Chapter Eight: Voices in the Song

Ragh Zel begins The Song with his army, and Leogun arrives in the city of Arkaius just in time for the Gathering festival.

Ragh’s steps rang through the long, stone tunnel as he walked. The walls were rough, and uncarved by man. Rather, they had formed naturally, being made ages before man had ever walked the land at all.
His heart beat furiously, and sweat beaded his forehead. The salty moisture made his thick white hair greasy, as it always got when he was stressed. And to say he was stressed then would be an enormous understatement. After years of preparation, the moment was nigh. His moment was nigh.
The young man ran his hand through his hair, unknotting the tangled locks. He paused at his horns, straight and tall. Straight horns were something that the women found attractive, much to Ragh’s pleasure. Not that he ever indulged them; he never had time to.
He shook his head again, clearing his thoughts. There was no time to be thinking of women. More pressing matters were at hand. By now, Otral would have already had the men ready for perhaps half an hour. It was time to make an appearance. He tapped his fingers on his dagger’s pommel, jutting from the hilt at his hip. The stairs now in front of him seemed to be insurmountable when he saw them, each one appearing to be miles high. He took each one slowly, one by one. Tap. Tap. Tap. The sounds of his steps tormented him as he took the last few paces into the doorway atop the stairs.
A thousand men were gathered beyond the doorway, arranged into companies of two hundred and fifty and battalions of two companies. Otral had done well. Each man seemed to be the pinnacle of calm, standing stone still. At the head of each battalion, ten standard bearers stood. The red rising suns on black silk they bore reflected those on the men’s black leather brigandines. At each man’s hip there hung a sword, about two and a half feet long each, and a shield was strapped to each of their left hands, also adorned with Ragh’s red sun.
He stepped from the doorway into the torchlight. The cavern was enormous, and the screams and cries of the men who first saw him began to echo. As he walked down the aisle between the battalions, more and more of his soldiers caught sight of him, and more and more of them joined the cheer.
Ragh took his place at Otral’s side. “Excellent work.” He grinned and patted his friend on the shoulder. “Is everything ready?” His second-in-command nodded, and he pulled the dagger from his sheath.
Ragh Zel breathed in slowly, taking in the moment.
And he began to sing.

The city of Arkaius was packed to the brim during the Gathering. Leogun had arrived with the festival a week already underway, and he doubted that the crowds that poured into the city could have been any bigger. It seemed as though an enormous web of roads led to the city at the border of Brym, Sempet and Deharl, and that every single one had an uncountable number of travelers under it.
By now he had had experience with the masses of Gammesia’s great cities, but the crowds of Heimbeth, Seridel and Ryn- the three he’d visited so far- couldn’t compare. What he had noticed about each one was that each was so very distinct. The famed stone walls of Seridel were so different from Ryn’s sprawl, hidden by the tall jungle trees, and Heimbeth was just as different from Seridel, a city from its own nation of Sempet, as from Ryn of Deharl. Ultimately, they made Leogun feel like an inexperienced yokel, even if he had spent nearly six months by now roaming the roads of the realms, more than many would do in their entire lifetimes, especially if they lived in an enormous city.
Arkaius, during the Gathering festival, seemed to be one of the only places one could find selae and rylial together without a fight breaking out. Evidently, tensions between Brym and Deharl were high, not an uncommon thing. Not only that, but it was rumored that open war between Brym and Ntir could soon break out. It was something Leogun hoped to be out of Brym before that happened.
He paused at one of the many merchant’s stalls that spotted the streets. The man who had set up the stall itself was crying into the crowd about the quality of his Brymian mage-forged jewelry and his low, low prices, but few people seemed to be interested.
Never trust Brymian mageforging, a voice in his head noted. A Deharlean’s is almost always better. Leogun chuckled despite his irritation at the voices’ resurfacing.
Brymian mageforging is easily worth the money. Buy it. Much better than an elf’s, at least. Leogun almost opened his mouth to chastise the second voice for its slur before he realized how mad that would make him look. He’d gotten enough worried glances in the early days to know better by now.
