by Jeff Wheeler
Royce smiled. “Riyria.”
“Riyria? I don’t understand?”
“Why would you? It’s elvish for two.”
Michael J. Sullivan
My name is Michael J. Sullivan and I’m a full-time novelist. To type those words is kind of surreal, as writing isn't a career that most can make a living at. I'm eternally grateful to all my readers who have made it possible for me to live a dream I never thought would be possible.
Visit Michael at: http://riyria.blogspot.com
To The Last
By Melion Traverse | 5,700 words
I set down my pint, savor the deep reek of tavern air. That tang of rot, sour beer, and stale air smells just as pungent today as it did one afternoon thirty years before. We had all met in this tavern in the land of long ago, before gray sifted our hair and stiffness seized our joints. I am the last of us now, an arthritic woman with a sword too well polished in long nights and memories, too painful to hold, yet too precious to release. The sword I still wear as my weapon, the memories I wear as my armor.
Dilon the tavern keeper looks over, his eyes flicking from the pint mug to me. Do you want another? he is asking. No. I never want more than one. He knows, but he’s a businessman and he has to ask. I share one drink each evening with my memories—let them swirl the heather beer in their mouths, let them breathe into my bones and laugh into my ear. Only when they grow silent do I pay my two copper pieces, untether my horse, and head home.
We buried Hrolf the dwarf first. He was old when I met him in that tavern—could remember the days of the Lost King. I was a pup with a fresh suit of armor and a sword that still gleamed with polish and disuse. He played a harp and sang of a thousand yesterdays with grand heroes and grander deeds, and those songs spilled like alcohol into my blood and set my head swimming. I was going to be one of those heroes.
Standing with high mountain winds billowing our cloaks like dragon wings, Löfnar, Erard, and I swore we would meet each year at the tavern—our tavern—and remember the old times with a pint. How those memories wove through our minds as we sweetened the world with mead and heather beer! How youth stayed supple in our bones for one more year!
Then a messenger arrived with a short letter. Erard had died. Another grave, this one down among the sun-swept wheat fields. His sword, Grimtalon, keeps him company in the ceaseless stretches of eternity, and the wind scrapes away his name on a slab of stone. Neither eternity nor wind will erase our quick-eyed thief from my memories. Each evening, he lives again in all his vigor for the few minutes I share with my pint. His laugh clear and pure as forest rain, his sword at a rogue knight’s throat. Every danger sent by the gods Erard took as a jest. We grated on each other at first—him with his sword and dagger against an enemy’s spine, me with my untarnished faith and a taste for immortality—but spilled blood mixed to wash away pretensions. He saved me with a knife through a mercenary’s back, and I saved him with a sword through a dragon’s throat—with the blessing of my god, of course.
Löfnar should have outlived us all. It should be Löfnar with a lonely pint at his lips each evening and the ghost of memories sitting at his elbow. He was our elf, after all. Of course, he was always his own elf, but we came to love him as one of us when men in far towns would laugh in his face and spit in his beer. His blood ran just as red and thick as ours, and not a person could speak against him without speaking against us all. But there was one who loved him far differently than we ever could; one who swept through his placid veins with a blaze that burned his soul. For the love of a human maiden, he chanced old magics and split his life with hers. Their destinies entwined as one, and when I received the letter, I went to the graveside of Löfnar and his human wife.
Then only one remained: a ghost of a girl who once looked with eager eyes upon adventure. Ah well, that girl had to grow old. I did not realize that she would grow old all alone.
Even the horse I ride is a replacement for old Raven, my war steed from those long adventures. Gods, how we put the fear of Avorthar into the hearts of many a knight as we thundered toward them with Raven’s hooves smashing the turf and the sun spilling fire down my blade. I live those battles in my blood: Hrolf laughing that he would sing my charges for the ages, Löfnar smiling in silence, Erard a wave of vibrant cheers when I crashed my opponent to the earth. My friends, my youth, my future, even my horse. All spent to the winds of eternity.
