Post by sabriel on Aug 15, 2011 16:56:21 GMT -1
Another one of my short stories that I probably wont ever finish. This story includes numerous characters that are not my own whom I've placed into the world revolved around citizens from
Belisaere City. I hope you enjoy and please give me feed back, It will help for the next story. Also leave comments on who you want in the next one!
Chapter One
'My hand!' He howled in the depths of his mind, clutching the ragged stump with trembling fingers. He staggered through the thick copse of trees and staggered to his knees, panting and exhausted, his mind too numb to accept the fact. He shielded it from his eyes by tucking it beneath his left armpit, as if he could deny what his eyes told him.
Shaking and trembling with pain that stabbed at him, he flinchingly staggered through the dim night of the forest. In his haste he caught a foot on a shadow hidden root and suddenly he was on the ground, he squeezed the tears shut in his eyes and he cried out silently in pain as he instinctively tried to catch himself with the ragged torn flesh of his right wrist. Bone and raw exposed flesh dug into the rough soil with flares of shocking pain, the pain was as much from the sight of his ravaged limb as the white hot needles it jabbed through him. The heat roared to a great soul furnace as he desperately tried to summon his magic forth, strived for the taste of power that could protect him. He failed, the magic was wounded within him, only a feeble flickering of life remained of what had been ripped from him.
Then all thought of pain fled from his mind as he heard the certain sound of death rushing upon him. With fire in his mind to match the searing agony of his body, he took deep shaking breaths as he staggered on with the nameless terrors in pursuit…
He paused. Putting a shaky hand to his forehead he tried to banish the past memory to where it belonged, but he knew this was a shade he could not put to rest. Not yet.
Caelm felt his right arm throb with remembered pain, as if small splinters of stone pushed through his veins to clog up in his heart, and as if of its own will it emerged from the cover of his long cloak for him to inspect. Dark ravaged lines radiated away from puckered craters of skin that had healed wrongly. Small flame hot whites bloomed on the stump, and they seemed to fade in and out of their own accord.
“Nasty accident, eh?” a rough rasp intruded startlingly on his thoughts.
Caelm’s head snapped up and was confronted by a ruggedly unhandsome face that was uncomfortably near to his own. A scraggly unkempt beard and a yellowed smile no doubt meant to be reassuring eased a breeze of unhealthy eating habits in an odorous almost visible waft.
“Don’t be alarmed, milord,” the ruffian said, his dark glittering eyes taking in Caelm’s noble features and well made cloak. He leaned back so Caelm could unfortunately view the rest of him, a mismatched effort of leather armour and patches of badly cured furs. Caelm thought that it looked like a badly botched attempt at necromancy, he could swear he saw a paw twitch. The scruffy bandit seemed to miss a step when Caelm turned his gaze upon his, steady bronze eyes that were as hard as steel, but recovered his stride with admirable purpose of mind.
“No need for alarm,’ the bandit repeated. “ I was just inquiring like. I sees you walking in this forest see, and I says to myself: Now why would a gent, all dressed up in cloak and such like, with doubtless an abundance of coin to his name, be walking the forest route all by his-self?”
Caelm’s eyes drifted down to the man’s belt where an axe, kept in as good a condition as the rest of the bandit, was casually hooked into a loop. The bandit grinned his crevice of broken yellow and black as he saw where Caelm's eyes went.
Caelm was calm as he said, “Perhaps this gent has less gold than you might think, and more steel than you would care for.”
The bandit seemed unfazed, favouring him with a squinting grin.
“Now, now, I be seeing the way you be thinking, milord. You be thinkin’ that a man such as the likes of me, lacking a fine cloak and abundance of coin, might be seeing my way to make trouble for fine gents like yeself, who are having both. That be a cruel misfortunate judge of my character, and I’m ashamed to says it hurts me something deep that you might be thinkin’ such a thing.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” Caelm told him.
His mind worked furiously as he considered the options with handling this bandit. There had been no-one on the trail for the past several hours, and it was unlikely the bandit would be so foolish to accost him were there any behind. He would find no help from that quarter; he must deal with the bandit alone.
“Ah, ‘tis a considerate gent ye are then, milord. To be apologising to a humble man like meself, I’m almost ashamed of meself for being the cause of such a noble sorry, like. Perhaps a considerate and generous man like yeself might not see his way to extend his courtesy to perhaps some mutual arrangement?”
“A trade of coin, perhaps,” Caelm could not hide the amusement behind his voice, the bandit somehow managed to be entertaining in his efforts to rob him.
“Aye, I should have known yea to be a man of intelligence as well as virtue, milord,” the rogue told him with an appreciative sigh.
“What metal shall we trade then, gold… or steel?” Caelm said without inflection.
The bandit waved his hands in a good humoured denial. “I’m afraid my lord I could not accept any steel from you, would be a crying shame if I left you without a means to defend yea-self, and then moments after we had parted ways, you were beset upon by a bandit! I would be broke in me heart to hear such an occurrence.”
“It would be unfortunate,” Caelm agreed.
“Besides,” the bandit said with a sly smile, and casually freed his rusted pitted axe, “I cannot bargain for what I have not seen.”
“Then perhaps we could bargain for something else. Your life.” Suddenly Caelm was no longer amused, and his left hand shot out in a fist. Caelm felt the echo of once glorious power surge through his marrow, humming in his veins. A snake of flame slithered around his bare arm and flared to incandescent life in his palm as he opened his hand to welcome it. He raised the claw of burning energy to the bandit’s shadow flickered face, the light darkening the shadows of fear that sank into the bandit’s expression. The rogue flinched back and held up a hand as if to ward off evil.
“You’re a-!” he rasped, his voice sounding like sandpaper in his fear, as he stepped back.
“Your life.” Interrupted Caelm in a hollow tone. "Choose rogue, life or death.”
“Milord,” the rogue bowed haphazardly, never taking his eyes off the writing tongue of flame licking up from Caelm’s palm. “I-I could never think of wasting your time in petty dealings with a h-humble man like meself,” he backed away as quickly as he thought was prudent. “I hope you have a p-pleasant journey, bless you milord, safe travels!” With that, the bandit spun on his heel and fled.
Caelm’s face, which had become a terrible black mask of resolve under the effect of the magic that abruptly washed bright and open again as the magic died within Caelm. With a feeling of almost grief, he regarded his good left hand, the feel of the magic still lingering in the flesh. He relaxed, and the terrible strain he had fought to keep hidden from the bandit now marked his face openly.
He had been fortunate that he had been able to maintain the illusion, he had kept the image of the flame there by sheer strength of will, and now that he had released it, so too did his strength wane. He didn’t want to think what would have happened had the rogue thought to contest his proof, or had he remained but a moment longer.
He felt fatigue wash through him in a powerful irresistible wave that sapped his strength. With a deft practiced motion he reached into his heavy cloak and conjured his walking staff to his hand. A small bit of magic, well practiced over the years until it was as polished as the ashen staff he now grasped.
With a slight grating noise he twisted the staff into a pocket of scattered gravel.
He leaned heavily on his staff as his knees threatened to buckle under the weight of his fatigue. Grasping the comforting wood of the staff he stooped briefly, air rasping in and out of his lungs as if he had just survived a struggle for his life. Which was not entirely inaccurate.
When he straightened up, he drew into the thick uniquely wood scented air, feeling the clean goodness of it fill him, before releasing it in a sigh. He looked around him, taking in the surrounding wood with a feeling of pleasure at the sight.
Ancient stooped trees surrounded him on all sides, their bark whorled and patterned with the passage of time and seeming to hold a majestic air of knowledge and memory of those who had preceded him, stretching back centuries through the slow tide of time to an ancient past where the trees first knew life.
Caelm knew stories, he had told many in order to earn his bread at wayside inns. But these trees wove a story before him that was as mysterious in its enchantment as it was powerful, and he could feel their existence by the magic they wrapped about themselves like a royal cloak. Caelm knew stories could weave a powerful magic, but these trees wove a powerful story with magic.
Though Caelm had heard of the wild beauty of Abbots woods, and the rugged spirit of Barrens, he had felt only this magic in places seldom visited in the land. Caelm suddenly felt a sudden storm of anger wash through him, he knew the taste of magic, he knew the thrilling energy it could fill the body and spirit with, he knew what it was to have power!
