In spite of what he said, she knew there was something deeper bothering him. He seemed haunted and withdrawn. She would often catch him staring in the direction of Sombren, and then see her and immediately busy himself with some mundane task or scouting mission that did not need to be addressed at that time. She knew he was still deeply affected by his past, as much as he liked to deny its continued hold over him. But what of that? Her past still deeply affected her even though she liked to pretend that it did not. Though their journeys were very different, they shared a bond of understanding deeper than any other bond, pain. But it was not just the feeling of pain, but its overcoming that they shared. It is one thing to walk through the fires of life, but quite another to trudge through its aftermath in the same way as someone else. She had devoted herself to her singing first, and then to her martial instruction while he had given himself to a different profession, but one with as much excellence as she. In all honesty, what would she have become had a band of thieves presented itself instead of the traveling circus? Would she have been any different than he? She knew he was a good man, an honest man, if a thief could be called honest; but it had been buried by a deep seeded pain that had been watered by the crashing of his dreams and the dissolving of his hope. And when a man loses hope, he will lose the parts of himself linked to that hope. He loses his light.
Such were their thoughts as they traveled, day after day, under the cooling skies of autumn, and slept night after night wrapped in the secluding duality of an uncertain doom darkened by its nearing, yet brightened by its hope. As people do, they succumbed to the habits of their own minds numbed by the repetitive droning of the unchanged condition of their reality. Though they were sustained well by the land, it was not the wellness of city life. They were not warm during the nights, but the chill was not oppressive. Their bellies were not full, but neither did they ache from hunger pains. Nor were they without water. And when it rained, it was brief and followed by just enough sun to dry them without the uncomfortable chill becoming unbearable. In all reality, their trek across the countryside was as pleasant as it could be. And yet, she took no comfort in it.
But the time for whatever comfort the weather could bring was over, as was the time for wondering about the pasts of either herself or anyone else, because now, the present was at hand. They were only a few hours away from establishing contact with Jaro’s hope. At nightfall, it was decided that he should enter the city to make the arrangements alone, much to the disagreement of Dregor. He would return in the early morning hours with news of their hopeful arrangement. It was a contrast completely depicting their lives. When Dregor marched off to be with his wife and daughter, Jaro began walking in the direction of the city. Each upset at the other and each accusatorily provoked by the other, but neither that different from the other. In truth, Jaro had been Dregor, perfectly content to spend his life with his family and fiercely dedicated to their protection. As both men parted, she wondered how much different they would be had Jaro and Dregor’s lives been exchanged.
That night, well into the evening, her thoughts turned to Eriboth, though she battled his inclusion into her consciousness. However, some battles are meant to be won, and some are just meant to be fought. And fighting his presence was something she had devoted herself to doing regardless of whether she won or lost. Though, tonight, she lost. The last she remembered of him, he was walking powerfully through the gates of the Stone Keep, not to defend it, for it had already been lost, but to provide her the time to escape. She believed he still lived, but where and how she could only speculate. There were rumors that he had last been seen being carried away in the claws of a great dragon, but that would mean he had been defeated. She remembered when she faced him after he had dispatched of his brother and the royal guard. He was resplendent as a combatant, unequaled even by her mentor, Psumayn. To have been beaten in combat, he must have faced something so wicked, so powerful, that the whole of Avendia should be concerned.
She remembered killing him, or at least, cutting deeply enough that he should have died. She remembered seeing him again. Even in the dirtiest of ragged clothing, he carried himself beyond mortality as he confidently strode into the throne room of the City of Light. And she remembered him, once again, walking through the gates of the Stone Keep and out of her life, perhaps for the last time. But he was not, not really. Nor could he ever really be out of her life, she conceded. Although miles and miles separated them, and perhaps their fates would see them never look upon the other again, he would always be there, within the deep places that pained her to acknowledge, places so deep they were left to only the subconscious understanding of things beyond human minds and hearts, and into the immortality of the soul.
Ah, the immortality of the soul. Can it be for her? Was her soul and fate called to something greater than this mortal life? She had often wondered, hoped, and even wished for the fates to smile upon her and bless her with a larger role than she deserved. But in the end, she knew she was nothing more than a girl from a broken home, broken by a father who was lost to the annals of drunken desperation. What could she do except accept her fate of futility and empty hopes? And yet, in spite of her beginnings, she felt something very deep inside her, something that, until recently, had remained dormant and slumbering. This urging was pulling her in directions she could not justify. North? What could await them in the Orc Lands except even a more difficult life than living in the Silver Empire as outlaws? But try as she might, there was no peace in the skies nor in the lands that could offer her the calm certainty she felt with that as her final destination.
