The Burden of Memory

by Welcome Cole

  “Vaemysh activity?” the fat Forelord said as he scratched beneath his dented chestplate with a dirty spoon, “Whatever do you mean, Vaemysh activity? The locals are too deep into their ceremonial mushrooms of late, if you ask me. Seeing things, they are. Spooked by their own shadows, if you ask me.” He sent one of his men a wink. The King’s guards all laughed.

  The Baeldon bristled at that. “You, sir,” he said as seriously as a lynching, “Are one witty remark away from a branding.”

  Though it took several beats, the Forelord eventually deduced that he may have just been threatened. He shoved himself to his feet, but his scabbard caught in the chair legs beneath him. He tried to pull it free and sent the chair clattering backward for the effort. By the time he actually drew his sword, he was facing the long blades of four towering Baeldonian soldiers.

  King Tortock slammed the table. “Yemed! Sit down, you gutter shimlin’s son! What the hell’s wrong with you? Calina help me, I should’ve had your mouth sewn shut years ago!”

  The drunken guard tottered on unsound legs with his sword drawn but drooping impotently at his side.

  Friss prayed to Calina he’d make a move. It’d be a glorious sight to see him delicately carved by a Baeldon’s blade. Sadly, he only sheathed his weapon. One of his comrades picked his chair up and slid it in behind him. He collapsed gracelessly into it.

  “There’s nothing to report, sir,” Tortock yelped at the Baeldon, “Peasants are fools! Stupid as he is, my man there is correct. There’s been nothing going on about these hills. Nothing more than a few ragged foraging parties. I declare the question is becoming most tedious.”

  “Foraging parties?” Ghanter Vicker stepped closer to the table. “It’s a bit far east for Vaemysh foraging parties, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I would not say so!” Tortock said as a young servant girl refilled his pewter cup, “Why, the savages routinely forage the valley for whatever handouts they can find. They don’t bother us and we don’t bother them. Not so long as they keep their tracks out of my personal forests, that is.”

  Friss bristled at that. Personal forests, indeed! It was the Baeldons claimed ownership of yon forests. And from the storm clouds growing in the good Ghanter’s eyes, she was certain he shared her observation.

  “Were these foragers armed?” the Ghanter asked.

  The King laughed at that. “I’m surprised an officer of your stature would entertain such foolery. Heavens above! Why, my men would kill on sight any savage bearing arms in my forests. Nary a warrior has set a foot on this land in two hundred years.”

  This fool’s parade was simply more than Friss could bear. The reckless old pig was spewing lies and ignorance at the Baeldon, and she’d not stand idly by and be party to it.

  She marched boldly into the light of the table. “Ye force me into argument, Lord, me heart filled with worthy enough cause to cast such observation to bloody contrary!”

  The Ghanter stiffened as she approached the table from the shadows on the far side of the table from him. His officers were instantly on their feet, hands at the ready on their hilts, but short of drawing blades. The King’s men simply continued to drink.

  King Tortock slammed the table hard enough to bounce cups. “That’s as dramatic an entrance as I’ve ever had the good fortune to witness. Come in, my dear Friss! Come in at once. I swear you’d startle Calina herself!”

  Friss stepped fully into the table’s candlelight.

  “By gods!” Tortock bellowed, “How did you ever manage to steal past my guards?”

  “Stealing past ye guards demands precious little expense of stealth, sire. Why, harder to sneak past yon bloody boulder short of rousing it.”

  “Nonsense! They’re as agile a group of soldiers as you’re ever likely to encounter. Eyes like cats, they have. Nothing escapes them.” He waved the servant toward her.

  Friss sneered at the fat Forelord sitting like a barrel of grease at the other end of the table. “I’d not trust ye men to guard a cask of soured wine, sire,” she said, hoping the fat bastard would make a move, “Leastwise, not so long as said cask retained yet drops, and yon fools held amongst them spigot and bloody hammer to collect.”

  “Brutal!” Tortock cried out, “You’re a heartless wench to spread such lies. By the love of Pentyrfal, I should have you thrown into shackles this very instant.” His laughter degenerated into a fit of coughs.

  Friss accepted the goblet offered by a servant girl, then tipped it up to the hacking King. “A double bloody fool I’d be if ye louts managed so much as to point a rope at me. No sire, ye ain’t got near guards enough to see me chained. Not by a cavalry’s bloody mile, ye ain’t.”