Had he lost but his hand, he would not have been crippled in the manner that say a blacksmith might have been had he been the victim. The loss of one hand was inconvenient, but hardly necessary for a man of any skill. Caelm had possessed such skill. He had magic that lived and thrived! But with the loss of his hand, for reasons he did not entirely grasp, he had been crippled in spirit as well as body. He was but half a man, half an ordinary man, but less than half of what he was. Curse the gods and their fickle justice!
With difficulty, Caelm battled down the fury that threatened, his knuckles whitened from his clenched grasp on the staff. After a few moments, the rage began to subside. The fire and magic that had briefly shone in the bronze of his eyes dimmed, leaving behind the dull eyes of man searching, and never finding. Caelm sighed, he was almost wary of using whatever feeble magic he had now, for it always inevitably led to these bouts of almost uncontrollable anger. It was this anger that drove him, he knew.
Since that day, when he had lost so much, only one thought had occupied his mind. How to regain what was lost? He had wandered many roads seeking that answer, each one more twisted than the last, and the paths that were once unfamiliar and full of promise, were now familiar and well travelled.
Of almost their own accord, his feet began to move, as if afraid that if he were to remain motionless for too long, he might simply never move. He might lose the momentum to climb out of this pit that he had fallen into. No, not fallen into. Been pushed. By the foolhardiness of those whose pride outweighed their reason.
Slowly, through the timeless beauty of that half lighted forest, a place where neither day nor night passed, but seemed to almost touch in the air, like ephemeral spirits of lingering love, he made his way to future promises.
The trail had gone dark, the magic of the primeval forest long since left behind in the embrace of one of the only glades untouched by axe or fire. Now had the sun and moon been released to contend for dominance in the sky, and the moon was quickly winning.
Blue shadow dappled the trees surrounding him, and spilled leisurely blankets of obscurity across the path itself. Caelm however, could see a cheerful orange glow beckon to him through the trees. He had travelled this route many times before, and knew that an inn awaited him with comfort and the promise of good food. Edible food at the least.
Boots crunched into gravel as he made his way nearer and the inn seemed to pull away from the obscuring trees to present itself to him as he walked the last few mincing steps.
A stocky, almost cottage like inn, with a straw roof, with walls of stone and brick. The brick marching up the bottom of the stone wall like creepers and halting a good half foot beneath the light suffused windows. Smoke cheerfully belched from a stout chimney, and a sturdy fence surrounded the inn on all sides, with pockets of flowers, their vibrant colours washed a pale blue in the moonlight, decorating the fence line in a manner that bespoke of an appreciation for what pleased the eye. To the left he saw the little dirt path that led around the back to the stables, where horses nickered and snorted, the sound carrying easily even over the sounds of revelry that spilled out the inn’s inviting doorway.
He tucked his walking stick under his right armpit and inspected his coin purse, he made a rueful face at the less than positive results of his search, his hand sifting through a scattering of copper. That bandit shown poor judgement in his choice of victims. He doubted it would cover the cost of a room for even a day.
His hand strayed over the hilt of something that gleamed. He was thankful that he had not been forced to use it, it would give him little advantage against a man possessing more than one hand. Instead he returned the plain walking stick to his left hand, his only hand; its smooth polished surface had a comforting feel to it.
He glanced up at the sign as he creaked open the wooden gate, his boots striking the cobblestones that had negotiated themselves under his feet.
“The Weary Wizard, indeed,” he said to himself, thinking that never before had the description fit him so well.
“Anybody ever tell you talking to yourself is a sign of madness?” a hired guard that had escaped Caelm’s notice straightened up from the wall, one thumb tucked behind a leather belt where a thick cudgel hung. The other hand rested on the hilt of a short sword, but it seemed more a reflex than an action meant to threaten. The guard seemed completely at ease.
“Fortunately, I know how to read,” Caelm told him, and was rewarded with a slight grin. “I know better than to follow them.”
“Aye, and speak words too with a skill, the Weary Wizard will be pleased to hear your stories for another night, storyteller.”
Caelm repressed a sigh at the thought, he was not feeling particularly up to telling folk tales and old stories until his throat was hoarse, but he was too drained to display feats of magic to impress them into giving coin. There was little else he could do to earn a place to rest his head for the night, coppers would only get him so far. Well, it wasn’t the first time he had had to sell his small talents when he was tired.
The guard gave him a knowing grin, seeing his mournful look. The guard’s named was Isaan, and was familiar to Caelm, having met him several times before, passing this route.
“Tis a hardship being a man of words,” the guard said in commiseration, scratching his short red beard. “Men who can’t tell their right hand from their left, will still sit still for hours on end for a good story from their youth, though they understand but two words in three.”
Isaan leaned slightly closer, absently tugging on his cheek with one forefinger. “Still, you should receive a warm welcome. One drunken old fool has been staggering about the commons mumbling about meeting with the Silver cap man, and every man that has heard your stories knew you must be passing this way again.”
Listening to the noisy inn grow in volume with good hearted laughter of old men in half stupors and young woodsmen enjoying the profits to be gained from the meat and pelt of animals that they hunted. It sounded like it has been a good season.
“Do you know this old man?” Isaan asked curiously, and Caelm shook his head. Which was only half true. He might not personally know the man, but nonetheless he sought a word with him. It was the reason that had pulled him away from skulking in the Belisaere City library, hunting answers in mouldy texts, to go deep within the surrounding forests.
“Doubtless he spied me upon the road earlier. There have been a few characters travelling the road this day.”
“You have the truth of that,” the competent guard agreed. “Not but an hour past I saw the scruffiest scoundrel I ever had the displeasure of viewing, rabbiting across through the trees as if -the- Corinthius himself was behind him.” The guard briefly made a sign to ward off evil at the mention of the cold hearted Assassin.
“Tis a cold night for you to be standing out here my friend,” Isaan said suddenly. “Go inside, where its warm, Meldara has a good haunch of pork that’s been turning on the spit since this morning.”
Caelm briefly thanked him, and stepped inside.
He was immediately overwhelmed by sheer honest air of cheer that filled the room, warm light filled the room with a soft yellow, and the dark red stained wood that dominated the building exuded a sense of rustic comfort. A fire roared in a stone hearth, and there was a sound of merrymaking as many patrons seemed bent upon the task of enjoying themselves as quickly as they could reach the bottom of their cups.
It was a fair sight better than most inns, where the patrons were dour, and uninterested in anything besides their own dismal prospects of experiencing anything other than the miserable existence they had eked out for themselves in less fortunate parts of the land. Or the hard eyed wary lot that frequented the tavern with the border guards on the edge of the wastelands. Caelm remembered without pleasure what a bleak place that had been, a grey place under dark shadows.
Caelm had paused there only long enough to ensure there was nothing there that he sought, unless he wished to ask the Demon's that roamed the blighted diseased land beyond the border. Ordinary soldiers and heavily hearted men that were forced to fight back the spread of creatures that were not mortal, and unceasing in their numbers.
Caelm felt a wrench in his heart at the thought, and returned to the present, where the glow of good times banished such memories.
He entered into the commons fully, and suddenly there was a hush as every eye was drawn as if by magic to him. They saw a tall man with broad shoulders, with shaggy dark hair that fell in almost to his neck, inside a sharp collar that swept up from his long heavy cloak. His cloak was a deep leather brown, almost black. His bronze eyes were a sight for awe and marvelling, and a short beard graced his strong chin.
And inevitably, their eyes were drawn to Caelm’s right hand, or where it should have been. Despite the uncomfortable attention on his disfigurement, he made no attempt to hide it.
They knew who he was almost immediately.
“It’s the Silver cap man!” someone bellowed in good humour, and there was general laughter. The crowd of patrons suddenly pressed in, and Caelm was besieged from all sides by excited jabber and questions about his travels, was he well and what new things he had seen.
A couple of small boys weaved themselves around the legs of their elders, pelting him with their curiosity. Makvhug ran a friendly inn, and youngsters were a common sight running around while their elders got merrily soused.
Caelm smile and answered as best as he could keep up, yes he had seen a demon, no he had never fought a devil, and yes it was true there were Demon's roaming the countryside.
He hastened to add that it was a distant countryside and already patrols were being mounted to destroy them.
“I heard an evil wizard created them,” a brawny man declared. “Somewhere in the Glades I hear.”
