by Jake Yaniak
Leonara's face slowly turned away from the old man and looked at the face of Fanastos. He seemed to be full of energy and passion. 'A good man, no doubt,' she thought to herself. 'But such a one I neither deserve nor desire.' And then she started, as though waking from a dream. Suddenly she remembered Volthamir and his passionate request, or demand rather. Surely her father had not forgotten his deal with the prince. And then her mind was thrown into further turmoil as she could not decide whether she ever wanted Volthamir to return for her or not.
After some thought she spoke, 'He is dead then?'
'Who? Dead?' Achil muttered.
'My brother, the prince. He is dead?'
King Vulcan reached across the table and took her hand. She withdrew it swiftly, sliding her skinny fingers through his rough palms. 'My dear daughter,' he began, 'No word has been heard from him since he departed on his errand. I cannot imagine why he would tarry if he had been successful. I'm afraid we must assume the worst, for it has been such a long time.'
Leonara rose from her seat, tears were now flowing from her face. She could see in his eyes that he had not told her the entire truth. 'You are a devil,' she said to her father. 'You are the lord of folly, even as mother is the lady of cruelty. What a pair the two of you make! What perfect companions! One might have expected you two to have been much happier together than you are.' She looked at Fanastos, 'I'm sure the young warrior of the west has even heard the delightful stories about Lady Marel and her pathetic husband.'
Fanastos said nothing, but his mouth gaped open as he sat listening. Achil's face turned red as the sunset and he pounded the table. 'Wicked girl!' he cried out, 'How dare you humiliate the lord and king of Amlaman! How dare you!'
'I have not done anything of the sort,' she retorted, 'he has humiliated himself. Every time he chooses a path he chooses wrongly, it is not I who humiliates him.'
'That is enough, my lady,' Fanastos said with a gentle voice, 'there is no need for such anger. It is more difficult than you imagine to rule a land so vast as Amlaman.'
Leonara pushed her chair back and started out the door. Fanastos called after her and Achil hollered, but to no avail. She rushed away from the priest's apartment and made her way back toward the Nunnery. She was fully aware of her father's intentions. This young Fanastos, as marvelous a man as he might be, was meant to be her suitor. He had won some grand victory for Amlaman and as a reward for whatever services he had provided he was to be given the princess as a prize. But more than this, if the princess were married, there could no longer remain any obligation to give her over to the prince should he ever return.
This last thing was the primary source of her anger. It didn't really bother her that her parents were now trying to marry her off. Nor did it even bother her that their reasons were so base and treacherous. It barely even affected her that they seemed so clearly to be delighted at the idea that Volthamir had been killed (though she could easily tell that her father did not believe it to be so). What really infuriated her was the fact that they would do all of these things for these reasons while trying to pretend that their intentions were born of loftier motives.
'Gutless worms!' she shrieked as she thought about them. 'I hate them, I hate the devils!' When she came to the Nunnery she spat and passed it by, heading away from Daufina. She wandered for the rest of the day, all the while being pursued by the servant Farachie, who made certain to give her as much space as she desired.
At one point she turned toward him and spat, 'I hate you all! Every man, woman and child! I despise everything; Amlaman, Agonistes, Vulcan and Marel, Achil and the blessed whores of Sten Agoni! Not one of them is what they claim; they pretend to be the sun, but they are filled with nothing but shadow.'
She continued into the woods until she came to a small clearing. Day had given way to night and she shivered and shook with both anger and cold. Farachie very carefully approached her and when he was within reach he slid a thick fur cloak about her shoulders. She wrapped herself in it and looked up into the sky. Farachie backed away and sat down on a fallen log nearby. High above them the light of the great star the sages call Theodysus shone brightly upon them, illuminating the princess' face with silver light. She fell to her knees and wept for a long time. After almost two hours she lifted her face slowly from the earth and gazed up into the sky.
