Dryad Eyes part 13
Did you know that it was 'chagrin,' not 'chargin' ? Seriously. I've been mispelling it for at least twelve years now. Shit! My whole world has officially been flipped on its head.
Today's word count is 4,761. :D
Be sure and read 'Dryad Eyes part 12.5' over on my friend kimerastorm's page. The only reason it wasn't part 13 was because, while it was co-written with me, she did the write up, and I expected to have this installment done before she finished that one. Turns out I was wrong! *lol*
Its a great read.
Aorthain was the most ordinary man one would ever meet. Anyone would say so. From the top of his head, capped by soft brown hair that was, while thinning, neatly trimmed and combed, to the bottoms of his well-polished boots, he was exactly what one expected to see. His uniform, red and black, was immaculate. Not a single thread was out of place. In truth, the only thing about him that did not smack of simple, generic, unremarkability was his love life. There was a reason that he and his sword brother, Rhian, shared a room, and were often-but-not-always mocked behind their backs. Either it did not matter to of them, or if it did, they rarely showed it. They were lovers. They were in love. It was as simple as that.
There was, however, another side to Aorthain. It was a side concealed in shadows, and kept under lock and key during the daytime hours. Not even Rhian knew about it, though he was fully aware of the fact that his lover frequently left for hours at a time at night. Returning late in the afternoon from some simple, routine training exercises that he participated in every day, Aorthain was ready to embrace this side of himself. It was time. There were questions that needed to be asked, that had occurred to him while sitting in a tavern during lunch, and he intended to ask them before the sun rose again.
Carefully, quietly, he retrieved a small wooden trunk from where he had stashed it, in the far corner of his side of the closet space, and set it upon the bed. Normally he would be even more secretive, retrieving the items he needed while in the closet and in a hurry so that his lover would not become curious as to what he was doing. Rhian was not there, however, and he felt he should take a moment to inspect his equipment. One could never be too careful in his line of work. Slipping a key into the trunk's lock, he turned it, and flipped the lid open. Inside, lying atop a bundle of black cloth was a silver mask.
-----------------
Haron stood outside the tavern that the Old Storyteller had been working that day, incidentally the same tavern at which Aorthain had taken his lunch, when the old man emerged. He was exhausted, and dispirited. Seeing his 'employer' did nothing to change his mindset. What had started out as a simple, distasteful chore was rapidly turning into something far worse. Had it not been for the fact that the weather was turning colder, and it was almost surely going to snow again within the next few days, the Old Storyteller would have already gathered his few belongings and left Keeper's Gateway, and Haron, behind.
"Your audience can tell that you do not like what you are doing," Haron spoke. His voice was gruff and annoyed. He did not like dealing with the old man, but as both Thanik and Bawo were busy in other parts of the city, the task of dealing with the storyteller had fallen to him once again. "Try to put on a better front tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" The old man was not pleased. He had planned to stay in his room the next day, to rest and gather his strength. Since Haron had first approached him, he had been lucky to sleep three hours in a night. That did not sit well with him. He was not as young as he once was.
"Yes, tomorrow." Haron continued brusquely, handing him a crumpled sheet of paper. "We need you back here again. And since you seem to be growing weary of the story of Ytyrra, Thanik went to the trouble of writing this little piece for you."
Taking the paper, the Old Storyteller unfolded it. It took only the briefest moments of skimming over its text with his tired eyes to realize that this story was even worse than the one he had been telling. "My apologies, m'Lord, but I tell only the older tales. The classics. I have no use for this modern fare."
Stepping close, Haron loomed over the old man. His shoulders, broad and strong, were more than twice as wide as the storyteller's frail frame. "You will tell the tales that you are told to tell, without fail. That is what I have been paying you for. Do you understand me, Old Timer?"
"I-I did not ask for this!" Unwilling to back away, but terribly frightened, the old man stared up at the officer with wild eyes. "I have no wish to be caught up in whatever it is you are about!"
Placing a strong hand on the Old Storyteller's shoulder, Haron dragged him around and pointed him in the direction he would have gone had he not been stopped. His room, warm and inviting in his mind, waited in this direction. "You should have thought about that before you took my money. Now go and get some rest. Do not be late tomorrow."