“Nonsense!” a stocky woman in a gravy smeared apron that proudly declared her to be a cook. The Weary Wizard had indeed fallen on good times if Makvhug could now afford some help in the kitchen.
“Wizards don’t go near the Glades, gives them the shady eye it does! Just like Elvin.” she declared with the authority of ignorance.
A serving girl managed to slip past the press of people with bright red hair looking similar to Isaan the guard though he did not recall Isaan having a child. She shyly asked him if he would like an ale, fresh cold from the cellar. He smiled at the pretty girl and pressed a number of coppers in her hand and asked for it to be delivered to his table.
She curtsied awkwardly and blushed unaccountably before scurrying off. Caelm blinked after her for a moment and then tried valiantly to make some headway against the crowd.
Caelm enjoyed staying at the Weary Wizard, it had a way of making you forget you were tired. Here, no-one stared at his missing hand out of anything more than curiosity, and his striking noble features earned him respect among folk who considered themselves to be mere commoners, looking at him with respect mingled with a slight awe, which quickly gave way to open friendliness. Of all places that Caelm had seen, this place was by far the most favourable.
“That’s because that’s where the necromancer lives, woman!” he retorted in mock anger, shaking a finger.
Fortunately, such a crowd also meant enthusiastic reception of his stories; Caelm should not go hungry tonight. He thought about it for a moment, he generally took his drink first, waiting until the anticipation had built for him to assume the little dais to the side of the fire. But these people had already been anticipating him, thanks to the old drunk Isaan spoke of, so Caelm strode forth, his manner communicating without words that he was to begin now.
The crowd melted before him, with arguments still fluttering around the edges as a way of warming themselves up for Caelm’s stories. He smiled, the patrons of the Weary Wizard had a unique way of showing their appreciation for stories.
There was a small three legged stool covered with a small blanket that looked as if it had seen better times, and better places than beneath a man’s bottom. He graciously ignored the seat, and he turned, facing the sea of expectant faces. Caelm had to admit he enjoyed the attention, he had never been a storyteller until forced to earn a living with one hand, but these people had loved every moment.
“So, good people of the Weary Wizard,” he pronounced dramatically. “What truth would you have me unravel to your ear?”
“Where the hell’s me drink gone?” a balding man roared in confusion from a nearby table, peering at the underside of his cup. Everyone roared with laughter, and Caelm tried not to spoil his pose.
“Ah, worthy patron, by such mysteries is your purse made leaner, while your belly gets fuller, and good Makvhug profits to both.” He said sweeping a grand gesture with one hand to the innkeeper busily wiping down a bench. He went slightly crimson at the unexpected attention, and flicked a towel in his direction, “be off with ye,” he growled in embarrassment.
The patron looked up suspiciously as if thinking that Caelm was responsible for the mysterious disappearance of his beverage.
“Maybe you could pull one out of his ear?” someone suggested. “He doesn’t use it for anything else.”
“Eh? What?” the old man slurred while his hand groped across his face in search of a flea.
This time Caelm joined in the laughter. The comment was inspired by the fact that Caelm often practiced illusions, either as entertainment or embellishments for his stories, though they assumed him to be a magician of tricks rather than actual magic.
“How ‘bout the story where Silver cap turned the King into a pig, and all the nobles had to run around chasing ‘im?” there was a chorus of interest.
“What for?” another man demanded, “I’ve have to chase pigs ‘round me home every day!”
“Aye, but you’re the only one that married her!” came the rebuttal, and there was a sudden commotion as a beefy red faced woman emerged with snapping eyes. People laughed as the author of the remark pushed through them with admirable appreciation of his own skin.
Then a voice quietly spoke up as the noise ebbed. “What stories do you have of the border? We’ve been hearing strange rumours.”
Caelm was taken back a moment, and he looked at the young man that addressed him. Tall and slim, the youth nevertheless seemed to possess a quiet confidence. He did not ask idly.
“There are a flock of rumours that take flight for every breeze that stirs on the border. Which do you mean?” he said, for in fact he could think of no pressing rumours that might have reached the ears of this small inn.
“We’ve heard that the Queen of the south moves to assault the borders, and that she has gained dark allies from those we trust to protect us.”
There was a murmur at this, and Caelm felt their concern, for he had not heard such a rumour, which was odd, for people were always eager to brag of their knowledge to him, hoping to impress him with their worldliness.
Perhaps this young man was one of those, for his story was certainly interesting, it was a rival for any Caelm could have thought of, and he silently thanked the boy for the inspiration.
“I have no stories to tell,” he said to a general mutter of disappointment, but he continued. “For the things I tell you are not stories, spun from falsehood, or any manner of deception. I do not offer you stories, gentlemen, I offer you truth. I will tell you what troubles our border, and the blight which the valiant and the brave struggle against every day, that bleed in the defence of our land and for us.”
There was a drunken cheer for the heroes of the borders, Caelm smiled inwardly, if only they knew the real men forced to stand watch there, it was certainly not a cause of celebration, nor the stuff heroic ballads are composed of without the most inspired stretching of a poet’s imagination.
But, the men that stood as the bulwark between life and death were heroes, though they were hard bitten and sour. They evidenced none of the eternal fortitude and unflagging courage and cheer in the face of overwhelming death. These men knew reality, they had no illusions that death would be held at bay by simple goodness of heart and belief that good will eventually triumph. From the years they had stood guard and met every assault, they learned that men could not defeat such evil, only endure it. Caelm quietly saluted them as heroes, cheerless and bleak though they were. Caelm knew such bleakness.
Only one did not cheer, the young man that had posed the question, his blue eyes met Caelm's, and Caelm realised that he too, did not share the illusion. There was obviously something to this young man, but Caelm was not interested in discovering what it was. If he was a distant noble wandering the country stirring dark tales, that was his business. Caelm was interested only in earning money enough to eat, and rest comfortably.
“The Queen ” Caelm began. “She was not always known as such, once she was a virtuous woman from the eternal lands, home of the Elvin.”
Caelm began to weave a long fanciful tale, with mostly rumours and bright illusions, mixed with just the right amount of truth. He remembered the days when the Queen had studied at Belisaere, not as a Wizard, for she had no desire to become one, but simply to learn. He could remember how she had learned many powerful enchantments that her Elvin heritage allowed her to perform that made her a force to be reckoned with, so long as she held a weapon. Caelm had taught her some of those himself.
She had just wanted to be able to protect her people, yet she became a weapon of those who destroyed them.
A huge resounding cheer thundered through the room, with cups drumming on the table tops, and Caelm bowed with a flourish. Coins were scattered drunkenly into the air, at least some of them finding their way to the dais along with the contents of whatever was left in their cups. It was a marvellous thing to be admired, Caelm thought ruefully.
Suddenly he felt aggravated, telling stories of little significance to a crowd of people that appreciated it only as a different method of entertaining themselves. Angrily, he thrust the thought away, what was wrong with him? These were good people, they had no desire to learn the terrible realities that surrounded them, they did not want to know what it was to be damned. Caelm didn’t blame them. With a deft gesture, he scooped up the coins. Mostly copper, but there were a couple of silvers as well. It must have been a very good season.
A small boy darted in as Caelm descended the dais, unconscious that he seemed like a lord descending his throne before the commoners. The boy gathered the remaining coin, and delivered it to Caelm with an eager expression. He thanked the boy with a smile, and took the coins, leaving several coppers for him. The boy’s grin broadened, as thanked him profusely before running off to see if he could trick Isaan into serving him ale. Caelm shook his head, small chance of that.
The patrons shouted for more stories, thumping their abused cups as if to drive him back on stage by the sound. Caelm was rescued as the girth of the innkeeper heaved over the edge of the bar where he worked.
“Quiet down!” he demanded in a voice like a booming cannon. “Can’t you see Master Silver cap is weary from a long journey? Let him eat in peace first, you beggars!”
Mollified, and happily expectant, the patrons graciously returned to their drinks.
Caelm ducked under a thick wooden beam as he stepped up on the wooden platform of the taproom, looking for Makvhug. The Inn was as comfortable as outside promised, the rustic look of the dark woods, and glowing fire made it look like the perfect abode for woodsman returning from an arduous stint in the Belisaere market.
Thick beams crossed beneath the low ceiling, and thick posts supported these from the floor extending right through. How it could achieve such a cosy effect when in fact the room was technically two stories, a short stairways leading up to a number of doors on the far wall.