It seemed that a strange certainty came over her in that moment and she rose to her knees. All the ideas of Agonistes and his temple and the virgins and sacrifices vanished from her mind as she looked upon that ever constant sparkle in the sky. 'They at least are never changing.'
She sung and prayed to the stars:
Oh thou blessed and mighty astral lord,
Constant, brilliant and unfailing,
Thy heavenly craft in darkness moored
Look down and see me thus travailing,
Bring unto me that peace and grace,
That gentle rest and healing,
That flows out from your holy face,
No darkness there concealing,
I ask not for some lofty throne,
Or any dainty or pleasant thing besides,
'Tis all I beg as I lay prone,
To see that in which no evil hides
Farachie sat there silent until she finally fell into a deep sleep. He lifted her gently and carried her back toward the Nunnery.
Overheard
There were many spirits lurking about Daufina in those days. Most of them were petty devils, patrolling the land for their master Gheshtik. These curious sprites swarmed around the slumbering princess as she was carried away, though Farachie was quite unaware of it. Some of the bolder spirits entered into the princess' troubled dreams to peek and to pry and to play cruel tricks on her as she slept. But there was a stranger among them, a large spirit with a bright countenance, if it is proper to call it brightness. His appearance among them had the effect, at least, of brightness. They covered their eyes and fled away in terror, leaving the tall servant and his burden alone.
This last spirit was deeply curious about this girl. 'She bears within her veins regal blood. Of that much I am certain, or I am no god. Who is she, old man?' the spirit asked. Suddenly Old Man Sleep appeared, clad in a long gray cloak. 'You know the names of every mortal,' the spirit continued. 'For there is no creature as can close their eyes to rest without falling under your dominion. Surely you must know who this Siren is?'
'Lord Pelas,' the old man answered, 'you know not what that word means, or perhaps you have forgotten.' His wrinkled brow furrowed for an instant as he thought. 'Indeed, you must have forgotten. But perhaps you mean that she is like a Siren?'
'She is all the Siren that this world will ever see,' the spirit said. The old man looked at her closely and then nodded.
'Perhaps you are right after all,' he affirmed sleepily.
'Did you hear her prayer?'
'I did,' Sleep answered coldly. 'And it was a fine prayer at that. That is the sort of prayer I imagine they like to hear up there.'
'They?' Pelas said in a mocking voice. 'The Astral Lords went to sleep aeons ago; they have not troubled themselves with us since the dawning of the world. Why should we expect them to hear prayers?'
'Ah, but she prayed to Theodysus, the firstborn,' Old Man Sleep muttered.
'And what of it?' Pelas demanded. 'Men have been praying to Theodysus forever, yet he answers not.'
'Do not rail against the stars, my lord,' the old man retorted. You know not what you rail against. And further, how can you be so certain that he answers not, perhaps he merely answers 'nay'.'
'He answers me not,' Pelas said, seething with anger.
The old man shrugged. 'What is to be done about it? Even you gods cannot ascend to the high places and call the stars to account.'
'I will answer this Siren's prayer. I will turn her eyes to the east and bring her the salvation and the purity she so desires. But there are a great many things to consider ere I take any action.'
The
old man sighed and started away, 'Have a care, Master Pelas,' he said in a fatherly tone, 'For I am older and, after a fashion, wiser. No one, not even you gods can see all ends and all causes. You know not the future, however clever you may be. You know not what will come of it all. Do not meddle in affairs that concern you not. Usurping a prayer? Such a thing has not been done under heaven since the days of the Dragon. But I imagine that you have forgotten that also.'
Lord Pelas looked up at the stars for a moment and then opened his mouth once more. He said, 'My eyes are keener, perhaps than you imagine, Old Master Sleep. They can pierce through iron and flesh, they can see more ends and causes than you realize. A peril descends on this place, and I must prepare a vessel to prevent it.' He looked once more at the old man, 'And I usurp nothing. Prayers have never swayed the Astral lords before; I meddle not. But when I have brought my salvation to this mountain, then I will be like the Starry gods themselves. And all the people of Amlaman will turn away from the darkness and serve the god of light.'
