Chapter One

I forgot to post the prologue earlier.

From the heavens came such boisterous laughter and though no words were spoken each man understood, “Eat to the fullest; Drink to the fullest; Live to the fullest, for it is my life that dwells within you and it is for my pleasure that you live.”

-The Girk’ siro, List of Truths

 

            Asbed kept himself to the shadows of the woods for much of the first four days. Surely when the fires were calmed at the manor they would come to flare in the late Gudleif’s retinue. It would do no good to be of darkened complexion in the Friherre’s domain while their fury was left lit, no disguise great enough to dampen their suspicions.

              With some labor he moved through the lulling landscape of the region, surviving on fish found at the rare stream, on berries that weighed the many shrubs, and on wild flowers that blanketed the forest floor. He stayed away from the mushrooms, their species too virulent, too diverse for his knowledge to satiate his appetite. Occasionally he would come upon a small hamlet and would sneak into their scarce pantries, though never when the peasant-folk were away from their fields and never would he take more than what a rat or some game might nip. He would leave a clip of silk somewhere about their abode, hidden away, though in anticipation of discovery. As all creatures of the earth are borne of Blessed Ashnak, to steal from one is to steal from Him.          

              It was on the morning of the fifth day that Asbed felt confident in his flight and rather weary of his hermitism. While he had lived the life of a slave in the Gudleif’s estate, the life of a slave had held the warmth of bed and daily bread. He could not live as a savage did, could no longer stomach the taste of berries and wild grasses. He did not feel human skulking about these woods, and surely Blessed Ashnak was growing tired of this charade. He needed to find a town, to begin his journey home, to return to Hrazda.

             It was still early when he came upon a road that seemed well-enough traveled. He trailed close beside it in stealth, pushing deftly through the dense foliage that flanked either side of the way. If he ever hoped to replace his bloodied rags, for no amount of water and scrubbing could erase the evidence of his revolt, he would need to take the place of another. He had faith that Blessed Ashnak would guide him to one deserving of his malice.

             It was midday when he came upon such a soul.

             Lagging leisurely along the side of the road was a figure draped in an assortment of colorful vestments. Dragging sleeves covered the figures arms in their entirely, hiding his hands. What at first appeared to be a cloak was but another section of the flowing garment. It came as a sharp contrast to the purple and red stripes that streaked along the body of the robe’s length, so bright and soft was its color of white. A hood sprung forth from the robe casting greater suspicion on the purpose of this… tail? (Though a tail was not often so high…) It all looked so familiar, and certainly such a bizarre garb would be remembered, yet Asbed had no memory of it.

              He gave little more than a sparse thought towards the oddity of the dressing, however, his mind quickly consumed with the vision of what wore it. The figure had looked over his shoulder towards where Asbed lay in stealth, though their eyes moved immaterially over where he skulked. A Saraycian! A black-blooded, filth-mongering Saraycian! He needed no more than a simple glance at the figure’s muddied skin, his horridly squished face, and his abhorrently beady eyes to recognize the heresy preaching filth! (Holy Mother and Holy Father... Peh! More like B*****d Son and W***e Daughter!) For him to come upon such prey unescorted seemed so blatant a sign from Blessed Ashnak that Asbed almost felt his intelligence slighted.

              His immediate thought was to run out from his stealth screaming out praise to Blessed Ashnak as he harangued the quite suspecting Saraycian with his fists. Such a thought vanished as he drew closer and recognized the bulk of a blade dangling from underneath the figure’s robing. His eyes shifted towards the knife still held tightly in hand, and he let out an anxious groan. It would not be proper to use it, what with the item having been already promised to Blessed Ashnak. (Though, that had not stopped you from driving it into that Adelsmann… What had his name been?)

             Asbed shook his head. He could not allow himself to be distracted. He scratched his chin as his eyes drifted over the woods that lay beside him. Without any real fervor, he prayed that some blade might poke its head out from underneath the earth. His eyes caught onto a particularly bulbous rock. It was not exactly the blade he had been imagining.

             With some apprehension Asbed removed the Saraycian from his sight and went to retrieve his club. Despite his anxiety the figure did not disappear. When he returned he found the Saraycian still going about its slow trot. He noticed now, however, that this pace seemed to be brought about by a limp in the figure’s step. It was hard to notice under the dense coverage of robing, but the Saraycian appeared to be injured!