The inn separated the tap room, and the commons and a small section holding a few tables and a bookcase, curiously enough, simply by small step ups and step downs to mark each area, and the occasional bar, to rest drinks and the like on. The walls were decorated with an abandon of paintings, ranging from the crude to the delicate, and the mountings of particularly impressive animals that had strayed into the innkeepers line of sight.
“Makvhug,” Caelm greeted.
“Master Silvercap!” the jolly man roared, though Caelm stood but on the other side of the bar. The red faced man was big, with beefy hands that were easily capable of carrying a slaughtered buck for miles, or breaking apart a man foolish enough to cause trouble at his inn. Makvhug the Bear, he was affectionately known. He wiped at his face briefly with a towel draped over one bulky shoulder. Though Makvhug was getting on in years, his receding hairline and happily expanding belly had in no way diminished his vitality and vigour.
“A fine story you told, Master Silver cap. Though I was disappointed not to hear another fine yarn about your ancestor. That Alaister Silvercap be a wily one, I’m thinkin’.” Makvhug rolled himself around the bar, filling up tankards with ale from stacks of barrels resting comfortably in their niches in the wooden shelving behind him. By the way he was constantly bouncing from one to the other, full barrels were getting scarcer.
“He was popular with the nobles,” Caelm said, and shared a laugh with the big man.
“Problem with your barrels, good innkeeper?” Caelm asked, watching him bounce around with the abandon of a gnome on stilts.
“Aye, as you know it, those scoundrels out there have nearly dried me up. They’ve been in here since noon.” He growled flipping his towel in a clear gesture of false irritation.
“I’m sure it must be paining you to take all their coin. You always were a soft-hearted man,” Caelm said dryly.
“Aye,” the innkeeper gusted sorrowfully. “Breaks me heart it does.” Caelm laughed.
“I don’t suppose you’ve had any brothers wander down this road recently?” Caelm asked him, with a particular man in mind.
“Don’t have no brothers, master Silvercap. Why do you ask?”
“No reason.” Caelm kept the thought to himself that innkeepers really were no better than the common bandit.
Then Caelm leaned on the counter with an elbow, and Makvhug took the hint and leaned down so they could talk quietly.
“I was told an old man was in here earlier, letting it be generally known I was coming,” Caelm said quietly, and his eyes roved over the patrons as he did so, briefly settling on a man with his head in his arms, snoring raucously.
“An old man you say, lad? I see you’ve been catching up with Isaan.”
“He’s a good man.” Caelm replied, eager now that he was on the right subject, but letting Makvhug rumble his way through the conversation.
“One of the best, is he still standing watch? I told him to come inside for a drink but he refused!” the expression on the innkeeper’s face showed that this was as startling to him as if a dog had stood up on its hind legs before him and asked for a pint. “I’ll have the girl Thia run a keg out to him to ward off the night’s chill but he’ll refuse that too like as not. ”
“Maybe he’s afraid of poisoning,” Caelm said innocently.
“Poisoning!” Makvhug objected. “I brew the finest ale this side of the maelstrom, and if you say otherwise I’ll pour it down your throat till you agree.” Caelm laughed and spread his hands defensively.
“At ease innkeeper, perhaps he simply wishes to remain alert. I’ve heard some of your meals have occasionally taken bites out of your patrons. Maybe if you had learned to cook them first…”
“Why you insolent pup!” Makvhug bellowed good naturedly, slamming a fist down on the bar. “I’ve been serving prime meat at this inn for over twenty years! My meals are a damn sight better than any you’ve ever had elsewhere!”
Caelm could see faces turn towards them a mixture of curiosity and amusement in anticipation of Makvhug the Bear explode in one of his famous tempers. The fact that he had not as yet spontaneously combusted in a one of his heated exchanges had so far not suppressed this expectation.
Caelm had to concede that Makvhug spoke rightly, but what he said was: “Put value to your words innkeeper, bring me your finest meat and I’ll judge the truth of that.”
Makvhug could not resist the challenge. He bellowed to the serving girl, “Tell that wench of a woman in the kitchen to bring out a plate of our finest! Quickly! We must show this impudent boy the gall of his words!”
The serving girl was used to Makvhug’s ways and did not flinch at his roar, she simply hurried past Caelm through a door. Caelm caught a waft of cooked food as the door swung shut, and Caelm decided that he should accept defeat graciously when it came.
“Now, what of the old man?” Caelm asked, and Makvhug blinked for a moment before he caught up.
“Aye, the old man is still here. He is the sorry sot who lost his drink,” he grinned, indicating the old man staring mournfully at his cup. “Does he owe you money?”
Caelm shook his head. “Not money.” But there was something else he would collect from the man. Information. Nodding at Caelm to tell him he wanted to talk to the old man, Makvhug slapped him on the shoulder in a friendly gesture before ambling off himself to the kitchen, where he was immediately hailed by a greeting only slightly less formidable than his own bellow. Caelm would surmise that Makvhug had finally found someone who was a match for him. It sounded like an interesting discourse, but Caelm had concerns more pressing than the various listed diseases and disfigurements afflicting either party.
Caelm felt excitement race through him as he approached the old man, his heart pumping fit to burst. This could be it! If the rumour was true and certain, this man could help him find what he needed to become whole again. Calem tried to restrain his eagerness, knowing it would be a crushing blow if the man turned out to be simply the drunken fool he appeared.
He sat down.
He waited.
The old man eventually stirred himself from contemplation of a cup that failed to hold either ale or wisdom for him, and so failing had apparently bereft him of purpose for the next several hours.
“Ehwhadryyg, whan?” the old man slurred as his face attempted to make a sprint for reaction time.
“Are you who I am here to see?” Caelm.
“Oo the bloody ‘ell are you!” the old man exclaimed, his eyes wide and unfocussed. Caelm was briefly taken aback, and tried to think of a suitable reply when the old man stooped closer and his face altered.
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Thaguere my shister, or… maybe my aunt’s nephew, some kind of fish.” He belched effortlessly and scratched his thin grey hair. “Could be an uncle. You evah seen my uncle Augutsy?” The old man fixed Caelm will a piercing eye, Caelm mutely shook his head.
“Fattest man in the city!” he proclaimed vigorously with an expansive gesture. Caelm blinked. “People sees him and they shays, now there’s a fat man, no doubt there, and two steps they takes just to walk to the left of him, and three to the right. Was a rambling man, my uncle, useta ramble summin’ fiershe!”
The old man seemed to have an abundance of that attribute himself, as well as having benefited from a large lack of inhibition, which was probably hiding where his drink was.
“Cup’s dry,” the old man proclaimed, presenting it to Caelm with that mournful hangdog expression.
“I’m glad you’ve figured that out,” Caelm told him. “Let’s see if we can do something about that.”
He looked around and spied the serving girl approaching, fortuitously balancing a tankard of dark frothy ale on a thin slat of wood in her hands.
She smiled as she saw Caelm. “Here’s your ale, milord,” she said, her eyes bright as she placed a tankard on the table. She was almost startled into spilling it as the old man burst out with roaring laughter.
“Milord!” he burbled. “ If he’s a lord, then I’m three coppers short of a silver! He’s no more a lord than a flea is a fart unna the rug,” he continued to laugh and splutter, while the serving girl shot him a furious glare.
“Just Caelm will do,” he told her gently, taking the tankard and deftly swapping it with the incapacitated man’s one. She smiled her shy smile, and a flush came to her cheeks, and Caelm finally understood.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Thia,” she said, still shy under his scrutiny. He recognised the signs of infatuation, but was unsure how to deal with it.
“Thank you for the ale Thia, could I ask you to fetch me another while my friend recovers?”
“Of course mi- Master Caelm,” the young girl stammered, and then abruptly left. Caelm looked around and saw the old man staring at him with an open look of mirth.
“That girl has an eye for you, milord, no doubt,” he chuckled. Caelm gave him a steady look.
“That won’t be a problem as soon as I get out of here. Which will happen as soon as you tell me what I need to know, even if I have to hang you upside down on the ceiling till you sober up. Caelm’s excitement was quickly giving way to impatience.
Caelm was dubious about his ability to carry out his threat, but failing anything else he could still probably stick the man’s head in a rain barrel.
“Ah! Silvercap!” he seemed on the verge of saying more but then his glance fell down on the tankard of brimming ale.