'A vessel you say?' Old Man Sleep said with great alarm.
'Can you not tell, Old Man, that she is the perfect vessel?' Pelas said, still looking up at the stars.
Old Man Sleep looked at Pelas with sorrowful eyes, but he held his tongue. 'It is not my place, nor is it within my power, to stay the hands of those who have fallen under my brother Folly's dominion,' he thought to himself.
'I feel it in every shadow here,' Pelas said in a whisper, 'There is a dark fear upon every creature and upon every spirit. The Devil god Agonistes is going to return to this mountain; he will be a god in Amlaman again. And so shall I. Yeah, and more than a god. For I am the cause of everything.'
End of Book II
Book III:
The Vestron Monster
Chapter I:
The Return of the Merkata Clan
The Myths
About twenty years after the turn of the century there appeared on the eastern continent a monster of incredible power and might. For many years his origin remained a mystery even to the wise. Some men claimed he was an outcast of the Water-born kingdoms, condemned to dwell on dry land until his sins were atoned. Those with less imagination said that he was a cross between the daughter of a Harz Noble and a goblin king. And those with more imagination than is appropriate had him come falling from the sky, dropped by some sort of demon or drake. The only thing on which these varying accounts seemed to agree was the sheer ugliness and horribleness of the beast.
He was taller than most men, and his shoulders were nearly double the breadth of a normal man's chest. His head was not fixed in the center, however; according to most accounts it was moved over toward the right side of his body. What hair he had upon his head was as black and unreflective as a lump of coal. On his left shoulder there was a great hump that rose up next to his head, which was always concealed beneath a heavy black cloak. His arms were powerful and strong, more like the trunks of two mighty oak trees than pads of flesh clinging to mortal bones. His right arm looked to be the arm of a normal, although mighty, human being, but his left arm was blackened and gnarled like a rotted vine (though it was by no accounts any weaker in strength). According to most accounts he had at least three arms altogether, though some counted as high as five (the more extravagant tales place the number much higher). But I see no reason to postulate the existence of any more than four arms altogether.
The nature of our subject requires some care, for unexpected events have a way of driving the imaginations of careless men and women beyond anything that they had experienced in reality. To some this beast could fly about like a bat, to others he could vanish into the thin air like a wisp or a ghost. But seeing how his sorry tale played such an important role in the whole of my narrative, I thought it would be necessary to explain his story in greater depth. And knowing that so many wild tales and mythological fantasies have been built up around him, I could hardly do justice to the history of the great war without at least making an attempt at dispelling some of the chimerical ideas that have enshrouded this figure.
Many have heard of his towering shield, Admunth, with which he caught every javelin and repelled every arrow that ever approached him. Still more have heard of his fatal blade, Skatos Ereg, with its jagged edge and poisoned tip. But few have heard his tale in full and without the useless fables with which old women so often adorn their stories. Seeing as his memory has not wholly faded from the world, it seems hopeful that some semblance of a history could be restored to his name, where, thus far, only myth has prevailed.
The creature was called Natham, which in the eastern world signifies 'a Curse'.
Whately
Very little is known about his childhood, aside from the fact that for the first eighteen years of his life he was under the care of a man named Whately. For all this time it was completely unknown that this man had any children at all under his care, which has led some to claim that the creature merely appeared at that time, or was summoned in that hour. But those who were acquainted with Whately, while at the time ignorant of his secret, did not express much surprise when it was finally discovered that he in fact had been caring for Natham all the while.
There were certain peculiarities about the man that had long before aroused the curiosity of his neighbors. Whately came to live among the mysterious Merkata who make their homes along the rocky eastern coast of Vestron and among the desert sands in the south. How he came to live there was well known to all, but why he had come remained until the very end a complete and utter mystery. By all accounts, Whately had washed ashore amidst the wreckage of a small merchant ship. In those treacherous waters even the most skillful mariners are not safe from the wiles of the ocean and the betrayal of the jagged shores. All that could be pried from him, from the moment he was first discovered until he at last parted ways with the Merkata, was that he had come from a very far away land.