  The king spit the memory of the cough onto the floor and dragged his hand over his mouth. Then he tipped his goblet up to her. “You’re a blessed she-devil, Friss, and I love you for it, I swear I do! You’re always welcome in this keep.”

  Friss looked up at the Baeldon towering before the fire. His glory stood nearly twice her height. It took her breath away.

  The Ghanter’s expression remained as unyielding as rock. “You’re a Watcher,” he said. It didn’t sound like a compliment.

  “By Calina’s love! Ain’t ye observant to bloody fault? Figured that out from way up there on the angels’ high, did ye?”

  “I’m Ghant’r Soolen Vicker of His Majesty King Saulbrit’s Royal Army. And I should advise you that I’m well trained against your Watcher mind tricks.”

  “Well, Ghant’r Soolen Vicker, rest safe knowing I’d not be inclined to waste neither strength nor wind offending a mind of such friendly countenance as ye demonstrate from upon high.”

  The Ghanter didn’t respond. He also didn’t appear convinced.

  Friss smiled and stepped closer to the table, setting her cup down on the rough wood. “Should words thrown about table yield spark from strike, I’d surmise ye ain’t gracing King Ticktock’s merry lands for healthful pursuits. Suspicion birthed to voice, I’d say ye likely been commissioned to pursue them naughty Vaemyn so recklessly combing these surrounding hills in sorry months past.”

  “You’ve seen them?”

  “See ye, do I not? Why, they wander said grounds like ants trespassing upon bloody melon. Move about like they own tithe and title, do they not? And lest ye think me no more than a pretty mouth puckering about ye ass for license or dispensation, I can tell ye they ain’t exclusively here in this Saudren Pass, neither. Nay sire, they be in Na te’Yed as well, and I may safely declare such observation with confidence unbridled by bloody doubt.”

  He studied her a moment. Then he said, “By the treaties binding them, they’re permitted to hunt and forage along the borders of these lands.”

  Friss laughed at that. “Question posed, do stand I here with thumb in bloody ass like yon table-load of louts employed by King Lardio? I warn ye back from playing me fool, dear Ghant’r.”

  The Ghanter bristled at that. “I meant you no—”

  “I speak of Vaemysh bloody warriors, sire, decked head to balls true for battle. Not high priests rooting for windcry plants or flesca leaves or pieces of pretty stone, if ye take me meaning. If alleged foragers truly sought fruits of land and precious little more as so boldly claimed, why… them vegetables pursued surely must wear cocks big as branches and swing wicked bloody steel.”

  “Now just what the devil are you getting at, Friss?” Tortock cried out, “There aren’t any damned warriors mucking about these lands! Why, if so, my men would’ve—”

  She wheeled on him with finger leveled. “If ever ye men found misfortune to meet a solitary Vaemyn face to face and balls to balls, and if said Vaemyn bore weapons deadlier than bloody carrot, why these fools’d be shitting them sorry selves one-two-three, throwing hands to wet crotches, and skedaddling home just as quick as they drunken feet might push them.”

  The Forelord of the Guard again threw himself to his feet, knocking his neighbor’s wine over in the process. “I protest that! You Watchers are as
low as the savages. You’re no better than a band of gypsies! By hells, if you weren’t a woman, I’d—”

  His neighbor jumped to his feet and shoved him roughly back into his chair. “Get a grip, Yem!” he said with a finger in the Forelord’s face, “Let it go! Last time you insulted her, she mindbladed you into dancing naked around the village square.”

  “Shut up!” the Forelord snapped up at the soldier, “Don’t you—”

  “Two days you danced there that way,” Grell continued, laughing, “Slapping your family gems around like they was children’s toys. Finally had to knock you cold to get you to stop—”

  “Shut up, the both of you!” King Tortock ordered, slapping the table.

  Friss met the Forelord’s threatening look and pressed it back hard enough to usher him into silence. When she returned her attention to the Baeldon, she was a bit surprised to find him already looking at her. She thoroughly enjoyed the pressure of his gaze, suffering a delightful pulse of warmth to her nether regions for the sensation.

  “You’ve got the mouth of a merchant sailor,” the Ghanter said to her, “But then, I expect you’ve likely the grit to back it.”

