Prophecy of the kings - chapter 2

“Are you still angry?” Lars asked.

“You were meant to stand guard,” Kaplyn complained as they walked. They had risen early and Kaplyn had been furious to find Lars sleeping. They had struggled through the wood until finally emerging from the trees at about mid-morning. Presently they were crossing an open field and their boots tugged as they tangled with the long grass.

“Nothing happened though,” Lars answered. “I know it was wrong, but I was really tired.”

Kaplyn regarded the other man. The night before he had cut an imposing figure, but the light of day told a different story. He was carrying too much weight and the colour of his nose suggested he was fond of ale. However, at the moment he looked genuinely sorry, like a chastised puppy.

Kaplyn suppressed a laugh. “I suppose we are both rested.”

Behind them a rook cawed, causing Kaplyn to glance back. Something had disturbed it, and its flurry of wings carried easily on the still air. His face fell and he groaned. “Don’t they ever give up?”

Lars looked around. Kaplyn couldn’t tell how many were following, they were still some distance. He broke into a run, urging Lars to keep up.

Think! What were their options? Ahead, there were a couple of copses, but hiding was a last resort. A rabbit scampered from a thicket, startling Kaplyn. It zigzagged in front of them before bolting into a gorse bush. Kaplyn kept running. Lars lolled along by his side, his face flushed.

Rounding one end of a copse Kaplyn saw a stockade wall. “A farm,” he gasped. “Keep running, it’s not far. We’ll make it before they catch us.”

Kaplyn risked glancing back; five figures were following and the gap between them had shortened.

Returning his attention to his front he had a better view of the farm. The palisade comprised trunks lashed together and above that, thatched roofs supported chimneys that were venting grey smoke against a blue sky.

 “Ho the farm!” Kaplyn shouted, waving his arms as he ran. “Ho!” he shouted louder, catching sight of a figure silhouetted on the wall. The pungent smell of livestock mixed with wood smoke filled the air.

Within bow range Kaplyn came to a halt and, behind him, Lars staggered to his side. Kaplyn looked back but there was no sign of their pursuers. They must have hidden in one of the copses, probably waiting to see what happened next.

By now there were several figures on the wall and to Kaplyn’s consternation some were armed with bows. Two men approached through a gate, both carrying pitchforks. The taller of the two was the older; grey haired and with a rugged face no doubt acquired from long days spent in the fields. The other man, probably the first man’s son judging by his age, was darker but broader. Neither smiled as they came to a halt.

Kaplyn couldn’t read their expressions. “I’m Kaplyn. We’re lost and fleeing outlaws. Last night they captured my companion here, Lars, and I managed to free him.” By his side, Lars was red faced and breathing hard.

At the mention of outlaws, the grey haired man’s eyes sought the land behind them. “How many?” It was a demand rather than a question.

“Five,” Kaplyn answered.

The other man snorted. “Cowards — the lot of them. They’re content to waylay a lone man, but they’ll never attack here, with so many.”

“I may have killed one of them last night,” Kaplyn answered truthfully. “And Lars killed the chieftain’s brother. That makes them all the more dangerous.”

The farmer’s stoic look broke as he smiled “Did you now? Killed some of them did you? Good for you.”

“I want to buy a horse, and food,” Kaplyn asked, sensing they had the farmer on their side.

 “I have a horse, but it’s not for riding,” the farmer answered.

 “I can pay for it,” Kaplyn took out his purse, counting out fifteen silver calder.  

The other man’s eyes widened. “You’d better see the animal before offering your money.” He turned to his companion. “Kroner, go and fetch bread and cheese for these men. And fetch them a skin of wine while you’re about it.”

The farmer then led them through the gates where six other men and a handful of children stared at them wide-eyed.

“Go on,” the farmer said. “Stop gawping and get on with your chores.”

“Will you be all right? I mean with the outlaws out there?” Kaplyn asked.

The farmer smiled. “As I said, outlaws are cowardly creatures. Besides, there will be more men here by nightfall when they come off the fields. Thanks for the warning though.