He was tall, almost a head taller than most of the Merkata, and his hair was golden, though speckled with gray here and there. Because of his hair and height, and because he had obviously come to the coast of Vestron by a ship, it was believed that he was a Knarseman from Titalo in Western Weldera. But he would speak nothing of his ancestry himself.
It was not noticed then, but Whately carried away from the shores a small bundle of cloth in a large grass basket. One must assume that therein lay the infant monster. He made out as though it were his belongings, and revealed its true contents to no one. There are some who doubt that Natham was indeed within the basket at the time, saying that the infant made not a sound, neither a whimper or a whine, but those same people forget the creature's legendary constitution. It was later said that he could receive what to lesser men would be a fatal blow without wincing or flinching. Why should he not then suffer a bit of infantile discomfort stalwartly?
Outcasts such as Whately were readily welcomed in that region. For the Merkata were heavily oppressed by the Harz Nobles who dwelt upon the Mountain of Fire. Whatever help or support they could find in strangers they accepted, especially if those strangers were somewhat acquainted with the arts of war.
Whately was not the monster's father. This much at least is certain, for aside from Natham's horrid appearance the differences between their tone of skin, the shade of their hair, and the angles of their faces left no room for doubt and speculation. Yet he bore an affection for the creature that was more than fatherly.
Whately soon rose in respect among the Merkata. He was not very strong, but he was skilled with both blade and bow and many other arts of war. He became an instructor and helped train the Merkata youths in all of these proficiencies, until their once ragged and careless force became an organized and skilled army. Soon even the Harz Nobles became aware of his abilities, since it was against their soldiers that his tactics were put into practice.
But more than his skills, his stories made him beloved among these outcasts. He spoke of the stars and their consorts, their wars and their conflicts, the damnation of errin
g orbs of light in the upper realms, and many other celestial happenings. His knowledge and love of the twinkling night above all other things made it clear that he was one of the Knarse. For there is no race of men in Tel Arie that are as enamored of the heavens as the golden-haired men of Titalo.
The Rulers of Vestron
All of Vestron, save for it's northernmost coast and the expansive southern desert, is ruled over by the Harz Nobles. They are of Nanthor lineage, as is evidenced by their great stature, their broad shoulders, and their lust for conquest and the blood of their fellow creatures. They are almost goblin-like in their cruelty, but human-like in their cunning. They are often accused of being goblins on account of the former, yet it must be admitted that they are fully and undeniably human on account of the latter.
When they made their conquest of Vestron, they leveled the chief city of the Ohhar kings and burned it to ashes so that no sign of their citadel remained, save for a ten league stretch of wasted ashes and shattered stones.
On the foothills of the fiery mountain of Fhuhar they built their own citadel, Thasbond. Almighty Fhuhar was bordered by two smaller peaks on the east and the north, called Esfu and Nolfu respectively, but otherwise stood alone in the center of the continent. From there it spewed forth smoke and death, into the air of that land. The effect of this was that if any descendants of mankind were to live in that dry and perilous land, they must be of the heartiest stock, not prone to sickness or any deficiency of might.
As was indicated, Vestron was once ruled by the Ohhar kings, men of wisdom and great vitality. But in ancient times they were driven from their cities by Nanthor invaders, the most powerful of which were called Harz Nobles. But their people were not altogether destroyed. A great number of them submitted to the new rulers and became known as Vestri, that is, men of Vestron. But many others rebelled and were either exterminated or exiled. To the west, the Ohhari fled, hiding away in the deeply forested valleys of the Veste Mountains. There they lay hidden for many ages, only appearing in legends and myths now and again. It was ever in their minds to return to Vestron and drive their conquerors from the land, but it was never in their hands to carry out this desire.