As heavy as her thoughts had become, her eyes were becoming heavier, however, restful sleep is something that had always evaded her. Of late, her dreams were plagued with visions of her people being forcibly taken by dark figures without shapes and defined silhouettes. They were masked by their shrouds of evil and cloaked in a misty blackness her dreaming eyes could not penetrate regardless of her slumbering efforts. In chains that burned when they were latched, they were being taken to a castle from which all evil emanated from. She could not say how, but she knew it was not the Stone Keep, nor did it resemble any castle she had ever seen. It was completely foreign and diffusely portrayed as a focal point of torture and loss. And though she knew this castle was not a substantive place, she nevertheless, woke with a mix of emotions, not the least of which was the continued guilt because of the horror her people were now facing.
But this night’s dream was different. She did not dream of castles, or evil, or people she had lost. She dreamt of battle, a singular battle wherein she faced an impossibly large and muscular figure. Shoulders nearly twice the width of the strongest man she had ever seen, it stood nearly eight feet tall. It carried an impossibly large axe in one hand, and in the other, a vile looking blade curved so sharply that it formed nearly a half circle. As she faced the granite chiseled behemoth, she began to feel small, so small. She gripped her blades tightly and rushed the beast, hoping her direct attack would surprise it. If it was, it recovered quickly enough to brush aside her assault with little more effort than if it was swatting a harmless bug away before it could bite. She rushed again. This time, while she was able to strike at its large leg, she met only air as it moved more quickly than she anticipated. When she turned to block its counter attack, she felt a heavy fisted blow smash into the side of her cheek, a cheek that she heard cracking under its force.
“Soliana,” whispered a hushed but intense voice. “Soliana, you are dreaming again.”
She woke with a startle and had her dagger in hand, thrusting it in the direction of the voice.
“Wait! It is only me,” she heard the voice say in alarm. She focused and saw Dregor’s fright. “Are you ok?”
“What? Yes, yes. I am ok. It was only a dream. I am sorry, Dregor,” she said as she sat up and slid her dagger in her boot sheath.
“Remind me to prepare myself should I ever find the need to wake you again,” he said jokingly. “What has you
on edge?”
“Have you ever had a dream so real that you felt you were not dreaming at all?” she asked, still visibly disrupted by her dream.
“I have, but I do not think its content was the same as yours,” he said. “What were you dreaming about?”
“Oh, nothing. Just about battle,” she responded deciding to omit the details lest he interpret them as a bad omen. “Dregor, why are you hear? Has something happened?”
“Jaro. He has returned,” said Dregor.
“Already? He did not think he would return until the morning,” she asked.
“Even so. He is here nonetheless,” responded Dregor. Before Soliana could stand up, Jaro entered her tent looking a little more worse for wear than he usually did. It was still very dark so she did not see the bruises on his face, nor the slight trickle of blood from one of his ears. In fact, if it had not been for how heavily he breathed and his slight wince as he sat down, she would have had no indication there was anything wrong at all. But when she heard his faint grunt, she sat up a little straighter and asked, “Jaro, are you injured.”
“If by injured, you mean an I hurt beyond my body’s own ability to repair, then no,” he said as Dregor lit a candle.
“You are bleeding!” she replied with a shock. He weakly brushed her hand away as she tried to wipe the blood away with her thumb.
“It is nothing. I have been through worse, believe me,” he said.
“You are sure you are well?” she asked.
“In the loosest definition of well,” he said as he tried to adjust to a comfortable position.
“Why is it you always return to us in such a state?” she asked sarcastically.
“Thief,” he said.
After a short moment observing him, she asked, “Were you able to arrange a meeting?”
“Yes. You will meet with the pirate king tomorrow, when the sun breaks the horizon,” he said.
“Where?” she asked.
“On his ship,” he said.
“On his ship?” asked Dregor. “That will not be acceptable.”
“Dregor, I know you are used to a life of plenty and prosperity, at least a modicum of it, so you are not aware of the demands those who are in want must subject themselves unto. But I can assure you, we are in a position of want and must subject ourselves unto the whims of those who have what we want. In our case, it just happens to be those of the Pirate King, and he is not one open to negotiations. At least, not from us.”
“It may be this way, but I do not have to like it,” said Dregor flatly.
“You just might be able to understand me after all, my friend,” the injured thief replied.
“When should we leave?” she asked.
“In the morning, before the sun rises,” he answered. “Now, let us all get some sleep. Dorgo is not one to keep waiting. In fact, he will not wait. If we miss our chance, there will be no reprieve, nor second chance. If we miss it. He will be gone.”
