Feallengod: The Conflict in the Heavenlies

by Craig Davis

  Chapter XIV

  Thousands upon thousands numbered the feet that had trod Feallengod, a vast sea of men and women in ebb and flow across the land, across time, whose grandchildren came and went, leaving them forgotten to memory. The soils of the island had offered their rich hospitality to all the generations of the ages, all sizes, colors and walks of their lifetimes. Humankind’s variety abounded as culture mixed with culture, ideas grew and transformed into new ideas, and wayfarers brought home peculiar customs from far-flung peoples. One such wayfarer already has crossed my pages, Andsæc Cirice.

  Cirice had spent his days a child and a parent; tradesman and peasant; master and slave. He gave his time as a laborer, a steward, a prisoner, a counselor to the elders. He had been a sinner and a saint in his full life on Feallengod, but no matter what station he had taken, he always maintained a quiet devotion to King Ecealdor. In these last three days more had passed into his eyes than he could bear.

  A stocky, rugged man, heavier than he should have been, dirtier than he should have been, more scarred than he should have been — the man Cirice. The hair upon his crown, kept short but ragged, clung grimly to its iron gray, when it clung to his head at all. Tattoos decorated his hulking arms, vague markings old and faded but still hinting at faraway lands visited in the distant past, like a map of the circuitous route a life takes. He owned little save the love and loyalty of everyone who bothered to know him.

  His will stood as strong as his broad chest, and once he had set his sails to the wind, he never turned back. One story told me, when he worked at the granite quarries in the lower mountains, before my own servitude, came about after an accident left a huge crane crippled. A wooden beam had buckled, letting loose the counterweight and lifting one poor beast of burden into the air. Crews of men struggled to pull the simple machinery apart, but one large bolt would not budge from its rusty, twisted shaft. After watching teams of men with oversized tools try vainly to turn the nut, the hanging ass hoarsely crying out, Cirice shouldered the workers aside and grasped the bolt in his massive bare hands. With one mighty grunt he managed to loosen it slightly. As he continued to strain, applying only brute strength and stubbornness, the rest of the crew shouted support and laid bets. An hour later, drenched in sweat, slathered with grimy oil, he casually threw the bolt to the feet of the whooping onlookers and kissed his biceps.

  Fortune sent Cirice’s way what it would; he simply accepted and made the most of it. So moons passed, and he took hardly any notice of the spiraling events upon his island. When Coren arrived, however, he knew that the distant king roused against Domen’s corruption. I saw him often in the crowd when Coren spoke – and saw the piercing glances shot at my hateful prattlings – and the truth of the prince’s words drove deep into his soul. But he had hung on only at the fringes of Coren’s following, and now grieved and bristled at his own absence when murder felled the prince. This conviction at length took hold of his heart, and now he agreed together with it. No longer would he stand on the sidelines of truth.

  The depraved festivity of Coren’s elimination — not only the physical excesses but the dark spirit spawning them — turned Cirice’s stomach. Certainly, he thought, certainly a handful of men still might stand against this bitter offense to the king. Though Coren deigned not fight for his life, perhaps a few left upon Feallengod would take up his memory, his honor, and his father’s cause. So he took up his quest.

  “Good evening, my friend,” he said one day, perhaps a fortnight after the revelry, as we crossed paths. He cast a dreadful glance at Gastgedal.

  “Good evening, Cirice! What mischief brings you about? Anything for my hand?”

  “Merely walking the village. Merely taking in sights of the streets.”

  “Best see to yourself. The streets have become dangerous these past several days.” As despicable as I’d become, still a touch of humanity prevailed within me to warn a friend. Times already had turned lean again, and I well knew my own dark pursuits in the alleyways. But I knew as well, Cirice would fall victim to no one.

  “Spicy we like it – if you’re not afraid to dip into a little trouble,” Gastgedal grinned at some keen whimsy he’d unveiled.

  “So have I known. Tonight peace is as much trouble as I wish upon myself, or you.”

  “Make peace, or take a piece,” Gastgedal fairly bounced, giddy with wit. “We make our own way, and care little for the fears of petty girls.” He stuck his gnarled nose within reach of Cirice’s swing.

  “An ill wind blows from your gullet, unless I’m mistaken about the opening,” Cirice sneered. “I’ll not waste time nor trouble on you this day.”

  “Take your provocations elsewhere,” I scolded Gastgedal, motives muddled between right and self-righteous. “We want no argument with this fellow,” but what I wanted had been sealed already.