“What happened to me cup?” he demanded. “It’s full!” he cried in outrage, and glared accusingly at Caelm.
Caelm sighed.
Belisaere City. I hope you enjoy and please give me feed back, It will help for the next story. Also leave comments on who you want in the next one!
Chapter One
'My hand!' He howled in the depths of his mind, clutching the ragged stump with trembling fingers. He staggered through the thick copse of trees and staggered to his knees, panting and exhausted, his mind too numb to accept the fact. He shielded it from his eyes by tucking it beneath his left armpit, as if he could deny what his eyes told him.
Shaking and trembling with pain that stabbed at him, he flinchingly staggered through the dim night of the forest. In his haste he caught a foot on a shadow hidden root and suddenly he was on the ground, he squeezed the tears shut in his eyes and he cried out silently in pain as he instinctively tried to catch himself with the ragged torn flesh of his right wrist. Bone and raw exposed flesh dug into the rough soil with flares of shocking pain, the pain was as much from the sight of his ravaged limb as the white hot needles it jabbed through him. The heat roared to a great soul furnace as he desperately tried to summon his magic forth, strived for the taste of power that could protect him. He failed, the magic was wounded within him, only a feeble flickering of life remained of what had been ripped from him.
Then all thought of pain fled from his mind as he heard the certain sound of death rushing upon him. With fire in his mind to match the searing agony of his body, he took deep shaking breaths as he staggered on with the nameless terrors in pursuit…
He paused. Putting a shaky hand to his forehead he tried to banish the past memory to where it belonged, but he knew this was a shade he could not put to rest. Not yet.
Caelm felt his right arm throb with remembered pain, as if small splinters of stone pushed through his veins to clog up in his heart, and as if of its own will it emerged from the cover of his long cloak for him to inspect. Dark ravaged lines radiated away from puckered craters of skin that had healed wrongly. Small flame hot whites bloomed on the stump, and they seemed to fade in and out of their own accord.
“Nasty accident, eh?” a rough rasp intruded startlingly on his thoughts.
Caelm’s head snapped up and was confronted by a ruggedly unhandsome face that was uncomfortably near to his own. A scraggly unkempt beard and a yellowed smile no doubt meant to be reassuring eased a breeze of unhealthy eating habits in an odorous almost visible waft.
“Don’t be alarmed, milord,” the ruffian said, his dark glittering eyes taking in Caelm’s noble features and well made cloak. He leaned back so Caelm could unfortunately view the rest of him, a mismatched effort of leather armour and patches of badly cured furs. Caelm thought that it looked like a badly botched attempt at necromancy, he could swear he saw a paw twitch. The scruffy bandit seemed to miss a step when Caelm turned his gaze upon his, steady bronze eyes that were as hard as steel, but recovered his stride with admirable purpose of mind.
“No need for alarm,’ the bandit repeated. “ I was just inquiring like. I sees you walking in this forest see, and I says to myself: Now why would a gent, all dressed up in cloak and such like, with doubtless an abundance of coin to his name, be walking the forest route all by his-self?”
Caelm’s eyes drifted down to the man’s belt where an axe, kept in as good a condition as the rest of the bandit, was casually hooked into a loop. The bandit grinned his crevice of broken yellow and black as he saw where Caelm's eyes went.
Caelm was calm as he said, “Perhaps this gent has less gold than you might think, and more steel than you would care for.”
The bandit seemed unfazed, favouring him with a squinting grin.
“Now, now, I be seeing the way you be thinking, milord. You be thinkin’ that a man such as the likes of me, lacking a fine cloak and abundance of coin, might be seeing my way to make trouble for fine gents like yeself, who are having both. That be a cruel misfortunate judge of my character, and I’m ashamed to says it hurts me something deep that you might be thinkin’ such a thing.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” Caelm told him.
His mind worked furiously as he considered the options with handling this bandit. There had been no-one on the trail for the past several hours, and it was unlikely the bandit would be so foolish to accost him were there any behind. He would find no help from that quarter; he must deal with the bandit alone.
“Ah, ‘tis a considerate gent ye are then, milord. To be apologising to a humble man like meself, I’m almost ashamed of meself for being the cause of such a noble sorry, like. Perhaps a considerate and generous man like yeself might not see his way to extend his courtesy to perhaps some mutual arrangement?”
“A trade of coin, perhaps,” Caelm could not hide the amusement behind his voice, the bandit somehow managed to be entertaining in his efforts to rob him.
“Aye, I should have known yea to be a man of intelligence as well as virtue, milord,” the rogue told him with an appreciative sigh.
“What metal shall we trade then, gold… or steel?” Caelm said without inflection.
The bandit waved his hands in a good humoured denial. “I’m afraid my lord I could not accept any steel from you, would be a crying shame if I left you without a means to defend yea-self, and then moments after we had parted ways, you were beset upon by a bandit! I would be broke in me heart to hear such an occurrence.”
“It would be unfortunate,” Caelm agreed.
“Besides,” the bandit said with a sly smile, and casually freed his rusted pitted axe, “I cannot bargain for what I have not seen.”
“Then perhaps we could bargain for something else. Your life.” Suddenly Caelm was no longer amused, and his left hand shot out in a fist. Caelm felt the echo of once glorious power surge through his marrow, humming in his veins. A snake of flame slithered around his bare arm and flared to incandescent life in his palm as he opened his hand to welcome it. He raised the claw of burning energy to the bandit’s shadow flickered face, the light darkening the shadows of fear that sank into the bandit’s expression. The rogue flinched back and held up a hand as if to ward off evil.
“You’re a-!” he rasped, his voice sounding like sandpaper in his fear, as he stepped back.
“Your life.” Interrupted Caelm in a hollow tone. "Choose rogue, life or death.”
“Milord,” the rogue bowed haphazardly, never taking his eyes off the writing tongue of flame licking up from Caelm’s palm. “I-I could never think of wasting your time in petty dealings with a h-humble man like meself,” he backed away as quickly as he thought was prudent. “I hope you have a p-pleasant journey, bless you milord, safe travels!” With that, the bandit spun on his heel and fled.
Caelm’s face, which had become a terrible black mask of resolve under the effect of the magic that abruptly washed bright and open again as the magic died within Caelm. With a feeling of almost grief, he regarded his good left hand, the feel of the magic still lingering in the flesh. He relaxed, and the terrible strain he had fought to keep hidden from the bandit now marked his face openly.
He had been fortunate that he had been able to maintain the illusion, he had kept the image of the flame there by sheer strength of will, and now that he had released it, so too did his strength wane. He didn’t want to think what would have happened had the rogue thought to contest his proof, or had he remained but a moment longer.
He felt fatigue wash through him in a powerful irresistible wave that sapped his strength. With a deft practiced motion he reached into his heavy cloak and conjured his walking staff to his hand. A small bit of magic, well practiced over the years until it was as polished as the ashen staff he now grasped.
With a slight grating noise he twisted the staff into a pocket of scattered gravel.
He leaned heavily on his staff as his knees threatened to buckle under the weight of his fatigue. Grasping the comforting wood of the staff he stooped briefly, air rasping in and out of his lungs as if he had just survived a struggle for his life. Which was not entirely inaccurate.
When he straightened up, he drew into the thick uniquely wood scented air, feeling the clean goodness of it fill him, before releasing it in a sigh. He looked around him, taking in the surrounding wood with a feeling of pleasure at the sight.
Ancient stooped trees surrounded him on all sides, their bark whorled and patterned with the passage of time and seeming to hold a majestic air of knowledge and memory of those who had preceded him, stretching back centuries through the slow tide of time to an ancient past where the trees first knew life.
Caelm knew stories, he had told many in order to earn his bread at wayside inns. But these trees wove a story before him that was as mysterious in its enchantment as it was powerful, and he could feel their existence by the magic they wrapped about themselves like a royal cloak. Caelm knew stories could weave a powerful magic, but these trees wove a powerful story with magic.
Though Caelm had heard of the wild beauty of Abbots woods, and the rugged spirit of Barrens, he had felt only this magic in places seldom visited in the land. Caelm suddenly felt a sudden storm of anger wash through him, he knew the taste of magic, he knew the thrilling energy it could fill the body and spirit with, he knew what it was to have power!
