"We had not even made it halfway there when the arrows started to fall. Flaming arrows. They fell like rain. In a heartbeat the whole town was aflame. Panic spread as it became clear that a force had surrounded the town, and siege was not their intention. A siege we were prepared for, but they wished to destroy us. To eliminate the town. My mother gave me to my uncle and sent us away to find safety. She went off to round up the screaming children that had been separated from their parents. Somehow, we found an exit clear of attackers and escaped the town. To this day I have not seen another familiar face from Kenvard," she recounted, tears welling in her eyes.
"I had heard about the Kenvard massacre. Totally pointless. The city of Kenvard had no military value. It was filled with women and children. Perhaps ages ago, when it was the capital of the entire kingdom of Kenvard, such an attack would have made sense, but ever since it was merely made part of the Northern Alliance, there are dozens of cities that would have fallen more easily, and done more damage to the war effort. Needless destruction. Until now I had thought there were no survivors," Leo said.
"There were at least two. My Uncle Edward and I spent a dozen years trying to find a place that would have us. It was not easy. Uncle never forgave the Alliance Army for failing us, and he could not quell his hatred for the men who had attacked either. He became a man consumed with hate. He was not shy about his feelings, either. Before we had been in any community for very long, something would trigger a rant about the uselessness of the Alliance Army. It did not matter to the townsfolk that his hatred for the enemy burned just as brightly--he was a traitor for speaking ill of the beloved army.
"Then, when I was eighteen, we stayed just a bit too long. His words had been heard by a neighbor, and before we could gather our things to escape, an angry mob battered down our door. I do not even remember which village it had been, all I know is that for the second and final time a member of my family met their end due to this wretched war. Not by combat, but by the war itself. Since then, I have been on my own, going from place to place. I am a bit more discreet about my feelings for the war, but I am constantly on the move regardless, either because I misspeak, or I fear I might, or . . ." She trailed off.
"Or what?" Leo asked.
"No, it is just foolish," she said.
"I would still like to hear it," Leo said.
"Well . . . I saw the death of my mother and uncle with my own eyes. My father, he was a soldier, and by this time he would have been one for nearly thirty years. My head tells me that he must have been killed by now. Soldiers who make it past their first few years are few and far between, let alone their first few decades. My brain tells me he cannot be alive. My heart pleads me to believe that he still lives. Whenever I find a nice home, and I have been careful to behave as the other villagers do, it is the hope that my father might be in the next town that tears me from my place," she said.
"Sometimes hope is all we have. Tell me, though, if the Tresson army stripped you of your home and loved ones, why do you feel sympathy for them?" he asked.
"At first I didn't. I shared my uncle's blinding hatred for them. Years passed and slowly my eyes began to open. The men who performed that terrible deed, they were only soldiers. Our men have laid siege to targets to the south time and again. It is not through spite or malice that these men kill, but through tradition. This conflict started more than a century ago. None of us have ever known any other life. They kill because their fathers did, as did theirs before them. The war is to blame, and every man woman or child, regardless of which side, is a victim of it," she answered.
"You are wise beyond your years," he said, and began to ask another question but she stopped him.
"Uh, uh, uh. You know the rules. I give, you give. Time for you to answer one of my questions," she said.
"Right you are, though I must warn you, yours is a difficult tale to follow. Let us see. I am not sure where I was born, but it was somewhere in the deep south. I spent the first ten years of my life in an orphanage for, shall we say, unfortunate children. It housed children of every race and background that were, for whatever reason, left behind. Be it due to injury, illness, deformity, or . . . species, none of us would ever see a home.
"I would wager to say that there were only two things that all of the other children shared. A longing to be a part of a normal family, and a healthy hatred for me. I am frankly shocked that I was allowed to live as long as I did. One of the caretakers was a softhearted old man who, for whatever reason, did not loathe me. I am certain it was only through his intervention that I was not murdered by the other orphans and caretakers.
"By the way, you would think that if a child just so happened to be the spitting image of a story's villain, they would spare the child that tale. Not so. I heard so many stories of my kind performing unspeakable evils so many times that I know them all by heart. The others remembered the lessons taught by those stories as well. Never trust my kind," he said.
"Now, clearly those were not the most ideal years one could hope for, but after I turned ten, things found a way to become remarkably worse. The old man who had protected me for so long died. His body was not even in the ground when the others proved once and for all that he had indeed been my savior for all of those years. They showed me what they thought of my kind in no uncertain terms.
"I was forced to run away and go into hiding. As much as my differences had seemed a curse before, they began to show their blessing side when I was faced with life in the forest for months at a time. This nose may not win me any friends, but it can sniff out a rabbit half a forest away, that is for sure. It was years before I set foot in a town again--at least, during the day. I had managed to sneak into farmhouses and such to steal an easy meal on occasion, but I never let anyone see me.