  “Oh, pardon, sir,” Gastgedal replied with deep, sarcastic bow. Unable to stir any anger in Cirice, seeing that I had no interest either, he withdrew his insults. “Domen has set the new path for the island, never to slip from his fingers. Surely one day you will have the time and inclination, and will not let the opportunity die.”

  “Perhaps, man, though death seems something of a more royal pursuit here upon Feallengod,” Cirice scowled and turned his attention back to me, studying my expression.

  “Yes,” I laughed. “And just as well! Little matter — I take care of myself upon Feallengod, as does every man! Best then join, and watch how you step, Cirice.”

  “Yes. I see, good fellow. Good evening to you.” And then indicating Gastgedal: “This man is no more than doom to you.” With that, down the street he continued his pursuit. I watched his broad shoulders – bearing his glad unknown yoke as he ambled near to speak to another countryman – shaking my head as I returned to my own designs.

  I learned later his mission. I knew him, his loyalty to the king, to anyone who showed themselves worthy, but realizing what I considered such utter sentimentality in him struck me with surprise. Honor remained easy for him — he did not seem to care about the king’s disregard for his son. He had not seen the foul belly of Ecealdor’s callous brutality, his cruel indifference, as I had. But, oh, my king, little did I understand.

  Cirice combed every path of the village, searching out men and women not consigned to the designs of Domen. As weeks passed, his tiny remnant increased, though many cowered, afraid to join him openly. On the island’s far side, in the swampy coves off the Ocean Heofon, he organized his brigade. This musty, murky area had frightened me as a child; Feallengod parents often threatened a night upon the moors to discipline unruly sons, and I earned my nightmares. Many men brought horses to the camp; many others offered food and supplies. A community of sharing returned to this fractional people, not out of compulsion but a known unity. All the swords, lances, maces, pitchforks, axes and clubs the people could muster began to accumulate, along with a ragtag collection of armor. During the days the people walked the streets of the village, house to house, but in the evenings, as often as opportunity allowed, they gathered in the moors under the headship of Cirice, for his exhortation and training.

  And there as well did Hatan find him.

  The cloud of Coren’s killing that swept across Feallengod drew a shroud fully over the face of Hatan’s heart. He thought of the high mountains and the depths of Heofon, and how each might rejoin him to his Magister, but he did not think of his home, unable to face his mother and unwilling to look upon his father. At first he told every man and woman he could find about the scene at the ash heap: Coren’s body mysteriously vanished. He mostly met only doubt and derision in return; some accused him of simply stealing the body. So many feet trampled the area, seeking either proof or excuse, that within days even he could not say for sure where Coren once had lain, if not for the tree. The little sprout flourished, spreading its limbs remarkably quickly, a sapling now waving in summer breezes, birds alighting to rest.

  Hatan made the orchards his sanctuary, thin
king solitude the only refuge for his treachery. There his days and nights melted into one as depression sank into his being, and he took to peering around the walls and trees like a hunted beast, afraid of who might venture in and find him. Eventually desperate loneliness drove him from the walls, seeking whoever still might share his desire for Coren and the king. Perhaps he would find a measure of mercy with them, or perhaps condemnation to at least give his guilt a place to lay its head. He at last returned to the streets of the village, where he heard whispered rumors of Cirice and his collection of mates.

  Sentries appeared from behind trees as Hatan delved into the moors. They carried weapons as if on a hunting mission, throwing up neither defense nor attack, but their eyes studied him carefully.

  “Good day, friend. What brings you into the marshes? We have only just decided to depart — the hunting has turned against us.”

  “I am Hatan Feohtan,” his gaze dropped in shame.

  The sentries’ faces brightened as though waking from a dream only to find it true. “Goodwill to you, friend, and peace! Peace to you! We have all heard your report, and long have we awaited you! So many despairing that you had fallen into Domen’s clutches! Come, please come with us,” and taking him by his elbows, they fairly dragged him deep into the fog of the moors.

  As they drew near, the sentries surprised the quiet camp with their rash exuberance, “The witness! We bring the witness!” Shouts and outstretched arms greeted Hatan, grasping and hugging him like a lost dog reunited, all along the way to a small bonfire.

  “The witness has fallen in with us! At last!” the sentries called out, and Cirice vaulted to his feet. “Who? Him?!” his eyes wide as his mouth, he enfolded Hatan in sturdy arms.

