by Samit Basu
‘As who?’ asked Asvin.
Gaam realized he had said the last sentence out loud.
‘The Seven Heroes of Humans in the Age of Terror,’ he said. ‘Have you never heard of them?’
‘No.’
‘The band of heroes from all over the world who joined hands against Danh-Gem and won many battles? Remember?’
‘No.’
‘You must at least have heard of Anik of Avranti and Queen Raka of Durg.’
Finally Asvin’s face lit up. ‘Who has not? The greatest warriors in the world at the time, they single-handedly annihilated an entire Skuan army, and slew the notorious…’
‘Hmph. Never mind,’ said Gaam. ‘I know about them, and there were five more heroes in their league, from Xi’en, Kol, Psomedea, Elaken and Ventelot. They were indeed the greatest of the mortals who fought Danh-Gem. The incident to which you allude is the storming of the dragon-citadel of Wurm in southern Skuanmark.’
‘I thought it was just the two of them,’ said Asvin sadly, for of course seven people defeating an army and conquering a city is far less impressive than two people defeating an army and conquering a city. Three and a half times less impressive, in fact.
‘It was not just the two of them,’ said Gaam, looking annoyed. ‘It was not just the seven of them, either. It was the Chronicler, just like it always is.’
‘The Chronicler? Who or what is that?’
‘The Chapter of Chroniclers is a society in Kol that very few people in the word have heard of. Yet the deeds of the members of the Chapter would fill several books, and cause most of the epics of the world to be thrown away.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Well, that is possibly because I haven’t explained yet. Many of the tales of quests you have heard about, Asvin, are entirely untrue. Because it is not he who kills the dragon but he who returns with its head that gets to tell the tale of its slaying.’
‘What?’
‘Sit down, Asvin, and listen to me.’
It was still morning, and birds were singing in the trees. On a little muddy patch to his right, Asvin saw the trail of paw-prints and goat-droppings that meant Nimbupani had been there recently. Gaam cleared his throat and began.
‘I understand your confusion. This is not something you are unaware of because of your Avrantic upbringing – it is a secret shared by very few people, a secret I am sharing with you simply because you may be Simoqin’s hero, and I will be your Chronicler.
‘Some heroes do all the things the epics speak of. They go out into the wilds alone, suffer bitter hardships and return after completing their quests. These men are brave and hardy, true, but the tales they tell are not very inspiring ones. Most of these men do not have a flair for story-telling, and speak most fondly of food found in unexpected places. Long ago, in the times when the great Ossus was alive, a certain knight of Ventelot had a bright idea – he asked his page to note down everything he did on the quest, so that when he returned, the world might know of his deeds. The page did so, and later, when the knight read the sordid story of robbery, murder and duplicity that was the true tale of his journey to slay a dragon, he was enraged and threatened to put his page to the sword.
‘The page pleaded for his life and then changed the story completely, putting in distressed damsels, plundering dragons and many-headed ogres. The knight returned to Ventelot with gold he had stolen from a band of sleeping bandits and was rewarded with the hand of an extremely ugly princess, who was of course ravishingly beautiful in the tale.
‘The page came to Kol, which was then a growing city known only for the University of Enki – the Heart of Magic came to the city much later, in the Age of Terror – and founded the Chapter of Chroniclers. Because of Kol’s central location, it was convenient for most heroes to travel to Kol and get a good Chronicler before setting off on their quests.
‘The chroniclers were the pages, squires, charioteers, mahouts and servants that no worthwhile legend speaks of, except perhaps as monster-food before the hero slays whatever or whoever he or she had set out to slay. They carried food, clothes, weapons and all the other things the heroes needed – and a lot of these heroes were princes and aristocrats who even in the wild, demanded the comforts of their airy kennels. The Chroniclers wrote the tales of the hero’s quests and gave them to the great poets, who wrote the epics the world is so fond of. Of course, the Chroniclers maintained secret accounts of the truth, which are still preserved in the Chapter of Chronicler’s chambers in Kol. They make hilarious if occasionally sad reading.
