Chapter 4

Chapter 4 (S1P4)

        A pallid chill slowly crept into Valenoch with the morning sun. Twilight seemed to linger a little longer than usual. Even the shadows stretched just a bit farther in the quiet pre-dawn light as a soft menace wove its way into the air with such seamless grace that it was almost too inconsequential to notice, almost.

        Despite the approach of full dawn the sun seemed laced with ice. Even as the warmth of day attempted to breach Valenoch a foul mist rose from the dark river, shadowing the sun behind its malice. Its golden rays drained of all color, leaving only the Valerian end of the spectrum visible, gray and black. The peculiar architecture of the city didn't seem to mind the wash of colorless light, it seemed more fitting. Occasionally a shaft of pure light would slip through the mist, only to be captured by the lattice of crystalline blades arcing across the walls. Most of the light surrendered to their fate, but the rare strand of purest light fought, casting blue fire across the sky and causing the brilliant morning lights. Each strand of light was shattered into a thousand fragments of every color imaginable. Visible for only a moment, each burst was both blinding and electrifying, creating an eerie shimmer in the air above the walls as they fought the morning twilight.

        The city itself slept, immune to the colorful displays roaring above its walls. Its gloom appeared self imposed. The dreary morning did nothing to alleviate the worries of her citizens. More so than usual a sense of unease and fear gripped the denizens of the dark city today. The drawing came at dawn, ravaging morale far worse than any disease. It was this macabre contest that left every parent within the walls with the same comforting notion, a single glimmer of hope. Perhaps if I stay in bed the covers will protect me from this day. The anticipation of pain is far worse than the malady itself, a fact Valerians knew all too well as they lived in perpetual expectation.

        Much to their dismay, the covers were not enough to stop the sun. The forces of nature continued on despite their silent protests. The waning moon was all but spent and on this eve the new moon would rise, one would be chosen and none but its family would weep, such was the price they gladly paid.

        Smoke slowly crept out of the chimneys of Valenoch's merchant quarter, each curling wisp vanishing into the gathering fog rising over the rooftops. One chimney in particular seemed more lethargic than all the others. Within this home, the inhabitants moved in a similar fashion, staggering in a haze of unease. They moved through syrup, following the motions of routine without conscious thought. The dwelling was modest and made of the standard Valerian material, dark stone. It was unadorned, squat and mildly rectangular with nothing to set it apart from its neighbors aside from a small work shed adjacent to it. A single story with few windows, it was nearly invisible amongst the huddles of similar homes scattered around it. The front door was constructed of the same stone and fit almost seamlessly into the walls. The small shimmering runes glittering iridescently across its face made its location crystal clear however.

        Both protection and prison each door held three words every resident of the city knew by heart. Few knew which symbol was which, but all knew the meaning of the words. Some claimed each symbol held a spirit within, trapped, only to be released when it performed its duty. Others claimed human souls were similarly imprisoned, most ignored the rumors and the runes, preferring not to think about such things. Despite the abstention of most decent folk, the tavern gossips loved to discuss all the grisly possibilities of the ever present door wardings, proposing all the horrible events that would occur should someone break their pact. Albeit a favorite subject for drunken speculation, none really cared to test the theories.

        First among the symbols was Raenor, the shepherd, whose duty was to watch the border of life and death and guide wayward souls to their proper destination. Second was Nadim, the binder, who held oaths bound in blood and bone and punished oath breakers. The first two's purpose was generally understood by Valerians. Raenor kept the angry dead fueling the cities myriad of magical sundries at bay and Nadim exacted swift vengeance on any who broke the pact. The third rune was a subject of much debate however, Ashenoch was the dawncaller, his duty was to banish all souls back to the realm of the dead. The theories concerning the purpose of the third rune ranged from Armageddon to punishment for the wayward dead. Total destruction was a favorite among those who believed Valerians were partially undead themselves, although these were considered by most to be crackpots. Some thought Ashenoch was to keep the Ravenguard at bay, others to hold off the nargs. In truth, most had no idea and preferred to keep the subject silent except for the occasional tavern based discussion after the fourteenth tankard.