As he turned away from the stall, he glanced his wrist on the corner of it, sending piercing pain up his right arm. He winced and clutched at it, ducking away from the masses to the side of the streets. He unwove the bandage around his forearm to inspect the gold-tinged burn on his arm. It hadn’t started to bleed again, at least, but the pain still pulsed. Sometimes, mostly before a rain, the pain would return, a dull, aching pain. The monk grimaced and re-applied the cotton bandage before continuing on his way.
While the city was a shadow of itself when the festival wasn’t in full swing, there were still inns aplenty for all- or at least most- of the festivalgoers. Leogun fished the coins out of the coinpurse hanging from his belt. He now had ten Deharlean zoryns, six Northern copper pieces, and three doros, the Brymian and Sempetian currency. He guessed it wouldn’t be enough to rent an inn for more than a night. Not enough to really see the city.
Leogun felt a tap at his shoulder. “Excuse me?” A voice said, high and feminine with a twinge of an accent the monk couldn’t quite place. He turned to see a young woman behind him. She had to be around twenty-five, with long blonde hair tied back in a ponytail that would, Leogun estimate, reach the small of her back. She wore a cotton vest and a pair of trousers rather than a dress. Not so uncommon here in the South, but still something strange to a lifelong Northerner.
“Yes?”
“Um... is that your robe?” Leogun looked down at himself. Sadly, the cobalt robe had gotten a few tears and scrapes in it, ones that he hadn’t been able to mend. It turned out he was worthless with a needle, only making holes in his own fingers rather than mending ones in his clothes.
“I certainly hope so.” He said with a faint smile.
“I mean, are you a monk? A man of the Order?” Leogun nodded. The woman beamed. “Really?” He nodded again. “I’ve never met a monk!” She squealed. “Well, never a Northern monk. I’ve met a few Southern monks. They tend to be a stuffy lot.” Leogun laughed.
“I’d advise not going to the Great Monastery, then. There are plenty of stuffy men up there.” He paused, trying to place the woman’s accent. “Are you Ntirian?” He finally asked. She nodded quickly, attempting to curtsy for a moment before realizing her trousers wouldn’t allow it. Instead, she made the motions as best she could.
“Alaire Delais of Ntir itself, Brother...”
“Leogun Asmundvard, at your service.” She smiled again.
“Do you have a place to stay, Brother?” She asked. Leogun shook his head.
“I’m afraid not. I’ve been travelling for a while now, and it’s not easy finding money when you’re travelling.” Alaire guided him along the road, and he offered her his arm. She leant on it gladly. “I got more work, or more food and shelter further north, but there are fewer people willing to offer charity to a servant of the High One down south.” He paused. “Not that there isn’t reason for that. News of the Cleansing getting out couldn’t’ve been good for the Order’s image.” She nodded, seeming far too interested in the dry tale than she should have been. “I’m sorry, what are you so excited about?” He asked.
“It’s just... you! Everything about you! You’re the spitting image of a monk, Brother Asmundvard. Tall, and bearded, and blue-robed... it’s such a novelty. Come, the inn I’ve been staying in is just down this street.” They turned the corner. By now, the crowds had thinned greatly, most people having found an inn already. Alaire pointed to one of the signs hanging outside on of the buildings. It read The Singing Guardsman, and it showed on of Arkaius’ famous red-garbed guards with a lute in his hands and music notes floating from his mouth. Alaire reached for the door handle, and Leogun heard a crash.
A barrel, most likely once one that held ale, the dreadful bitter stuff, flew out the inn’s side window. Within seconds, a man flew out after it through the new-made hole in the glass. He landed with a wet plop, leaving behind a small puddle of booze when he stumbled to his feet. Leogun craned to see what was going on inside. It seemed a fight had broken out. The tavern’s patrons were hitting each other with fists and chairs, and a few held knives.
“Get back from the door, Alaire, please,” he said shakily. He stepped back from the inn to get a better look at the brawl. Already, the smell of ale was beginning to waft from the window, and a few unconscious- Leogun hoped- bodies were slumped against the windowsill.