Last harvest, I thought Avorthar had finally heard my prayers, had finally granted me my last charge. Goblins. A troop of them invading our little town, raiding our cattle pens. Had there been anybody else who could handle a sword, the villagers would not have looked to me. I would not have blamed them—who would turn to an aging woman who talked to herself about memories long settled into the dirt? But I was it. So I saddled my horse, drew my sword, and made my final prayer to Avorthar. I was going home at last. One final charge and I would be seated in a great mead hall with my friends and our memories would be breathing with life. One final charge and I could rest.
But, of course, Avorthar must have had other plans. Blood-spattered and weary, I cut my way through the troop of goblins, struck their leader from his warg. The villagers cheered, slapped me on the back. I looked around for Löfnar’s quick grin, thought I heard Hrolf’s harp song strum through the blood-tinged sunset, felt Erard punch my arm. But it was nothing but mist and dreams.
I had lived. Thanks be to Avorthar . . . I suppose.
My horse plods homeward with summer sunlight stretched thin and golden across the undulating fields. The grain crop should come in nicely for harvest, I think as I allow myself to drift along with the soft, melodic clop of hooves. As I approach my cottage, I see two figures sitting atop the split-rail fence. Drawing closer, I can see that they are children, a boy and a girl.
“Blast,” I mutter. Tane and Mera, the twins from over across the dale. This is the fifth time in the past couple months that I’ve arrived home to find them waiting. Since they had left me alone the past few weeks, I thought I had made myself clear.
They hop off the fence as I approach, and Mera comes forward as though she is going to hold my horse’s reins for me to dismount. I’ve never had a squire, don’t need one now. I wave her aside and lower myself from the saddle.
“I told you before that I’m not going to train you,” I say before either of them can open their mouths.
“It isn’t that, milady,” Tane says, scuffing at the dirt. Milady. One honorific earned thirty years ago as an offhand gift from a count who knew that a minor title cost him no gold. Nobody calls me that nowadays unless he wants something.
“Mama sent us,” Mera continues for her brother as she strokes the horse’s nose. “She says that she needs your help.”
“We have an injured man at the house,” the boy twin adds.
“I am—was—a paladin,” I say as I lead the horse toward his paddock. “You best send for Brytha if you need a healer.” Löfnar was our healer. Darned good one; saved me from the grave more than once. Am I thankful for that now? Would I have preferred to be the first one of us buried? Forgive me, Avorthar, but I do not know.
I begin unbuckling the saddle, give the horse an absent pat on the neck. He’s not Raven, but he’s a good fellow. I never quite got around to naming him, so he’s just Horse when I think to call him anything at all. It is not as though he knows the difference.
“Brytha has already tended him,” Mera says. “He’s mostly healed, but Mama thinks you should come.”
“Why? Does he claim to know me?” I should think not.
The twins shake their heads. “Mama just thinks you should talk to him.”
Expectation highlights the two young faces. I remember youth just enough to know that this is their quest: seek the woman from across the hills. No doubt in their quest half a dozen—no, if they are anything like the girl I once was, probably a full dozen—orcs awaited them with gnashing teeth and rust-edged weapons. If I stay here, how can they complete their ques
t? I sigh. Ah well, I was only going to sit by a lamp and see to my armor, anyhow.
“Are you going to bring Horse?” Tane asks when I agree to go with them, and his excitement carries in the warm evening. Mera nods at me expectantly. I sigh again. Horse still has his bridle on, and I have only ridden him down to the village and back. It will hurt nothing to saddle him again.
“Do you want to ride him?” I ask of the twins. Of course they do, they’re practically wriggling out of their skin as I adjust Horse’s girth strap.
I hold the reins and lead Horse, who follows like an obedient dog. Mera tells Tane that he can ride the first half of the way home. I think that’s rather generous of her until Tane is seated on Horse and Mera grins and says that if she rides the last half, it means the other children will see her riding a warhorse. I duck my head so that she doesn’t see me smile—I should not encourage her.