              Without any sympathy for whatever wound plagued the heretical mass of muck, Asbed set into motion his assault. He saw up ahead that the wild thickets that shielded him from view grew closer still to the road. He waited until he reached this blessed point before leaving the forest’s breadth.

             As he drew closer he could not help but sweat, could do little more than close his right eye as the salty excretion formed about it, stinging madly. He was thankful the Saraycian appeared resolute in his direction. Any turn about the road would reveal the creeping Hrazdian struggling under the weight of a rock. It was not the sort of thing you could explain away, and certainly no Saraycian would have ears for anything a Hrazdian had to say.

             When he was close enough to hear the haggard breath of the Saraycian, could recognize just how short the infidel was, he rose to his full height, quickened his pace, and, just as the figure turned in response to the sudden trudge of step, raised the boulder and brought it down hard against the filth’s head.

             There was a terrible scream of Saraycian as his prey cursed loudly. Asbed did not give him chance to recover. Again he brought the rock high and dropped it on the figure’s head. The Saraycian fell to the ground, an outstretched hand all that kept it from lying in the dirt. With a boisterous cry of praise unto Blessed Ashnak, Asbed again brought the rock against his head and watched with superfluous elation as the figure succumbed to his bludgeoning and collapsed. Asbed made to strike again, to inflict greater harm, but remembered his purpose, noticed already some tears forming about the elegant dressing.

              He threw the rock aside and rolled the figure over revealing them to be a woman. Her face was muddied with blood and dirt alike, casting her in a more attractive light. Anything that covered the horrible origin of her birth was a boon. He began to roughly tear the robes off of her, but heard the sound of tearing and slowed his pace. Her attire was set in two different pieces of cloth. The fanciful striped garment seemed to be a needlessly elaborate traveling cloak. Underneath was a simple gown of purple dressing for which no sleeves or pants existed. She wore wooden sandals which held elaborate carvings on their soles. He removed all this from her and, in doing so, exposed her more womanly charms.

              In the seven years he had been forced into the service of the late Gudleif, he had not once touched a woman. He rarely shook the hand of any man, for that matter. The people at the manor had seemed horrified by his touch, convinced, perhaps, that the heresy his people taught, that the Plague they spread might be caught from the simple touch of the hand. What a wondrous thing that would be, to purify the minds and souls of those corrupted by the Saraycian lies with such ease!

              He looked upon the woman lustily, felt a swelling that had become foreign to him. In his yearning, Kohar, his First Wife, returned to him, a fierce woman, the mother of two of his sons. And then there was Lucine and her sister, Nairi, twins, though none more of the same in mind. Who knew what had become of the two. He had seen Kohar before his capture, the children nowhere beside her. He remembered the pain now, the frustration he had felt that she might flee without his kin, without their kin!

              And so Asbed turned away from the woman, his lust receding. He recalled the blade. He rolled her over and found it underneath her weight. Beside it was a bag, two, though one was but a purse. He took all of this from her, tossing them away from where she lay. The bundle fell in a loud thud. The noise seemed to remind him of where he was, and he turned with quickened breath towards either end of the road. He felt his chest lighten as he found either way to be deserted. He heard a feeble groan, and the color leapt from his face. He spun about, though only to find that the noise had come from the woman. He eyed the rock close beside her and thought to finish her, but in that moment he was struck with a wondrous plan.

              He put on the purple gown and found that it came just below his groin. Awkward, but so would anything a Saraycian wore in these Nordnen lands. He brought the blade and the bags about his arm. He ogled the purse greedily, its sides bursting with bronze and silver jora pieces, the other holding a few official looking pieces of paper written in Saraycian. He donned the robe and was happy that it came just below his knees. There was a flap on the hood that covered the mouth and nose. The sandals were too small for him. His feet exploded out from either side, the edge of the wood digging painfully into his flesh. He slipped them back onto her feet in exchange for all that he had taken from her.

              Fully dressed, he dragged the woman into the forest, though he certainly could have carried her. At first he scanned the forest floor for tracks, but then realized such an effort was unnecessary. He brought her some distance in before releasing her. While he could bludgeon the woman to death, for her to be torn apart by wolves and other such beasts would be a far more fitting death. Just as Blessed Ashnak had led him to her, so too would He lead the beasts.