Beaten, the old man nodded and hurried away. The unspoken 'or else' had done the trick. He had no desire to involve himself in whatever was going on here or to speak the filth he had been speaking, but he wanted even less to be beaten within an inch of his life. His mind cringed from considering what worse fates the younger man might have had in mind.
-----------------
The sun was just beginning to set, igniting the clouds rolling in from the north with an orange fire, as Aorthain sprinted with sure-footed ease along the upper edge of a slate roof of a building that sat outside the inner ring of Keeper's Gateway. He was dressed all in black, with a great, similarly colored cloak that billowed out behind him as he ran. Though the sky was still bright, the mighty fortress itself was already steeped in shadows. Because of the great mountain range that reared up to the east and west, night descended upon the streets at least an hour before it did the sky. Likewise, in the morning, there would be an extra hour of darkness before the morning light spilled down from the sky.
Reaching the end of the roof, Aorthain leapt. Tucking in his strong limbs, he missed the iron safety rail on the patio of an opulent personal residence by mere inches, and rolled to his feet. He never broke stride. Bounding off the rail on the opposite side, he caught the edge of the roof with one hand and hauled himself up. Often, he could lose himself in this mode of travel, forcing his body to act on his environment without actively thinking about it. It was relaxing. It was freedom. It was an excellent way to move from one part of a city to another without being seen as long as he was careful around the busier sections of the city.
Running back and forth about the rooftops of a legendary fortress at the southern end of the Free World was very different from the life he had once envisioned for himself. He was a Daratan farmer's son, and had been raised to work the land from the time the sun rose to the time it set. That, too, had been work that he had enjoyed once. There had been a special kind of release in growing things, and caring for what little livestock his parents had had. His father, like most fathers, had wanted better for him, and, on his thirteenth birthday, had spent virtually every last coin in his possession to gain Aorthain entrance to the Darat Academy for Boys.
There, though he had been more than passably good with a sword, his graceful feet had gained the attention of the dance instructor, Master Sorbles. It had taken some convincing, some wheedling, and perhaps even some bullying to get the young Aorthain to agree to try the class, but when he did he found that he quite enjoyed it. It was only a passing interest, however. Perhaps it would have been more, but before his first year at the Academy was up, his father had taken ill and, with many apologies to and good wishes from his teachers, he had returned home. Within a week of his return, he and his mother buried his father near his favorite, secluded fishing hole.
Life went on as life does, and Aorthain became accustomed to the farm being, technically, his. It was a beautifully unremarkable time in his life.
Nearly a year after his father's death, Aorthain met the woman that would become his wife. It was on a trip to the Greater Market in Rilloa, Darat's capital city. Her name was Idara, and she was the daughter of one of the King's own scribes. It was not, perhaps, the grandest title a man could have, but he and his daughter were fairly well off because of it. She would hardly have given a farmer a second glance had he not abandoned his position in a long line for a limited supply of seeds in order to help repair the wheel on her little carriage. In response to his kindness, she had invited him home for dinner. The rest, as they say, and much to her father's chagrin, had been history.
Their wedding was held in Rilloa that spring, and he took her home to his simple little farm. Nine months had barely passed before his son, little Beldar, was born. Aorthain had been beside himself with joy. Though he could not say for certain, even that, that he had truly loved his wife, his son had been another matter entirely. Beldar was the very center of his world. For the next two years, his life had proceeded in the same unremarkable fashion that it always had. He worked his farm, buried his mother when her time came, enjoyed Idara's companionship, and doted on his son.
Then one day it all came crashing down around him. It was ironic, he supposed, that it did so on his return trip from the Greater Market in Rilloa. A light snow had fallen in his absence, but he felt any concern over. He had been two miles from home, eager to get there and show Beldar the toy bear he had bought for him, when he saw what he realized was a person laying beneath the snow at the side of the rode. With a knot already forming in his belly, he had left his little wagon and gone to clear the snow away from whoever it was. Dear, sweet Idara's face, eyes wide and face contorted with horror, had greeted him. An hour later, having unhitched his horse and ridden it as hard and fast as it would go, he arrived at his home. Had he not just seen her out in the snow, he would have expected Idara to walk out from one of the adjoining rooms to greet him at any moment. Of Beldar, there had been no sign. To this day, he had no idea what had become of his boy.
