by Dan Brigman
A sudden guffaw from Loken broke the silence. He could not hold in the laughter any longer despite his own mental focus. Both horse and men seemed to jump straight in the air half a foot, which brought more silent laughter from Loken. The laughter blinded him to the fist slamming into his head. The fist carried a sledgehammers’ force, yet he continued silent laughing despite the pain. After a few moments Loken collected himself and glanced at Melek.
“Owww, Melek,” Loken muttered while he rubbed his jaw. With a tinge of humor in his voice, Loken continued, “That actually came close to stinging this time.”
Melek snorted. “Well, you didn’t show back up quick enough. At least you made it back. You should know better than to sneak up on me.”
As he spoke, Melek’s perception of Loken shifted. Even in the moonlight Melek observed Loken’s eyes. A faded blackness tinged them with something unforgivable: fear. Grimacing, Melek steeled himself for what he finally had to do. Despite his weariness and embarrassment at being caught asleep, Melek felt compelled to draw his dagger. His vision cleared in the waning light as he moved closer to Loken. My best friend. No matter, I cannot forgo any longer the punishment that is to be brought upon this man. His fear will be the end of us.
Loken’s eyes widened in shock as he witnessed his oldest friend transform into his gravest enemy in the span of a heartbeat. Melek’s face became a shroud of pain. Loken knew he could no longer hold the man back without either giving his life or giving something almost as precious. Loken had hoped he succeeded in ridding himself of the fear. The creature is more powerful than I imagined. It can alter my facial responses at will.
With that thought, Loken exhaled sharply and exclaimed, “Stop!” The sharpness of Loken’s voice brought Melek out of his single-minded task. Melek slightly shook his head, as if clearing it, then brought his gaze back to Loken’s face.
“What is this cleverness, Loken?” Melek asked in a voice laced with frustration and confusion. His grip on the dagger tightened. Loken glanced quickly at the dagger. Melek did not visibly relax, and Loken opened his mouth to explain himself. Melek cut him off with his left palm held up in a cautionary manner.
After a great sigh he whispered, “Loken, keep your mouth shut for a second. I’m tired of this act. Fear lines your eyes as I look upon you. A fearful man doesn’t have the force of voice that you had a moment ago. I wish I knew what plagues your mind, yet I do believe you have more than fear etched inside that skull of yours.” Melek lowered his left hand to his side. With an unshakeable grip on the dagger he lowered it to a less-than-menacing stance. He turned upward and whispered something Loken’s ears could not detect.
Seeing Melek’s fixation on killing him had abated, Loken began his short tale of the encounter with the unseen Blighter and the shadow. As he retold the tale, Loken saw Melek’s face lose its tautness, its malice. Steadily his lips relaxed, and his eyes no longer squinted in disregard to Loken’s words. By the end of the story, Melek had sheathed his weapon and peered at Loken with intense consideration.
When Loken finished he sighed heavily and paced to the dying fire. He threw several pieces of dead wood on it and felt the air grow warmer within seconds. Loken did not look back at Melek as he knew he would await his fate by the fire. I will not run any longer. I must trust his judgment, or our clan is doomed, Loken thought. He gently placed his greatsword on the ground. Once the fire had warmed enough, Loken sat on the dirt next to it. He extended his palms hoping to garner some heat to his body which had been lost in the exchange with the shadow. After a few moments Loken vigorously rubbed his arms and was surprised they felt cool to the touch. The sounds of the night had not returned. Only the seldom movement of the horses’ hooves when they changed position in their sleep broke the silence. He scrunched his shoulders closer to his body as he felt pressure from the night and the chill. Wrapping his cloak more tightly to himself, he stared into the fire, pondering the deeds of the recent days.
With no warning a sharp whisper touched Loken’s ears. “You had better be glad I’m here with you. Anyone else from our clan would’ve cut you down without a thought. I almost did so, too. I probably should’ve, you fool. I’ll not hold back again,” Melek stated. His icy words held an air of utter finality.
