The Last Whisper of the Gods Saga: Stories from Ayberia

by James Berardinelli

  A fortnight after his final campaign, with a full coin purse containing his pension and “a little extra” for all his hard work (a rarity for a skinflint like Rangarak), Vagrum was on the road to Ostabel, one of several dozen small, hardy communities nestled in the great forest north of the East-West road. At this time of the year, with Planting about to give way to Summer, it was a lovely place to visit but, as the days grew shorter later in the year, living in Ostabel was more about survival than the enjoyment of life.

  He had known Justine for four years, having met and fallen in love with her when she was 13 and he was more than twice that age. Odd that after all the women he had bedded, including some of the most desirable courtesans of Syre, this waif had been the one to tame him. He’d never understand the workings of the heart, but that’s how the gods intended it. Justine’s relations had forbidden a marriage until after she had reached her Maturity and their wedded bliss had been further delayed for two years to allow Vagrum to finish his contract with Obis. He had made sure to visit her several times each year and, although she was no beauty by conventional standards, Vagrum had never lost interest. Every Winter, he had worried about her. She was physically frail; according to her grandda, that had always been the case.

  This morning, she greeted him as she always did, running barefoot like a hare across the fields to leap at him and wrap her arms and legs around his bulk. He enfolded her in a bear’s hug and planted a chaste kiss on her forehead. She would have none of that and forced his lips down until they met hers. Vagrum glanced around nervously. There didn’t seem to be anyone in sight but one never knew who might be watching in a place like this and laws of conduct for unmarried couples were exceedingly strict even when the two were past Maturity and promised to one another. It was much different here than in any of the big cities. There, fucking was just something that happened like eating, sleeping, and pissing. In isolated places like Ostabel, where sex invariably led to children, it was elevated to sacramental importance.

  There was one task Vagrum had to complete before he could marry Justine: build a house. After all, he couldn’t be expected to move into the cramped quarters she shared with her family nor was it reasonable for her to join him in the musty, drafty chambers he rented from the local innkeeper. Everyone assured him that, for a brute of his immense strength and stamina, that wouldn’t be a problem but he had no idea where to begin. Ever since childhood, when he had grown up in orphanages in Syre and Obis, he had been groomed as a warrior. He could kill a man with almost any weapon and was especially proficient with the sword, the axe, and the longbow. But building a cottage? No task in his life had been more challenging to the big man.

  The first and most important decision was whether to use stone or timber for the structure. Considering the ready availability of the latter, Vagrum opted for it. After all, a vast forest surrounded Ostabel, encroaching on the peaceful hamlet from all sides. He spent the better part of a week felling trees, stripping the trunks of branches and bark, cutting them into logs of manageable size, and hauling the result to the village. It was back-breaking work - far more difficult than the time he had stood alone against a half-dozen bloodthirsty nomads near the fringes of The White World. He hoped Justine appreciated the effort he was putting into providing a place they could call their own, where they could live as a couple and raise their children. From time-to-time, she would watch him work, favoring him with a beatific smile and sometimes planting a kiss on his sweaty, stubbled pate.

  In the end, Justine’s encouragement alone wasn’t quite enough; Vagrum needed help from many of the local village folk, all of whom had more experience with this sort of thing than he did. They were an accommodating, gregarious lot and most just shook their heads good-naturedly when they observed the early beginnings of the warrior’s misbegotten dwelling. However, since they were grateful for his joining the local citizenry - certainly no bandits would think of raiding with such a beast of a man acting as Ostabel’s protector - they were more than happy to help Vagrum make his home one of the biggest cottages around with three rooms instead of the more common one or two.

  A fortnight after arriving in Ostabel, Vagrum was ready to be married. The entire village, population 150, showed up for the event, which provided an excuse for feasting day-long merriment. With her gentle disposition and shy nature, Justine was beloved by everyone and the occasion of her union with the settlement’s new hero was celebrated with the vigor of a high holiday. The Delirious Jester, Ostabel’s sole drinking establishment, offered the first round free and Vagrum further endeared himself to the population by buying the second and third rounds. By the time he took his new bride to bed in the house he had completed only the day before, Vagrum was in high spirits although, because of his bulk, he wasn’t nearly as inebriated as most of his neighbors. It took a lot to make the big man drunk - as many of his old compatriots could attest.

  Life with Justine was a revelation to Vagrum. For most of his three decades, he had been packed into tight quarters with uncouth men and his primary interaction with women had been with those who took his coins in return for some quick action in a rented room or behind a stable (the latter being more common than the former). Justine treated him like her knight and that, as much as anything, was an aphrodisiac. Her looks were plain and her figure was slight but her solicitous attitude enflamed him every night when they went to bed. She was willing to try almost anything as long as it made him happy. For his part, Vagrum was careful with her, recognizing how easily she became winded and how quickly she grew faint. That she loved him was an amazing thing - he had never thought of himself as loveable or, for that matter, especially likeable - but it was no more astonishing than that he reciprocated the emotion with equal fervor.

