by B R Crichton
‘The Granger’s Rest.’
“Granger,” he said. “My name is Granger.”
They walked in silence a little further, while Granger let the name settle on his mind and the boy eyed him expectantly.
“Where are we going, Granger?”
“To a safe place, Kellan.” he replied.
“Is it far?”
“Perhaps seven or eight days’ travel. Near to the place we are going we will leave the road and need to spend a few nights outside. Can you do that?”
“Yes. I slept in the woods one night with pa when…” he trailed off.
Granger squeezed his hand reassuringly, not knowing what to say.
After another silence, Kellan asked, “What is it like, this place we are going to?”
“Do you like trees, Kellan?” he replied.
Kellan had been having a terrible dream.
He had been pulled from the icy river and dumped at the water’s edge where he was sure he would freeze to death. The dream had him bouncing along on the back of a cart, then surrounded by concerned adult faces, all leaning over him and speaking at him. There had been children playing all around him, and Kellan had just waited to wake up.
Then he awoke. A man had come to see him and it was the same one who had pulled him from the river. He did not recognise the face but he had known that this was the man who had saved him. Known it beyond a doubt.
They travelled along the road to the next village. Kellan never noticed its name, he was so tired. Granger held a short discussion with an innkeeper, and Kellan found himself fed and in a small room with two pallets for sleeping on. He collapsed gratefully onto the lumpy mattress and fell fast asleep.
Sometime later, Kellan woke. He had been roused by the sound of laughter through the thin timber walls of the inn. He got up, rubbing his eyes, and with a wide yawn, opened the door to his room wearing only his small clothes. The noise immediately got louder. More laughter, and now he could hear Granger’s voice through the din. He reached the top of the stairs and peered down into the common room.
Granger was wandering about the room, telling a story and acting out the parts of every character to the amusement of everyone present. They booed when he swaggered and laughed when he minced about holding imaginary skirts. They even whistled when he lifted a trouser leg exposing his ankle. Adults were strange.
He went back to bed and covered his head with the pillow from the other pallet, and soon he was asleep again.
The next morning, over breakfast, Granger explained that he was a Storyteller. He told Kellan that innkeepers would feed them and let them stay for free, so long as Granger kept the beer taps flowing. It struck Kellan that being a Storyteller must be the best job in the world.
“Will you teach me to be a Storyteller, too?” he asked excitedly.
“We’ll see about that.” Granger laughed.
“How many stories do you know?”
“Well now,” Granger replied, “I couldn’t honestly say.”
“Fifty? A hundred?” He screwed his face up. “What comes after a hundred?”
Granger laughed, “Well, I think I know a fair few more than a hundred. Let’s just leave it at that.”
“Wow,” said Kellan through a mouthful of thickly buttered bread.
A few days later they struck off the main track and headed north, towards the forbidding peaks of the Greater Cascus Mountains. The track they followed picked its way around jagged outcrops, and over icy streams that giggled excitedly on stony beds, eager for the warmth of the lands below. They passed a great ruin, the flagstones of which had been shattered by the action of tenacious weeds, and saplings forcing their way into the foundations and growing to full size. The walls were a collection of block shaped boulders, some bearing the barely decipherable marks of carvings in the surface. A faceless statue, twice as tall as a man, lay shattered on the rutted ground.
“What was this building?” Kellan asked, never having seen the like. It was easy to see that the place had once been vast.
“A place from a different age, my boy,” Granger replied.
“Who built it?” he asked, wide eyed.
“Just ordinary folk, like us.”
“Why?”
“No doubt the people here had their reasons,” Granger said with a mysterious smile.
Kellan did not look satisfied with the answer, but shrugged his skinny shoulders anyway.
“It must have been the biggest building in the world,” he said in wonder. “Was it?”
“Not quite.” Granger laughed. “There are others, scattered around the world, but most have been stripped of their stonework for new buildings or have simply been weathered away over time. You see how the plants have broken the floor up the way they have? The rain wears away the detail too. Look at the statue. Nothing lasts forever. Very few of these places are left that can be recognised as even having had a building on them. No-one here can remember why they were built. Or when.”
He knew though. Granger knew well the name of the long dead God who had been worshipped here. A name lost to this world.
Granger steered the boy away from the ruin and onwards to their destination.
They were following the course of one of the White River’s tributaries. The landscape changed as they climbed steadily; the broadleaved trees gave way to pine and scrub, and the soil became poorer and more gritty. Granger was impressed with the boy’s stamina. His small, wiry frame contained more energy than he thought possible. The boy ate like a horse though, and Granger rationed his own food to make sure they had enough for the journey.
Granger had been practising with his flint, and managed to light a half decent fire to warm them and allow him to cook in the small iron pot he had bought. They lay in the glow of the crackling fire after a meal of dried meat and cheese, with a thin vegetable soup to wash it down. He was proud of that, his first real attempt at cooking. Perhaps a little bland, but next time he would experiment with some herbs to spice up the few vegetables available. Kellan lay on the opposite side of the fire, curled up on his side with his back to the warming glow while Granger tidied the cooking utensils.
