by Daniel Kozuh
“Your boyfriend is …” Norman said, between breaths, to Tahra, “… kind of a dick.”
Kroü stopped at the entryway of his residence, exhausted and wheezing from the short run. He put his hand on his knees and swayed about.
“If anyone asks,” he gasped, clutching his chest, “I defeated them at Knucklebones and they fled in embarrassment.”
Tahra, Roe, Norman, and Janey kept running, until they found Frann Road again.
“I am beginning to think this wizard wants to meet us on his terms,” Norman wheezed.
****
After journeying for a few days, Tahra noticed a small village, not far ahead. It was a small farming community, surrounded by acres of cornfields.
“What town is that?” Norman inquired.
“Larrowton,” answered Tahra.
Norman barely remembered Larrowton. He fuzzily recalled that it was an aside, from a backstory that he forgot to note in his Lingeria Legend. Norman pulled the Lingeria Abacærium from his tote-bag and fanned to the “L” section.
“Larrowton. A town occupied by humans, who are often superstitious but friendly towards outsiders. Their economy is based primarily in trade. The town is often used as a resting point en route to and from The Red City,” Norman read.
“They should have an inn for us,” Tahra added. Norman noticed that Tahra rarely looked at anyone while she spoke, constantly scanning and evaluating the possibility of an ambush.
As the party approached the village, they entered a plowed path, between two fields of farmland. After walking a few yards, they spotted a young boy, just ahead of them. He appeared on the road from within the dried corn stalks that looked like the fingers of giants, reaching from the underground. The corn was black, withered, and dead long before harvest arrived. The boy was clothed in little more than rags. He eyed the travelers suspiciously, then spun and ran towards the main street of his hometown. Norman assumed he was going to alert others of the strangers’ approach.
The town was hard and wooden, made up of simple two-story structures, built with hand-cut Beechwood. Their rooftops were thatched with thick bundles of dried grass. It reminded Norman of town under siege in an old samurai movie. As they walked the muddy thoroughfare, despite not seeing a single sign of life, Norman didn’t get the sense of desertion. The town was definitely inhabited and, wherever the townsfolk were, Norman could feel that they were watching them.
“What the hell happened here?” Norman asked Roe.
“The Killer Cloud came through and took half the population with it,” answered Tahra. “Nothing grows now, so there is nothing to trade. Wrence seized control, pretending he would help them.”
“Just so you know, we’ve been going with ‘The Black Cloud’, to avoid confusion,” Roe explained.
A door swung open and an ancient man came scuttling out, his feet sweeping the ground as he shuffled towards the party. The man was carrying something. Tahra gripped the hilt of her sword until she saw that it was just a book. The Book. The man, dressed in the same peasant manner as the boy, held a leather-bound edition of Norman’s tome, which had deep, intricate etchings all over the sheepskin-bound jacket and spine.
The man, who was only taller than Roe by a few inches (but was definitely of the genus “Man”), was bowing to Norman, blocking the path, with his face practically eating the dirt at Norman’s feet. He held the manuscript aloft.
Norman’s reputation had preceded him. Swiftly, townsfolk streamed out of every doorway and swarmed Norman. They stretched their hands outward, yearning to be near their creator. Norman, who was not used to this much physical attention, attempted to shrug away the affection. Women laid food at Norman’s feet, while the men seemed to be chanting “The Author”, mechanically. This town seemed to have an accent (maybe Germanic?), so their chant came out sounding like, “Eeeawwtore! Eeawwtore!”
Norman craned his nose above his throng of adorers, to avoid the strong body odor. Everyone was dirty and tragically malnourished. Skeletal hands pawed at Norman, as if providence would chip off him like aged paint.
“Okay, okay. Everyone, back up.” Roe placed himself between Norman and the worshippers. “The Author has traveled all day and needs his rest. Is there an innkeeper among you?”
A hand sprouted up in the group and a man walked to the front; the only man in the crowd that didn’t appear starved. “I am the innkeeper. Yov is my name,” he said through his accent. “I would be honored to have you as my guests. Good beds, soft beds.”