  Their first two years together were idyllic, marred only by Justine’s occasional bouts of poor health and her inability to conceive a child. They both wanted a daughter; Justine had even used her skills as a seamstress to make some clothing for the little girl who never blossomed in her womb. As the seasons passed without an abatement of her woman’s blood, she became increasingly despondent.

  “I ain’t a proper wife to you,” she despaired one dark Winter’s night as they huddled together under the furs near the healthily blazing flames in the fire pit. “We should have two babes by now. One little boy toddling after you and one little girl suckling my tit.”

  “If the gods will it, it’ll happen.” Vagrum wasn’t sure whether the lack of children should be viewed as a blessing or a curse. It was obvious how Justine felt but he wasn’t so sure. In her condition, caring for a babe would be a trial and, although there was an appeal in some of the duties of a father, he wasn’t sure a man of his volatile temperament was well suited for such a self-effacing role.

  “I must have displeased them. But I can’t think how. My whole life, I ain’t done nothing but helped others. I don’t never think first of me.” Her tears fell in silence but Vagrum noticed them the way he noticed everything about his wife. “Why don’t they favor me?”

  Vagrum considered. In his travels, he had heard rumors, more common now than ever, of the gods turning away from men. The Prelate of Obis had called those who believed such things to be “disillusioned” and “lacking in the true faith” but, curiously, he hadn’t condemned them or threatened them with excommunication. To Vagrum, the high priest’s leniency spoke volumes. Now was not the time to speak of this to Justine, however. She was a simple girl whose faith was one of the cornerstones of her life. While it might explain why the gods hadn’t taken pity on the plight of a faithful daughter, it would distress her greatly. In these dark hours, she needed succor not more pain.

  That Winter, a surprisingly mild one in the North, gave way to a hot Planting and a blistering Summer. By the time Harvest arrived, some folks in the village were opining that they might welcome the cold winds and driving snows. Vagrum thought they should hold their tongues. Dauphin always used to caution that to challenge the weather was to invite so
mething worse. When Winter belatedly arrived, it did so with a vengeance.

  The last itinerant merchant of the year arrived three weeks before Midwinter, bearing tidings both good and ill. “Widow’s Pass is closed. Has been for several weeks now. Word is two-dozen merchants was lost in some kind of avalanche. After that, no one was willing to chance it, least not till the weather improves. I came up by way of Earlford. Weather’s better out there than here. But there’s another rumor you’s may notta heard ’bout. They say a herd of white stag was seen not far from here, mebbe four days snow-walk nor-nor’east.”

  Vagrum’s eyes widened at this. The white stag was one of the rarest of the northern snow creatures. To have a head mounted on one of his walls… People around here were already impressed by his hunting trophies, but how much more would his reputation be enhanced if he could track and kill one of those creatures…

  He thought about it for a full day before making up his mind. Justine’s health - she had been afflicted by a cough for several weeks now, although it didn’t seem to be getting worse - was a source of concern. He didn’t like leaving her alone, especially at this time of the year.

  “If you’d rather I didn’t go…” he offered, although they both knew how she would respond to that. She never denied him anything, especially not when it meant as much to him as this did. Nevertheless, it was a sincere offer.

  “Of course not. I’ll be fine. I’ve lived through damn near 20 Winters up here. ’Nother one ain’t gonna kill me.”

  “You could go stay with your people.” Vagrum had built the house a short distance from the village center. It had seemed like a good idea at the time but, during the cold seasons, he had learned why so many of the houses were clustered together. The half-mile walk - a mere jaunt during Summer - was long and tiring when the snow was waist-deep.

  “Nonsense. I wanna make this a proper home for you to come back to. Wouldn’t do for it to be all cold and drafty. You’re my husband and this is my house. This is where’n I belong.”

  “Still…” Vagrum hesitated. This didn’t sit well with him. “I’ll ask yer brothers to stop by an’ keep you company.” What he meant by that was that he’d ask her family to check in and make sure she was physically okay.

  Recognizing there was little time to lose on this quest, Vagrum packed the things he would need for a two-week journey with the intention of departing at dawn’s first rays on the next day. A part of him would have liked to leave immediately but he wouldn’t get far before twilight and only a fool traveled in the dark this far north at this time of year. The uneven terrain was more dangerous than the predators that roamed it. Most of those would shy away from a blazing campfire but there was no defense against a hidden crevasse.

  Vagrum and Justine made love twice that night - once as they lay down together and another time shortly after midnight when both found sleep elusive. After their second mutual climax, they cuddled together for the long hours until a gradual lightening of the sky heralded the time of Vagrum’s departure. Before leaving, he gave his wife a long, lingering kiss - one that some might have found surprisingly tender for such a big, burly man. “I’ll be back afore Midwinter,” he said. “We’ll spend the holiday together with the head of a white stag on our wall.”

  She smiled, not because the decoration meant anything to her but because she knew how much it meant to Vagrum. Then he was gone and she was alone. Without him, the house suddenly seemed too big.

  For the first couple days, the trek north-northeast was an easy one with milder than normal temperatures and clear skies. That changed on the third day as a stiff breeze started from the west and dark clouds clogged the horizon. Vagrum, who claimed a solid working knowledge of the weather, was surprised by this since most winter storms came in directly from the north. He suspected this one would be warmer and richer in snow than most. He was right in one of those two assumptions.