"To this day I wonder what made me decide to return to the world that had chased me away. I suppose the human in me has as much say in what I do as the fox, because one day I wandered into a small town. What was it named? . . . Bero. Well, I looked about as you would expect after years in the woods. I was wearing barely a shred of clothes, absolutely filthy. My hair was about so long," he remarked, indicating shoulder-length with his hand. "and a knotty, matted mess. As a matter of fact, I have yet to cut it since that day, so somewhere among these tresses are the very same locks I wore on that day."
"At any rate, my return to civilization was not warmly greeted. I received what still stands as the worst beating of my life, and was thrown into a shed until the townsfolk could claim a live bounty. In those days you could turn in a live malthrope for one hundred-fifty silver pieces or the tail off of a dead one for seventy-five. Fortunately those fellows got neither, as I was able to escape that shed in time.
"Had I a decent head on my shoulders, I would have learned my lesson, and returned to the forest until some hunter or woodsman killed me in typical fairytale fashion. Then at least my memory would have been passed on from generation to generation to scare children. Instead I let the vengeful instincts of youth guide my actions. I decided that if humans did not want me among them, then among them I would remain. Before long I found that during the winter I could bundle up enough to go unnoticed. The next clear step was to go to the place where such gear was commonplace in all seasons. And so I came to be a denizen of the Nameless Empire," he said.
"Please, not that I mind, but we prefer to call it the Northern Alliance," she said, realizing how evil the alternative sounded.
"I know," Leo said, drawing his vulpine visage into his peculiar little smirk. "I wanted to see how you would react. Besides, now it is my turn to ask you a question."
"Go right ahead," Myranda said.
"If you are so often on the move, how is it you manage to earn money enough to survive?" he asked.
"Well, the money I had intended to buy dinner with was in a satchel I had found on the body of a dead man in the middle of a field north of here," she said smoothly. Now that the second glass of powerful wine was nearly empty, it did not even
occur to her how strange and awful that must have sounded.
"I see . . . so do you roam the wastes in search of expired aristocrats, or have you got a more conventional means of support?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Oh, I do whatever I can. Help in a field, clean a house, that sort of thing. Anything anyone with money needs done. If the odd jobs in a town dry up, I move on. Yet another reason I never sit still," she said. "What about you? What do you do?"
"That is a shade more difficult to explain. As you pointed out, the Perpetual War tends to get under the skin of the good people, north and south. It seeps into everything that they do. As such, battle is as much a matter of sport and pleasure as it is a matter of combating the enemy. Here and there, particularly in the north, arenas can be found. People gather there to watch various fighters clash in the name of entertainment," he said.
"I have heard of those places," Myranda said with a sneer.
"Well, it is in those places that I earn a living," he said.
"You earn a wage by beating others to death?" Myranda said, shocked.
"No, no. Not to death. We would run short of fresh talent rather quickly if that was the case, what with the army offering the same opportunities for far greater prestige. No, our matches last until the other fighter, or fighters, either submit or are unable to continue. When I fight, I wear a helmet with a face mask that completely conceals my face. Needless to say, a faceplate with a snout draws a bit of attention, but I have led the crowd to believe I am a man pretending to be a beast to gain a psychological edge over my opponents," Leo explained.
"Clever," she said.
"I hate the mask, though. The thing is practically a muzzle. I will wear it every day, though, so long as the prize money continues to flow. I just won a three-week-long tournament a few days ago. Placed a hefty bet on myself. All told, I took away more than two hundred silver pieces. That ought to last for some time. After all, I get most of my food, drink, and even shelter from the forest. Aside from medical and clothing, I have no expenses," he said.
"I wish I could say the same. There are a few rather expensive purchases I need to make, but before I do, I will have to find a wealthier town," she said.
"Why is that?" he asked.
"Well, this town has a rather sparse market. I will need to find a town that has a store that buys and sells weapons or jewels," she said.
"Jewels? Interested in buying jewelry?" he asked, raising the eyebrow again. "You do not strike me as the jewelry type."
"Oh, no, that sort of thing does not appeal to me. I need to buy a tent and a horse," she said.
Leo furrowed his brow and scratched his head. "You are aware that those are items not typically found at a gem dealer or a weapon smith," he said.
Myranda laughed, covering her mouth and shaking her head. "I am sorry about that. I did not quite make myself clear, did I? You see, I have got something that I want to sell so that I can afford those things."
"Ah, now I see. What did you have in mind? I thought I heard something clang right before I helped you out," he said.
"Well, um, right you are," she said. She still had enough sense about her to know that she should not show off the sword to someone she barely knew, but he had seen it fall. It would be terribly rude and distrustful to hide it from him now. She would show it and hope for the best.
She stood and quickly stumbled back down. The room was spinning.
"Careful now, I think that the wine had a bit more of a kick than you had realized," Leo said, standing to help her.
"It certainly did," she said. A tinge of fear raced through her as she worried that there might have been more than just wine in that glass. The dizziness and fear faded together after a few moments. "I must have stood too quickly."
Myranda carefully pulled the sword from its hasty hiding place and placed it on the table, pulling the blanket off. Leo's eyes widened.
"That is a fine weapon," he said.