A man hopped up to the bar, one foot on the wooden planks itself and his other on the stool in front of it. He was a selae, with bright white hair in a ponytail sprouting from his head. His high-necked tunic was almost white, and his trousers were wide-legged. He held a Deharlean sword, slightly curved, well-made steel and, if Leogun guessed correctly, single-edged. It was still sheathed, and he held the hilt in his right hand and the sheath in the other. His slender eyes traced the crowd.
“That’s Falyn, the man I’ve been travelling with.” Alaire whispered.
“He looks dangerous.” Leogun said, his eyes locked on the man. Alaire smiled a little.
“He is.” Falyn threw the sheath away and flourished his sword, gripping the long hilt with both hands.
“No live steel!” A voice cried, likely the innkeeper. Falyn ignored it, diving into the brawl. He worked quick, spiralling from one fighter to the next. Not one suffered a major wound; instead, the selae slammed the pommel into their forehead, or struck the man with the edgeless side of the sword, or he simply kicked them away. It took no more than a thirty seconds for his work to be done. All around, men groaned and wheezed, the air knocked from their lungs as Falyn stood in the middle of the room, holding his blade loosely with his left hand. He seemed as if the fight had never happened, his tunic barely ruffled, his sword clean and his face calm. No, not calm; he was grinning slightly.
“By the High One.” Leogun muttered.

Leogun helped Falyn drag the last unconscious brawler out the bar door. They set the prone form down beside the broken window with the others, Falyn making sure to turn him on his side. He smiled and noted his thanks.
“Not a problem. That was amazing, you know.” Leogun said. Falyn smiled happily as the two walked back into the inn.
“It was, wasn’t it?” Inside, Alaire had gotten to helping the innkeeper clean up the refuse from the fight. A number of chairs, tables, and barrels had been broken, and there was a knife dug nearly three inches into the bar itself. Ale still covered the floor, making it sticky to walk on. The innkeep, a man named Rano, thanked Leogun and Falyn as they returned to the bar. Falyn collected his scabbard from behind the bar and sheathed his sword.
“Does this happen often?” Leogun asked Rano when the innkeeper came by to pull the dagger from his bar. The man shrugged.
“Often enough it’s worth letting Falyn and Alaire have their room and board for free in exchange for protection. It’s worse during festival season, of course. I get maybe four or five visitors a month during the rest of the year, but if I save my money, I can keep the Guardsman open with the coin from travellers like yourself.” Leogun nodded and grabbed a broom from the corner of the room. “Speaking of, what’s a monk like yourself doing down south?” Leogun shrugged. He’d heard the question enough in the past few months to perfect an answer. Almost the exact same one, every single time.
“Just passing through, really. Seeing the world the High One made for us.” The innkeep nodded knowingly.
“A bit of the old wanderlust, then. Normal enough for a young man like yourself.” Leogun, too, nodded and smiled. He set his hands to work sweeping up the wood dust from the shattered chairs and tables where Alaire had mopped up the ale. He tried to focus on the buzz. Occasionally, he could catch a few words, but rarely anything more than a sentence. Festival. No-good. Swordsman. Doros. Southern. He’d guessed a while ago that the voices, whatever they really were, could see what he saw, knew what he knew, like a man knew the contents of his house. Not a pleasant thought, but one he knew he had to live with.
The inn was quiet that night. A few people milled in, asking for rooms, or for a drink or two, but the chaos of the fight had repelled most. Rano assured his guests that it was no trouble, that he could get the window fixed by the end of the week. Leogun didn’t care too much. He liked the quiet, and he liked the company. Alaire asked questions late into the night about his travels, and Falyn traded his own for the monk’s. They tended to be more interesting, one about a chance encounter with a drunken magi, or the other about the time he’d nearly gotten his back broken by a Ntirian enforcer.
Leogun Asmundvard, for the first time in months, fell soundly asleep in a warm bed. His sleep, however, was troubled of visions of three suns and blackness overtaking the land.