              Asbed left the woman to the wilds and returned to the road, his mind already imagining the voyage home.

 

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              Tomas felt sorely unappreciated. He was a better fighter than much of the garrison who had been sent to Nälden. Word only seemed to reach the streets of Bryne the day before, and yet that morning fifty of the Greve’s men were sent off marching. While he watched the gates, poking about the merchants and peasant-folk with the butt of his spear, the men he had wrestled, and often bested, would be out playing inquisitor. What he would not give to be among them, to taste mudskin flesh on the tip of his steel. There would be no chance again. The Grand Crusade was over from the word of things; the pagans’ temples sacked and their people all but enslaved and converted. You heard rumors of a Plague to the north, but those had to be just rumors.

              “B*****d’s luck, ain’ it?” He spat as he said so, watching some farmers going about their fields. He waited, but no reply came. “I said b*****d’s luck, ain’ it?”

              “And I didn’ reply…” Sjurd sneered.

              “Wha’ you doin’ lyin’ about, eh?” Tomas turned to find him sitting on some hay. He had never cared much for the man, the boy really. It was the size of him that truly upset Tomas, that a man could be so small and yet so arrogant.

              Sjurd made a guttural noise, unintelligible though his intent clear. Tomas felt his face redden in frustration. The thought that he had been left behind with some slackish fool was just too much for him to bear.

              “You like sitting in the muck like that, eh? Why don’ I give ye’ a taste of it?” He vented his frustration into his kicking as he sent large mounds of dirt and mud flying towards his companion. Sjurd recoiled as the muck slapped against his face. “You hungry, Sjuu? Eh? You hungry?”

              Oh, how Sjurd wanted nothing more than for this man to catch the Plague! He turned away from the dirt being flung in his face. Tomas was an absolute boar. He bellowed and moaned about being left behind, questioned the very existence of the Mother and Father, and then goes and starts kicking dirt in someone’s face! As though he were a child! Why did he get so hard at the prospect of avenging the late Friherre von Nälden? The man had only been a Friherre, and Nälden, what value was Nälden? There was nothing in Nälden!

             To Sjurd, the man’s death seemed wholly underwhelming. There had to be some hidden explanation as to why the Greve would send his men to Nälden. He found it impossible to believe that a single mudskin required the deployment of half the garrison to track and kill. Now, if this Gudleif had been a Visegreve Sjurd might have understood, but such hassle over a Friherre?

              “You’re a blodding child, you know that?” Sjurd felt himself growing hot as a piece of dirt found itself in his mouth. “A blodding child.”

              “Comin’ fro’ a babe like you I can’ say I’s much offended.” Tomas laughed his typical laugh, as though drunk on his own stupidity and ceased his kicking.

              “A blodding child…” Sjurd whispered this more to himself as he rearranged himself atop his hay. What was the problem with a little snoozing? Nobody was going to be arriving this late. All who fled from Nälden, from another rumored Plague, had already arrived and few other than them would arrive through West Gate.

              “H-Hol’ up…” He heard the boor speaking once more, his tone subdued, unusual for a beast like himself.

              He continued his dozing as Tomas harassed a newcomer, the restraint in his voice uncommon, though wondrous to hear. He had not thought the man could speak any lower than a shout. It was strange that he did not hear any answer, only Tomas’s irritating bleating. Perhaps it was an older woman, one without tongue to speak. Who knew?

              Silence came to dominate the air, and Sjurd felt a sharp jab in his side.

              “What the!” He opened his eyes wide and caught sight of a somewhat manic Tomas. “The matter with you!?”

              “You think that was the one?” Tomas replied without answer, his eyes floating away from Sjurd’s.

              “Think that was who?” Sjurd rose to his feet and began peeling off the muck that had glued itself to the side of his arm.

              “Don’…” Tomas looked unusually pale as he returned his attention to Sjurd. “Don’ even say that.”

              “What is the matter with you?”

              Tomas swung at Sjurd with the butt of his spear knocking him back to the ground. While the muck cushioned his fall, it stung nonetheless.

              “I am going to kill you if you keep this-”

              “Were you dozing again!? This is actually serious!” Sjurd recognized an uncommon anxiety in Tomas’s voice and grew curious. The man looked more a child than ever.

