Chronicles of Galadria II_Encounters

by David Gay-Perret

  Soon, a woman’s voice announced that dinner was ready. Everyone stopped what they were doing, gathering instead around the bonfire, which held a great cooking pot. They pulled out bowls which were soon filled with steaming hot stew. As the subtle aroma reached the nostrils of the young man, his stomach began to torment him. It was too much. He stood up with a bound, determined to get a sample of that meal.

  As soon as he penetrated the circle of wagons, the conversations around him ceased. The ladle that had been about to refill a bowl froze in its place. Everyone stared at him silently. For a moment, the young man hesitated, looking around and feeling ill at ease. Then, with a strong voice, he said, “Good evening. My name is Glaide. I saw your campsite from a ways away, and I wondered... that is, I hoped you would be willing to let me share your meal with you...”

  Before he had the chance to add that he had money, and could pay, they got up with a great deal of noise, crowding around him to shake hands with him and introduce themselves. They offered him a seat on a log between two tall men. A few seconds later, he found a bowl of stew shoved into his hands. He started to eat, delighting in a repast more luxurious than anything he’d been offered in ages. The children began to gather around him, asking what he was doing there and who he was, until finally their mothers came to shoo them away, telling them not to bother the guest. Glaide laughed aloud, but, knowing that they really did want to know more about him, he began to speak.

  “As I said before, my name is Glaide. I came from Adrish to visit the ruins a bit to the west of here. It was as I was leaving them that I saw the light.”

  “Are you speaking of those ruins of a village?” asked an old man with a wrinkled face, whose cheeks and chin disappeared under a white beard of several days’ growth. “The village where nothing remains but the front gate?”

  “Well, yes,” responded the young man, feeling a bit unnerved.

  “We passed by there not long ago. That village was actually razed quite recently, believe me.”

  “Really?” asked Glaide, feigning surprise.

  The man nodded his head. “We’ve been looking for a place to construct a new city. We keep in contact with other groups of nomads from the four corners of the Known Lands. As soon as one of our groups finds what we’re looking for, we’re meant to contact the others and establish a city there. We’ve now been wandering in the west for several weeks, and we discovered those ruins when we passed by for the first time, about two months ago.”

  “And now? Where are you headed now?”

  “There is a place a bit to the north – some plains – that seemed welcoming. We’re planning to head back there.”

  “So why did you circle back over here, when you’d already found what you were looking for?”

  “We built a cemetery for the inhabitants of the destroyed village when we discovered them. We wanted to return to make sure their rest had not been disturbed, before we settled in permanently.”

  “A cemetery...” murmured the young man.

  “That would explain why there were no bodies,” he thought to himself. These people put the population of Rackk to rest in proper graves. I owe them a great deal for that.”

  “Do you think you could take me there?” asked the young man, his voice trembling with emotion.

  “If you would like. It will be on our way.”

  “Thank you. Thank you so much. And on behalf of those that you interred there, thank you...”

  The old man looked surprised. “You knew them?”

  “Yes, to an extent, at least...”

  The old man had enough wisdom not to press the young man. Another man, about forty years old spoke next.

  “So, tell me, what are you up to out here? You don’t look like a merchant.”

  “No, that’s for sure. Actually, I’m more of a warrior.” Glaide took advantage of his cloak, which covered his side, and made his sword appear. Then, he drew it as if he had had it the whole time. An admiring sound from his audience accompanied his gesture.

  “That’s a beautiful blade,” the gypsy said appreciatively.

  “Hey,” spoke up one of the children. “I saw a blade just like that once!”

  “What are you going on about?” asked his father.

  “It’s true! Isn’t it, Halfrida?”

  A small girl nodded quickly. Her young companion pumped the air triumphantly. “I knew it!”

  “Both of you, stop pes...” his mother started. Glaide interrupted her before she could finish.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely!”

  The young man felt his pulse quicken. He knew that the school a protector joined depended greatly on his weapon, which was why the master of the Murockai school possessed a sword so similar to that of Jeremy. Glaide remembered the words spoken by Gryth on the hill near Shinozuka, as he examined his weapon. “I think your sword points much more towards the school of Iretane.” Joy bubbled up in the adolescent, and he couldn’t help but come to a single conclusion: if the child wasn’t lying – and it seemed unlikely that he was – then he had once crossed paths with a man bearing a sword like Glaide’s own. So then, it was entirely possible that that individual was familiar with Iretane...

  “Where? Where did you see that person?” asked the young man quickly. He had to hold himself back from jumping towards the boy to make him speak faster.

  “It was at... Er.... Where was it again? Ummm...” The boy slowly searched his memory, his young forehead wrinkled with the effort of thought.

  “It was in the house at the top of the hill, near the woods,” finished Halfrida, whose memory seemed more intact.

  “The house?”

  “Oh yes,” added one of the women. “I remember now. The plains where we wish to build our village are bordered by a rocky summit to the north, and by a few small woods here and there. Near one of them, a hermit has built himself a home. We came across him once there, and he bought some supplies from us. And now that I think of it, he did have a weapon that looked like yours.”