‘And sometimes, Asvin, the real heroes aren’t the ones who appear in the portraits, or the ones who go to receive rewards from the king concerned. The Beast of Ukun was slain by an evil-smelling one-eyed hunchback, not by Hewgo the Handsome. Some monsters are slain by accident. A blind old woman dropped a chicken on the head of the Basilisk of the Remorseless Taiga. Yet the legends sing otherwise. Here, again, the hand of the Chronicler is revealed.
‘Of course, some heroes were all that they were made out to be, and the Seven Heroes of the Humans were mostly as brave and mighty as the tales make them. But the truth about the storming of Wurm is that their Chronicler crept into the dragon-pen in the dead of night and put rotten mangoes in the dragon-food. In the morning, when the Skuan army were getting ready to charge at and mow down the Seven Heroes, who were standing outside the city, just out of bowshot, making rude gestures with their weapons, all the dragons had severe indigestion. Not unnaturally, this was too much for their fiery tempers and they ate the army. The Chroniclers, however, speak of the Heroes slaying each and every Skuan who charged at them at dawn.
‘You might ask why the Chroniclers, if they are so bold and brave, did not claim to be heroes themselves. It is not that the Chroniclers minded the anonymity – they were often well paid and they didn’t want the fame, which always made impoverished family members and obsessed, swooning damsels appear out of thin air. They loved the adventure, the travel involved and the feeling of actually making history – making it up, as it were.’
‘So all the legends are lies?’ asked Asvin, shattered.
‘Not at all. A lot of them are true. Besides, there are thousands of heroes whose deeds are not recorded. There might be a hundred Ossuses in the world, unknown, unsung. They did not have Chroniclers and were too shy or modest to brag afterwards. And there were some heroes who acknowledged the help they got from their Chroniclers, and the legends speak of every servant that went on the quests with them.
‘But some of the legends are false. So many dragons have died, out of old age, indigestion or sheer boredom, and knights have come to empty caves, stuck swords in the corpses and posed for the portraits. And what of the heroes who are slain? No one sings about them. At most, there is the line in the epic that talks about the hundreds the monster has slain. That one of those hundreds might have removed a leg, a wing or even a head before dying is never mentioned. Remember, Asvin, many heroes may venture forth on the quest, but only one finishes it, and his is the tale that is told. I do not present this to you as new information. Many have thought about it, many have even written about it. But by the accident of your birth, the circumstances of your education and the beauty of your surroundings, you have have been trained to not look behind the curtain. It is my duty to change this.
‘So if you ever feel inadequate, and think you can never measure up to the heroes of the past, despair not! For I will be your Chronicler, and if you so wish, I will make you the greatest hero that ever walked the face of this earth.’
Asvin looked at him. ‘Thank you, wise Gaam,’ he said. ‘But I think I would like the truth told. Whether I am the hero or not, whether I succeed or fail, you need not lie about me.’
‘You pass the test,’ said Gaam, smiling, ‘but do not say this yet. All the worlds’ greatest heroes react similarly when they first hear about the Chroniclers. The truth is always told – it is told in the annals of the Chapter of Chroniclers. But people need
more than truth from a legend.
‘People need to believe in their heroes, to have something to look up to, some ideal to strive towards. If our heroes were not great and noble, fearless and bold, we would lose hope. Sometimes the truth is not what people need to know. There are many who would have left their homes and run at the slightest whisper of a rumour of an approaching monster, if they had not known that the dashing hero from a strange land, clad in shining armour, was waiting in their village, and that he would slay the monster, as he had slain so many before. They did not need to know that the hero was probably wishing he could run away as well, or perhaps that the monster was dying anyway and had made a secret pact with the hero so that its children would be looked after.
‘Hope is important, Asvin. And whatever else heroes do, they bring hope to thousands. It is a precious gift, and one the Chroniclers are happy to give.