“Here we are,” the farmer said as they arrived before a tall barn. Inside, they were presented with a very stocky plough horse. It eyed Kaplyn as he approached and gently butted his shoulder, seeking a titbit.

“You have no other?” Kaplyn asked. The farmer shook his head.

 The animal had been well looked after and was clearly big enough to carry them both. Sighing, he decided it would have to do and he offered the farmer the coins. At that moment, Kroner returned with food wrapped in a large cloth and a skin of wine.

“Would you like to stay for a meal?” the farmer offered.

“Thanks for the offer, but no,” Kaplyn replied. “We need to get to Pendrat.”

“It’s some distance. You’re welcome to stay the night,” the farmer offered, but Kaplyn shook his head.

“The sooner the outlaws see us leave, the safer for you and your family. Can you direct us; I have no idea where we are?”

 “Aye. You’re not far from the Pendrat road.” The farmer led them outside where some women had joined the men folk to see the strangers. “Go that way for a quarter mile and then you’ll find the highway. Bear left and just keep riding. You’ll not be there until late though. We’ll watch your trail for a while and make sure that no one follows you.”

Kaplyn and Lars thanked the two men. At the gate, Kaplyn mounted but Lars struggled, muttering all the while. After several attempts he finally admitted that he had not ridden before. His face flushed red with embarrassment. Kaplyn dismounted, cupping his hands to help him and then Kaplyn mounted in front of Lars. They set off, waving to the farmer and his family as they left.

As they rode, Kaplyn kept looking back but after a while became confident that any pursuit was far behind. He hoped he hadn’t visited ill on the farmers.

Gradually, the land became more wooded. The trees made Kaplyn nervous; he had preferred the open countryside. Lars was gripping his waist so firmly that Kaplyn was having difficulty breathing.

“Tell me about your homeland,” Kaplyn asked, seeking to set the other man at ease.

There was a short delay and gradually Lars’ grip relaxed. The horse swayed as it walked but being such a broad animal their seat was secure, even without a saddle.

“It’s beautiful…,” the big man started wistfully, “… although the weather is more extreme than it is here. It’s colder in the winter and the nights are longer. The summers are warm, though, and the spring is glorious when violets carpet the meadows. And the mountains…” His voice caught and Kaplyn glanced back. Lars’ jaw was firmly set and his eyes sparkled with unshed tears. Kaplyn looked to their front, embarrassed to have seen the other man’s pain.

 Lars did not seem to notice and continued his tale. “My people live in villages along the coast. Our homes surround a central long-hall. In the winter nights we tell stories and drink beer.

“I miss it,” he sniffed loudly. “You’ll have to forgive me; I left behind my wife and son and have no way to get back to them.” After a pause he continued. “What about yourself — where are you from and what do you do?”

 The question caught Kaplyn by surprise. “I’m from Dundalk,” he managed after what he hoped wasn’t too long a pause. “I served in the palace guard for a couple of years but didn’t get on with one of the Hest Commanders, so I decided to leave.” It was a lie, but reasonably close to the truth to be plausible.

“What’s a hest?”

Kaplyn glanced back. “It’s a small unit of men in the army.” At that moment, a bird took flight at the side of the path, startling the horse and Kaplyn. He hoped it wasn’t a sign for the lie that he told.

 “The palace guard?” Lars said, suitably impressed.

 “It sounds better than it was,” Kaplyn answered, dreading any further questions. Swiftly he changed the subject and for the rest of the day they chatted about Allund and its people. By early evening the scenery had changed, becoming gently undulating. The strong scent of bracken carried upon the evening breeze and soft sunlight pleasantly warmed their faces.

 Kaplyn urged their mount to greater haste as the sun started to sink below the surrounding foothills, casting long shadows across the narrow path. He was fretful that they had not yet seen Pendrat. The wild, as they had already found to their cost, was a dangerous place and they had been lucky that they had encountered nothing worse than outlaws.

Just when he was about to give in and suggest stopping for the night, they crested a hill and at last below them was the town. The path they were following ended at a rickety looking bridge, spanning a deep gorge. The other end of the bridge led to the town gates, which for the moment at least were open. Within the town, lamps were being lit and tiny flames sprang into being along the narrow streets as though by magic. Spurring their mount down the gentle incline they hurried towards the town and safety.