“Thank you, Yov,” Roe said, “Please lead the way to your establishment.”
“Please, Author,” the man with the book begged. “We ask that your Grace hold mass for us.”
“Mass?” Norman grew worried.
“We have a simple church just over there.” The main pointed. “It would be an honor to us if you gave a short sermon.”
“I would love to, but -” Norman started his excuse.
“Of course, he would.” Tahra finished his sentence.
The old man smiled and yanked Norman down the block by his shirt sleeve.
The entire town followed behind the crew, as they were led to the church. All eyes were on Norman. The villagers whispered among one another about his un-Godlike appearance, particularly the warped, purple nose. “Perhaps he made himself that ugly to appear humble.” Norman was now through being worshipped.
The church was beyond simple. The pews were backless, untreated planks of wood, leading along the nave, on warped floorboards, to a chancel with a humble pulpit. Against the wall, there hung the largest painting of Norman that he had seen yet: an angular, Byzantine-style caricature of Norman’s headshot. It was not flattering.
The elder led Norman to the head of the church and parked him behind the podium. The entire town, which was only a few dozen people, filled in the seats and looked up to their savior. Roe and Tahra stood at the back. Unlike the raucous night in Roe’s village, the air in Larrowton was thick with desperation, as though Norman’s arrival was seen as a premeditated prophecy on which their lives hung.
“Okay, um …” Norman cleared his throat and looked out at the people. This wasn’t fun anymore. This wasn’t a group of drunks looking for a song, or a hall of knights seeking a story. This was a collection of fraught, hopeless people, their eyes turned to their supposed savior for relief.
Norman cleared his throat, about to – for the third time – talk out of his ass to a group of Lingerians.
“So –” was all Norman managed, before the back doors of the church opened and two men walked in carrying a homemade stretcher between them. On it lay a woman, barely alive, moaning as they marched her down the aisle and laid her at Norman’s feet.
“Please, Author, heal my wife,” said one man, with a lump in his throat.
The woman looked to be rotting. She had yellowed eyes; infected green sores splotched her skin. Most of her fingers had been removed, to prevent spread of the disease, and her nose was literally being eaten away by an unseen virus. Norman could hear death rattling in her shallow breaths.
“She ate meat of a cursed animal,” the other man said. “We told her not to, but she was starved and desperate.” Norman assumed a “cursed animal” was one killed by The Black Cloud.
These people didn’t want a preacher. They wanted a miracle.
“Put your hands to her. Save her,” the first man begged.
“I … I don’t have powers like that. I’m not that kind of god,” was all Norman could manage.
The man snatched Norman’s hand and yanked him down to the woman, forcing Norman’s palm against her forehead. It burned.
Norman concentrated – he really did – even though he’d never believed in miracles, prayer, or the healing power of meditation. He focused all his concentration on curing the woman before him. He let the word ‘heal’ spin around and around in his head, but nothing happened. The woman wasn’t cured, her nose didn’t grow back, and she didn’t leap from the stretcher and dance ar
ound in exultation. Eventually, the husband released his grasp on Norman and looked at him like Norman sold him a lemon.
“I’m … I’m sorry,” Norman said, quietly.
Norman stepped away from the podium and fled the church like a nervous bride. Roe chased after him, while Tahra simply rolled her eyes and went in search of a trough for her horse and some quiet. Calamity Jane followed the warrior.
There were no beers or pipes or cuts of meat at the Inn, this time – no minstrels ready to sing the arrival of The Author. It was a humble, ascetic setting. The travelers were served a watered-down porridge out of hand-carved grey wood bowls. Tahra chose to take her dinner in the stable, which probably didn’t look much different from this dilapidated hotel. Norman and Roe ate in a small private room, with Yov. While bland and simple, it was obvious that the meal served to him would be a banquet for an entire family at any home in the town.
The only one eager to talk was Yov, who seemed to be the honorary mayor of the town, and the only one who was thriving.