        The runes on this door were quite standard. In fact this door was entirely unremarkable, the same as the one to its left and right. Most likely the same as the one three doors down as well, within the home it was equally unremarkable. Rough unfinished stone floors matched identical walls of dark granite. A small coal burning stove provided a smoky warmth trying unsuccessfully to warm the room due to a dank chill hanging tangibly in the air thanks to the morning fog.

        The air held more than fog in this home, tension matched the water drop for drop, hanging thickly and showing visibly in Beorg's face as he closed the small slate shudders. It did little to guard against the frigid morning breeze, but he was fidgety. Keeping his hands busy helped his agitation a little, allowing at least his body to be occupied by something more mundane than his own inner turmoil. He turned and surveyed his home, considering the relative poverty of it and wistfully recalling better days. It was clean however, above all things he valued order and consistency . It was ordered here, and safe. So very safe, always enough to eat, no fear of disease, but at such a cost. Yes, he was safe here, but was it worth it?

        Keeping himself busy, yes, thats the answer, don't think about it. His wide frame showed visible exertion as he waddled over to the large stone table that dominated the western portion of the room. He paused to look at the similar stone floor and wondered, not for the first time, where so much stone came from. He knew of no stone quarry closer than the northern mountains over four hundred leagues distant. He shook his head as thoughts of the mornings gruesome prospects arose. Hoping to busy himself with work in an attempt to further distance his mind from reality he began to collect the scattered papers strewn across the table by the morning gust that had prompted his closing of the shudders. Why was it so windy every damn morning? Always just before dawn and always from the east? Every light cursed dawn brought a freezing wind and his wife always left the light cursed shudders open. For fresh air she always said, damned woman was always cold and she wanted fresh air at night. Frozen fresh air to boot. He sat on a stone bench next to the table and sighed with exasperation, it was impossible to be angry with her. No matter how hard he tried he couldn't remain upset with her for more than the time it took to create the thought. He decided anger wasn't a suitable misdirection from his misery and shook his head in exasperation, returning to other musings and various meaningless distractions to postpone his dreary thoughts concerning the inevitable.

        Shuffling through the papers brought some consolation, distracting his chubby fingers and keeping his mind considering each paper and its importance in the stack until one sheaf escaped from his clumsy digits to slip beneath the table. Grunting with strain he bent beneath the table to search for the lost article. Despite the new found blood flow to his face he still appeared pallid and worn. His countenance was rutted with deep furrows and heavy lines showing an age far beyond his years. A darkness around his pale blue eyes indicated frequent sleepless nights. Beorg's features were rounded and soft, like lumpy clay pressed unevenly across his cheeks . Something about the set of his jaw indicated his face was not always so however. Even his waddling stride was not the resigned hobble of someone who had long since acclimated to their corpulence. His was instead unsure and cautious, the walk of a man unused to his current situation.

        He placed the retrieved paper atop the table and deposited himself in heavy rough hewn stone chair near the stove, staring into the glowing coals as if searching for an answer within. Despite the icy air he reached into his damp tunic and produced a well worn and heavily embroidered silk handkerchief. Mopping his dripping brow he silently ruminated on better days, staring at the sweat soaked cloth longingly.

        The early morning hours passed slowly thus. The mighty stack of parchment remained untouched on the table. The usual joy of studying accounts receivable was not enough for Beorg this morning. For perhaps the hundredth time his eyes strayed to his children's door. He told himself he had been lucky before, perhaps his luck would hold.

        With grim determination he rose and carefully re-sorted the already ordered parchments by date rather than alphabetically. The set of his shoulders belied a similar single mindedness as he set aside the accounts and knelt beneath the table. He showed a surprising agility whilst he slithered under the granite table and removed a false section of wall behind it. Carefully placing it to one side he strained to haul a small bronze strongbox from the alcove. It had been seventeen years and not a day had passed without the thought of his fateful choice cropping up and torturing him. Lottery day was always the worst and that was why on this day alone he allowed himself the luxury of perusing the remnants of his glorious past.