Horse’s reins in my hand, I set off across the dale toward the twins’ farm. Halfway there, Tane scrambles down from the horse without a protest and I help Mera up. We set off again, and Mera gets her moment before her pack of siblings who swarm about the horse. Fortunately, Horse is a calm fellow and he ignores the gibbering.
Celia, alerted by the clamor of her children, comes out of the cottage. Tane and Mera waste no time in bounding over to inform her that they got to ride a warhorse. I do not correct them that Horse is not exactly a warhorse, not the way old Raven was. I may be a bitter old woman, but not so bitter that I’ll spoil something wonderful for a couple of kids.
“I told you not to be a bother,” Celia says and then turns an apologetic, long-suffering expression to me. Tane and Mera go quiet, and look from their mother to me.
“They weren’t a bother,” I answer and see both twins exhale with relief, aware that they avoided a telling-off. “Now then, what’s this about needing my help?”
“Come inside, Alia,” Celia says. “I will have one of the children fetch some water.” I scan across the frolic of children. One of them? How does a person pick one out of that pack? I will say that of all the things I have missed in my life, a multitude of children is not among them. Perhaps had I married and had one or two . . . Ah well, too late for that now. Celia simply points to the nearest youngster, motions toward the well, and says, “Show some manners: fetch water for Alia.”
Shadows smooth themselves through the refreshing coolness of the cottage. I drink my water and let myself enjoy the stillness without sun heating my armor. A man sits by the fireless hearth. Partially in shadow, I think for a moment that it’s Rewyn, Celia’s husband and the progenitor of the wild squall of children outside. I nearly greet him by name when the man moves from out of the shadows and I realize that he’s a stranger. This man is older than Rewyn, much closer to my own age, and he wears a sword that suits his broad frame. Rewyn is a good man, but the gods know he’d have no business with a sword.
I look toward Celia. Who is this and how does this concern me?
“You must be Lady Alia,” the man says, giving a slight bow, the trace of a something once elegant and formal. “I am Koert.” In his accent, I discern the icy winters of the inland mountains, a place I had been many years ago as we hunted a frost dragon. By Avorthar, that was a quest. We would have all been gulped up had Erard not managed that trick with the fire, thawing the sides of the cave and tumbling rocks down upon the dragon. But the dragon burst free and Hrolf leaped forward with his axe gleaming like the ice and—
“Alia?” Celia’s voice pulls me from among the lost years, brings me back into the shadows of the cottage. Koert is looking at me with an expression I cannot quite decipher. Something between sympathy and understanding, and I think for a flash that he can read my thoughts. I tug at the collar of my gambeson.
“I have been inside too long,” he says. “Perhaps we might go outdoors?”
“It’s darned warm out there,” I say. “It’s much cooler in here.”
“If you prefer, but I should like some fresh air.”
Oh, for Avorthar’s sake. What do I think he’s going to do? Kill me? He could try, of course, but I run my gaze across him, look over the sword at his hip, the bandage wrapped on his leg. Once, he was probably a sight to freeze the blood, but the years have settled upon his frame. Not, I suppose, that I should judge. If he wants to try to kill me, fine. It will probably be mutual.
We go outside, begin walking—he limps and I slow my pace—toward a fence that marks the edge of one of the fields. Tane and Mera scramble after us, but Celia gets hold of them and hauls them back with the others. I hear the twins making protests that their mother ignores.
“You would not know who I am,” Koert says as he leans against the fence.
I shake my head. Should I recognize him? I have been in this village nearly ten years, and have not met many people since then.
“I was a guard for Duke Halvar many years ago,” Koert continues. “I remember when you brought back the hide of the frost dragon.”
“I had help,” I say. The duke had requested the head as proof, but Erard saw a business opportunity; he remarked as we stood around the froth-blooded corpse that it was too bad that we couldn’t skin the blighter (his word choice was, of course, more earthy). So Löfnar brought out his long knife and set to skinning off the hide with the ease of peeling an apple. I bought Raven with my share of the gold that the duke paid us for the hide.