              “What do you mean?”

              Tomas looked at Sjurd angrily before turning away and beginning into the city.

              “I need to report this to Fridtjof. You stay here and for the life of me stand at attention!”

              Sjurd turned towards the city, and his eyes caught onto a figure slowly leaving sight through a set of doors leading into The Lost Key. He could just barely hear the sound of laughter and drunken revelry before the colorfully dressed individual was swallowed whole.

 

              The tavern was a dusty place. Most paid no mind to the blackened complexion of the stranger, though the stewardess was not most. She eyed him with suspicion as he made his order and only reluctantly accepted his coin. Asbed had half a mind to turn round and leave, but the enticing scents that wafted throughout the establishment kept him tame. He sat at a table surrounded by three parties of jubilant patrons. His food was brought to him promptly, and he tore into it viciously. It had been too long since he had last enjoyed the taste of meat.

              None appeared to pay much mind to him. There was the occasional glance towards his direction, but nothing more. No, that was not true. There was something else, something so insignificant that Asbed could find no alarm in it, though in the back of his mind he was filled with an anxious curiosity. Every couple of moments the drunken gaze of a stranger would lull lazily over his own and their eyes would lock. Always the figure would seem stricken for the briefest of moments before some confusing transformation overtook them and they would nod, graciously bow their head it seemed, before returning to their merriment.

              He could only suspect that the Nordnens mistook him for a Saraycian, as he had intended, but that they would show him something akin to respect vexed him. He knew little of the relation between Saraycik and Nordnen, that they brought the False Faith to these lands was, truly, the extent of his understanding. Could they hold them in such high regard for such a crime?

              He finished with his eating rather quickly and contented himself to lounge about in the warmth and noise of the tavern. With little else to do he watched the comings-and-goings of The Lost Key’s patrons. At the sight of two new arrivals his face paled and his heart quickened.

A pair of men, draped in the colors of a House unknown, entered the tavern. The two wore long blades at their hips which their hands never left. From where he sat, he could see the faintest bits of mail poking out from underneath their flowing tabards. From behind them entered a third man, taller than the rest, and draped in a fanciful robe of solid white.

              Most seemed to ignore the new entrants, too busy were they in their drunkenness, but those who saw seemed to make haste to leave. It did not appear as though this was a common sight or a welcome one, either.

              Asbed sunk low in his chair, though he knew it would do little to hide himself. He did it more out of reflex while he debated what to do. He had no idea if there were any other exits. The group stood right before the door, their eyes probing the taverns bulk. Could he cause some kind of panic? Follow after those drunkards beside him? But these men did not appear as dull as the two who had manned the gate. They had a veteran air about them. Perhaps he could… One of the men looked into Asbed’s corner and his sight stuck. He saw the man’s mouth flap about and soon all of their eyes were locked onto his own.

              He felt a wry smile stretch across his face as the tallest among them began towards where Asbed sat, the others coming up beside him. Maybe if he killed this one it would send the others into disarray. He still had his offertory knife. It seemed only death awaited him if he did not act. Surely Blessed Ashnak would not mind the use of His gift. It seemed the most prudent option. He would drive the knife into this one’s throat and steal his sword. Perhaps he could kill one of the others before they even realized what had happened. Or perhaps he would be cut down before he rose from the table…

The man approached in a jaunty strut. He had a healthy head of blonde hair that bobbled about in a young fashion. He looked out through weary eyes and spoke through a thick mouth.

             Asbed groped for the knife, but remembered he had placed it in the bag. The sword would be too hard to draw, too conspicuous. With the knife there was some measure of stealth. He reached about under his robe for the bag. (Do not be hasty. See how he does not draw?) He found a strap and pulled it close. (See how none of the others do? You must give them no reason to.) He fumbled about the contents of the bag. All that was within it was a satchel of papers and a knife. Why was it so hard to find the one! (Stay calm. Let them approach.) The man rounded a group of drunks and only the top his hair was visible. (Just wait. You have to be calm. Let them come to you.) Asbed felt the cold embrace of steel against his touch. (And then drive the knife into their damnable throats!)