  “The rattler don’t lay teeth to leg uninvited, sire. I mean to say, I don’t reckon I much bark, but I’m surely prone to bite when deserving leg be forced within reach short of bloody invitation.”

  “You’ve a darker bronze to your skin than most Watchers I’ve met,” he said. His eyes roved her head. “Red hair. Unusual among your kind.”

  She stared right back up at him. “Red hair,” she said back, nodding toward his own head and beard, “Unusual among ye kind, I’d say.”

  The man said nothing. His gaze didn’t waver.

  “Truth be told,” she continued, “Red ain’t so uncommon as ye’d dare presume. Not in me own clan, it ain’t. Truth to point, most of me Whisper be reds. Born in the blood flow of blessed Calina’s flower, we were. Chosen we were, bred to—”

  “Who are you? What’s your name? What are you doing here?”

  “Me name’d be Friss Maedroll Cole. Me Whisper roams yon Nolands, seeking profit where it lay and nary repenting bloody means. We swear loyalty to neither kings nor gods, and we name few friends. We—”

  “I know what Watchers are! I asked…”

  The Ghanter fell silent. His eyes rose past her.

  Friss turned to follow them. A man emerged from the deeper shadows of the banquet hall a dozen paces behind her. His red hair was braided back in Vaemysh style exactly as her own, and he was clad all in dark green buckskins with long fringe blessing his arms and the breadth of his back, just as she was. Their only difference, outside gender, was the dozen throwing knives sheathed lethally along his heavy brown leather waist belt.

  “Why, this fine cut of man here would be me good brother, Graen Aehod Cole,” she said as he walked up to her side, “Graen, this godlike mountain of virility towering before ye be Ghant’r Soolen Vicker. Seems he’d be hunting bloody Vaemyn.”

  “Hunting bloody Vaemyn, ye say?” Graen replied with arms thrown wide and a grin to match it, “To what end might ye hunt bloody Vaemyn, good sir?”

  Vicker’s eyes tensed at that. “As I’ve already informed your sister, Vaemysh warriors have been reported in the area. We’re here to investigate.”

  Graen accepted a mug of wine from the ambrosial young servant girl. “Ah, like a lily gifted from young forest sprite in very blush of spring. And just what name would be following ye around this heartbreaking world, darling?”

  The girl flushed and quickly scurried quickly away. As Graen studied the girl’s retreat, Friss shared an elbow with his ribs.

  “Ow! That hurt, damn ye!”

  “Then for love’s loss, keep ye thoughts north of ye britches, and pay attention to our good Ghanter there.”

  He gave her a final sneer before turning his grin back to the Baeldon. “Truly in such case, possibility lives we may offer some wee service to ye lordship,” he said as he smelled the contents of his goblet, “There are indeed strange goings on about these parts of late, and stranger more further on down bloody trail.”

  “Strange goings on?” Vicker asked, “You mean the Vaemyn, as your sister indicated?”

  Graen drew off a deep draught of wine and passed a look of ecstasy to Friss. “Breath of the gods, it’s Calina’s nectar blessing so undeserving a mortal mug! Tried this, have ye, love?”

  “Nay, brother. Been a mite busy trading observations with the good Ghant’r here.”

  Graen tipped his cup to the lout of a king. “My good Lord, ye still serve the finest grape in region.”

  Tortock leaned back in his great chair and raised his own cup in return. “Thank you, dear fellow. Your compliment is only more flattering in so much as it’s true.”

  Graen walked around behind the king, crossing directly over to the fireplace. There, he carefully set his goblet down on the hearth before warming his hands against the hearty fire. Friss followed him, gesturing the good Ghanter closer as she passed. Together the three of them stood with their backs to the table and faces to the flames.

  As he rubbed his palms together before the heat, Graen threw a sidelong look up at the Baeldon, saying, “Would ye mind offering mercy, dear Ghanter? I swear, ye serve kink to bloody neck, craning as I must to see ye up there upon summit’s peak.”

  Vicker appeared confused until Friss gave him a guiding tug. “Of course,” he said. He dropped to one knee beside them.

  Friss noted with no little joy that even kneeling he was as tall as she. His wide face shimmered wonderfully in the firelight. His wide set eyes were deep and powerful, and utterly captivating. His beard burned like the fires of Pentyrfal. It was all she could do to resist touching his face.