        He reached beneath his sweat soaked tunic and selected a small copper key from a ring around his neck. With a faint click the lid popped open to reveal an odd assortment of items. First he fingered a fine gold ring, ornately carved and bearing a large sigil containing a stallion rearing amongst sand dunes. Next he gently felt a scrap of fine white silk bearing initials he could claim no longer. After a long series of similar bits of faded finery and memories of wealth long since relinquished he brushed aside an ornate gold dagger to grasp a small broach. It seemed fragile and delicate in his chubby fingers and he handled it with exaggerated care. It consisted of no metal he could name, at once gold, bronze and brass it shimmered even in the absence of light. Turning it over he examined the simple clasp that always refused to open. Rotating it in his hands again he felt along its serrated edges. The metal seemed more woven than cast, made in the semblance of no bird he had ever seen in life. Its wings were infinitely detailed and forever frozen in flight. Even the feathers seemed to move in the slight breeze, glittering magnificently. Each pinion was encrusted with tiny rubies and shimmering with inlaid diamond dust. The face glowed menacingly, set with fire agates cut into eerily familiar eyes that radiated warmth despite the frigid temperature. He ran his fingers over the magnificent piece and recoiled, nearly dropping it as the memories flooded into painful reality. He began to relive the fires, the exodus to Valenoch and the fateful choice that brought them here. Just as fast as the torrent began it jolted and dissipated. When he had regained his composure he was staring at his wife as she bent to return the strongbox to its hidden alcove.

        She was as different in appearance to Beorg as can be possibly imagined. Where he was of middling height and exceptional girth she was slight and tall. Standing in the chill twilight she seemed to glow, radiating heat. Clad only in a short shift she revealed an endless expanse of shapely legs that quickly turned Beorg's thoughts towards a decidedly inappropriate nature. He allowed himself the slow pleasure of letting his eyes follow the gentle curve of her hips up unto her small shapely breasts. He felt a strong desire to wrap his arms around her and gently kiss her neck a thousand times. She giggled like a child and hopped onto his lap, still the foolish girl he had hopelessly fallen for so many years ago.

        Her flaming hair cascaded over him, blinding him in an inferno of flaming locks that seared away the chill cold of morning. He stared into her face, her perfect porcelain face. Cast from marble into the semblance of a goddess it was as pale as moonlight and just as mercurial. Her emerald eyes cut through him as her face showed the slow recognition of what day this was. Always finding the good in everything, only she could giggle on a day such as this.

        “Carmen, we have no time for such foolery on this day.” Beorg fumbled out curtly, showing a desperate attempt at restraint as she sat haphazardly on his lap.

        “Well, you did give me that look.” She said petulantly with a beautifully pouty lower lip that swelled with inviting fullness.

        Beorg had just enough humility to flush and rearrange his uncomfortably snug trousers.

        “I see the equipment still works, even if you deny y ourself its use.” She bit the words off, playfully emphasizing the last few for added impact. At that moment she did the last possible thing he could have expected. Like a placid lake suddenly caught unawares by a sudden storm, she wept like a child. Perhaps she thought smothering herself into his chest would prevent the events of the day from transpiring.

        Beorg held her close, feeling her warmth against him he offered what little comfort he could spare. She felt so fragile in his arms, clinging to him brokenly as the tears flowed freely into his already drenched tunic. He wanted to weep, to add his own fear and doubt to the river flowing down his chest. He wanted to cry out and tear down the walls with anger and frustration. Anger he could control, he could focus it and vent it. He could take anger and release it, let it out, but this misery and helplessness was maddeningly unassailable.

        At some point in the hours that followed Teia had wheedled herself between them and now clung there like a limpet. Faithful, solid Garreth stood like a statue, gently patting Beorg's shoulder with a pained expression of utter confusion painted starkly upon his plane features. Seeing his sons confounded expression cleared his self pity momentarily. He gently cupped his wife's weeping face in his hands and stared into those limitless depths of Jade. She looked the same as the day he met her. In twenty two years she hadn't aged a day. Some part of him deep inside told him he should speak now, that this chance my never come again.

        In a barely audible voice, he whispered to her as he held her close, “I love you.”

        A loud rapp on the heavy door responded to his heartfelt entreaty. Beorg slowly stood, depositing his wife and child gently in his former seat. Like a ghost he drifted to the door and undid the latch while his wife pleaded tearfully, “don't open it, please, please.”