Had he lost but his hand, he would not have been crippled in the manner that say a blacksmith might have been had he been the victim. The loss of one hand was inconvenient, but hardly necessary for a man of any skill. Caelm had possessed such skill. He had magic that lived and thrived! But with the loss of his hand, for reasons he did not entirely grasp, he had been crippled in spirit as well as body. He was but half a man, half an ordinary man, but less than half of what he was. Curse the gods and their fickle justice!
With difficulty, Caelm battled down the fury that threatened, his knuckles whitened from his clenched grasp on the staff. After a few moments, the rage began to subside. The fire and magic that had briefly shone in the bronze of his eyes dimmed, leaving behind the dull eyes of man searching, and never finding. Caelm sighed, he was almost wary of using whatever feeble magic he had now, for it always inevitably led to these bouts of almost uncontrollable anger. It was this anger that drove him, he knew.
Since that day, when he had lost so much, only one thought had occupied his mind. How to regain what was lost? He had wandered many roads seeking that answer, each one more twisted than the last, and the paths that were once unfamiliar and full of promise, were now familiar and well travelled.
Of almost their own accord, his feet began to move, as if afraid that if he were to remain motionless for too long, he might simply never move. He might lose the momentum to climb out of this pit that he had fallen into. No, not fallen into. Been pushed. By the foolhardiness of those whose pride outweighed their reason.
Slowly, through the timeless beauty of that half lighted forest, a place where neither day nor night passed, but seemed to almost touch in the air, like ephemeral spirits of lingering love, he made his way to future promises.
The trail had gone dark, the magic of the primeval forest long since left behind in the embrace of one of the only glades untouched by axe or fire. Now had the sun and moon been released to contend for dominance in the sky, and the moon was quickly winning.
Blue shadow dappled the trees surrounding him, and spilled leisurely blankets of obscurity across the path itself. Caelm however, could see a cheerful orange glow beckon to him through the trees. He had travelled this route many times before, and knew that an inn awaited him with comfort and the promise of good food. Edible food at the least.
Boots crunched into gravel as he made his way nearer and the inn seemed to pull away from the obscuring trees to present itself to him as he walked the last few mincing steps.
A stocky, almost cottage like inn, with a straw roof, with walls of stone and brick. The brick marching up the bottom of the stone wall like creepers and halting a good half foot beneath the light suffused windows. Smoke cheerfully belched from a stout chimney, and a sturdy fence surrounded the inn on all sides, with pockets of flowers, their vibrant colours washed a pale blue in the moonlight, decorating the fence line in a manner that bespoke of an appreciation for what pleased the eye. To the left he saw the little dirt path that led around the back to the stables, where horses nickered and snorted, the sound carrying easily even over the sounds of revelry that spilled out the inn’s inviting doorway.
He tucked his walking stick under his right armpit and inspected his coin purse, he made a rueful face at the less than positive results of his search, his hand sifting through a scattering of copper. That bandit shown poor judgement in his choice of victims. He doubted it would cover the cost of a room for even a day.
His hand strayed over the hilt of something that gleamed. He was thankful that he had not been forced to use it, it would give him little advantage against a man possessing more than one hand. Instead he returned the plain walking stick to his left hand, his only hand; its smooth polished surface had a comforting feel to it.
He glanced up at the sign as he creaked open the wooden gate, his boots striking the cobblestones that had negotiated themselves under his feet.
“The Weary Wizard, indeed,” he said to himself, thinking that never before had the description fit him so well.
“Anybody ever tell you talking to yourself is a sign of madness?” a hired guard that had escaped Caelm’s notice straightened up from the wall, one thumb tucked behind a leather belt where a thick cudgel hung. The other hand rested on the hilt of a short sword, but it seemed more a reflex than an action meant to threaten. The guard seemed completely at ease.
“Fortunately, I know how to read,” Caelm told him, and was rewarded with a slight grin. “I know better than to follow them.”
“Aye, and speak words too with a skill, the Weary Wizard will be pleased to hear your stories for another night, storyteller.”
Caelm repressed a sigh at the thought, he was not feeling particularly up to telling folk tales and old stories until his throat was hoarse, but he was too drained to display feats of magic to impress them into giving coin. There was little else he could do to earn a place to rest his head for the night, coppers would only get him so far. Well, it wasn’t the first time he had had to sell his small talents when he was tired.
The guard gave him a knowing grin, seeing his mournful look. The guard’s named was Isaan, and was familiar to Caelm, having met him several times before, passing this route.
“Tis a hardship being a man of words,” the guard said in commiseration, scratching his short red beard. “Men who can’t tell their right hand from their left, will still sit still for hours on end for a good story from their youth, though they understand but two words in three.”
Isaan leaned slightly closer, absently tugging on his cheek with one forefinger. “Still, you should receive a warm welcome. One drunken old fool has been staggering about the commons mumbling about meeting with the Silver cap man, and every man that has heard your stories knew you must be passing this way again.”
Listening to the noisy inn grow in volume with good hearted laughter of old men in half stupors and young woodsmen enjoying the profits to be gained from the meat and pelt of animals that they hunted. It sounded like it has been a good season.
“Do you know this old man?” Isaan asked curiously, and Caelm shook his head. Which was only half true. He might not personally know the man, but nonetheless he sought a word with him. It was the reason that had pulled him away from skulking in the Belisaere City library, hunting answers in mouldy texts, to go deep within the surrounding forests.
“Doubtless he spied me upon the road earlier. There have been a few characters travelling the road this day.”
“You have the truth of that,” the competent guard agreed. “Not but an hour past I saw the scruffiest scoundrel I ever had the displeasure of viewing, rabbiting across through the trees as if -the- Corinthius himself was behind him.” The guard briefly made a sign to ward off evil at the mention of the cold hearted Assassin.
“Tis a cold night for you to be standing out here my friend,” Isaan said suddenly. “Go inside, where its warm, Meldara has a good haunch of pork that’s been turning on the spit since this morning.”
Caelm briefly thanked him, and stepped inside.
He was immediately overwhelmed by sheer honest air of cheer that filled the room, warm light filled the room with a soft yellow, and the dark red stained wood that dominated the building exuded a sense of rustic comfort. A fire roared in a stone hearth, and there was a sound of merrymaking as many patrons seemed bent upon the task of enjoying themselves as quickly as they could reach the bottom of their cups.
It was a fair sight better than most inns, where the patrons were dour, and uninterested in anything besides their own dismal prospects of experiencing anything other than the miserable existence they had eked out for themselves in less fortunate parts of the land. Or the hard eyed wary lot that frequented the tavern with the border guards on the edge of the wastelands. Caelm remembered without pleasure what a bleak place that had been, a grey place under dark shadows.
Caelm had paused there only long enough to ensure there was nothing there that he sought, unless he wished to ask the Demon's that roamed the blighted diseased land beyond the border. Ordinary soldiers and heavily hearted men that were forced to fight back the spread of creatures that were not mortal, and unceasing in their numbers.
Caelm felt a wrench in his heart at the thought, and returned to the present, where the glow of good times banished such memories.
He entered into the commons fully, and suddenly there was a hush as every eye was drawn as if by magic to him. They saw a tall man with broad shoulders, with shaggy dark hair that fell in almost to his neck, inside a sharp collar that swept up from his long heavy cloak. His cloak was a deep leather brown, almost black. His bronze eyes were a sight for awe and marvelling, and a short beard graced his strong chin.
And inevitably, their eyes were drawn to Caelm’s right hand, or where it should have been. Despite the uncomfortable attention on his disfigurement, he made no attempt to hide it.
They knew who he was almost immediately.
“It’s the Silver cap man!” someone bellowed in good humour, and there was general laughter. The crowd of patrons suddenly pressed in, and Caelm was besieged from all sides by excited jabber and questions about his travels, was he well and what new things he had seen.
A couple of small boys weaved themselves around the legs of their elders, pelting him with their curiosity. Makvhug ran a friendly inn, and youngsters were a common sight running around while their elders got merrily soused.
Caelm smile and answered as best as he could keep up, yes he had seen a demon, no he had never fought a devil, and yes it was true there were Demon's roaming the countryside.
He hastened to add that it was a distant countryside and already patrols were being mounted to destroy them.
“I heard an evil wizard created them,” a brawny man declared. “Somewhere in the Glades I hear.”
“Nonsense!” a stocky woman in a gravy smeared apron that proudly declared her to be a cook. The Weary Wizard had indeed fallen on good times if Makvhug could now afford some help in the kitchen.