  “Ye’d do well to know,” Graen whispered with a glance back over his shoulder, “Said Vaemyn appeared confined to Na te’Yed, leastwise at first sight. Bloody strange happenings, ye know. Nothing to incline one to stop and level accusatory fingers, surely, but more foragers than expectation ought predict. And said particulars reek more suspiciously, given so northerly a latitude as paths crossed lay. Felt a wee crowded in them darkening woods, if ye take me meaning.”

  “I do,” Vicker said.

  “And we ain’t no strangers to company of bloody Vaemyn, sire, words true as dawn. Indeed, we’ve crossed paths with many a savage upon days past, ain’t we? Most oft whilst sharing routes of travel and business. It’d be Calina’s truth to say they don’t put us much toward sweat, so to speak.”

  “I understand.”

  “Yet, if I’d be relaying tale true, relaying short of misdirection or misplaced particulars, truth is we’ve crossed they paths with persistent damned regularity of late. And in me humble opinion, weapons they bore seemed a mite excessive for gathering roots and herbs. I mean to say they were armed offensively and armed effectively.”

  “I appreciate the information.”

  Graen again glanced back at the louts’ party roiling behind him, then leaned closer to the Baeldon. “Able to tell ye more, ain’t we? Much, much more. We’ve news I’d be confident ye’d find a respectable dollop better than useful.”

  The Baeldon nodded. “Continue.”

  Friss slipped a halting hand over Graen’s arm, while throwing him a mental command to shut up. He scowled back at her, but complied with her guidance all the same.

  “Ye’ll kindly show grace enough to pardon me blossoming suspicions, Ghant’r Soolen Vicker,” she said, looking up at him, “But questions of me own pressure the nest, and I’ll see answers hatched before throwing coop doors open to bloody fox, even one dressed so sweetly as yeself.”

  The Baeldon glanced at Graen.

  “Don’t throw ye goddamned eyes down upon him, sire!” she snapped, “The leader of our beloved Whisper stands before ye true as faith, and it wouldn’t be me brother.”

  “The sad and sorry truth, that,” Graen said, grinning up at Vicker, “And she’ll kick shit to throat if ever I wax foolish
enough as to deny it.” He laughed at that and took a deep drink of his wine.

  Vicker appeared nonplussed by the revelation. He nodded at her and said, “Fair enough, ma’am. Ask your questions, then.”

  “Strikes me peculiar, ye know, seeing Baeldons in local parts. Of late, we travel under belief that said Baeldons and they Parhronii cousins foolishly throw selves into border war. How comes it ye be down here then, looking for bloody Vaemyn whilst ye kith and kin fight tooth to nail northwest? Ye’ve not troubles enough at home, short of poking large noses down here in southern backwaters?”

  Vicker considered her for so long, she wondered for a moment if he’d fallen asleep with his eyes open. Finally, he said, “How do I know you’re not involved with the Vaemyn?”

  Friss snorted a laugh at that. “And what flower of trust do ye suggest grows in our garden with fragrance ripe enough to convince us Baeldons ain’t?”

  “Baeldons in league with the savages? Well, that’s just absurd.”

  “Truth to words?” she said, crossing her arms, “Strange times indeed, then. Mayhaps strangest in centuries past. And yet, this ye’d do well to note: caution guides me beloved Whisper more famously than trust in times late.”

  “Baeldons would never collaborate with the savages.”

  “Nay?” She looked over at Graen. “Brother, tell it true. What count strapping Baeldons have ye observed working shoulder against shoulder with bloody savages in Fark’s Freehold upon years gone to seed?”

  Graen smirked, but said nothing.

  “I don’t speak for renegades,” Vicker said.

  “By Calina’s love, a sad, sorry state it be that a blossom of renegade scent could entice me closer to trust. Ye be soldier first, wearing truest badge of Baeldonian high honor, ain’t that right? And yet, it be but a sorry kick of truth that we live in ye mirror world, don’t we? Ye badge of honor be little more than a woeful beacon of doubt and mistrust on our side of said glass.”

  He glared hard at her, and she gave it right back. Only the snapping of the fire and the drunken reverie from the forgotten banquet table breached their standoff.