  The snow began falling shortly after noon. With visibility reduced to less than ten feet, he had to halt travel well before dusk and hunker down under a thickly furred animal skin he carried for such occasions. It kept him warm enough to fend off death by cold and dry enough that he wasn’t soaked to the bone. With the snow falling heavily and the wind blowing a gale, Vagrum was in for a miserable night. Still, his soldier’s training came in handy as he was able to grab a few winks of sleep even in those conditions.

  When dawn arrived, muddy and indistinct, the snowfall had abated but not stopped. There was more on top of Vagrum’s skin than on the ground beneath him. Shaking his covering free of the clinging white matter, he wrapped it around him like a cloak and continued his journey, his pace about a tenth of what it had been on the previous day. Not only did he have to trudge through nearly two feet of fresh powder but he had to tread carefully lest he fall victim to a concealed pitfall that could put an end to more than just his journey. A broken ankle out here in this weather would mean his doom. Walking into a biting wind only made things worse.

  For a day, a night, and another day, Vagrum endured the elements until he was forced to admit that even if he made it to the area where his quarry had been spotted, the poor weather likely would have chased off the white stags. In good conditions, it would have required an extreme stroke of luck to achieve success on such a hunting expedition. After the passage of the unrelenting storm, it was foolish to continue on. So, conceding defeat, he turned around.

  Heading out, it had taken him four days to reach this locale. Adverse travel conditions restricting the ability of his long strides to eat up the leagues more than doubled the time for the return trip. As a result, Vagrum was one day shy of a two week absence when he caught sight of the distant wisps of smoke drifting skyward from the huts and cottages comprising Ostabel. Despite the coldness of the day, the sight brought a flood of warmth. So rarely in his life had the warrior had a place he could rightfully call “home.”

  The first indication that something was amiss came from the lack of activity near his house. The snow lay in an unbroken blanket around the cottage with no footprints to interrupt its pristine beauty. No smoke issued through the vent hole in the roof. As he approached the dwelling with a knot of worry tightening in his chest, he tried to calm himself with the thought that perhaps Justine had seen sense after all with the storm coming and had gone into the village proper to stay with one of her relatives. Deep inside, however, he knew that to be unlikely. She was a stubborn woman and her intention had been to welcome him upon his return. She would view the approach of a storm, no matter how severe, as a nuisance. After all, she had lived through dozens of them.

  She lay cold and still in their bed. Her eyes were closed, her skin pale, her lips blue. Vagrum would never know the truth of the matter but it appeared she had gone to sleep one night and not awoken the next morning. The fire had gone out and the temperature had plummeted. He didn’t know when it had happened but it had at least been several days. No one from the village had checked on her as he had requested although, if she had died in the small hours, it wouldn’t have mattered if they had come the next day.

  In his life, Vagrum had gazed upon many bodies, the majority of them brought to that state by his own hand. He was a hardened man accustomed to the knowledge that all men came to the same state eventually. Justine’s corpse was one of the most placid ones he had seen; her features were serene, showing none of the signs of distress or discomfort Vagrum normally associated with death. But this body was different. Justine wasn’t some nameless, faceless opponent he had hacked to bits in a fight. She was his wife, his lover, the potential mother of his never-to-be children, his whole life… Now she was gone and he felt as if her passing had taken the better part of him along with her.

  His breath streamed white in the cold of his home’s interior as he stood there, trying to process the fullness of his loss. It was his fault. He knew that as surely as he had known any fact of his life. If he hadn’t gone on this fool’s errand, he would have continued to feed the fire that fateful night a
nd warmed her flesh with his own. Assigning blame to others was pointless. The responsibility was his. On the day of their marriage, he had promised to safeguard her against all threats. For her, the cold had always been a more real danger than marauding bandits or wild animals - something he had conveniently ignored in his quest for the glory of a dead stag’s head on his walls. Now he had nothing - no trophy, no wife, and ultimately no home. He knew instinctively he couldn’t spend another night in this abode. Without Justine, this place was anathema. He had built it for her.

  He wanted to weep but the tears wouldn’t come. Warriors were taught never to cry; it showed weakness. Part of his training had been to suppress the desire when it arose. Now, when he badly needed the release, it was beyond him. Grief surged within him but, instead of manifesting itself in tears, it vanished into the growing emptiness building within. Vagrum could feel himself becoming numb and it had nothing to do with the embrace of the icy air.

  He departed without informing anyone, and no one came looking when he consigned Justine’s body to the flames of a large pyre he built beside their home. His last image of her before the flames began their feeding frenzy was one of peace and gentleness, but this shell was a pale echo of the person she had been. It looked like her but it lacked her warmth, her courage, her passion, and, most importantly, her ability to calm him. It was curious that no one from the village came when the dark smoke began to billow but he supposed they were all huddled inside. Come better weather, someone would arrive and discover the house abandoned. The remnants of the pyre would relate all they needed to know. Vagrum didn’t have to be here to tell the story.