 The bridge’s wooden planking clattered noisily as they crossed. Some sounded loose, much to Kaplyn’s alarm.  He looked over the side. The ravine fell away sharply towards a narrow, turgid stream whose waters frothed white against grey boulders. A stink of rotting vegetation wafted up, causing him to turn away.  

At the bridge’s other end two sentries stood idly, leaning against their spears. They stared up at the men as they rode by, humour sparkling in their eyes. Kaplyn feared that they might be stopped, but then they were beneath the thick stone walls and in the town proper.

People thronged the main street but parted to let them pass, nudging partners or friends, smiling or laughing at the newcomers’ misfortune to be riding double on an aged plough horse. Looking up to avoid their stares, Kaplyn saw bright banners suspended between the buildings.

A juggler was performing by the side of the street, keeping three balls spinning in the air. He shouted something to Kaplyn who could not quite hear what was said, but it caused merriment to those surrounding the performer and they laughed gaily.

Kaplyn’s gaze swept the crowd seeking the distinctive uniform of the palace guard and wondering whether they had already been here. There was no sign of them and so he aimed towards a large inn, nested between tall rickety buildings, whose weather-stained beams sagged in the most alarming manner. A squeaking sign proclaimed it to be “The Thirst and Last.” Kaplyn dismounted while Lars practically fell off as his legs buckled beneath him.

 A scraggly youth emerged from an alley to one side of the inn. “Can I take your horse to the stable,” he offered, holding out a grubby hand.

“Aye, thanks,” Kaplyn replied. “Here’s a couple of copper tell. Take good care of him and make sure he is well fed and watered.

 “Do you have any money?” Kaplyn asked turning to Lars.

 To his surprise the big man did. “Yes. Five silver calder. I think after I killed his brother, their leader was too set on revenge to bother searching me. The money should pay for a room for a couple of nights and the entry fee to the games. I’m going to enter the wrestling, although I was hoping to lose some weight beforehand.” He patted his paunch. “It appears I’ve developed a taste for your countrymen's ale.”

 Kaplyn smiled. “Come; let’s see if there are any rooms left.”

Inside, the tavern was busy; the air was thick with smoke from numerous pipes and a badly vented fire. Kaplyn paused uncertainly. He had never experienced anything like this before and turned to see what Lars made of it. The big man stood by his side, clearly at ease in the strange surroundings.

The smell was overpowering; a combined reek of spilt ale and months of accumulated cooking odours. He would have to get used to it, especially if he was claiming to be an ex-palace guard!

 Kaplyn forced his way to the bar. Within moments, a sullen looking landlord appeared, wiping his hands on a greasy apron.

“What can I do for you, gents?” he shouted above the hubbub.

Kaplyn shouted a reply. “Two rooms for two nights … and supper.”

The landlord eyed Kaplyn’s clothes and his eyes narrowed. “That’ll be two pieces of silver. Each.”

Kaplyn started to fish through his purse and the landlord’s eyes nearly fell out of their sockets. Clearly, he had expected Kaplyn to barter at least.

“And three copper tell for the meal…each,” he added.

Lars started to complain but Kaplyn mistook him. “It’s all right, I’ll pay.”

“Up the top of the stairs at the back is one room and through that door is another,” said the landlord, pocketing the money as swiftly as he could. “Go to the end of the corridor. It’s the last one on the right.”

“You paid too much,” Lars advised as they started towards their rooms.

“The prices will be high because of the games,” Kaplyn answered. In truth, he had no idea how much a room should cost. His purse was full but by Lars’ look the landlord had cheated him. Frowning, he decided to be more careful in the future, not wanting to attract undue attention to himself. “Let’s have a look at the rooms and meet up back here.”

Leaving Lars, Kaplyn ducked through a door with a sign proclaiming Duck or Grouse above it. There was not enough room on the stair for two and he wondered what would happen if he met someone coming down. His boots thudded noisily on the steps.

