The
Harbinger
of
Change
Also by Matthew Travagline
The Gleeman’s Tales Duology
Gleeman’s Tales
The Harbinger of Change
Other Works
The Humanity Edict
The Harbinger of Change
A Novel
(Book Two of the Gleeman’s Tales Duology)
Matthew
Travagline
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by Matthew Travagline
All rights reserved.
First Edition
Cover Design by Gabriella Padilla
Mom,
One summer, you bribed me to read. Thank you!
“We live in a world now that saves the best seat by the fire for the storyteller.”
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Epilogue
Chapter 1
Many months before the present day.
Gnochi looked up from tuning his guitar as a woman burst into the tavern, her eyes wild and red.
“There is a fire at Nenni farm. We need as many folks as possible to help put out the blaze.” Her voice chilled his heart. He dropped a guitar to the floor, sprung up from his seat and raced to the stables.
His midnight-colored mare, Perogie, was the only horse stabled that afternoon, so Gnochi saw her as soon as he entered the musty building. She seemed to know from the rush in his movement not to nicker gaily and she allowed him to saddle her without banter.
Gnochi galloped out of the stables without waiting to pay the absent stablehand. He shouted the occasional passersby, urging them out of his path so he could fly without impediment. Once outside the limits of the town, he leant onto his mare’s neck, urging her to a gallop. Perogie’s hooves seemed scarcely to kiss the dirt as she hurtled full-tilt toward the farm.
The bard spied a column of smoke billowing over the surrounding wood. In the fields at the edge of the property, he saw the cows still at pasture, seemingly unaware of their homestead aflame. Approaching the house’s clearing, he gritted his teeth at gaping onlookers.
He slowed his approach to prevent barreling into the crowd and slid from her back, thrusting her reins into the soft hands of a child watching with his mother. He spared the crowd no further thought once he determined that Zelda and Pippa were not among them. With the rush of wind no longer stealing the sounds from his ears, Gnochi heard the grunts and calls of a team relaying pond-water up to the house. Their efforts would not be enough. The mere morsels of water would fail to quench the blaze.
One of the farm’s neighbors called to him and approached, resting a calloused hand on his arm. Though Gnochi saw the man’s lips moving, he heard nothing of the man’s words. Instead of waiting to hear what the other farmer was saying, Gnochi pushed past, rushing to the house.
The front porch’s roof had collapsed under burnt beams, so he sprinted around back, pushing into the kitchen’s door and assessing the inferno before him. The fire had consumed the front sitting room and was steady in its creep into the kitchen. He picked his way around pockets of fire, snatching glances in each of the adjacent bedrooms. A dull thump sounded from the attic. He yanked the stairs down from the ceiling and raced up, ignoring the heavy smoke that choked his lungs. The air above tasted toxic and burned his eyes, bringing about what felt like tears of blood.
Gnochi fumbled through the attic, bumbling around without any sight to guide his hands. Twice his weight sent wood plummeting to the flames below. Finally, his sooty hands found the warm flesh of his niece Pippa’s leg. Shifting so he was by her face, he saw that her eyes were closed. He cupped his hands underneath her arms and dragged her back to the attic’s stairs, careful to avoid adding his weight to the floorboards under her body. Once at the stairs, he tucked her body into his arms, carrying her down and outside.
His feet moved of their own accord, running away from the blaze and finding a patch of grass still cool and green, not trampled by the onlookers or scorched by the fire. He rested Pippa’s head in the grass. Without thinking, he stood and turned to run back toward the inferno, only to find his mare had freed herself from the child’s weak grasp and was blocking him from returning. She snorted moist air in his face, startling him. Not one minute later, the entire roof collapsed in on itself, flames consuming the rubble.
With no hope for a survivor from the house, Gnochi turned his attention back to his niece. Some of the onlookers were stooped over her, their hands feeling at her neck and wrist. Gnochi bullied his way before her, a snarl from his throat dissuading others from offering to help. He tried forcing air into her mouth. He tried pushing on her chest, hoping to will her heart to beat, but after an untold amount of time, exhaustion forced him to rest. His weary head fell still on her stomach.
For a moment, after waking from his daze, Gnochi’s eyes were filled with dull oranges and deep reds. His vision felt trapped in the inferno. As his mind recovered, he pulled his head off Pippa’s corpse, revealing the autumnally-colored poncho which had tricked his eyes. The garment taunted him, a physical extension of the fire’s wrath. It had suffered substantial burns; half of the frills had been singed off and its needlework was blackened. Even the coloring, which resembled the murderous blaze, had been diluted by soot and smoke.
Hot tears streaked through the soot on his face and stained the poncho like inky rain.