He leaned close and cast a gaze of admiration upon the mirror finish.
"Excellent temper . . . clean edge," he said, scanning the weapon eagerly with his expert eyes. "Would you mind if I lifted it?"
"Go right ahead," she said.
He slipped his gloves on before touching the elegant weapon, apparently fearful of smudging the surface. He then lifted it, carefully considering its weight and looking down the length of the blade, admiring its quality.
"Superb balance, surprisingly light. I do not have much use for the long sword in my work, but I can tell you that this is a remarkable weapon," he said, placing it down and removing the gloves.
"I was most interested in the handle," she said.
"Why? There was nothing specifically remarkable about the grip," he said, puzzled.
"What about the jewels?" she asked.
"Oh, Oh. I had not even noticed. Cosmetic touches like that are the last things I look for," he said. "Those would raise the price a tad, I would say."
"I should hope so," Myranda said, wrapping the sword and replacing it.
"A word of advice. If you want the best price, see a collector, not a smith. Shop owners always pay less than what they think they can sell something for. Collectors pay what the piece is worth. As much as those jewels are worth, I would wager the workmanship and uniqueness of that piece would fetch a still higher price," he said.
"I am not greedy. So long as this treasure earns me what I need, I will be more than satisfied. If it pays for a want or two, all the better," she said.
"Trust me, you will have quite enough," he said.
Putting the sword down again had disturbed the bandage. She adjusted it, frowning at its appearance. The filthy bar had lent more than its share of filth to the already tea-stained cloth, turning it black and greasy wherever it had touched the table.
"What happened?" Leo asked, indicating the injury.
"Oh. I burnt myself," she said--best not to be specific in this case, particularly considering the fact even she was unsure of exactly what happened.
Leo nodded thoughtfully. "You will want to let the air at that. Burns heal better that way. Just a few hours a day ought to do. Less of a scar," he said.
"Is that so?" she asked.
"Trust me. I spend most of the year recovering from one injury or another," he said, placing his hand on his shoulder and working the joint until a distinct snap could be heard.
"Why not see a healer, or a cleric?" she asked.
"Aside from the fact that they are nearly impossible to find? Believe it or not, when those folks do their job, they tend to want a look at their patient. I would rather not have them find out what I am--and if a healer cannot tell at the first glance I would frankly think twice about allowing them to work on me," he explained.
"Right, foolish of me to ask," she said.
As the hours of the night passed, Myranda made up for an eternity of solitude. She spoke until her voice nearly failed her and drank in Leo's words as deeply as she did the wine. They were equally rare luxuries to her, and she would enjoy them as long as she could. Weariness and wine were a potent mix, though, and finally her eyes were too heavy to ignore. Even so, she fought to stay awake to share more tales with her friend. It was Leo, always the gentleman, who insisted that she get some rest. He stood to leave.
"Before you go, I must ask you something," Myranda said.
"Don't let me stop you," he said, slipping his gloves on.
"You have every reason to be as bitter and angry as my late uncle. How is it that you have come to be so kind?" she asked.
Leo threw his cloak about his shoulders as he answered. "Simple. Would you have let such a grim and angry person through this door?"
"I suppose not," she said.
"Of course not. You reap what you sow in this world. I do not mean to say that I have never been as you described. I spent the better half of my years hating your people with all of my heart and soul. Perhaps a part of me still does. The truth is, whether I like it or not, your people rule
this world. I can either live a life of hate and solitude, or I can do what I feel is right and hope for the same in return. Until today, though, I'd had little luck. Meeting you serves to remind me that there is some good within everyone, even if you have to dig to find it," he explained.
With that, the unique creature pulled his hood into place, instantly becoming one of the nameless, faceless masses again. He then pulled the door open, wished her a good night's rest, and shut it behind him.
Myranda spent a long moment staring at the door. She had learned much in the past few hours. It shamed her, but she could not deny the fact that had she seen his face before she'd known his nature, she would have treated him with the same disdain and prejudice he had come to expect. All of her life, she had heard the horror stories of what these beast men did. To think that one of these "fiends" would show her the patience, warmth, and understanding that even the priest lacked . . . In short, Leo was everything that Myranda feared had been lost forever in the wake of this horrific war.
Without his lively presence in the room, Myranda realized how tired she really was. She rose from her chair and sat on her bed. Doing so jostled a cloud of dust from the poorly-kept quilt. A glance at the bandage reminded her of Leo's words. Carefully, she removed it. The coarse, grayish material had absorbed only a drop or two of blood. Her palm had been entirely swollen the day before, but now there was only a stripe of redness along her palm and a single welt toward her fingers. She laid back and winced as the tightness in her back slowly eased away.
Finally she shifted herself under the covers and stretched, prompting the odd crack or snap from her weary joints. She smiled as she lowered her head onto the greatest luxury of all, a pillow. Before drifting quickly to sleep, she placed her left arm over her head on the pillow, exposing the afflicted palm to some much-needed fresh air while she rested.
The Book of Deacon Anthology Page 5