Eventually, he did find his wife's killers. A pair of young, Caltherian noblemen had been on their way home from a prolonged hunting trip, and had seen her outside, gathering firewood. A friend of his in Darat had overhead them bragging about what they had done to 'some ignorant farm woman' on their way to the city. Of course, they had conveniently left out the part where one of them had wrapped his hands around her neck and squeezed the life from her body. That part Aorthain knew, for he had seen the handprints on her neck. Each of them had also confessed to this on separate occasions, alone with him and his knife. Neither had been able to tell him about his little Beldar, however, to his eternal fury.
Lost to despair, Aorthain had returned to his empty farm. He could not bring himself to deal with his daily chores. He had, instead, drank himself into a stupor, and fallen asleep, for nearly a week straight. Hunger would have gotten him eventually, or dehydration, but on the seventh day, a masked man had entered his home. A little short and dressed all in black, with a billowing, hooded cloak of the same color, and face covered in silver, the man had had a suggestion for what he might do with the rest of his life.
So it was that Aorthain, dressed nearly exactly as that man had been on that day, crouched low on the roof of an empty building across the street from where Haron and the Old Storyteller were talking. The sight of them had dissipated his reverie, bringing his mind back to the now. He could not hear what they were saying, but it did not matter. It would be easy enough for him to find out. When Haron turned the old man away, and sent him down the street, Aorthain hesitated for only a moment before following him. Though he would have preferred to speak with the Officer himself, it would be easier to silence the storyteller's tongue when he was done.
-----------------
The Old Storyteller, tired and angry, pulled his thin, threadbare cloak more tightly about himself as he quickened his pace. It was getting cold out. Casting an eye upwards, he noted that the looming clouds had already gone from orange to a deep, dark purple. By morning, he guessed, Keeper's Gateway would be under a blanket of snow. Though he had already been expecting it, it was disheartening to see it. Another day of clear skies, and he may have had the courage to flee this place without worrying about the weather of the next day.
He sighed. Then, as he turned his eyes back down to street level, he thought he saw something. Movement, a dark shape, he was not sure what it was. It had been too big to be a bird or a bat, and besides, he would have been surprised to see either of those. Picking up his pace a bit more, he hurried on. He had heard a story told once, though he had not learned it well enough to repeat it, of demons that liked to nest on the rooftops in larger cities. They would wait and watch, seeking easy prey on empty streets. Once they found a suitable victim, they would leap down from above, capturing their prey with their powerful hind legs. They would then use their arms, half again as long as their entire bodies, to haul them back up the walls to the tops of the buildings where they would feed upon their victims in the most horrifying ways imaginable.
Huffing more heavily with every step, his breath misted in the air. Gods, he thought. The temperature was dropping fast. Fright was lending strength to his legs, however, and he fully expected to make it back to his lodging before the first flake of snow fell. Then he heard a noise behind him, like a soft thud.
Glancing back over his shoulder, his blood suddenly ran colder than the freezing air he breathed. There was a dark shape behind him, pulling itself up from the ground. Its inky black form seemed to drink in the shadows around it, becoming bigger as it rose to its full height. It raised its head. The Old Storyteller got only a glimpse of that baleful, white face before he fled. With every bit of strength he had left within his wizened old body, he ran. He screamed when his toe caught a loose cobble, and his feet went out from under him. The last thing he saw was the cobblestones, rushing up at his face.
-----------------
"Wake up." The voice, hollow and deep, came to him as if in a dream. "Wake up now."