◆◆◆
Days later, in the waning heat of a long afternoon, Gnochi labored through ash and sweat as he continued to clear the rubble from the foundation of the farmhouse lot. Every time his eyes fell to the scorched scar of its foundation, fresh tears churned his now-dulled earthy eyes to mud. And when the sorrow crept in, threatening to explode out in screams and sobs, he looked to the hill and its two burial mounds which watched over the meadow. Each time, he gritted his teeth, promising to rebuild in their honor.
After many more hours of toil, when the last stretches of sunlight yet lit the western horizon, Gnochi sat at the edge of the clearing with his back against the bark of a mighty oak. Fatigued and weary as he was, he fell into an uncomfortable sleep and was awakened some time later as four figures atop equally menacing horses surrounded him. He had only thought to reach for a knife when a canvas sack was placed over his head, his arms were pinioned behind his back, and he was hefted onto the back of one of the horses.
◆◆◆
&n
bsp; Present day.
With winterbush-poison still slogging through his system, Gnochi crept out of a slumber, fighting an urge to sink back into rest. One side of his face itched where the pool of now dried blood had congealed against his skin. Memories once lost—or stolen—flooded back through his mind. He saw the farmhouse burning and the two mounds where his family lay at rest. With the block on his memory gone, recalling the fire brought fresh tears to his eyes. He wondered, if for only a moment, how Jackal was able to manipulate him so easily. More tears accompanied the memories that his mind continued to unearth.
One tear streaked through the grimy blood and stung as it soaked into a cut on his temple. The pain grounded him and revitalized a sense of urgency. Through a blur of tears and blood, Gnochi thought of his apprentice, Cleo, who likely hated him for her current predicament. He thought of how she would rail against him for his attempt at keeping her safe, but would also smile, devouring the story of how he, with the help of his modified guitar-sword The Royal Lyre, managed to poison half a dozen guards and best King Providence in combat.
Gnochi mustered his energy and stood, surveying the carnage caused by his hands. The king’s six guards each lay in pools of their own blood varying in size depending on where his knives had impacted. He looked to the king. Providence’s face sported a bloody grimace and he had died sitting back on his feet.
At once, a memory fluttered back into his mind from his time imprisoned.
‘Once you complete the task, place this pendant around the king’s neck,’ the leader of Silentore had said.
“It’s time to be done with you, Jackal,” Gnochi said to himself, placing the pendant around the king’s neck. The red gem set within the center shone as though it hung in front of one of the castle’s electric chandeliers.
Gnochi stared in silence at the corpse until the glowing pendant began belching out smoke and flames. He imagined that the castle was in no danger of burning to the ground, but fire could destroy much of the finery within. Dismissing further thoughts of the king, he limped toward the exit of the chamber. The further he distanced himself from his deeds, the more aches and pains awakened from their adrenaline-masked slumber. At the door, he stopped, remembering Roy’s poor timing.
The teen accompanied him and Cleo as part of the menagerie, displaying a greater loyalty for his friend Harvey than ever for the army which had enlisted him. He did not deserve to die with smoke in his lungs. It was an undignified death.
How long had it been since he carried his niece out of a fire? Had he not gone into town that day, maybe he could have saved her. Saved them both. He would not have had to watch as she choked on smoke, the life winking out of her eyes. With teeth gritted in pain, he shook his head, willing the memories of Pippa to remain submerged. He would grieve another day.
The broken carapace of The Royal Lyre lay splintered on the floor next to a bruise blooming blue on the skin of Roy’s cheek. His nose looked mangled and bloody from the impact, though he was breathing, and his nose appeared to have clotted.
Gnochi could do little more for the teen. He was, after all, no bonesetter. Perhaps if he knew where to find Harvey, he could bring the teen to safety. The bard stooped and hefted him over his shoulder, gritting under the weight-worsened pain. He took his first steps away from the growing fire, though with each step, a different muscle cried out for respite. Their progression away rivaled a snail’s pace, but it remained unhindered until they arrived at the castle’s drawbridge.
“You, servant?” the guard called out. “Why are you carrying that injured guard? And why are you bloodied?”
Gnochi had forgotten that he was wearing the servant’s white. He glanced at the clothing he wore and was unable to find one stitch of white not bloodied or dirtied. “There’s been a coup,” he said, voicing the first thought that came to his mind. “The commander of the keep tried to assassinate the king.” His voice sounded harsh and sleepy to his ears. He knew that he was still fighting against the toxin in his blood.
“Where?”
“In the back of the keep by the dining hall.” Gnochi gave the misdirection, guessing as to where he imagined the dining hall would be. “You must hurry! I’ll care for this guard. I know his brother,” he said. The guard lowered the drawbridge, then disappeared into the keep.