  “They could almost be twins, actually,” added the old man. “Though I’m no expert on the matter.”

  “What did the man look like?” asked the young man eagerly.

  “Well, he had black hair... quite long. He looked perhaps a bit younger than forty. He wore a brown kimono. He was very polite, very courteous,” commented an older woman.

  “Very handsome, too,” added a younger woman with a laugh.

  Glaide laughed, too. He felt hope rising up in him anew, though he did his best not to let it grow too much. There was still too much conjecture involved, and the more he believed he’d found what he was looking for, the more disappointed he would be if he was wrong.

  “I’d love to meet this hermit,” he said. “For that, though, I would need you all to act as my guide. In exchange, I would be willing to offer protection at the end of my sword.”

  “A trade, then?” asked one of the gypsies.

  “Exactly. A trade.”

  “We will take you to this man, and in exchange, you will protect us from orks along the way.”

  “That is what I’m proposing.”

  The man’s eyebrows rose, and he thought about it for a moment. “It’s a deal,” said the older man, who seemed to be the leader of these gypsies. “Tomorrow we will start by traveling to the cemetery, then we will travel to the plains. If everything goes well, we will reach them by the end of the afternoon, as they are not far off.”

  “Very good.”

  After that, and little by little, the gypsies began to leave the fire and head for their wagons. One wagon was offered to Glaide, but he declined, preferring to stay near the fire. Bit by bit, silence fell on the camp. Finally, the young man could hear nothing but his own breathing. His eyes shifted from the flames before him to the canopy of stars above him. “Was I right to make that deal?” he asked himself. “If we are attacked, I don’t know if I will be able to do much of anything to protect them. No, I shouldn’t look
at things like that. I am capable of defending myself against orks and goblins, if there aren’t too many of them. And in any case, if there is a battle, I won’t have much choice but to fight. Besides which, I have to meet this hermit. He certainly knows something about Iretane...” He breathed deeply a few times, then said aloud the thing that he hoped for so desperately, even if he didn’t want to admit it. “My quest may be nearly at an end. This man could be the master of Iretane.”

  He exhaled.

  He felt as though a huge weight lifted off his shoulders. Refusing to let that thought in had been exhausting. Now, whatever happened, he at least felt hope again. “And how I hope that it will be justified,” he murmured to himself. Glaide wrapped himself up in his cape, leaned against the wagon at his back, and slept.

  Chapter 14

  IT was the sound of the gypsies’ loud cries that awoke the young man the next morning; they were herding the cattle. Glaide took a moment to stretch, letting out a grimace; he had sore muscles everywhere. Then he got up, lending a hand to anyone who needed one. His chance companions proved to be very well organized. All of the animals and wagons were ready to go in less than an hour, then they began traveling by mid-morning. They formed a long caravan, with the men sometimes walking beside their horses, sometimes riding in the wagons. Glaide took advantage of the opportunity, taking a place in one of the wagons, pleased to be able to rest his legs as they traveled. He spoke with the driver of the wagon and some of the other nearby gypsies. As guard for the people, he found himself placed towards the front of the convoy. The back of the convoy was protected by the few gypsies who were able to wield a weapon. However, no one seemed concerned. Perhaps the creatures of Baras weren’t in the habit of attacking large groups? At any rate, that was what Glaide was hoping...

  It took less than an hour before someone yelled that the cemetery was in view. Hearing that, the young man stood up in the wagon, trying to see the place. He found that he could make out mounds of dirt on a gentle slope to the right, nestled into the shade of a few majestic trees. The gypsies advanced a little farther, then stopped to water the animals, and have some refreshments themselves. The adolescent took the time to move into the cemetery.

  The graves were simple, unmarked by stones or decorations. The only sign that anyone was interred there was the disturbed soil, which was already beginning to grow new grass. The gypsies had marked the place simply with a small sign mounted on a post near the road. The sign said, “Here lie the inhabitants of a village in ruins, to the west. May they rest in peace.”

  The young man stared at the writing for a moment, then moved towards the graves. There were many graves, but Glaide doubted that all of the villagers were here. Rackk had been a city of about five hundred inhabitants, but there weren’t five hundred graves. “Perhaps some of them escaped,” he thought with a spark of hope. He noticed two mounds closer to the front and approached them. He felt a hand on his shoulder then. It was the old man who had spoken to him the evening before. Glaide had since learned that this man was the leader, not only of the group of gypsies he was now traveling with, but also of all of the other groups. In a deep voice, he spoke.

  “We did not know the names of these people, so we could not mark their graves. However, among the ruins, we found one man whose armor appeared more richly decorated than the others. He was surrounded by the bodies of many orks. He must have been a warrior without equal. He was also surrounded by soldiers, who had apparently served him as guards. We thought that he might have been the leader of the city.

  “The second grave holds the remains of a second warrior, who was found near some type of fighting school. When we arrived, he was still breathing. Unfortunately, we were not able to save him. He had also created a great deal of carnage among the ranks of the enemies. When he saw us, I remember that he smiled. He tried to speak, and though we tried to get him to save his breath, his last words were meant for his son.”