The Old Storyteller drew in, and let go, a harsh breath before cracking open his eyes. His head ached terribly, and his face was sore. The coppery taste of blood was on his tongue. What had happened, he wondered, looking up at the black sky. Night had fallen in earnest. Then he remembered; the tavern, Haron, the alley, the demon that had fallen behind him. Was he dead? Had the demon left him? He did not think so. Instead, he had the sudden sinking feeling that he was sprawled out on the roof of one of the buildings near where he had fallen, and that the demons had only been waiting for him to awaken before sinking their teeth into his withered body. He squeezed his eyes shut, his heart pounding. After several minutes, when no attack came, he opened them again. Another minute passed, and he became bold enough to raise his head and look around.
He was, indeed, on a roof somewhere. There, at its edge, was his 'demon.' Its form lit by torchlight from below, he realized that he was looking at a man. Whoever he was, he was tall. Not as tall as, say, the Battle King, but tall enough that the old man himself would probably stand eye-to-eye with his sternum. His muscular form was sheathed in tight, black clothing. Tall boots stopped just short of his knees, and long gloves swallowed fully half of his powerful forearms. He had his hood drawn up, hiding his face from view, and his voluminous black cloak flapped in the wind behind him like a banner. When the man turned his head toward the Old Storyteller, his breath caught in his throat. It was not a white, demonic face that he had seen. It was a silver mask. It was the silver mask.
"You! Y-your'e..."
"You have heard of me, then." The masked man's hollow voice reached the storyteller's ears again. "Good."
The old man could only nod. By all the Gods, he thought, this was Agani! It was a legend that began nearly two hundred years ago. There was much debate over what country it had originated from, but the consensus was that it was at least based on fact. The story was, as he had personally told it dozens of times throughout his career, that a particularly vicious tyrant of a king had written an order for an unsuspected man to be hanged at first light the next day. Theories concerning what crime this man may have committed were was wild and varied as were claims of his nationality. Whatever he had done, this wicked King had wanted him dead for it. However, the man had not been in his home when the soldiers had arrived. He may have been out drinking with friends, or visiting a relative, but whatever the case, he was nowhere to be found. Instead of taking him, then, the soldiers raped and killed his wife, and took his three children to the King so that they would have something to show for their efforts. At first light the next day, his children were hung in his stead.
His name had been Agani. Again, there were dozens of ideas about how he had come by his mask. Some said that he created it himself; others that it had been a gift to him from his wife, or the eldest of his children; still others said that he stole it, and in some stories, it was a prized possession of the king himself. Of course, the Old Storyteller had always thought it a logical conclusion that if it were so easy to get at things the King held dear, Agani would have killed him in relatively short order. Instead, he waged a very personal, one-man war against the tyrant, and it went on for nearly a decade before it claimed his life. In the wake of the death of his enemy, the hero had decided to travel, apparently no longer feeling tied to the city he had called home. There were stories of his deeds ranging from Caltheria, to Camelot, to ugly old Gelore on the eastern coast.
Most historians believed that Agani was either eventually killed, or retired from his never-ending war on injustice. He was, by most reports, simply a man, and men did normally live such incredibly long life spans. However, in the two hundred years that had followed the legend's inception, there had been hundreds of recorded sightings. If not by name, then by description. In Caltheria, a black robed man wearing a 'metal' mask would save a woman. In Dar Minask, a group of muggers was driven away by a man in black with a 'silvery' face. As recently as the Fall of Camelot, there had been sightings of a black clad man with a 'shining' face defending the citizens from the invading army.
Agani had always been a kind of pet project for the Old Stoyteller. He had always found the legend and the fact that there seemed to be someone, if not the same person, carrying on the legacy. Now, finding himself face-to-face with the living embodiment of that myth, the old man could think of nothing to say. He remained a bit frightened. What were his intentions, this Agani? What if he was not the good hero that the stories had always claimed? As the masked man walked across the roof and knelt beside him, he had a feeling that he was about to find out.
"I am going to ask you a question now." That deep, hollow voice, like the expressionless mask, gave away nothing. There was not even an accent by which the storyteller could place a guess at his country of origin. "I suggest you answer it honestly. I know that you are working for Haron. You, amongst others, have been using your words to stir old, petty hatreds. Why?"