“Why did you leave me?” Kellan asked, not moving or rolling over to make eye contact.
Granger was taken aback for a few moments. He froze as his mind reeled from the new emotion that assailed him. Guilt.
“What do you mean?”
“At the river, after you saved me. Why did you leave me?”
Granger sighed, and put the utensils down softly. “Kellan, there are things that I will need to explain to you one day that you cannot possibly understand right now.”
“Like what?”
As hard as he tried, Granger could not come up with a reason for leaving the boy like he had. At the time he had withdrawn in shock. The child was just another mortal in a long line of mortals. They lived, they died, and he told their stories if they were worthy. Lying here now, with that boy on the other side of the fire he could not think of a single justification for any of it.
“I was afraid,” Granger said at last.
“Oh,” said Kellan. “Me too.”
Those two words were like a knife twisting in his chest. He had abandoned the boy, terrified and alone. What kind of man did such a thing?
Granger did not sleep well that night. What kind of a man had he been before? How could he have watched so many deaths without trying to help even the most deserving? Perhaps his mortal brain was a weakness, filling his mind with these horrible memories and feelings of guilt. Perhaps he should have let the boy die. He would still be an Emissary then. Immortal, without the pain and fatigue, the remorse and regret that seemed to plague these fragile beings.
But then he would never have experienced the minor joy of quenching a thirst after a long day on the dusty road. He would never have eaten when his stomach was twisted with hunger, gratefully gulping down hunks of bread dipped in chunky stew. He would not have known the muscle-easing bliss of resting one’
s body at the end of the day’s toil.
He would never have known the heavy burden of responsibility that this boy brought with him, and would never have known that he would give everything he had left not to give it up.
He had only known Kellan for a few days, but already knew that what he must now be feeling was merely a shadow of a father’s love, and that it was growing by the day. They were tied by Fate; bound by the same power that drew them together, and he would fight to his last breath to keep Kellan from harm.
He swore to himself that he would never abandon him again.
Chapter Five
Kellan woke slowly, his mind surfacing into consciousness with a sluggishness he savoured. He could feel a cool breeze blowing across him, and the air was heavy with the smell of brine. Hadaiti; of course. It was daylight, his eyelids allowed him that much, and he was on a soft bed. He tried to move after enjoying the stillness, and was met with stiffness and pain. A wave of nausea made his head spin.
“Easy, boy.” He knew that voice. Trusted the speaker as he trusted himself. “Take it easy.”
“Either I have been in a fight,” he mumbled through cracked lips, “or I have been eating your cooking again.”
He felt a cup being pressed to his lips and his head being lifted gently from the pillow. He drank the water eagerly, and then tried to sit up to enable him to drink better.
“Steady, you are not strong enough yet.”
He lay back down and opened his eyes. They resisted at first, gummed up as they were. “How long have I been asleep?”
“Three days,” said Granger, “I thought I’d lost you, boy. Again.”
Kellan heard the man’s voice catch in his throat and turned to see him.
“We did it, Granger,” he said.
Granger shrugged. “Only just, Kellan. Fate smiled on us that day, but we could have lost so much more than a battle.”
“I am sorry,” he replied.
“You said you were in control.”
“I was in control,” Kellan said defensively, wincing as the quick movement he attempted pulled at his wounds. “I can’t explain it, you know that.”
Granger patted him on the shoulder. “Rest awhile, I will let Elan know you are awake. He has been worried.”
“Was I really so close to death?” he asked.
“Why do you think you have a room to yourself?” Granger replied. “You were certainly not the only casualty.”
“And it was you who stayed at my side. In case…” he left the rest unsaid.
“I stayed at your side because you are like a son to me.”
“And the Daemon?”
“I could not in good conscience allow it to pass to anyone else.” Granger replied without making eye contact.
He walked out and left the young man lying on the bed. Kellan sat up stiffly, and swung his legs over the side of the mattress. He lifted his nightshirt, examining the bruises and cuts he had sustained in the battle; none were serious, but together they were enough to have caused a lot of blood loss. He stood gingerly and tottered over to the window. The view was glorious, overlooking the sea from the Palace itself. Fishing boats bobbed lazily on the green undulating waters, and gulls circled above to steal from the nets. It looked to be early morning from the angle of the sun.
He glanced around as he suddenly became aware of an urge. A bed pan had been placed on a chair, so he lifted his nightshirt and set about emptying his bladder.
“Always pissing about, that Kellan Aemoran.” The voice from the door behind him was unmistakably that of the mercenary, Foley Padar.
“I would teach you a lesson in manners, Foley, but I have my hands full at the moment,” he replied.
“Please,” Foley mocked, “who do you think you are? Me?”
Kellan finished urinating and turned to the mercenary, who walked towards him.
“Forgive me if I don’t shake your hand, Kellan,” he said, and embraced him.
“Steady,” Kellan winced, “I am feeling a little delicate this morning. It must have been a memorable party.”
“The best,” he replied. “Thought we’d lost you though.”