That night, none of them would sleep restfully having been propelled into an elevated, anxiety driven restlessness wherein sleep was limited to no more than one to two hours at a time. Even Jaro, in his exhausted and beaten condition, did not find sleep welcoming. Had he been absent of bruises and allowed to find a comfortable resting position, then perhaps he might have found more sleep than the others, even if only marginally. As a thief, he was accustomed to the whims of the nefarious and had learned to ignore them until the last possible moment, but the injuries he suffered at the hands of his “friend” prevented what sleep his tolerance would normally allow. So, just as the others, his sleep was anything but what he needed. He did feel some anxiousness; however, it was not an anxiousness driven by an expectation based solely on rumors and presumed possibilities derived by back ally deals and secret meetings. Instead, his apprehension was driven by a whole different set of circumstances; circumstances centering around knowledge, around his past, specifically around his time on The Gauntlet under the command of Captain Agorro.
“You see, young,” said the pirate captain who paused when he realized he did not know the young man’s name, “what was your name again?”
“Does it matter?” answered the young man.
“Of course, it matters. As pirates, we are sworn to a code of conduct that prevents us from executing someone if we do not know their name. So, you see, we will not be able to execute you unless you enlighten us,” said the pirate.
“It does not sound like it is in my interest to tell you then,” he answered.
“There are many worse things than death, young one,” answered a large man standing to the right of the Captain.
“Indeed, there are,” he said.
The Captain held his normally volatile temperament and response in check for a brief moment to consider the young man bound and kneeling in front of him. He was not like any common stowaway they had encountered before. Although his hiding spot had been the same as the rest of them, he did not immediately beg for his life upon being discovered. Nor did he offer up any wild excuse regarding his presence on the vessel. Instead, he seemed to calmly accept his fate, whatever it was going to be.
“Are you not afraid?” asked the Captain.
“Why should I fear?” he answered.
“You are bound and tied, kneeling at the feet of the most ruthless pirate captain the seas have even seen. I should think that would be enough. But just in case it is not, my men often get bored on long journeys and extended time away from the comforts of the more disreputable ports. Because of that, they often look for sport, most often times settling for beating each other senseless. However, with your presence, they would undoubtedly focus their attentions on you. And this promises to be a very long journey,” said the Captain ominously to the equally ominous laughter of his crew.
“There are worse things than death,” said the young man.
Again, the unlikely response from this young man set the Captain’s temper to cool just enough for him to pause again, considering what to do. On the one hand, it was a standing policy, as much as policies could exist within the pirating community, to deal with stowaways and any other forms of offense, though death. Pirating was not as profitable as many thought, and the mouths of his crew had to be considered. Adding another mouth to feed would decrease the rations for the rest of his men, men who had proven themselves worthy to crew The Gauntlet. On the other hand, keeping him alive would allow the captain to possibly avoid the inevitable fights and squabbles amongst his crew, or at least, minimize them. But there was something intriguing about this young man. Something different about him than all the rest. He was not afraid of death, nor was he afraid of living as a human punching bag for a crew of pirates.
“I will tell you what,” said the Captain thoughtfully, “though I am in no need of another man, I am in need of someone who would not mind scrubbing the toilet pots and cleaning up after my crew. They can be a filthy bunch of ruthless drunkards. Mind you, I may kill you tomorrow, or the next day. Or you may find yourself the target in a game of knives for my men. But until such time as Fate, or my temper, decides your worth as a dead man exceeds your worth as a cleaner, you will be allowed to live.”
“Sounds like an adequate offer, for the moment,” said the young man.
In response to his statement, the captain burst out in a ruckus bout of laughter ending as he wiped his humor induced tears away. “You are a strange one, of that I am sure. I have never met any man who temps death as you do. You may just get it, one day, but it will not be today. Today, you scrub!” As the young man was being carried away by the strong arms of two of the crew, the Captain added, “What is your name, boy?”
“I will tell you on the day you kill me, but not today,” he said.
Laughing again, the Captain asked, “What then should we call you?”
“Ghost,” said the young man.
“So be it. You are the Ghost of the Gauntlet,” said the captain as he turned around and retired to his quarters.
F
or the first three months he was at sea, his interaction with the crew and captain was limited by his desire for isolation. That is not to say he did not complete any and all of the chores set upon him by the first mate. Rather, he completed them all, and completed them well. As much as was possible, The Gauntlet had become one of the cleanest vessels on the seas almost surpassing the best kept ships in the High King’s navy. Pirates were indeed the dirtiest people he had been around, but they were still a distant second to horses and other animals. Many were the days when the sun rose, set, and then rose again without anyone seeing or hearing from him, yet he left evidence of his presence. Not a single time was the crew punished for the condition of the ship in the areas he was given responsibilities over. He slept little, ate even less, spoke almost never, and worked hard.
As much as he tried to avoid the crew and captain, the size of the ship, although impressive, was still finite and there were only so many things he could do at night while most of them were sleeping. On one particular night, when he was just finishing cleaning the toilet pots by dumping the waste overboard, he heard a voice address him.
“Ah, so the ghost of the gauntlet is not just a myth,” said the humorous voice of Captain Agorro.
“How did you know I would be here?” asked the Ghost.
Bloodless Page 86