  “We have hoped for you these weeks. Your word spreads like wildfire — see? Even the bogs smoke. Your testimony calls like a trumpet, a song of expectation for all of us. Please tell me it rings true.”

  “True it is,” Hatan said. “The body lay there, as the imprint within the ashes attested, and then it didn’t. Don’t ask me to say how.”

  “No need,” said Cirice. “Hope lives — the tree testifies to life. Did he not go about planting upon the island? So does he still. We have seen the tree, but we must believe the empty mark his body left. Whatever has happened in the ashes, hope lives that Ecealdor does not abandon Feallengod, though he chooses to remain in Gægnian. So many here pine for what you have truly seen. But no matter — we will believe anyway. Upon your eyes, upon your word we will believe. Sit! Sit down and warm yourself, and tell me you’ve come to join us.”

  “I want to — to cast off these chains of guilt. Desperately how I want to. What work do you have for me?”

  “We plan to oppose Domen every way we can. We plan to campaign against him in homes and taverns, on the streets and battlefields if so needed. When we march, we will hold high a bloody scarlet banner, the banner of Coren. You will find the way you fit in with us. Do you renounce any love for Domen?”

  “Love?” Hatan scoffed. “Never would I speak such a word in the same breath as the villain’s name. Good leaders number few, bad leaders many — Domen’s evil stands alone. I cannot follow that way,” he said quietly, his head upright.

  “Well said. Though young, you have become a man, and suddenly, I think. Like a ship come into shore upon rocks, you exchange the innocence of youth for cynical experience. To your credit, your distrust rightly aims at the forces of ruin, but as you grow wise, take care to retain your gentle heart. You will join us here and greatly benefit our people, and maybe find peace for yourself.”

  “Certainly you know, though, my father has made covenant with him. You must know this, then perhaps choose to drive me from you. My brother – my brother killed my Magister, killed Coren. My only brother.” Hatan’s eyes looked distant. “Blood, blood levied for a fawn.”

  “A terrible burden you carry. We will not add to it.”

  “More still I must confess, Cirice. More you must know, for my presence may prove a fatal thorn. This tears at me, rends my spirit — at the very moment they dragged him away, I would not speak for him. When I should rather have given my life for his, I turned silent against him. Can my chest not receive a sword as well as any man’s? If I had said something, if I had done anything, perhaps he would live even now. Or I’d at least have died with him.”

  “Take heart, Hatan. When you confess failure in this matter, when you confess to your wrong, you agree that Ecealdor is right. When the king’s people show him to be right, they robe him in honor, though through the heartache of their own failure.”

  “But I walked with him. I invited him to his murder. For such injustice, mustn’t a price be paid?”

  “A price indeed, but you cannot bear it. Perhaps another. What the king decides extracts a price from Domen. We must believe. Does he blame you? No, we know the prince did not. He warned you about Domen, and we gathered here will protect you. Your Magister you share — our Magister; his death has made of us a new family, fathers and brothers who will not abandon you.”

  “Yes, I see. To think that my failure might glorify the king, offers me great comfort.”

  “So I learned from experience. Besides, I have thought the same: Should I have been there? Might I have tried to stop what happened? Do my arms reach farther, stronger than the king’s? I like to think I can twist fate, but certainly I don’t know. I dote upon protecting my own buttocks, too, you know. So maybe guilt falls to me as well; guilt enough to cover many. I know years passed, and I gave only lip service to Ecealdor’s law. Today it screams at me, how far I fall short. For generations we half-believed a promise; now hope stands in the gap. If he came once, perhaps he will come again. But we will never cease grieving for his first time. What I do know beyond hope, though — I’m here now. So let’s both of us release what’s past and look to what’s present and future.”

  “Very well, then,” said Hatan, and the smile on his face felt like his first.

  “Anyway, I do know this: I could have taken the blade, but I could not have gotten up from that ash heap. Nor either you. As we know, according to our best source,” Cirice smiled back, “his body was gone.”

  “Yes, his body gone. What would you have me do now?”

  “Right now just stand about and look inspirational,” Cirice said. “You don’t realize how you’re loved here. So many wish they could have seen — but the tree declares life. We’re all left to merely believe your report.”

  “I want to help.”

  “Simply talk. You walked with him longer than any other, from the beginning. We must talk together, to help remember what Coren said. The people here will gladly listen, and you will lift their hearts. Much lies ahead of us all. I’m sure blood will flow. Domen will discover this camp and destroy us, if he can. Tell me, Hatan, would you kill a man for Ecealdor?”