“Well, he can’t keep up with the big boys,” Elan said as he strode into the room.
“Elan.” Kellan sighed on seeing his old friend. “Thank Fate you are well.”
The jade-skinned man embraced him too, eliciting more gasps of pain. Kellan returned to the safety of the bed.
“Think I need to lie down again,” he said, reclining gratefully. “With friends like you, who needs the Heavy Infantry?”
“We bloodied their noses, Kellan,” Foley said eagerly, as though he scarcely believed it still.
“We really did it,” Kellan said to his grinning friends.
He shook his head, not sure how to feel. Hitting back at the Empire was what he had lived to do for so long now he wasn’t sure how to fill the void. Dashiya had been the inevitable, final confrontation between the Korathean Empire and the last free people on the continent. He had felt them rushing onwards, towards this one great event for what felt like a lifetime, and now that it had passed, he was bereft. There would always be Koratheans to fight, but that battle was the culmination of years of harrying and sniping, and it would be the one history remembered. Not the skirmishes to come.
He had only the vaguest of memories of the battle, fleeting images that did not feel like his own, as if he had witnessed them through another’s eyes or heard the stories and imagined himself into them.
His body told the truth of it, though.
The evening of the following day, Kellan ventured out into the Palace. It was lavishly decorated with ornate pottery and intricate tapestries. Huge frescoes depicting great events in Dashiya’s history covered vast expanses of wall, and Kellan found himself wondering if this past battle would find its way onto a wall somewhere in the Palace. The Dashiyan Kingdom was a hub for trade between continents, and shrewder businessmen could not be found anywhere; this Palace was the proof of that. A nation with no great military prowess, and few natural resources to speak of had needed to create a niche for itself in the world. That niche had been traded for, and more than likely, they had bought it at a cut down price.
The smooth, polished granite floors sucked the heat from the air, and coupled with the wide windows and high vaulted ceilings, the Palace of Hadaiti was on the cooler side of comfortable for such a hot climate.
He heard Scurrilous Blunt before he saw the mercenary leader.
“…would sooner offer to kiss his knackers better, than admit he had made a mistake.” The room erupted with laughter. No doubt he was telling one of his stories again. Blunt seemed to have rubbed shoulders with every cut-throat and brigand this side of the Ashkelit Ocean, and had an embarrassing story about every one.
The room fell silent when Kellan entered. Most of the regulars of the mercenary band were there, scattered in armchairs and lying on thick rugs, drinking wine and eating dates. Granger, Elan and Truman were also enjoying the stories, and the wine.
“Kellan,” Elan said quickly to cover the pause. “Come and try this wine. King Rashun insists we empty his cellar before we leave. And it is quite a cellar.”
Everyone relaxed again, but watched him cross the room to take a seat on an armchair beside his friend.
A goblet was passed to him and he raised it to the room. “To victory.”
“To victory.” The toast was taken up.
“And,” Truman spoke up over the muttered toasts raising his cup, “to fallen comrades.”
“Fallen comrades.”
There was a silence as wine was swallowed, and many stared into their cups in reflection, remembering friends.
Finally Blunt shouted. “Bugger me if you two aren’t as cheering as a dose of clap at an orgy!”
The room erupted once more in laughter, including that of Kellan and Truman.
“In a world of change, thank Fate for the constant that is Scurrilous Blunt,” Truman said as he rai
sed his cup again over the clamour.
Kellan took time to see who was present among the mercenaries. Olimar was there, sitting quietly near his father, nursing a cup of wine. The Padar brothers, Marlon and Foley were less restrained with the refreshments. Valia was enjoying the hospitality, reclining as she was on a chaise longue. She was dressed in a pair of loose trousers and a plain blouse, her single, dark braid coming round the side of her neck to rest between her breasts. Kellan glanced at Truman and saw his eyes lingering on the woman. The poet’s eyes had been made less circumspect by the wine soaking his brain.
The poet and the warrior woman. Kellan smiled to himself as he considered the pairing. Truman was utterly besotted with her, and dwarfed by her. She was taller by a hand span and broader too, but this did not put him off. Sadly she was devoted to the sword and had little time for the advances of men, let alone poets with their sweet words and fancy phrases.
Many of the mercenaries had taken their gold and left. Those in the mercenary band were a transient lot, joining for a single year, or campaign, or in the case of many, a single day. The missing faces would be just as likely riding north with a full purse as dead. He tried not to think of the fallen, but Truman had been right to toast them.
Granger walked out onto the balcony to savour the evening air, but took care to fill his cup on the way out from one of the many jugs. He took a deep breath and enjoyed the smell of the salt, then raised his cup when he was sure he was alone.
“You are watching me, of that I am certain,” he said softly. “You may consider yourself superior, and above our trivial pursuits. But this is wine, and you will never know the taste of it, or the mellowing effect it has on the mind. You will never know the joy of companionship, or the sense of peace that comes from sharing a cup with friends and loved ones. So this toast is to you. For those who will never experience anything.” He took a long sip and smacked his lips afterwards for emphasis.