Loken shuddered, as he knew all the ways Melek could kill a man in almost any circumstance. Loken stood and without a word of hesitation he strode toward the location of the nearly forgotten pot of water. Before he traveled a step, he caught sight of an object lying in the fire. The water in the pot began boiling as he studied the object, then looked to where he had heard Melek speaking a moment ago. Just as he was readying to thank his friend, Loken saw his friend’s large frame lying upon the ground, the steady breaths of deep sleep apparent in the rise and fall of his chest.
“Sleep well, my friend, for you deserve it,” Loken breathed, then moved to help the still-unconscious stranger.
8 — Departure
Saen offered no response to Einar’s curious statement about their Lord Mayor. Einar had waited for some response, but seeing reticence settle upon Saen, he let the matter drop. Einar stepped behind Saen when they arrived at the top of the stairway leading down. Someone’s careful footsteps echoed up the winding wooden stairs, and there was barely enough room for two people to walk abreast. Brightly lit with hanging rune-lamps, Einar smiled as he looked down the stairway and remembered Valen’s eagerness to have them installed upon the Alterator’s arrival many years ago. Seems like a lifetime ago, Einar thought.
Halfway down the stairs, the two friends met Josef. He stood waiting in the hallway leading to the rooms on the second floor. Saen did not stop or even look at the man as she continued down the stairs. Einar casually glanced over and noticed he held a tray balanced in one hand and the other hand lay flat against his side. On the tray, two glasses and one tankard sat near the middle. Einar shifted his gaze to Josef and grimaced when he saw the man’s face pinched with exasperation.
Through pressed lips, Josef asked, “I see you are departing. Should I expect either of you again this day?”
Einar looked at the two glasses of wine and replied, “No, and many apologies, Majordomo. Had I remembered your gracious gift, then I probably would’ve remained with Mayor Kendach to appreciate your efforts.” The words seemed to soften Josef’s expression, and Einar continued, “Perhaps another time?”
“Yes. Well. Perhaps,” Josef replied.
Saen had already passed out of view when Josef reached out to lay a hand on Einar’s arm. Surprised, Einar recoiled backwards against the wall and instantly began scribing in the air between them. All other thoughts fled from his suddenly shocked mind. The light and temperature in the stairway strained fitfully against the force of the rune and Einar’s breath wisped in front of him as the area grew distinctly frigid.
Josef choked before he loudly whispered, “I mean you no harm. Dear gods, don’t harm me.”
The majordomo’s face shrouded with utter terror as his eyes transfixed on the beginnings of a rune. Einar noticed the man retreat backward from the line of light, shut his eyes firmly, and hunch down as if expecting to be struck. Einar ceased scribing as quickly as he had begun. He moved his finger backward along the line, which disappeared when he reached the starting point. The light along the walls regained their previous glow with an intensity which seemingly balanced the fallen rune’s need for energy. Heat returned to the area, but not fast enough for Josef to stop shaking. By the Ancients, Einar thought, I nearly killed the man.
“I’m sorry,” Einar spoke through gritted teeth. “Scribing seems to come without thought, of late.”
He could not tell Josef he could trust very few people anymore, even a servant to his Lord Mayor. Trust remained as a place of solace for those who did not have a Blighter’s eye upon them. He could not tell him that sometimes Alteration came without thought or preparation. It just happened, sometimes as a reaction to a perceived threat. A skill that he had gained years ago in battle. Seein
g that Josef opened his eyes and stare at the space where the line of light had originated, Einar tried to calm him. “Perhaps we can keep this to ourselves, Josef? Valen has enough on his mind without worrying for your sanity? I see—”
“Perhaps your sanity is what we should worry about, Master Amakiir?”
Desperate anguish was plain in Josef’s broken words. Josef shook himself then and seemed to force his eyes to look at something other than the rune’s origin point. He peered down at the tray of drinks and laughed bitterly when he realized not a drop of liquid had spilled.
“I suppose my fear did not completely overwhelm my duties.”
