by J. G. Cuff
“Thank you Catherine,” Atticus said sincerely, “I just have a few questions to ask.”
Catherine left, holding Marcus' hand, and then she closed the door behind them. Ferran made his way to his seat by the fire. Atticus sat down in the chair beside him and turned his seat to face him.
“Mr. Grayling, thank you for seeing me.”
“The family of an old friend is always welcome. I knew Marcus quite well, may he rest. Now, tell me young man, what brings his grandson calling at my door, twenty years after his death? Hmm?”
“Yes Sir,” Atticus cleared his throat. “I have a question about an old book that I believe belongs to you. It has your name inside the back cover. My boy found it in the chest that you had delivered to my father's house years ago.”
“Did you bring it with you?” Ferran asked, facing the warm firelight.
“Yes, I have it here,”Atticus said, reaching into his coat pocket. He handed the charred book to the old man beside him. Ferran felt the book, turning it over in his hands carefully.
“It is badly burned Atticus. I could smell that when you walked in here.”
“Yes, well...,”Atticus began, and then decided to keep the throwing of the book into the fire to himself.
“Well, aren't you going to tell me what book it is?” asked Ferran, lifting his eyebrows. Atticus felt quite stupid and replied,“Of course. The cover is unmarked and it's written in a strange language; one I've never seen before. There are symbols and drawings of many creatures. Some of them in particular appear to have...white eyes.”
“Ah, this book,” Ferran said as he recalled and rubbed his hand on the soft leather. “I gave this to your grandfather, many years ago. It is written in Quiin.”
“Excuse me?” Atticus thought that he had misheard.
“Kee-in,” Ferran expressed the sound slowly. “It is the language you saw in the book. What can I help you with? Surely you didn't come all this way to show me a bestiary.”
“No, I didn't,” said Atticus. “As I said, I don't know the language and I was hoping you did. There are two drawings, one of a wolf and the other, a raven. They are clearly drawn with large white eyes, and there's a symbol at the back of the book of an eagle's claw holding onto a star.”
At hearing this last part, Ferran leaned forward and raised a tight right fist in the air, hollering dramatically,
“The claw of the beast!” Ferran laughed and fell back into his chair. “Atticus, I have heard that story from your grandfather, and a few others, a hundred times or more. I thank you. I had forgotten how it makes me laugh.”
Atticus did not see the humor and he tried to be polite through his impatience. He considered for a split second, telling the man what he saw when he was younger. Ferran might suddenly take him more seriously. Atticus decided it was best to keep his secret in the dark, at least for now.
“Mr. Grayling, please. I have traveled almost three hours with a five-year-old boy, to hopefully answer a few questions I have.”
Ferran sighed.
“You are a serious man, Mr. Sloane, just like your grandfather was. Forgive me, hmm? I meant no offense. My dear friend Marcus spent many years dreaming of treasure and easy riches while I ground my bones into bits at the inn. It was books like this one here that set him off. I gave that bestiary to him as a novelty only, for his growing collection of absurdities. I never thought he'd adopt it as a...reliable source of knowledge. Now, don't hear me wrong, I don't doubt that there are many lost treasures out there, but I watched my friend give up all he had and then die lonely with practically nothing to leave his family but that old chest.”
“It's alright Mr. Grayling. I didn't mean to be impatient.”
Ferran handed the book back to him.
“Atticus, I can't tell you much about that book, only the few things that Marcus told me. And I only remember those because of how many times he did. Your grandfather knew Quiin, at least well enough to read some of it. He had a remarkable memory that man. The things he could retain...”
“Did my grandfather ever tell you anything about the book?”
“Oh, he believed that it may have been tied to an old legend; one that has been told many times in many different ways. That was always the way with him. His mind would just carry him off into some new obsession or other, and there would be absolutely no turning him back; no reasoning with him. He went on about that book for years. I tried to tell him, stories are written, told and exaggerated all the time. Old books are all full of maps and monsters and of course, riches. That's what makes them stories. I know better than to take much of it very seriously.”