At the top, a door led into a small room barely large enough for the single bed and rickety table which supported a cracked washing bowl and pitcher. The roof was only a few inches above his head and it sloped alarmingly over the bed, forcing him to crouch to reach it.

He hoped he wasn’t disturbing someone below as the floor boards creaked ominously. Briefly, he wondered what was holding the place together as he threw his saddlebag on the bed and sat down, testing the mattress. It was far too soft for his liking.

The room smelt musty. Opening the only window he inhaled the fresh evening air. It carried a mixture of aromas; baking bread, stables and other scents of a busy town. Even with its shortcomings, at least he felt safe.

Across the street, garlands decorated many of the windows to ward against demons and other evil spirits. The townsfolk also feared the spirit world and Kaplyn, after his night of being afraid, suddenly felt less foolish knowing others feared the dark. He left the room, hoping that the meal would be better than the accommodation.

 

Lars grinned up at him as he sat down. Kaplyn waved to the landlord for their meal, who in turn waved to a serving girl. She disappeared briefly before returning, holding aloft a heavily laden tray with practiced ease.

Smiling broadly she set down two large wooden bowls containing a thick meaty stew and a plate piled high with large hunks of warm bread. When Kaplyn looked down at his plate he frowned. Potatoes and meat poked through a blanket of thick, brown gravy, looking very unappetising. Using a broad wooden spoon he tasted a morsel. It was surprisingly tasty.

 “It’s good to have company again…” Lars commented between mouthfuls, “…especially with fine ale on the table.”

 “After last night, I’m just relieved to be within the town,” Kaplyn answered. However, he had an uncomfortable feeling that his adventure was far from over.

At that moment a slurred and insolent voice at an adjacent table caught his attention.

“Aye, that’s a fact!” A man hunched over a large, but empty flagon of ale was saying. “Three wizards, and I spoke with them.” Kaplyn’s curiosity was aroused at the mention of wizards; in Allund wizards were rare.

 There were five men at the table, farmers judging by their appearance. He motioned Lars to silence as he eavesdropped on the conversation.

 “Don’t be daft, Gillan,” retorted another of the group. “There is no such thing as wizards, as we all know. If you ask me, you’ve been sitting here for too long and the beer has finally soaked your wits.” The speaker was a small, but stout individual with a good-humoured face and smiling eyes. “Wizards are nothing more than a fairy tale and you have told enough of them in your time.”

 “How come I spoke to one then?” Gillan replied defensively, pushing himself forward to confront the other man. His face was round and fleshy and his nose was red from years of hard drinking. His eyes seemed to be having difficulty focusing and he kept blinking at his antagonist.

 “Are you causing trouble again Gillan?” the serving girl asked as she collected empty tankards from the table. The others about the table grinned; Gillan was clearly known for spreading rumours ¾ many of his own making. Gillan muttered angrily.

 A hush had descended over the nearby tables as others listened in to the conversation.

“There were three of them,” Gillan continued, determined not to lose face and forgetting that he had already mentioned their number. “I saw them about half a mile from the village. One of them stopped to ask me the way here. It was he that said that they were wizards, "coming to entertain the good townsfolk".”

 The others around the table smiled, enjoying Gillan’s discomfort.

“Wizards?” Lars whispered to Kaplyn.

“Years ago, during the Krell Wars, they were supposed to have been common, but now they are rare. Some people still travelled the land, claiming to be wizards although they were more usually just clever magicians, using slight of hand to dupe their audience,” Kaplyn said softly, still listening to the conversation at the other table.

 “And why shouldn’t there be wizards?” one of Gillan’s companions was saying, coming to the other man’s rescue. He was a short, respectable looking fellow. The others in the group quietened to hear what he had to say. “Just because there are no wizards in Allund doesn’t mean that there are none at all. And besides, look how many people are prepared to believe in other more fanciful notions such as demons ¾ if they exist, then why not wizards?”

 “Aye,” a grey bearded man with large staring eyes interrupted. “That’s a good point. Remember last year and old Fowler’s farm!” Several nodded their agreement and, judging by their expressions, it was not a pleasant memory.