Josef forced another laugh which sounded strange to Einar’s ears. Josef usually did not laugh much, not anymore at least, since his wife and children had all died in their beds. He had been working late that night with Valen. No reason had ever been discovered for why his house had caught fire. Josef did not allow himself any freedom to search out a new wife. A tough shell had formed a barrier, keeping most people at an arm’s length. Einar cursed silently as he saw Josef’s outstretched hand had not been threatening. If anything, the gesture held nothing more than concern.
“I’m sorry for overreacting, Josef. It’s just that my family has fled without any knowledge of their whereabouts. I feel like a runeminer without any source.”
Josef looked up at Einar and sympathy passed over his face. The expression did not reach his eyes, though; unabashed fear still lingered there, and Einar felt guilt languish within his conscience for what he would have done to the man.
“Ah, yes, but even the most desperate of runeminers eventually finds the source if he searches long enough,” Josef said. Extending his free hand, Josef smiled as Einar grabbed it with a strong grip. “I have always believed you to be a good man, Einar Amakiir. May the Originators’ brilliance shine upon your path.” Pulling his hand back, Josef continued, “I must attend to the Lord Mayor. Good day to you.”
He passed by without a glance and Einar moved down to Saen who stood looking out a long single-paned window directly adjacent to the ornately-carved entry door. She pressed both hands gently against the pane, focusing on nothing in particular.
Identical windows, stretching nearly the span of the door itself, flanked the door and as a sign of their quality, neither window held a visible blemish nor blurring. The large front door held simple carved designs of the sun in different motifs. Only two rooms with their plain doors closed and the stairway led from the foyer. On the floor, a rectangular rug, five paces across at its length, covered most of the room. Einar had always enjoyed studying the rug since the maker had obviously designed it for this room. Several dull tints of yellows and oranges in the shape of sunbeams began closest to the front door and brightened as they traveled the length of the masterpiece. Subtle shades of white lined the border to emulate cloudbursts. Even a stranger to the Lord Mayor’s domain would know which path to take to meet with the lord.
Through the windows Einar could make out the first flurries of snow floating straight down. Without turning, Saen asked softly, “Is what you said to Valen true? Do you really think she would be fool enough to travel in this weather?”
“Yes, Saen,” Einar replied, then paused. “Except, she’s only a fool for marrying me. Her judgment after that point is questionable.” The hope that seemed to well up in the presence of their lord had dwindled considerably in the few scant moments since they left the room. Einar’s gaze turned back to the rug, but before his focus on his immediate needs faded, Saen turned on her heel and Einar’s head jerked back to her. Lividness scoured her face.
“Einar Amakiir, no woman would be a fool for marrying you. As long as I have known you, you have been one of the most kind and gentle people that I am proud to call friend. But if you keep talking like this, I’m going to start asking myself why I bother. You must stop—.” She spun back to the window and held her fists, tightly bound, to her side. With her shoulders hunched upward, no more words came out, much to Einar’s chagrin.
Initially shocked, Einar could not move his legs. Ancients, please don’t let me lose her, too. Offer me guidance. Einar uttered the prayer and took a deep breath. He moved his feet forward, despite the feeling they had been staked to the floor. Crossing the short distance to the opposite window from Saen, Einar placed one hand on the window. The glass should not be this cold, yet.
The thought passed in and out his consciousness before he whispered, “Forgive me, Old Friend. Sometimes, a shadow falls over my mind and speaks before I’ve a chance to reign it in. Fortunately, some higher power has seen fit to place you at my side to help me.” Taking his hand from the window, Einar let it fall to his side. “Perhaps, with your help, I can banish that shadow.” Einar turned and saw Saen’s slight, but pleasant smile as she looked out the window. Her eyes, however, did not carry the smile. Instead, they stared into the gray-clouded sky with a tinge of loss.
Glancing back out the window, Einar noticed the flurries’ quick descent. With spring less than a week away the flurries melted upon landing on the warm ground. The fast-moving clouds blocked the sun, but not enough to know the day faded to night. Einar inhaled deeply then moved to the door, and before pulling it open, he said, “Saen, we must leave. I can only alter the weather around us for so long.”