Atticus was puzzled.
“Mr. Grayling, if this old book is just a poorly drawn bestiary, then why do you think my grandfather felt it was so important?”
Ferran reached forward, feeling for the fireplace poker. His hand quickly found it leaning against the stone and he began to shuffle the coals around. He seemed to be able to make out the red glow enough to pile them together under the iron pot. He leaned the poker back against the stone and sat back in his chair.
“Marcus believed that the eight-point star in the symbol represented a compass, and according to him, it is held by a dragon's claw, not an eagle, as you had guessed earlier. As for the nasty white-eyed beasts, they have other names, but the Wataeo have the oldest name for them. They call them Luecrokota. It means dead-watcher. I've heard of them before, but I don't think anyone has ever seen one.”
Atticus sounded out the strange name while he looked down bitterly at the wolf face on the page before him.
“Lue-cro-kota. Where do they come from?”
“I don't know,” replied Ferran, shaking his head slowly, “If ol' Marcus was here, he could tell you.”
Atticus was feeling let down. He knew more about the creatures than Ferran ever would. Any knowledge that his grandfather may have had, obviously died with him. Ferran could feel the young man's disappointment from his silence.
“Atticus, I'm sorry I'm not of more help to you. You have come a long way only to learn that I can't translate the book, and even if I could, my eyes wouldn't allow me to see it. I could tell you the story though. Would you like to hear the story your grandfather told me?” Ferran asked in an attempt to cheer him up and to keep his company a little while longer, “I remember it well. It's a good one.” Lonesomeness was Ferran's worse ailment.
Atticus smiled. If anything, it was warm by the fire and he did love a good story.
“Yes Mr. Grayling, please. I'd like that very much, as long as Catherine's alright keeping Marcus busy.”
“Nonsense,” Ferran remarked, dismissing Atticus' concerns with a wave of his hand. “She'll be fine. She's a broodmare you know; had nine of own little devils. And I love every one of them.”
Atticus laughed and shook his head. The old man stretched in his chair with a yawn and then nodded toward the steaming iron pot hung above the fire.
“I think I would be better to tell the story with a hot tea in my hand, if you don't mind. My back is made of twigs these days.”
Atticus stood and gladly poured the tea carefully into two dark wooden cups that Catherine had set on the mantle, and then he sat back into his seat. Ferran cleared his throat and in a slow and deliberate voice, he began re-telling the story that Marcus Sr. had told him many times before.
“She was once a princess, living in a paradise of warm, healing waters and lush forests that never knew winter. The fabled Auquitine Vale, allegedly destroyed by fire, was long ago, the home of Lady Elassia; the only child and daughter of the White Witch Empress. The empress was supreme ruler and queen of the ancient Dulariun race of Mountain Witches. Their kind was small in numbers, but being born of white magic, they lived long lives, far beyond our own. They were master healers and they had incredible abilities to manipulate nature and the minds of all beasts, great and small.
Many ages ago, a dark time came when a mysterious sickness gripped the people of the Queen's Realm. They c
alled it the Red Sadness. The witches were not affected by the fevers and the bleeding eyes. There were no cures. The deadly illness took the children first, and by the hundreds they perished; their faces stained by tears of blood. When deep graves began to fill outside of the villages, the witches were blamed for not healing the people and for letting so many of the children die.
The Dulariun claimed that they could not fight the sickness, that it was something they had never witnessed before; something beyond their knowledge. They offered their help but they needed more time. As the bodies piled higher, angry whispers and dangerous rumors swept through the land, and the Dulariun were suspected of propagating the sickness themselves—a conspiracy to wipe out man's world and take his place.
The Red Sadness eventually passed, leaving hundreds dead behind it. Entire villages, gone. For several years after, the white witches were hunted, killed and nearly exterminated. Men came in swarms, armies on horses with cold steel and fire, and they brought hell with them.