“How bad is it?” Norman asked.
Yov’s hands waved about, as if he didn’t know quite where to begin. “Well …” he stalled, “we were hit by the Darkness like much of Lingeria.” His pronunciation of Lingeria came out like Line-gerr-ia. “We lost lots of people, all the animals and barely anything grows … even now, years later still little grows and what grows the Mor-Leidr takes.”
“Who are the Mor-Leidr?”
Yov gave Norman a puzzled look – how could God not know? “Of course, they are the personal army of the Author,” he finally stated.
Norman looked at Roe. “Who told you I have any army? The wizard?”
“Of course. Your devoted messenger.”
“Look, Yov …” Norman went onto come as clean as he could.
In return, Yov explained that any land that was “scorched” by The Black Cloud (which he called “The Vicious Void”), was deemed “Immolated” and was, therefore, cursed. Any agriculture, or animals born, in these areas were to be promptly turned over to the Mor-Leidr and, in return, the town was given rations.
“But Roe’s village was hit and there are no Mor-Leidr there,” Norman said.
“We are shielded by the mountains,” Roe explained. “The wizard’s reach does not extend to us. I am sure it will soon.”
“We were told that the Darkness chose us because we were not loyal to The Author.” Yov wasn’t looking at them, any more. His gaze was lost in the fireplace. “I do not know what we did wrong, sir.”
Roe immediately answered. “You didn’t do anything wrong! I don’t know what exactly this cloud is, or what this Wizard is up to, but we will try to find out. We will help you. Right?” Roe turned to Norman.
“That is why you came, yes? To save us?” Was Yov crying, or was the heat of the fireplace, making him tear up? He seemed to be consumed with grief and hopelessness – and this was the only man in Larrowtown actually prospering.
“Yep. Exactly,” Norman found himself lying.
“Well, I leave you to your meal,” finished Yov, slapping his thighs as he stood. “There is a back staircase over there that will go straight to your room. Have a good night’s rest, sirs.”
“Thank you, Yov,” Norman gave him a warm smile. He elbowed Roe.
“Ah, yes, thank you very much,” Roe managed.
Yov closed the door.
****
When he made it to bed, Norman was exhausted but couldn’t sleep. All his life, Norman had avoided conflict and supplicated whenever possible. He would be a doormat to avoid an uncomfortable situation and, even when he was obviously being taken for granted, he refused to act. He saw himself as a coward and a weakling. He’d never been in a physical fight. Yet, here he was, promising an entire land that he was here to fight off an army, deflate a killer weather phenomenon, and dethrone a corrupt wizard. His heart palpitated with anxiety. Finally, he threw himself out of bed.
Norman told himself he was just going for a walk outside, to clear his head, but he knew he was running away. He snuck to the stable, where he had last seen Calamity Jane sniffing around.
“Janey,” Norman whispered, “C’mere girl.” He tried to whistle quietly but ended up just blowing.
“Where ya’ goin’?” A voice behind him dripped with casual cruelty.
A small fire had been built just outside an empty horse crib. Tahra squatted before it, tugging at a charred roast of something. Janey was asleep on her side, in a pile of hay, with a tooth-scarred bone a few inches from her muzzle. Tahra eyed Norman, as she cracked another bone in half and sucked out the marrow.
“I was just looking for my dog.”
“Not planning on running off?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I didn’t come here to save a world!” he found himself shouting. “I just wanted to have a look around and meet a wizard.”
“You don’t mind torturing people in your head but, when you come face-to-face with their suffering, you retreat,” Tahra said, with a mouthful of marrow and condescension.
“You know what’s interesting?” Norman said, pointedly, walking closer. “That we could have just stayed heading west and avoided this town completely.” He kicked what he thought was a rock. It broke open. It did not smell like a rock. “We had enough supplies. One might think we were steered in this direction. As if, maybe, someone in our caravan wanted me to see this town.”
The bone was hollow and Tahra tossed it into the shadows. “You are no god,” she said.
“I know that!”