“How in the world do you even remember that?” I ask.
“Well, it was not every day that somebody killed the dragon terrorizing our little farmsteads and brought back its hide,” he says and smiles. “Besides, I was the guide who led you to the cave. You told the thief to let off teasing me for being a coward.”
Good Avorthar, that I remember. Erard was many things, but I never knew him to dig at somebody quite the way he pressed that poor guard who had been the only one to volunteer to show us to the dragon’s lair. I thought that took nerve on the young man’s part, but Erard kept bringing in remarks about how he was surprised a big, tough guard hadn’t faced down the dragon yet. I had never, before or since, seen Erard play the bully.
“Erard, give it a rest,” I said. “If you’re so keen on it, we’ll wait outside and toss you in after the dragon on your own. We can kill it while it’s chewing you up.”
Erard, ever casual, just grinned and said in Elven—for Löfnar had taught us all—“Careful there, Paladin. Why, what do you think the great Avorthar would think about the way your pet guard is looking at you? When I look at a woman like that, you tell me to mind my manners.” He finished with an elbow in my ribs and then danced away before I could retaliate. I never did develop Hrolf and Löfnar’s talent for ignoring Erard’s antics, but I had gathered enough self-control to not always rise to the thief’s baiting.
“He wasn’t always like that,” I say, thinking that I should defend the noble parts of Erard’s memory.
Koert shrugs, stares off toward where the sunset casts the sky in a last flash of beauty before the darkness. “When you returned with that dragon’s hide, I began thinking about my own life and my own future. Did I want to be nothing more than a castle guard? Adventuring stirred at me and I thought, well, I thought that there was a world beyond the castle gates and I was going to make my mark on it. So I resigned and set out, simple as that.”
I have nothing to say, so I also watch the sunset.
“The bards still sing about that fight with the dragon,” Koert adds. Of course they do—Hrolf composed that song, and he could weave a story to tear the heart from a mountain.
We teased the dwarf for writing a song about us, even as we pestered him to recite each verse while he composed it.
“Eh,” Hrolf said, “I have mostly left myself out of it.” Which he had. The world does not know that he leaped in at my side to strike the killing blow. The world, I suppose, does not care, so long as the poem ends with somebody killing the accursed dragon.
Koert is speaking again, and I look away from the past and back
to him. “I had not heard that song in years, but not so long ago, I heard it sung in a chieftain’s mead hall and I, well, I wondered what had become of that paladin. Forgive me, for I had rather thought you might be dead, but I had to know.”
“You came all this way to find out if a person you met once was still alive?” My hand rests on the pommel of my sword.
Koert nods. “I have traveled farther for less. Besides, it is not as though I had other pressing matters. I think . . . I think that I found myself looking for memories, and all of them were dead. I rather hoped that the memory that started everything might still be alive.”
Well, I am not sure how to respond. So, he set out to see if the beginning of his story still lived. As a younger woman, I would have laughed. But now? Was it not something similar that brought me to live in the nameless village where my own adventures had first begun? Was it any stranger than sitting each evening with a pint and memories in a ghost-haunted tavern?
“How did you get injured?” I ask, nodding toward his leg.
“By getting old,” he answers with a weak smile. “I got thrown from my horse as I was leaving the village the other day. I came to the village, found out that you still lived and were still fighting goblins, and I set out to leave. Crossing through the forest, a noise spooked my horse. A couple of the farmer’s children found me—the twins, Tane and Mera—I planned on leaving once I could ride any real distance. I did not think that you would appreciate a stranger appearing in your life, stirring up memories you might have wanted left alone. Believe me, I said nothing about you to Celia and Rewyn.”
After some silence as the sun slides beyond the Fanrill Mountains, where Löfnar bested the sorceress by answering her riddle, Koert and I walk back to the cottage. I watch as he enters. He turns, gives me a slight nod, which I return. Strange when the past bleeds into the present and echoes memories. Then I set my attention on gathering Horse.