The paradise that the Dulariun once knew was set ablaze by a thousand torches. Their home was destroyed. In those years, Lady Elassia's true love, a prince from the west, was burned on a stake and her child daughter was drowned; tied and thrown screaming into the cold currents of the North Mead River. The Dulariun princess went mad in her grief and anger. She fled east, deep into the Black Corridor of the Rancorous Mountains.
Elassia was looking for someone;a powerful sorcerer named Nocrimora. After many months of searching the Shadow Lands where nothing lives, she finally found him. He was a devious wizard. Years before, he vanished from the Queen's Realm. The White Witch Empress had cast him out for his forbidden practice of the evil arts. Anyone who had survived his brutal, botched experiments remained hideously deformed or worse. He had often performed sacrifices, killing indiscriminately.”
Farren took a sip of tea with a shaky right hand, cleared his throat and continued the story.
“Lady Elassia told Nocrimora how she wished to punish man for his ignorance. Now, it's true that Lady Elassia was very powerful in her own craft, but she knew nothing of sorcery. Of course, Nocrimora would want something from her in return. He proposed to teach her the true designs of evil and he would give her something that would empower her beyond her dreams, enabling her to slowly tear man's world apart.
In exchange, she would grant him two things. First, she would use her natural abilities over the minds of creatures to help him find and kill a large black water dragon. The elusive beasts were well known for their malevolent nature and noxious blood; making them perfect specimens for all sorts of...pernicious deviltry.
Secondly, she would submit to him one large vessel of her blood. You see, unlike Nocrimora, Princess Elassia was of pure Dulariun lineage. The liquid in her veins, when amalgamated with the dragon's, would allow him to create something very awful indeed; something the world had never before seen. He schemed to create and forge a living weapon, kilned in white fire and black magic. It would take many mistakes and long dark hours, but after more than three years, the weapon was finally ready. However, Nocrimora deceived the hateful princess, and he vanished, taking the weapon with him. He had secretly counseled with a vastly wealthy warlord who bargained to provide him with a king's ship, commandeered by 100 slaves to take him south, across the Crucio Sea, where the lord granted him a castle from the spoils of a previous war. In exchange for escaping the Queen's Realm and living in royal ascent, Nocrimora would deliver to him, a weapon that would grant his armies complete victory over all enemies.
When the cheating sorcerer reached the shores in the dead of night, a mighty ship was waiting for him, just as the warlord had promised. After the landing party of slaves had retrieved him and delivered their new master aboard the ship, they set sail and turned south. And as they did, the large vessel was attacked from below. The decks burst into timbers as a massive water dragon smashed through the hull, tearing the ship in half.
The leviathan roared and turned the sea around them into purgatory. Terrified crew members were thrown screaming into the water, and either drowned, or fed the monster with their flesh. Its teeth were as long as a man. It is said by one slave who survived, that as the crew died in the dark waves, they could hear a woman's voice, howling across the water like an angry wind. The ship sank, along with everything on it, including Nocrimora and his legendary weapon.”
Ferran turned his head toward the fire and then the old man began to laugh.
“Atticus, do you believe it? Your poor grandfather did, at least parts of it. I have added a few bits of my own over the years, for the sake of a good telling.”
Atticus smiled.
“What was the weapon? A sword?”
Ferran thought about his question.
“Some versions of the story have a sword, yes. Others, a scepter, magic fire arrows and a bow of impossible draw weight, even a pair of gauntlets that allow the wearer to break boulders into sand with his fists. Take your pick. I like to leave that detail out and let the mind wander.”
Atticus enjoyed the story, but he was no closer to any real answers.
“Do you know who may have drawn the symbol in the book?”
Ferran shook his head. “No...It would have been long before my time. That little bestiary you have there is very old indeed.” Ferran lifted his eye brows and looked toward Atticus. “If it is indeed a bestiary.”
“What do you mean?” asked Atticus.
“Your grandfather once challenged me that perhaps it's a record of sorts. A personal journal.”
“A journal?”
“Yes, a sorcerer's account of creatures, spells...magical sorts of things.”
“You mean, Nocrimora?”