“Then why do you let them think that you are?”
“I don’t …” he stumbled, “I don’t know!” His eyes searched the darkness, hoping a reason would jump out at him.
“You have no powers. This world doesn’t obey you. Not anymore. Instead of doing something real about these problems you just parade around pretending to be a god. You are no better than Wrence.”
“Oh yeah, what do you recommend?” He snapped. “Beat it up? Break its nose? Drive a sword through its heart?”
“I am as you wrote me!”
“That’s bullshit! Don’t blame me for your rough life. You didn’t even know those books existed when you were a kid. You could have run off to a nunnery or became a blacksmith apprentice. But no, you wanted to kill because it is who you are and you like it.”
“And you are a coward!” Tahra bit.
“Goddamn right I am. And I want to go home, Tahra,” Norman said, almost crying with the pressure of responsibility. “Home to my bed, my booze, and my problems! This – all this – isn’t my responsibility.”
“Just because it isn’t your responsibility doesn’t mean it isn’t your problem.”
“I am not the hero Lingeria needs,” Norman gestured to the horizon.
“Just go, then.” she waved him away.
Norman went into the stable and nudged his dog awake. “C’mon, Janey. Get up.” Calamity Jane was stubbornly noncompliant. “Janey, let’s go!”
She answered him with a huff.
Norman found a frayed leather reign and fashioned a crude leash that more resembled a noose. He slipped it around the dog’s neck. He yanked Janey to her feet.
Norman exited the stable, his animal plodding sleepily behind him. He stopped at Tahra’s fire a last time.
“Tell Roe …” He stopped and chose a different word. “Tell Roe ‘Thank you’.”
“Sure,” was all he got back.
“Come on, Janey.” Norman gave a gentle tug on the leash and started back the way he’d come.
EIGHT
The blade slid out of Gabe’s body easily, slick with his blood. He looked, with pale surprise, from his wound to his brother – his once-conjoined twin. “Why?” was all he could utter, before blood filled his mouth.
Gane connected with his brother’s dimming gaze, his own eyes filled with relief. “Don’t view this as a betrayal, brother,” he explained, calmly, as if simply explaining the rules to a game. Gane palmed the c
hartreuse jewel that hung from Gabe’s neck.
“For, as the doctor separated us at birth, I separate us in death.”
As Gabe’s body fell, Gane ripped the necklace free and clutched it, greedily.
- Tales of Lingeria: The Emerald Pendulum, Chapter 17
Norman could have ignored the scream. He could have convinced himself that it was a tree, creaking in the wind, or some nocturnal predator calling to the moon. He didn’t have to turn around, either. He could have kept on walking through the night – to Highpoint, into Roe’s house, through the oven, and back into his old life. But he heard it, he knew it came from Larrowton, and he was sure it had to do with him. He closed his eyes in annoyed frustration and he let out a sigh.
He only gone a mile when he turned back, a thoroughly confused coonhound sluggishly following behind him. The full moon in Lingeria was so comically large that it painted everything with its blue hue, so much so that night could barely be considered dark. Norman had little trouble finding his way back into the village and into a tight alley behind the Inn, where he heard the impatient chimes of horse tacks.
“Then where is he?” asked a wet voice.
“I do not know,” pleaded the voice of the Innkeeper. “I watched him go to his room after supper. Then I sent word to you. I swear!”
Norman peered around the corner of the building. Five goblins on horseback stood over Yov, who knelt with his knees sunken into the mud. Norman assumed this must be the Mor-Leidr he was told about, and the treachery also explained Yov’s healthy physique in a town of starvation.
“We do not like being woken in the middle of the night to be shown an empty bed,” snarled the most ornately decorated of the green-skinned mob. His lower canines grew out of his mouth and curled up his face like a hog’s tusks.
Suddenly, the door to the inn shot open and a sixth goblin exited, dragging Roe by his hair. Roe was tossed into the mud next to his betrayer. His hands were bound with a thick strap and he had to use his elbows to push himself up.
