by Jake Yaniak
'Then we seek another camp, for these are just common goblins.' Cheft Faros seemed to be growing impatient. It was not for the burning of hunting camps that he had gathered such a force and marched through half of the Noras forest with such haste. 'Yet I suppose it would be foolish to let them alone.'
'Indeed, sir,' the man hastily agreed. 'There were some things that gave me pause however. Things that the eyes and ears of your scouts have overlooked.'
'Well don't speak in riddles, man,' Faros suddenly seemed very annoyed. 'Biron sent you to assess the danger, and that is what I want from you. Is this encampment a threat to Noras or is it not? What else did you see there?'
'I beg your forgiveness sir,' the man began to apologize, but when he saw the look of frustration in the Cheftan's eyes he cut himself short. 'I see that my master has no patience for my foolish banter.'
Cheft Faros seemed to calm down a little after that.
'In the camp, sir, there were not only no weapons to be found, but there were also no women and no children.'
This last detail seemed to get Cheft Faros' attention.
'As my Lord is well aware, goblins seldom leave their females and young behind when they go on hunting trips or even on raids. This detail I find most alarming. Normally, the goblins will travel in family groups, so that their children can learn to hunt as they do. Of course, this requires the cooperation of the women, without whom the children would be nothing but a hindrance. I got the impression, my lord, that they were not in the mountains to hunt or to raid at random.'
'So if they are not here for raiding or for hunting, what is their purpose?'
'I cannot say, my Lord,' Revere replied. 'All that I can say is that whatever their purpose is, it is most un-goblin-like.'
'Un-goblin-like?'
'Yes,' the man nodded smiling slightly, 'Very nearly everything that goblins do is reducible to their instincts. So when we see that they have gathered together so many men without women or children and without even weapons it defies every rational explanation.'
'What are you so pleased with?' Cheft Faros asked, now openly angry.
'I must apologize again, my Lord,' the man said looking at the ground. 'As a scout, I have come to understand quite a bit about these creatures. And anything so new and unexpected is bound to arouse a certain excitement for those who "study" goblins.'
'Enough of that,' Faros responded. He clearly wanted to finish the conversation as soon as possible. His eyes began to wander about the room impatiently. 'What do you mean when you say that this situation defies any rational explanation?'
'What I mean, my Lord, is that since goblins are not rational creatures, they must live at the mercy of external causes and their own instincts. So when they behave in such a different manner than they usually do, there is no way to explain it rationally. Except with the idea that they are, in fact, acting rationally.'
'Rationally?' Faros asked quickly. 'Do you mean to tell me these goblins are rational creatures? That they are ruled by reason?'
'Pelas forbid!' Revere laughed. 'I've said nothing of the sort. They are acting rationally; that much is certain. But I've never said that they were rational themselves. They are simply being ruled by reason.'
'More riddles,' Faros complained. His anger swelled within him and his face began to look quite red. 'Get out of my tent!' Faros yelled. His face turned bright red and he seemed to glow with rage. 'I hope you are pleased with yourself. Now get out of my sight, or I'll send you to the goblin camp tied and bound. Then we'll see just how rational they can be.'
The man bowed low to the ground and stepped out of the Cheftan's tent and into the cold. 'I've done my job, my lord,' he muttered as he left.
When he had gone some distance from the Cheftan's tent, Revere began to chuckle, 'It is up to you, Master Faros, to choose the most reasonable course. I have given you your warning; such a warning as the wise will regard and the fool will disregard.' He laughed to himself, 'Which of the two this man is, I care not. If he cannot understand it, then let the goblins take him, for he is no more rational than the creatures he fights.'
When Mityai's account had come to this point she was once more interrupted by her master. Pelas stood still for a moment as if lost in deep thought and then suddenly shrieked in frustration. 'Mityai, you fool of fools,' he said with a stern voice. 'Did you not understand what this braggart meant with his indistinct words?'
