied, “Strange. He’s more of a people person than I am.” With that, Azrael put his elbows on the table, making it very clear to Keti that he should be speaking to the warrior rather than to him. The necromancer’s black hair hid his eyes, but Glint could tell his companion was enjoying this. Azrael would have been angering Keti as well, except he would do it to enjoy himself, rather than to fish for information as Glint did.

  The warrior was worried about his family, but seeing that the tavern keeper wasn’t going to shed any light on how his father or mother were doing, Glint decided to dive right in. He allowed lightning to run through him, hoping for courage.

  He linked his hands behind his neck in a casual way, as if he were just putting in a remark about the weather, and said, “Horst’s son went missing about five years back. People would have thought that he was kidnapped or maybe that he’d gone too far out and was eaten by wolves,” Keti gasped, and Glint could see the light of recognition and wonder enter his eyes. Ignoring him, Glint pushed on, seeing nothing other than the table in front of him, for every bit of his consciousness was ingrained into what he was saying now. He had dreamt of this moment since the day he left. “Except that the day he disappeared he got into an argument with his father. The shouting could be heard all around. Also, something was stolen from the house.”

  Keti’s eyes were misty now. Shaking hands came down slowly, and he took Glint’s face in his hands, looking at him deeply with an incredulous look on his face. This was someone who had carried the youth as a child, and had despaired of his return. “Glint, my boy?” The warrior could hear the hope in his voice.

  “Aye,” answered Glint, barely keeping his facial expression in check through the storm of emotions. To think Keti man would be so happy to see him, after how he’d hurt everyone. “The fool himself has returned.”

  Scarcely waiting for Glint’s answer, the barkeep went running outside to get Glint’s father, leaving the warrior with his companions to pat his back as he tried to sort through his mixture of joy and remorse. Both looked at peace, glad for the youth, and they exchanged smiles quietly.