“Wizards don’t go near the Glades, gives them the shady eye it does! Just like Elvin.” she declared with the authority of ignorance.
A serving girl managed to slip past the press of people with bright red hair looking similar to Isaan the guard though he did not recall Isaan having a child. She shyly asked him if he would like an ale, fresh cold from the cellar. He smiled at the pretty girl and pressed a number of coppers in her hand and asked for it to be delivered to his table.
She curtsied awkwardly and blushed unaccountably before scurrying off. Caelm blinked after her for a moment and then tried valiantly to make some headway against the crowd.
Caelm enjoyed staying at the Weary Wizard, it had a way of making you forget you were tired. Here, no-one stared at his missing hand out of anything more than curiosity, and his striking noble features earned him respect among folk who considered themselves to be mere commoners, looking at him with respect mingled with a slight awe, which quickly gave way to open friendliness. Of all places that Caelm had seen, this place was by far the most favourable.
“That’s because that’s where the necromancer lives, woman!” he retorted in mock anger, shaking a finger.
Fortunately, such a crowd also meant enthusiastic reception of his stories; Caelm should not go hungry tonight. He thought about it for a moment, he generally took his drink first, waiting until the anticipation had built for him to assume the little dais to the side of the fire. But these people had already been anticipating him, thanks to the old drunk Isaan spoke of, so Caelm strode forth, his manner communicating without words that he was to begin now.
The crowd melted before him, with arguments still fluttering around the edges as a way of warming themselves up for Caelm’s stories. He smiled, the patrons of the Weary Wizard had a unique way of showing their appreciation for stories.
There was a small three legged stool covered with a small blanket that looked as if it had seen better times, and better places than beneath a man’s bottom. He graciously ignored the seat, and he turned, facing the sea of expectant faces. Caelm had to admit he enjoyed the attention, he had never been a storyteller until forced to earn a living with one hand, but these people had loved every moment.
“So, good people of the Weary Wizard,” he pronounced dramatically. “What truth would you have me unravel to your ear?”
“Where the hell’s me drink gone?” a balding man roared in confusion from a nearby table, peering at the underside of his cup. Everyone roared with laughter, and Caelm tried not to spoil his pose.
“Ah, worthy patron, by such mysteries is your purse made leaner, while your belly gets fuller, and good Makvhug profits to both.” He said sweeping a grand gesture with one hand to the innkeeper busily wiping down a bench. He went slightly crimson at the unexpected attention, and flicked a towel in his direction, “be off with ye,” he growled in embarrassment.
The patron looked up suspiciously as if thinking that Caelm was responsible for the mysterious disappearance of his beverage.
“Maybe you could pull one out of his ear?” someone suggested. “He doesn’t use it for anything else.”
“Eh? What?” the old man slurred while his hand groped across his face in search of a flea.
This time Caelm joined in the laughter. The comment was inspired by the fact that Caelm often practiced illusions, either as entertainment or embellishments for his stories, though they assumed him to be a magician of tricks rather than actual magic.
“How ‘bout the story where Silver cap turned the King into a pig, and all the nobles had to run around chasing ‘im?” there was a chorus of interest.
“What for?” another man demanded, “I’ve have to chase pigs ‘round me home every day!”
“Aye, but you’re the only one that married her!” came the rebuttal, and there was a sudden commotion as a beefy red faced woman emerged with snapping eyes. People laughed as the author of the remark pushed through them with admirable appreciation of his own skin.
Then a voice quietly spoke up as the noise ebbed. “What stories do you have of the border? We’ve been hearing strange rumours.”
Caelm was taken back a moment, and he looked at the young man that addressed him. Tall and slim, the youth nevertheless seemed to possess a quiet confidence. He did not ask idly.
“There are a flock of rumours that take flight for every breeze that stirs on the border. Which do you mean?” he said, for in fact he could think of no pressing rumours that might have reached the ears of this small inn.
“We’ve heard that the Queen of the south moves to assault the borders, and that she has gained dark allies from those we trust to protect us.”
There was a murmur at this, and Caelm felt their concern, for he had not heard such a rumour, which was odd, for people were always eager to brag of their knowledge to him, hoping to impress him with their worldliness.
Perhaps this young man was one of those, for his story was certainly interesting, it was a rival for any Caelm could have thought of, and he silently thanked the boy for the inspiration.
“I have no stories to tell,” he said to a general mutter of disappointment, but he continued. “For the things I tell you are not stories, spun from falsehood, or any manner of deception. I do not offer you stories, gentlemen, I offer you truth. I will tell you what troubles our border, and the blight which the valiant and the brave struggle against every day, that bleed in the defence of our land and for us.”
There was a drunken cheer for the heroes of the borders, Caelm smiled inwardly, if only they knew the real men forced to stand watch there, it was certainly not a cause of celebration, nor the stuff heroic ballads are composed of without the most inspired stretching of a poet’s imagination.
But, the men that stood as the bulwark between life and death were heroes, though they were hard bitten and sour. They evidenced none of the eternal fortitude and unflagging courage and cheer in the face of overwhelming death. These men knew reality, they had no illusions that death would be held at bay by simple goodness of heart and belief that good will eventually triumph. From the years they had stood guard and met every assault, they learned that men could not defeat such evil, only endure it. Caelm quietly saluted them as heroes, cheerless and bleak though they were. Caelm knew such bleakness.
Only one did not cheer, the young man that had posed the question, his blue eyes met Caelm's, and Caelm realised that he too, did not share the illusion. There was obviously something to this young man, but Caelm was not interested in discovering what it was. If he was a distant noble wandering the country stirring dark tales, that was his business. Caelm was interested only in earning money enough to eat, and rest comfortably.
“The Queen ” Caelm began. “She was not always known as such, once she was a virtuous woman from the eternal lands, home of the Elvin.”
Caelm began to weave a long fanciful tale, with mostly rumours and bright illusions, mixed with just the right amount of truth. He remembered the days when the Queen had studied at Belisaere, not as a Wizard, for she had no desire to become one, but simply to learn. He could remember how she had learned many powerful enchantments that her Elvin heritage allowed her to perform that made her a force to be reckoned with, so long as she held a weapon. Caelm had taught her some of those himself.
She had just wanted to be able to protect her people, yet she became a weapon of those who destroyed them.
A huge resounding cheer thundered through the room, with cups drumming on the table tops, and Caelm bowed with a flourish. Coins were scattered drunkenly into the air, at least some of them finding their way to the dais along with the contents of whatever was left in their cups. It was a marvellous thing to be admired, Caelm thought ruefully.
Suddenly he felt aggravated, telling stories of little significance to a crowd of people that appreciated it only as a different method of entertaining themselves. Angrily, he thrust the thought away, what was wrong with him? These were good people, they had no desire to learn the terrible realities that surrounded them, they did not want to know what it was to be damned. Caelm didn’t blame them. With a deft gesture, he scooped up the coins. Mostly copper, but there were a couple of silvers as well. It must have been a very good season.
A small boy darted in as Caelm descended the dais, unconscious that he seemed like a lord descending his throne before the commoners. The boy gathered the remaining coin, and delivered it to Caelm with an eager expression. He thanked the boy with a smile, and took the coins, leaving several coppers for him. The boy’s grin broadened, as thanked him profusely before running off to see if he could trick Isaan into serving him ale. Caelm shook his head, small chance of that.
The patrons shouted for more stories, thumping their abused cups as if to drive him back on stage by the sound. Caelm was rescued as the girth of the innkeeper heaved over the edge of the bar where he worked.
“Quiet down!” he demanded in a voice like a booming cannon. “Can’t you see Master Silver cap is weary from a long journey? Let him eat in peace first, you beggars!”
Mollified, and happily expectant, the patrons graciously returned to their drinks.
Caelm ducked under a thick wooden beam as he stepped up on the wooden platform of the taproom, looking for Makvhug. The Inn was as comfortable as outside promised, the rustic look of the dark woods, and glowing fire made it look like the perfect abode for woodsman returning from an arduous stint in the Belisaere market.
Thick beams crossed beneath the low ceiling, and thick posts supported these from the floor extending right through. How it could achieve such a cosy effect when in fact the room was technically two stories, a short stairways leading up to a number of doors on the far wall.