 “That was never proven,” replied his neighbour in a dismissive tone. “Surely you don’t believe that Fowler was murdered by a demon. We’re full-grown men, not daft children frightened of the dark.” The man nodded towards Gillan who was too engrossed with his mug and its lack of content to take offence.

 “Aye, maybe,” his grey-bearded companion conceded. “But there is no denying that something strange happened that night. There are many prepared to believe that a demon took old Fowler. His wife was hysterical when we found her and her mind has since gone; she talks to no one now, save her dead husband.” He sat back, balancing his mug in a casual manner on the edge of the table.

 “I was one of the first to arrive at the farm,” he continued softly. “That was just after his son came riding into town, crying of murder. When we arrived at the farm, by the Kalanth, there was the most god-awful stench….” he wrinkled his nose absent-mindedly with the memory. “…it was unlike anything I had ever smelt before.”

 “If it was unlike anything you had smelt before then how do you know it was a demon?” Gillan retorted gruffly, clearly eager to get his own back now that no one was listening to him.

 The other man’s face was deadly earnest and his eyes blazed angrily. “You had to be there to understand,” he snapped. “And then you wouldn’t be so swift to disbelieve.”

 “Tell them about how you found old Fowler, Bram,” another of the group prompted. He looked a nervous individual; his face was white and his eyes wide with superstitious fear.

 Bram grimaced. “It’s a sight that will haunt me the rest of my days,” he replied sadly, shaking his head as though to rid himself of the memory. “His look ¾ such a fearful look that I am surprised I am still a sane man for having seen it. There was blood everywhere, and someone or something had ripped his heart from his chest.”

 “I have heard tell…,” said another wisely, “…that demons take the victim’s heart for that contains their soul!”

 “That would explain the fearful expression on old Fowler’s face,” Bram agreed. “For when the old man died his final view was that of Hell itself.” His statement left his audience in an uncomfortable silence.

 “Old wives tale!” a voice loudly proclaimed from behind the group. A couple of people sitting around the table jumped nervously and cast an eye about the bar grinning sheepishly, hoping that no one had noticed. All eyes turned towards a tall, gregarious young man who gave them a mischievous lop-sided grin as he casually leant against a chair; a large mug of ale held lopsided in his fist. 

“From what I hear, Fowler was an old man,” the youth continued. “By all accounts he was as fat as one of his sows, and just as stupid.” Taking a swallow of ale he eyed the others through narrowed slits. “His time was due ¾ nothing more, nothing less. And, if you want my opinion, it was nothing more mysterious than a heart attack that killed him,” he said gesturing about the room with his mug and wetting several people with its contents. “And ¾” he continued loudly having see the filthy looks he was receiving from those that he had soaked, “If I had died from heart failure then my face would be twisted into an ugly grimace. No doubt there would be a horrible smell as well.” He finished smugly.

 Several laughed at this, although the laughter was somewhat forced for his story did not explain how Fowler’s chest had become ripped open; nobody really believed that a wild animal had done that to him.

 “Farlan, your face couldn’t get any uglier!” shouted back one of the revellers. More laughter followed and this time it was heartier. It appeared that demons were for dark unlit places and not for the brightly lit “Thirst and Last”.

 Kaplyn shivered, remembering his night alone in the wild. That experience had left its mark on him and perhaps for that reason he was more prepared to believe the story. Others too clearly believed it for Farlan was given more space; even if you did not believe in demons, it appeared that it was not wise to tempt providence.

 “Do you believe in demons?” Lars asked.

 Kaplyn shrugged. “No, I suppose not,” he decided eventually.

 Lars shook his head. “My people believe in evil giants,” he said. “We believe that one-day, at the end of the world, they will attack Fallar-Ell, the home of the gods. Since coming to this land I have heard of little else other than demons.”

 Kaplyn nodded. “It’s nothing more than folklore,” he answered. “People believe in demons because our ancestors used to.”

 “There’s logic in that,” Lars replied. “But what do you think persuaded your ancestors to believe in demons?”

 That was a profound question to which Kaplyn did not have an answer. In silence the two men ate, grateful at least for the company of others.