'No my lord,' Mityai answered with a tremble in her voice. 'I could tell that he had not been forthright with Faros, and I could also tell that the Cheftan knew it.'
'If the Cheftan has less than half of your wisdom he would have stopped his army right then and there, and marched no further until he had taken council with the Cheftans of Galva once more. For the only thing that makes a goblins deviate from its brutish instincts is a Conjurer.'
'A Conjurer!?' Mityai said, stepping away from Pelas.
Pelas stepped toward her swiftly, his regal cape swaying in the air as he walked. He raised his hand, Mityai covered her face with her arms and bowed low to the ground. The dust in the room swirled about as if a great wind had come through, though every window was shut tight. The fire roared to life for an instant.
'Mityai, you daughter of wickedness!' he shouted. His voice rang through the hall and shook the foundations of the house. The servants of the hall trembled and rushed about to see what had happened, but when they entered the hall they saw nothing but the bright burning fire and they heard nothing save the crackling of the logs and the leaping of sparks.
Among the Noras the Conjurer was more to be feared than any other evil. Combining the natural strength and cunning of so many mindless goblins with even just one truly rational overlord is more dangerous and deadly than an entire army of rational human beings. 'A Conjurer has at his disposal an army of ruthless servants who give no regard to good or evil. They will descend to whatever depth of evil they are bid,' Pelas explained. 'And what will become of your beloved Cheftan's son?'
'I- I did not know,' Mityai said with fear, still covering her face with her hands.
'If the hour were not so late I would thrash you here and now. I would send you so deep into the pits of hell that even your swift immortal feet would be sore pressed to find their way to the surface ere the end of this age of the world.'
Mityai lowered her hands and stood up. 'What can I do, my lord, to redeem my errors?'
'You must hurry to Daryas' side, and pray that he is not dead already. Had I more time I would send a warrior to him, to guard him from his foes. But in the meanwhile, you must do what you are able.'
'But my lord, there is still the matter of Old Man Sleep, his claim on Daryas must not be denied!' Mityai protested, somehow finding it within her to question her master.
Pelas rose up and seemed to fill the whole room with his anger. 'Mityai, fly to his side, and leave the matter of Daryas' nightmares to the wise.'
With that she departed, slipping out through the window without a sound and speeding through the city more swiftly than any bird could fly.
Old Man Sleep
'The girl is right, my lord,' came a tired old voice from a darkened corner of the room after Mityai had passed from their sight. Pelas turned and beheld Old Man Sleep himself, seated on a bench with his long gray robes folded about his feet. His head was bald, save for a few kinked gray hairs growing just above his ears. In his eyes could be seen the memories of ages long passed; ages of the world that none but his own unblinking eyes could remember. He looked weary and frail, though his grip was still firm. 'There are laws that rule even you gods,' he continued, 'though lately you do not like to admit it.'
'What does it matter to you, Old Man of Dreams?' Pelas said irritably.
'You know as well as I that my claim on mortal eyes is irrevocable. Yet you have allowed this youth to be so tormented that his will has been forged into iron. He will not yield his eyelids to my commands.'
'It will only be for a time that he is so vexed. But it
is necessary, for I gave my oath that the prayers of the Siren would be fulfilled.'
'Very well then,' Old Man Sleep said in his slow toneless voice, 'But do not forget, Lord Pelas, when Old Man Sleep is long denied, then my brother Folly must be satiated. If you do not allow me to close this boy's eyes in rest, he will lose his mind entirely. And then he will be of no use to anybody. I leave you with this last warning: Once Folly has had his way with a man's head, our younger brother Death is never far off. Be careful that your grip does not grow too strong, lest you crush the thing you wish to protect.'
With that the old man vanished from the room and Pelas was left alone in the Council Hall, with the fire slowly dying away behind him.