  “I don’t know — but I would die for him. I would take up Coren’s staff.”

  Cirice clapped his hand hard upon the shoulder. “Excellent! That’s all we ask!” he grinned broadly, revealing a crooked row of teeth. Laughter flared loudly from a nearby group of armored men, like the fire where they huddled, and Hatan, catching them with an eye over his shoulder, joined in, timid at first, then filled with gusto.

  “What might you bring? Have you a sword?”

  “Yes, I can put hand upon a short sword. Also, the fruits of the orchards, what yet survives. Every piece of fruit or grain, I will bring.”

  “Fine, farmer boy. Now let’s fit you out with some armor. It wouldn’t do to send you into battle wearing a mushmelon on your head.” They walked toward a twisted pile of tarnished metal, and Cirice stroked his grizzled chin as he sorted through the collection of shoddy armor.

  “Here, a belt to carry weapons, and tassets to defend the family jewels; first things first, ’ay?” he spoke in a distracted way, eyes still sorting armaments, and slapped the belt into Hatan’s belly. He threw aside some odd bits of metal tangled in a knot. “Let’s
see — this breastplate could work. You’ll have room to stow a ham inside, if you happen to have one. We must add some meat onto your bones, boy, you’re thin as a miser’s penny.” Cirice jerked his thumb toward a pile of shoes, some of stiff leather, others of pointed bronze, then planted his finger in Hatan’s chest. “Be sure to pick some boots that fit; if your feet give out, you’ll end up on your knees for sure. And keep your stockings dry, too, that’ll hold the stench down. Go ahead and aspire to high rank, but not on account of your feet.”

  Cirice continued to poke through the piles of oddly shaped coverings. “Ho-ho! Here’s a buckler. Think it big enough? We men need them only large enough to hide our looks — helps keep the women off.” He winked at Hatan, holding the shield up to various parts of his body, finally arriving upon his rump. “I don’t want to see you like this,” he said. “No running away unless you’re following my lead. Behind me I won’t see you. No, indeed. This helmet looks enough for that big head of yours. I cannot abide anyone with a head bigger than mine in these parts, so watch it. Hmmm … looks like all you’ll gain here. Bear in mind to bring your sword; though if it’s all as dull as your conversation, you’re in trouble.”

  Often have I suffered under Cirice’s absent-minded, unrelenting ribbing, a hallmark of the brash gaming tease he poured upon those he loved. But Hatan knew not, and the deluge caught him with stunned surprise at first. Soon quickly though, the abuse gave him to know he stood among friends, that he’d get no better nor poorer treatment than any other man. He was home.

  A tall, burly soldier wrapped his arm around Hatan’s shoulders with assurance, “You’ll do well, Witness.”

  Low singing in rich harmony arose into the clouds above the moors. The night sank deep over Feallengod now; no light escaped the overcast sky above nor the mists rolling in off the restless ocean below. Darkness gave Hatan a sense of comfort, a door to close against the memories tormenting him. Under cover of the blackness he fled the prison of his agonies. Thick enough flowed the dark to persuade doubt that the land existed at all, if not for the feel of it underfoot. Thick enough, in fact, to hide a skulking figure from the eyes of even the sharpest sentries.

  The sun only mulled at setting over Gægnian, but within the courts of Ecealdor a pall had fallen. Mægen-El stood before the king, head erect but eyes lost somewhere in the distance. Secanbearn lay upon the bare floor, weeping into the folds of a man’s cloak, grieving with the whole host of the palace. Tears bled not for Coren, nor for the king, but for the wretched people of Feallengod.

  “Coren’s mission is complete,” said Ecealdor, his face lined, exhaustion plain in his voice. He leaned his weight on both fists set upon a table.

  “Has he failed, Lord?” asked Secanbearn.

  “That I did not say. Though Feallengod is but a small corner of my greater kingdom, every work I undertake lies heavily upon that little island. Though all the rest of my domain does me honor, though Feallengod remains in rebellion, still my endeavors depend upon Feallengod alone. Now, the people of the land must agree, and declare which way they will go.”

  “Do you leave them to themselves?” She lifted a finger to her breast, then away from her body.

  “No, child, though many won’t find me so comforting from here out. They wouldn’t accept my watchmen; I have left them no doubt about what fails. Now will I demonstrate what succeeds; yet still they do not revere my son.” Ecealdor’s breath broke away hard, and he stared blankly upon the ragged map before him — a dark form moved mysteriously behind.