‘Therefore do not insist that I write the truth. Instead, be brave and fearless, so that the legend I write is the truth. Nothing pleases a Chronicler more than having to write only one account of an adventure.’
‘But what do the Chroniclers do now?’ asked Asvin.
‘The Chapter of Chroniclers now operates under the aegis of the Hero School in Kol. They write reports on the love lives of royal families, accounts of archeological expeditions and mining surveys, but most of their money comes from making accounting tables. Thus they preserve their ancient skills, for all these are, again, mostly fictitious.’
‘What was it like, teaching in Hero School?’ asked Asvin. ‘It must have been very thrilling.’
Gaam shuddered.
‘Thank your stars you never fell under its evil influence,’ he said. ‘You would have learnt nothing there except the art of cloaking the meaning of whatever you say with high-sounding words. You would have returned to your country with ridiculous ideas about ‘modern methods of administration’ and proceeded to ruin your nation’s economy, turning Avranti into another warehouse for the merchant-guilds of Kol. And if your country did not want you back, you would have been picked up by explorers and sent to Artaxerxia, and you would have crossed the desert of Al-ugobi and helped them conquer more lands in the west.’
As the sun grew high in the sky and the shadows of the trees shortened, Gaam began to tell Asvin about the world he lived in, about the ice-wastes and cold forests of northern Skuanmark, where he had saved Queeen from a pack of ravening wolves, of the great ocean to the east of Avranti, of the mysterious land of Xi’en, where all outsiders, good or bad, were not really welcome. No one knew how large Xi’en was, for they would not show their maps to the world and their warships scared explorers away. Gaam spoke of Xi’en in a voice full of wistful longing, because that strange eastern land fascinated him, with its ancient customs, skilled warriors, wise monks and beautiful, intricate works of art.
As noon turned to afternoon, he told Asvin of Kristo Nalegamo, the Olivyan explorer who claimed to have sailed all around the world, sailing around the tip of the Ekera peninsula, the southernmost point of Elaken, where one could actually see the Vertical Sea. Nalegamo had claimed that there were huge uninhabited plains and great forests to the west of the Great Desert, full of strange beasts and pygmies. But no one had believed him, because he had no proof that he had actually made the great journey, and everyone knew the seas were impassable and full of giant serpents.
Asvin listened, wonderstruck, and in his heart was born that very day a fierce, wild desire to see the whole world, to see the great white bears trudging across the ice-wastes in the north and sail to the very edge of the Vertical Sea.
Chapter Two
The servants of Danh-Gem will find you, Kirin, you will not even have to look for them, they will hunt you.
Kirin shuddered. He wondered what mysterious monster would seek him out, in this ancient forest. But he hoped that whatever it was, it would come soon. A week had passed, and he was bored.
He came out of the cave, and watched the sun shine through the leaves. The sound of the nearby brook seemed louder now. It had rained a few days before, not the miserable, thin, grey rain that fell on Kol in spring but well-fed, fat rain, when each drop landed with a splat. Rain with personality. The ground was fresh and muddy, and the smell of rejuvenated leaves was in the air. It was good that they were not traveling now. Any fool could have followed their tracks.
He walked towards the pool, near the little waterfall, and stayed there for a while, watching a passing toad looking for flies. He was very comfortable in the forest. He thought of Maya, and how she would have been chafing in a similar situation, and smiled. How peaceful the Centaur Forests were. How long would it last?
He walked back to the cave, kicking a little pebble ahead of him. From time to time, he would point towards it and pull with his mind, feeling slightly surprised every time it flew up to his hand. He tried holding it in mid-air, but couldn’t for long. He needed practice.
He was crouching to enter the cave when he felt it first.
It was nothing much, nothing alarming, just a sudden feeling of alertness, with a hint of fear, as if danger was close, but not very close. Probably his new heightened senses; it would take some time before he grew used to them. Food tasted so much richer now, especially fruits. Even water somehow had a subtle taste, fresher and more invigorating than he remembered.