              The man came into sight again. He was rather young, but his face was wrought with the marks of responsibility. He stood just a few paces away from Asbed when he came to a stop. His face became distorted in confusion. Asbed felt an uncomfortable wetness form about his brow as he watched the man turn to speak with one of his guards. Asbed prayed, though without conviction, that the group would simply turn about and leave. The man returned his attention to Asbed, a strained smile finding itself on his face.

“…Brother… Meryem?” The man spoke slowly and hesitantly in a buttery voice.

Brother? Meryem? Meryem… Was that not a Saraycian name?

“Brother Meryem?” Some kind of comprehension appeared in his expression. “Of course, he does not speak Native. Go fetch… Does anyone in the court speak Saraycian?”

              “I understand.” Asbed blurted out. He had been debating over whether or not to play the role of the illiterate Saraycian, but if such an act were to involve the court it would be best not to. But what was this about brother? Surely the man would recognize his own kin.

              The man seemed fairly taken aback. He looked to his comrades in surprise as though to confirm that he had heard properly.

              “Brother Meryem?”

              “Yes?” Asbed wondered if the woman could have been this Meryem, but the man addressed him as brother. He was sure the Saraycian had been a woman… Could there be another Saraycian running about? He had not thought them to be of such common breed.

              “You are… Brother Meryem?”

              “Have I not said?” Asbed allowed a small bout of anger to infiltrate his voice. While he did not know who this Meryem was, he seemed to command enough respect to have this well-groomed gentleman enter a tavern to collect him.

              “Forgive me. You are simply…” The man struggled with his speech which only served to further weaken Asbed’s nerves. “Quite… different than what we were expecting.”

              “Different?”

              “Yes, forgive me, but…” Again the man appeared labored in his talk. “We had thought you were a Sister.”

              The moment the man had finished speaking Asbed remembered. He wore the Shawl of the Order, the uniform of the damnable Mother and Father!

              “Truly, I meant no offense.” The man’s eyes grew wide and he began to stumble over his words. “It seems there has been much confusion.” He seemed to terribly misunderstand the vehement rage that lay across Asbed’s scowl.

              “Much!” Asbed allowed himself to shout this. He felt positively dirty in these rags. While Blessed Ashnak did not forbid such a thing he felt dirty nonetheless! As soon as he could escape this man he would throw these wretched robes in a fire.

              Asbed was so consumed with his frustration that he did not notice the inquisitive looks the man, and his guards, made about the tavern.

              “Forgive me, Brother, but where is your retinue?”

              “You ask too much forgiveness!” Asbed felt a cold sweat as he said this, and was relieved to see a smile on the man’s face. But retinue…? Of course, a Saraycian would never travel alone, especially an Orderman. He remembered her limp and wondered what had happened to her party. “It is… not something to speak of… here.”

              The man seemed concerned, but made no protest. The two stood idly about and Asbed realized suddenly, having forgotten in his worry, that the man had been sent here, sent for him. Perhaps he would be taken to the temple?

              “I fear for what you might say, Brother. Grim news has swallowed the entire city. Not a day goes by you do not hear rumors from the north… but enough of that. His Excellence the Greve has been fairly anxious for your arrival. I am Oddmund, an Adelsmann in his service.”

              “The Greve?” Asbed felt his face tighten and his hope loosen.

              “Hallvard Greve von Bryne has been praying for your safe arrival every night since your dispatch arrived. He has given strict orders for you to be brought to his estate upon your arrival. You shall find better eating there, I assure you.”

              “Mother Bless Him.” Asbed said through a dry throat. The line came automatically, it being of common enough use in Nordnen speech. He thought of slipping away, claiming a chore undone, but realized that his sudden disappearance would only rouse unneeded suspicion. He would be treated far more favorably if he played the part of Brother… No, Sister Meryem. “I shall not keep him any longer then.”

              With that Asbed rose from the table and made for the door. The men soon enveloped him, Oddmann filling the air with idle chatter all the way to the Greve’s residence.

Author's Note

Any and all criticism is greatly appreciated!

Reviews

[Rewel Acosta Rivera]

My prefer part was the fight with himself at the woman encounter. That character moral argument is really interesting. Near to wild and alone, the man fight with the moral decision. This reflect a mature development of mankind. I love your style. I will be reading more chapters and then I review some others interesting points. I love your story.
Thanks for share your excellent talent.