Gnochi lumbered, with Roy over his back, down the spiral walk toward the gate into the wealthy merchant district. As he limped through the open gates, he noted that none of the evenly spaced lampposts were lit. All windows were curtained closed or shuttered up; little candlelight escaped between cracks or through drafty openings. After some time, hobbling downhill, he passed into the city’s middle-district. “Roy, you are not getting any lighter,” he whispered as he continued along.
Unlike the upper, wealthier ring, people still milled about in the middle ring. Craftsmen, under the faint light of torches, worked through the night. Their errand boys continued darting through alleys, making deliveries. Vagrants from the poor sector leafed through refuse bins and snuck into bathhouses, purging their bodies of accrued filth.
Fatigued from the barbs of pain shooting through his leg and tired shoulders compressed from Roy’s heavy body, Gnochi found a tavern’s courtyard devoid of people and set him behind a stack of empty wine casks so he could take a breath. “I need to find a barracks to drop you off,” he mused aloud. The city’s bells began ringing. After the twelfth ring, Gnochi knew that the assassination had been discovered. He ran out to the main street so he could look toward the keep but was shocked by what met his eyes.
Flames licked out of the castle’s many boarded windows. People streamed out of every building to stare at the keep aflame. Gnochi returned to where he had rested Roy only to notice a handful of people entering the building on the other side of the courtyard. Instead of leaving to watch the flames, they were hiding. He imagined that if anyone around here could help him, it would be those retreating inside while the rest emerged. Gnochi swapped his clothes, thinking that people would be less likely to kill a bloodied servant than a guard already incapacitated. He carried Roy over to the door and sat him against it, pulled a few pence from the bottom of his sock and placed them on the stoop in front of the door. He then knocked and moved out of sight to watch. The person who opened the door gasped, then pulled Roy inside.
◆◆◆
After navigating through to the poor district of Blue Haven, Gnochi finally found the building he was looking for: Kay’s Chuckwagon. He fell in behind the service entrance and tapped one fingernail against the door’s dirty window. After more than a minute passed with no sign of movement behind the greasy window, he raised his knuckles to knock, but stopped as the door creaked open and the wrinkled face of a woman peered through.
“I think people say call whenever, but they don’t actually mean whenever,” she whispered.
“I hope not, Kay,” Gnochi replied.
“Now’s not a good time. Got important guests in.”
“I’m not here on a social call. I need to disappear.”
Kay pursed her lips, then conceded and said, “I’ll keep you in the attic.”
◆◆◆
Harvey ran from inn to inn as the tolling bells, which indicated the burning keep, continued to moan into the night. He checked each wealthy-district inn and was walking in circles among the inns of the middle district when he wondered if the wolfish messenger god, Freki, meant for him to leave the city, scouring the farmland inns.
Having finished checking the upper two thirds of the city for signal lights within any inns’ attic windows, he began scouring the poor district streets. He was more familiar with the streets, so he confirmed quickly that none were open or had a light in their attic crawlspaces. He was about to exit the city when, walking parallel to the exterior wall, he heard the rusted sound of a hinged sign, and looking up, saw the faintest light floating out of an attic’s open window.
Harvey tested the strength of the inn’s siding under his fingers but found i
t too flimsy under his light pull. He spotted a roof over a nearby smelt that was within jumping distance to the attic’s window.
◆◆◆
“You’ve got a choice to make soon, Gnochi,” the wolf said as it lurched around the attic.
Despite five solid minutes of conversation with the sentient wolf, Gnochi thought he was experiencing side effects from the winterbush poison that he had absorbed through his eye. How else would he imagine this chance encounter with a talking-wolf? He expected to wake from his stupor in a moment with only the faintest recollection of its prophetic words.
“Your journey isn’t nearly finished, despite you having accomplished the goal set before you. Turbulent tides await you and Cleo. Who will get the comfort? Choose now and choose wisely. You may not get the chance to speak and ask for help if you pick discomfort now.”
“That’s simple enough,” Gnochi replied. “Give Cleo any comfort and keep her safe. I can handle anything.”
“Hmm. A noble choice, or so it seems. Comfort, at least, is something I think the others would be fine allotting the girl.” The wolf pranced over to the open window, his white pads pressing hard on the aged, creaky floor. “It’s a bit drafty up here, wouldn’t you agree? How about I close the window,” the wolf said, kicking out with his back legs into the glass pane and shutting it. In the same moment, something bulky crashed into the attic, breaking through the thin panes.
Harvey. The teen sat up, shaking a storm of glass from his head and shoulders. The glass trickled down, creating a soft, peaceful sound as it came to rest on the dusty floorboards. The older teen payed no heed to the myriad of tiny cuts now decorating his skin and dripping red blood to the floor.
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