But now was not the time to think about food. Now was the time to wonder whether he was being hunted.
Kirin turned around, his back to the cave, and looked around quickly, scanning the little clearing near the mouth of the cave with his sharp eyes. Nothing.
But he knew he was being watched. Watched by an expert woodsman.
Or a predator.
The feeling of danger grew stronger.
Should he call Spikes? He was sleeping in the cave, but he was a very light sleeper…
At times like this, he found himself wishing he carried a weapon. It seemed so stupid somehow, being alone and unarmed in the wild.
Then he felt the movement. It was a very slight movement, a horsetail swishing to scare away an adventurous fly. It was a centaur.
‘Red Pearl?’ he called, ‘is it you? Come out!’ He felt movement behind him, and knew that Spikes had opened his eyes. Good.
There was a sound of hooves stomping over mud, and Red Pearl emerged, a little distance to his left. Her arm was no longer bandaged, and she carried her bow. In her other hand, she held an arrow.
‘I came out from behind this tree because I trust you, Kirin, and I know you won’t do anything foolish,’ she said, but he sensed wariness in her voice. Of course she didn’t trust him, she was negotiating, why should she trust him, he had run away with Spikes…why had they let him travel with them in the first place? Did they know something? Did they suspect anything?
He looked at her and tried to think of something to say.
‘How long have you known I was here?’ he asked.
‘I have been watching you for three days now,’ she said. ‘But how did you know I was here? I made no noise.’
Three days? That didn’t make sense. But he had felt her presence, that sudden chilling feeling that he was in danger. He had felt it just now, not three days ago. Or had she come closer today? Was there a specific radius within which his senses were heightened?
‘Well, now that you’ve discovered my presence and we’re out in the open, perhaps you might consider telling me what on earth the two of you are doing,’ she said icily.
Spikes came out of the cave. Kirin felt a sudden thrill of danger again. What was this? Red Pearl wasn’t going to fight them, was she?
Was she?
‘You stay in that cave,’ she told Spikes. ‘I’m talking to Kirin.’
Spikes didn’t move. He looked at Kirin. Kirin looked at Red Pearl, who had moved back a little. Her bow was dangling loosely, but he saw the tension in her arms. She seemed to be measuring the distance between herself and Spikes.
Kirin nodded, and Spikes took a few steps
back, disappearing in the shadows of the cave. Kirin could see only his eyes gleaming in the shadows.
‘Why did you run away, Kirin?’ asked Red Pearl sternly.
‘I don’t remember taking an oath to stay with you,’ replied Kirin, his mind discarding one fabrication after another. There was no point making up a story. She would see through it.
‘Don’t play games with me, boy. I am not a patient person.’
‘Put that bow away. I mean you no harm at all.’
‘Why did you run away, Kirin? Why did you come with us in the first place? Who is Spikes, really?’
‘Why do you need to know? We could leave the Centaur Forests, if you’re worried about your kinfolk. Don’t follow us, Red Pearl. I cannot tell you why we left. You must believe me. I am on a…well, a quest of a kind. But I am on your side, on the Silver Phalanx’s side… trust me. You said you trusted me.’
‘What is it? What is your quest, and how is Spikes involved? You must tell me.’
‘It is something I have to do. I cannot tell you, Red Pearl. Believe me, I would if I could. But I cannot.’
‘Very well. If this were a standard assignment I would have shot you both by now, but there is something different about you, Kirin. Let me come with you.’
‘No. I cannot do that. It will be dangerous.’
‘Dangerous?’ she laughed.
‘Please, Red Pearl. Go away. Let us be. We are trying to help.’
The feeling of danger suddenly grew, sharply. Something was very wrong…
There was a very faint rustling sound.
‘So you won’t tell me what you are doing, you won’t let me come with you, and you ask me to trust you,’ said Red Pearl grimly. ‘I’m afraid that’s impossible.’