Einar wrapped himself tightly with his well-worn cloak and pulled on the handle. At first, the sudden burst of cold wind threatened to rip the cloak from his grip, but not before he stepped out of the warm room. Einar strode to the town’s supplier of dry goods and did not look to see if Saen followed him. Once out in the cold, the wind dwindled significantly as he made his way to the supplier’s shop since many of the town’s buildings provided some protection from the increasing wind.
The supplier’s business, simply called Jolian’s, stood only five blocks away from the Lord Mayor’s manor. The large wooden two-story building gave off smoke from its only brick chimney. The bay window near the front door gave off no light. Einar stood on the front steps knocking repeatedly before a man’s voice yelled, in not-too-friendly tones from the other side, “What do ya want?” Before waiting for an answer, he continued, “I’m closed for the day. Come back tomorrow.”
Even through the chattering noise behind him and the stifled wind, Einar could hear footsteps leading away from the door. Chattering? he thought curiously. Turning, he peered over his shoulder; Saen stood less than a pace from him. She held herself tightly with both arms, her teeth plainly clicking together between her faint blue lips. All the redness from her face had turned a pale white. It seems that I’m not the only absentminded one, he thought as pulled his thick woolen cloak from his shoulders and placed it around Saen. She smiled at Einar with great appreciation.
Through still-chattering teeth, Saen said, “I didn’t want you to think I wasn’t coming.” Einar smiled even as the chill of the open air gnawed at his exposed flesh. His meager trousers and tunic provided little warmth against the coldness sapping the heat from the land. He pushed the feeling to the back of his mind and reclaimed his spot at the door.
With three heavy slams of his fist, Einar heard rapid footsteps from whomever rushed closer to the door. Again, the voice yelled, “I’m closed!” Loud muttering followed; Einar could not make out the words, but from the tone, he supposed he would rather not hear them anyway.
When Einar thought he heard the footsteps moving away, he yelled loudly, “Good sir! We need provisions from your store—today!” Einar’s breath caught when the door opened as he readied himself to slam his fist against the door a final time.
“By all that’s blessed by a rune, what do you want?” the man before Saen and Einar shouted in exasperated tones. The man stood with his hands curled into fists at his side with a face shadowed in anger. The hands-length long beard, brown with streaks of silvery-gray, quivered around his curled lips. Anger slowly became shock in his strikingly bright blue eyes at the realization of whom was knocking at his door.
“Jo
lian, it is good to see you, too,” Einar replied, while trying to hold back a chuckle.
One could spot Jolian from across town. His immaculate brown tunic of the finest-spun wool had become a uniform of sorts over the past fifteen years since he first opened his doors for business. A slight chain of rastic around his neck hid whatever it held, but rumor held that the hidden pendant or charm could be an artifact from the Age of Jiir. No one had ever proven the rumor true, though, which just heightened the amount of speculation. The chain alone would fetch enough gold for him to retire and probably give his descendants a lifestyle of plenty. Luckily, no one knows its true nature, thought Einar. At least, no one but me and him. A pair of trousers covered his legs from underneath his tunic the tops of his well-made brown leather boots. The trousers had been made from a rare plant from far in the east, somewhere beyond the Dethle Peaks.
Jolian called it cotton, but despite its strange name he always wore trousers made with the material. Fitting in with the rest of his carefully chosen attire, his beard and long, brown-black hair were neatly trimmed, and not one wisp of hair had escaped from the tie holding the hair behind his back. Only one thing detracted from his otherwise exacting appearance: his right ear had been removed. Not bitten off, by the look of it, but cut cleanly where the ear met his scalp.
Einar continued, “You might be careful around whom you say that.” Seeing confusion had taken the place of the shock, Einar explained, “‘Blessed by a rune.’ Not many people in Sacclon, not to mention Durik’s Pass, would offer their money to you if they heard you saying that.”
The man gulped as Einar spoke. Letting the chuckle escape, Einar said, “Lack of composure isn’t something I thought you suffered from. Old friend, do you think we could come in out of the cold?”