  “Drekhor, and Uziere,” murmured the young man. He felt his eyes fill with tears. In the middle of the ruins of Rackk, he had not cried, because there had been no one there to mourn. Here, though, he found himself before the remains of two people who had started him on his adventure.

  “Weep, my son,” continued the old man. “Let the tears fall, as we can already see that these men were more to you than simple acquaintances. Let your tears be the mausoleum that they deserve, while my respect may serve as their funeral rites.” With that, the man drew away, leaving Glaide on his own. In contrast with the tears streaming down his cheeks, the face of Glaide remained impassive. He felt sadness reach his heart, but as with everything that had happened in the last two months, none of this felt real. The sole truth that reached him was that he would never again see these men. Death, whether here or on Galadria, remained ever the same: chilling and unrelenting. “Will I be the only one to ever shed tears for these men?” he asked himself. “No one knew that they existed, and yet, they gave their lives amidst that complete indifference.” The reality of that thought swelled his pain.

  After several minutes, he forced himself to look away, and to rejoin the caravan that had slowly begun to move again; he did not want to make them wait. He took his place in the front, settling once more in the wagon. No one spoke to him; the gypsies seemed to understand the emotions filling his mind. At present, he wanted nothing more than to reach the hermit, and, more than anything else, he hoped that this would finally bring an end to his wandering. The sight of the cemetery had made him realize how much time was passing. It had been two weeks since he had left Shinozuka, and it was beginning to seem like a long time, especially since up until then, he had had no information about the man he’d been searching for. He felt weary, and in hindsight, he realized that he had not really measured the consequences of his decision to leave his friends. At that time, he hadn’t really considered that he might have to search for his master indefinitely.

  Now, though, he realized that if this hermit was not the man he was seeking, he would again have to leave for new and unfamiliar destinations. What if that incessant quest took his entire life? No, he couldn’t think about it like that. He would find him. He chased away the dark thoughts and despair with a wave of his hand, determined not to let them cut him down, and instead to take full advantage of every day he spent on Galadria.

  The midday meal was very animated. The children ran about constantly, moving this way and that way, excited at the idea that they would soon have actual homes. The good humor was almost palpable. Everyone, without admitting it, was eager to arrive and begin the necessary work. All of the nomads spoke of the project, and of the shops they would open, the fruits and vegetables they would grow, and the many other things they would do. Glaide watched the activity. Their joy was contagious, and soon he couldn’t help but wear a big smile.

  One thing surprised the young man: before they continued on the way, his hosts said a long prayer in honor of Aras. The young man listened intently. They thanked the god for their safe journey, for having provided them with food throughout their travels, and they asked him to continue to watch over them and the village that they were going to build. Glaide was stunned; humans typically spoke little of Aras. The name of his brother was on the lips of everyone, but the God of Good, as some called him, had appeared forgotten. The dwarves had mentioned him with much respect, as they worshipped him still, but that had not seemed to be the case with humans. As he thought back, the adolescent had to admit that he had seen no place of worship in any of the cities he had traveled through.

  No one really seemed to believe in Aras. “At the same time, though,” he thought, “how can anyone really blame them? Who would believe in a god who has done nothing for those who follow him, while his brother has incarnated himself, and sows death everywhere? But why has that happened, then, and how? Is it really possible that Baras has taken on a physical form? And if so, why hasn’t Aras done the same?” Again, he found questions filling his head, all of them remaining unanswered. Glaide
got down from the wagon and approached the old gypsy who, despite his age, walked next to the convoy.

  “Thank you for what you said earlier, when we were near the graves,” began the young man.

  The older man gave a small smile, then responded, “Don’t thank me. There is a great deal of mystery around you, but I simply wanted to offer you a little aid. We need not speak any further on the subject.”

  Glaide nodded slowly, then said, “Actually, I’ve just realized that I don’t even know your name.”

  “My name is Gelden, and it is I who incited my companions to abandon their nomadic life and to definitively take up residence here.”

  “And why that?” asked the adolescent, astonished.

  “Because the roads are no longer safe. I want our children to live in safety, and I think they will be more secure behind a wall, defended by soldiers, than simply protected by a few wagons and hunters.”

  Glaide nodded. “I have another question. Earlier, you were praying to Aras, weren’t you.”

  “Certainly.”

  “I’ve never actually encountered any humans who have done that. Some have mentioned his name, but none have mentioned a church, or worship service, or even voiced a simple prayer, as you have done.”

  “What you say is true. Aras is a being that men have forgotten. And who can blame them? As we look on the terror inspired by Baras, we cannot understand why his brother does not react. We have long awaited a sign on his part. Let me speak to you of the time of Novak the Liberator. Five hundred years ago, all of the races lived together on Galadria, and as they saw the power that Baras accumulated, they fought together. But before that, for many years, the people of this world waited for a sign, a sign from Aras. In the end, despite their victory, they all felt disillusioned, because the god they worshipped never showed himself. It is strange, but very few people ever made a connection between Aras and the Destroyer.”