Chapter III:
Beautiful Peiraso
The Hospitality of Cheft Biron
Peiraso was located about a half a day's journey to the east of Galva. The people of Noras were not fond of forts and castles, preferring logs and tar to stone and mortar. But when danger arose in the land, the people came pouring into Peiraso like water through a burst dam. Cheft Biron's country estate was one of the few fortified refuges in Noras. So he was not surprised to see the serene hill upon which his home was built littered with tents and temporary shelters. A great number of people from Megd-la and Coran-la had heard about the coming of the goblins and traveled many leagues to seek shelter on Cheft Biron's land until the goblins were driven away. Here, well on the eastern side of the mighty Galva, and with the strong walls of Peiraso about them, they felt secure from the threat of raiders.
The people were mostly peasants who had no wealth to protect but their own lives, nothing to leave behind, and nothing to bring with them except their children and a few tattered sacks filled with what little provision their lives in the forest allotted them. What they did bring, however, was their gratitude. Cheft Biron's magnificence was well known throughout Noras and the people repaid his kindness with honorable words and songs of praise.
On the fourth day after the departure of the Galva Army, he sent Lady Marima ahead of him to Peiraso to prepare the land for his return. Three days later, he himself returned to the home of his ancestors with Cheft Ponteris and several other important members of the Noras Council. They rode in a sturdy but comfortable carriage drawn by a team of four horses.
Peiraso was built on the top of a small hill in a large clearing where Cheft Biron's ancestors had settled many generations ago. A stone wall about the height of two men encircled the house on all four sides. It would take a man about an hour to walk all the way around it. The southern gate was overshadowed on both sides by small guard towers; one on the eastern side and another on the west. There was a much smaller gate on the north side that was very rarely opened.
The castle itself consisted of a large stone house with small watchtowers on each corner. It was built in the form of a square with each corner facing one of the cardinal points. The main entrance was on the southeastern wall. It was not a very sophisticated castle, certainly nothing compared to Dadron, but it offered the Noras something that they had in very little quantity: Security.
'The grovelers have come out in flocks and herds, my friend,' Cheft Ponteris said as they approached the estate. 'It is good that they have come in Primus, though. It would be a shame if they had come in the spring or summer when the grass is green and lush.'
'You are heartless,' Cheft Biron said coldly. Cheft Ponteris just laughed.
Cheftan Biron was Daryas' father, and looked it in every respect. His shoulders were broad and he was tall for a man of Noras. His hair was somewhat darker than Daryas', however, and it had a handsome curl to it, which his son's hair never quite attainted. He wore a very thick otter-skin coat over a deep red tunic and brown wool trousers. At his side he wore a long hunting knife with an iron hilt set with green gemstones. Among the Noras it was considered arrogant to carry a weapon, but it was also a sign of laziness to be seen without some kind of tool. While he was still living, Cheft Biron's own father, Hiron Galvahirne, never left home without his fishing tackle. In these dark times, Biron thought, the knife was the more useful accessory.
'You know, Master Biron, on my own estate we have a lake. Have you seen our lake, Biron?' Cheft Biron shook his head. 'You haven't? That is truly a shame. Our lake is the most beautiful lake in Noras, I believe. But you see, we have to keep it beautiful. And that takes a considerable amount of effort on our part. Those who have seen my estate have frequently remarked how natural it all looks. But that is far from the truth of the matter. Beauty is not an accident. That is one thing that I know for certain.
'My own wife is proof of that. Lady Linae is quite skilled in the arts of decorating her face. She will spend as much time as she is allowed painting and covering her face with ointments, aloes, and dyes purchased from who knows what distant port. And she looks quite lovely for it too. But it is hardly an accident, though she would never tell anybody how much trouble she makes over her face. When people tell her how beautiful she looks she simply smiles and acts as though she is surprised. It is all a very pitiful act. She knows what she is doing and she does it quite on purpose.
'It is the very same thing with our little lake. Imagine how disgusting our lake would become if we just left it to nature. In no time at all it would become a swamp. Deer come from every filthy place in the Noras Forest to swim and drink in the waters. I don't mind a few deer here and there, but if we did nothing they would soon overrun our land and strip the trees of their bark. So every winter I hire hunters to clear the woods and drive these creatures away.