“Ah, you are brighter than the fire after all Atticus.”
Atticus rolled his eyes and asked,” Mr. Grayling, where did you find the book?”
Ferran huffed in his throat, as if a bitter taste had reached his tongue. “It was handed to me by a one-eyed bastard after I saved his scurvious hide. He took shelter at my inn and nearly cost me my own neck. But that is another story, for another time,”he said reminiscently.
“Scurvious?” Atticus repeated the new word, lowering his brow.
“Yes, young man, scurvious. It is my word, and it means: One-eyed-bastard-who-owed-me-many-coins.”
Atticus chuckled. He was beginning to like the old man.
Ferran rocked himself slightly in his chair and offered some advice.
“Ah, young Atticus. Whatever it is you seek, it is only a drawing in an old book, and the meaning behind it is a legend, and like all legends, they are wonderfully enjoyable to tell, but are all very untrue.”
Atticus nodded, partly agreeing. He stood from his chair and politely thanked the gentleman for his time. And then he realized that he still had one more question to ask.
“Mr. Grayling, before I leave, there is one last thing I wanted to ask you about.”
Atticus flipped through the pages quickly to the back of the book while he talked.
“There are four words written here, underneath the star...yes, here it is. Ilia Kara, Ilia Kuhn. Does that mean anything to you?”
“Hmm,” Ferran replied, squinting in thought. “The words don't make any sense to me.”
Atticus pressed him.
“Can you guess at it?”
“I don't know, Atticus. Perhaps it is a name for something or a place. I've never heard it before, and if I have, well than I've clearly forgotten.”
Atticus closed the book and shoved it back into his coat pocket.
“Very well, I'll be off now for a warm supper with your nephew Harold at the inn. Would you like to have the book back? I could leave it here with you.”
Ferran looked up at Atticus from his chair with a smile.
“No, no, take it with you. You can use it to tell your own stories.”
“Thank you again for your time Mr. Grayling. I enjoyed your company.”
“And I yours. You're welcome back
anytime young man. Don't be a stranger. As you can see, time is no longer my friend.”
As he left the doorway of the old mill to fetch Marcus outside, Atticus decided right then that he would take Marcus to stay with Darius and Aunna for a night, and then he would meet with a trusted friend from Otium. Then, the two men could find the old stone road in the Buckskin and retrieve the box, sharing whatever wealth they gained from selling its contents. Atticus remembered how he had barely fit into the cavern when he was a child, and he was already making a list of supplies in his head, such as pick-axes and shovels.
If it's still there...
After learning that his grandfather had believed in something so passionately and that he had lived for such adventure, sparked a sense of pride and purpose in Atticus; something that he had lost somewhere in the sad years behind him. He was tired of being afraid. Atticus did not believe in legends, but someone had tried to keep that box a secret. Perhaps it was filled with jewels, or like Ferran had said in his story, it may be an old weapon.
He could sell it to a collector. Any antiquities, especially tied to legends, would fetch a high price. He could sell it with the book and up the value. He and Marcus could certainly use a few extra coins in the coming year. This time, he would go back to the Void with another very capable man. Well-armed and on horseback, not even a whole pack of wolves would dare offend them. Not two grown men with blades, bows and horses.
REBORN
10
T 6 feet 11 inches tall, and weighing over 330 pounds, John Bruin was a giant of a man. He awoke lying on his back to the sound of a strange ‘tinging’ all around him. He tried to open his eyes and could not. Tap, tap, tap... They were sealed shut by a thick crust of dried blood that nearly covered his entire face.
His mind attempted to move his body, but it was as though his muscles had all been removed. Tap, tap... He strained the skin on his forehead, struggling to separate his eyelids. Finally, the hardened crust gave way to gray light. The pain was instant; stabbing deep behind his pupils. A large raven was standing on his helm, trying to peck his eyes out through the two rectangular slots in his steel visor. The strong, black beak had only touched the surface of his skin. The real pain had come from the light. Tap, tap, tap.