The inn separated the tap room, and the commons and a small section holding a few tables and a bookcase, curiously enough, simply by small step ups and step downs to mark each area, and the occasional bar, to rest drinks and the like on. The walls were decorated with an abandon of paintings, ranging from the crude to the delicate, and the mountings of particularly impressive animals that had strayed into the innkeepers line of sight.
“Makvhug,” Caelm greeted.
“Master Silvercap!” the jolly man roared, though Caelm stood but on the other side of the bar. The red faced man was big, with beefy hands that were easily capable of carrying a slaughtered buck for miles, or breaking apart a man foolish enough to cause trouble at his inn. Makvhug the Bear, he was affectionately known. He wiped at his face briefly with a towel draped over one bulky shoulder. Though Makvhug was getting on in years, his receding hairline and happily expanding belly had in no way diminished his vitality and vigour.
“A fine story you told, Master Silver cap. Though I was disappointed not to hear another fine yarn about your ancestor. That Alaister Silvercap be a wily one, I’m thinkin’.” Makvhug rolled himself around the bar, filling up tankards with ale from stacks of barrels resting comfortably in their niches in the wooden shelving behind him. By the way he was constantly bouncing from one to the other, full barrels were getting scarcer.
“He was popular with the nobles,” Caelm said, and shared a laugh with the big man.
“Problem with your barrels, good innkeeper?” Caelm asked, watching him bounce around with the abandon of a gnome on stilts.
“Aye, as you know it, those scoundrels out there have nearly dried me up. They’ve been in here since noon.” He growled flipping his towel in a clear gesture of false irritation.
“I’m sure it must be paining you to take all their coin. You always were a soft-hearted man,” Caelm said dryly.
“Aye,” the innkeeper gusted sorrowfully. “Breaks me heart it does.” Caelm laughed.
“I don’t suppose you’ve had any brothers wander down this road recently?” Caelm asked him, with a particular man in mind.
“Don’t have no brothers, master Silvercap. Why do you ask?”
“No reason.” Caelm kept the thought to himself that innkeepers really were no better than the common bandit.
Then Caelm leaned on the counter with an elbow, and Makvhug took the hint and leaned down so they could talk quietly.
“I was told an old man was in here earlier, letting it be generally known I was coming,” Caelm said quietly, and his eyes roved over the patrons as he did so, briefly settling on a man with his head in his arms, snoring raucously.
“An old man you say, lad? I see you’ve been catching up with Isaan.”
“He’s a good man.” Caelm replied, eager now that he was on the right subject, but letting Makvhug rumble his way through the conversation.
“One of the best, is he still standing watch? I told him to come inside for a drink but he refused!” the expression on the innkeeper’s face showed that this was as startling to him as if a dog had stood up on its hind legs before him and asked for a pint. “I’ll have the girl Thia run a keg out to him to ward off the night’s chill but he’ll refuse that too like as not. ”
“Maybe he’s afraid of poisoning,” Caelm said innocently.
“Poisoning!” Makvhug objected. “I brew the finest ale this side of the maelstrom, and if you say otherwise I’ll pour it down your throat till you agree.” Caelm laughed and spread his hands defensively.
“At ease innkeeper, perhaps he simply wishes to remain alert. I’ve heard some of your meals have occasionally taken bites out of your patrons. Maybe if you had learned to cook them first…”
“Why you insolent pup!” Makvhug bellowed good naturedly, slamming a fist down on the bar. “I’ve been serving prime meat at this inn for over twenty years! My meals are a damn sight better than any you’ve ever had elsewhere!”
Caelm could see faces turn towards them a mixture of curiosity and amusement in anticipation of Makvhug the Bear explode in one of his famous tempers. The fact that he had not as yet spontaneously combusted in a one of his heated exchanges had so far not suppressed this expectation.
Caelm had to concede that Makvhug spoke rightly, but what he said was: “Put value to your words innkeeper, bring me your finest meat and I’ll judge the truth of that.”
Makvhug could not resist the challenge. He bellowed to the serving girl, “Tell that wench of a woman in the kitchen to bring out a plate of our finest! Quickly! We must show this impudent boy the gall of his words!”
The serving girl was used to Makvhug’s ways and did not flinch at his roar, she simply hurried past Caelm through a door. Caelm caught a waft of cooked food as the door swung shut, and Caelm decided that he should accept defeat graciously when it came.
“Now, what of the old man?” Caelm asked, and Makvhug blinked for a moment before he caught up.
“Aye, the old man is still here. He is the sorry sot who lost his drink,” he grinned, indicating the old man staring mournfully at his cup. “Does he owe you money?”
Caelm shook his head. “Not money.” But there was something else he would collect from the man. Information. Nodding at Caelm to tell him he wanted to talk to the old man, Makvhug slapped him on the shoulder in a friendly gesture before ambling off himself to the kitchen, where he was immediately hailed by a greeting only slightly less formidable than his own bellow. Caelm would surmise that Makvhug had finally found someone who was a match for him. It sounded like an interesting discourse, but Caelm had concerns more pressing than the various listed diseases and disfigurements afflicting either party.
Caelm felt excitement race through him as he approached the old man, his heart pumping fit to burst. This could be it! If the rumour was true and certain, this man could help him find what he needed to become whole again. Calem tried to restrain his eagerness, knowing it would be a crushing blow if the man turned out to be simply the drunken fool he appeared.
He sat down.
He waited.
The old man eventually stirred himself from contemplation of a cup that failed to hold either ale or wisdom for him, and so failing had apparently bereft him of purpose for the next several hours.
“Ehwhadryyg, whan?” the old man slurred as his face attempted to make a sprint for reaction time.
“Are you who I am here to see?” Caelm.
“Oo the bloody ‘ell are you!” the old man exclaimed, his eyes wide and unfocussed. Caelm was briefly taken aback, and tried to think of a suitable reply when the old man stooped closer and his face altered.
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Thaguere my shister, or… maybe my aunt’s nephew, some kind of fish.” He belched effortlessly and scratched his thin grey hair. “Could be an uncle. You evah seen my uncle Augutsy?” The old man fixed Caelm will a piercing eye, Caelm mutely shook his head.
“Fattest man in the city!” he proclaimed vigorously with an expansive gesture. Caelm blinked. “People sees him and they shays, now there’s a fat man, no doubt there, and two steps they takes just to walk to the left of him, and three to the right. Was a rambling man, my uncle, useta ramble summin’ fiershe!”
The old man seemed to have an abundance of that attribute himself, as well as having benefited from a large lack of inhibition, which was probably hiding where his drink was.
“Cup’s dry,” the old man proclaimed, presenting it to Caelm with that mournful hangdog expression.
“I’m glad you’ve figured that out,” Caelm told him. “Let’s see if we can do something about that.”
He looked around and spied the serving girl approaching, fortuitously balancing a tankard of dark frothy ale on a thin slat of wood in her hands.
She smiled as she saw Caelm. “Here’s your ale, milord,” she said, her eyes bright as she placed a tankard on the table. She was almost startled into spilling it as the old man burst out with roaring laughter.
“Milord!” he burbled. “ If he’s a lord, then I’m three coppers short of a silver! He’s no more a lord than a flea is a fart unna the rug,” he continued to laugh and splutter, while the serving girl shot him a furious glare.
“Just Caelm will do,” he told her gently, taking the tankard and deftly swapping it with the incapacitated man’s one. She smiled her shy smile, and a flush came to her cheeks, and Caelm finally understood.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Thia,” she said, still shy under his scrutiny. He recognised the signs of infatuation, but was unsure how to deal with it.
“Thank you for the ale Thia, could I ask you to fetch me another while my friend recovers?”
“Of course mi- Master Caelm,” the young girl stammered, and then abruptly left. Caelm looked around and saw the old man staring at him with an open look of mirth.
“That girl has an eye for you, milord, no doubt,” he chuckled. Caelm gave him a steady look.
“That won’t be a problem as soon as I get out of here. Which will happen as soon as you tell me what I need to know, even if I have to hang you upside down on the ceiling till you sober up. Caelm’s excitement was quickly giving way to impatience.
Caelm was dubious about his ability to carry out his threat, but failing anything else he could still probably stick the man’s head in a rain barrel.
“Ah! Silvercap!” he seemed on the verge of saying more but then his glance fell down on the tankard of brimming ale.
“What happened to me cup?” he demanded. “It’s full!” he cried in outrage, and glared accusingly at Caelm.
Caelm sighed.