'That would seem to be a wise course,' Cheft Biron said impatiently. 'But I find that on my own lands the deer are not so populous. Between the wolves and the bears their numbers are kept in check.'
'Ah yes, but then you will have carcasses and bones lying about. And I think you will agree with me, my friend, that carcasses do not have a part in beauty.'
'True enough.'
'The solution to that problem is to drive away the predators. It is so peaceful in our region now that there are no howls and growls to wake our children in the middle of the night.'
'This, I imagine, requires the hiring of more hunters?'
'Yes, of course. But it is not only deer and the wolves that vex our little lake. There are all sorts of wild fowl that make their home on my land. That is, they attempt to do so. And that is my point. Beauty is something that you do, not something that happens naturally.'
'What do you do to the fowl?' Cheft Biron asked.
'In the beginning of every season we see them flock to our property and nest in every nook and every hole along the shoreline. It is a simple thing to send out a few hunters with their bows and their dogs to slay and gather them up. This way the lake stays clean and fresh and our servants feast on eggs and roasted goose!'
'You are as clever as they say,' Biron said as they rounded a bend in the road. From there they began their ascent up the hill toward the southern gates.
Cheftan Ponteris was a typical enough Norasman. He was nothing like a Galvahirne, but he was by no means frail or unmanly. His hair, which was slightly gray, was slowly but surely retreating from his brow with each passing year - a somewhat uncommon and unseemly trait among the Noras, who, oddly enough, took pride in the strength of their hairlines, and in the thickness of their finger nails. His posture, however, was very different from his fellow Noras, as he made certain to stand at his full height at all times with his shoulders back and his spine upright. The Noras were, for the most part, informal with their stance, and it was not uncommon for grown men to be found slouching even at council meetings and other such formal occasions.
'And that is beauty, Cheft Biron,' Ponteris continued, 'But it takes work, and it takes a little bit of cruelty.'
'Cruelty?' Biron asked, feigning interest.
'Yes. You can't imagine that I like the idea of sending out hunters to slaughter these helpless creatures! But I must guard my honor with everything that is within me. Cheft Biron! What is
a man without his honor?'
'He is not esteemed to be much at all, my friend.'
'It is the same thing with my beloved woman. Her long hours spent toiling over the looking glass - scraping and painting her face are not simple tasks. They are the labors of a true artisan! They are as cruel to her tender skin as I am to the wretched creatures that try to make their home on my estate.'
As he finished speaking the carriage turned around a bend in the road revealing the southern wall of Peiraso. 'Serge, take us close to the tents,' Cheft Biron commanded his driver.
'As you ask, my lord,' the man replied. The old man turned the carriage off of the main road onto a narrow dirt path that led off into the fields. As the carriage approached the tents the people began to hurry about in preparation for the arrival of their protector. By the time the carriage reached the encampment they were enclosed on both sides by peasants. Cheft Ponteris sat up straight and began to look uneasy.
'Slowly, Serge,' Biron said. His driver obeyed and as they passed they could see the tears in the people's eyes. Some bowed low to the ground, others offered up small tokens of gratitude. Cheft Biron waved his hand in the air and the people returned his gesture.
'Hail Cheft Biron! Protecter of Noras!' one toothless old man cried out. The rest followed him in their praises. Then one of the older men among them broke out into an old song, written over two centuries ago in praise of the sons of Galvahir.
'When dangers from the shadows near,
There is one in whom the Noras trust,
The faithful son of Galvahir,
Above all others pure and just.'
'In council he is Pelas-wise,
His sword the devil Agon fears,
Fated above his peers to rise,
His voice the gloom and shadow clears.'
Cheft Ponteris sunk low in his seat and rested his cheek on his wrist. He said nothing more until they had passed the singing crowd and entered the house of Peiraso.