"I do not know, Great sir!" The Old Storyteller cried. If he had felt guilt and shame for his involvement in Haron's agenda, what must a man like Agani think of him? "I do not know! Haron came to me, with good, hard gold, and offered me a way to earn it. I did not like his offer, but I am old now. I am tired, and I was never exactly a master at my craft to begin with. I could not turn down the thought of hot food in my belly or a shelter over my head. Not this winter! Please understand, Great sir. Please."
"I do." Indeed, there was a peculiar note of sympathy in Agani's voice. He placed a hand on the old man's shoulder. "May I ask your given name, Old Timer?"
"My mother called me Oxnar."
"I will remember it." Tilting his head in a way that looked thoughtful, the masked man seemed to be sizing the old man up for something. Finally, much to that person's relief, he spoke. "I would like to ask two favors of you, Master Oxnar. You may not like either of them."
"I am almost afraid to ask. But what are they?"
Beneath his mask, Aorthain smiled. This Oxnar was a cautious man. He liked that. "First, I would like to ask that you do not speak of me. I do not desire attention, as I am sure you understand. My work is easier done within the cloak of mystery."
"That has ever been the case with you, Great Sir." The Storyteller was warming to this man, and could not help but grin. Of course, Agani would prefer to not draw attention to himself. That was the mark of a true hero, to give selflessly with no regard to the adulation he might receive.
"Perhaps." The masked man agreed, taking that answer as a yes. "Second, I would ask you to stay your course. Remain in Haron's employ. Do what he asks. You may find yourself in a position to do some good from the inside of his insidious little plot."
"If nothing else, I may have more information next time I see you, eh?"
"Such a possibility had crossed my mind."
Oxnar, the Old Storyteller, lifted his chin and gazed at the sky for a moment. How long had it been since he had felt even potentially useful, he wondered? He had never fathered any children, at least of which he was aware. As a storyteller, he had only ever been passably good at best. Perhaps, he was not even that, anymore.
Finally, after a lengthy deliberation, he nodded once. "I will do it."
"Thank you. Now, one last thing."
Curious, Oxnar turned his head toward the legendary hero. What else could there be? Raising his arm from beneath his cloak, Agani waved something small, with a strangely sweet smell under the storyteller's crooked nose. "Sleep."
-----------------
The cold brought him awake. That and the ground was hard and uncomfortable beneath him. Oxnar shifted, groaning pitifully as he cracked open his eyes again. He was back in the alley, in almost the exact spot he had fallen when he had tried to run from Agani. The coppery taste of blood was still heavy in his mouth. Not for the last time, he was certain, he found himself wondering if it had been a dream. Perhaps, he mused, somebody had put a little something extra in his drink before he left the tavern. He knew that this was not the case, but it was at least an interesting line of thought as he collected himself.
Struggling to his feet and dusting himself off, Oxnar scowled. He understood, of course, that Agani could not have simply carried him to his destination. Still, he wondered, was it truly necessary to do whatever it was he had done to knock him back out? A simple farewell after helping him back down from the rooftop would have been far more appreciated.
"You there!"
"AIIIEEE!!!!" Startled, his heart having skidded to a halt for several beats, the Old Storyteller shrieked as he took a swift step backwards and tripped over the same loose cobble that had been his undoing before. This time, he was only somewhat thankful for the fact that he had landed on his bony old ass instead of his face.
"Sorry about that, Old Timer." By the light of the lantern he carried, Oxnar could see this man clearly. His hair was a soft brown, and thinning. He wore the black and red uniform, its color scheme lifted directly from the face of their king, that had recently been adopted by the local military. The Keepers of the Gate, they called themselves. He had been seeing these uniforms, and their variant, a great deal of late. Some men wore a blood red sash, embroidered with a black eye, in honor of the One Eyed General they had served others. A select few others had taken to wearing purple armbands with their uniforms. The reason for this was less obvious, but Oxnar had learned that most of these men had served under Arimus, whom had lead them to destroy a branch of Kerim Thiathe's enormous army that had reached around the Keepers' Gate into the north. This young man wore neither of these.
"My name is Aorthain," he was saying. His voice sounded somehow familiar, but Oxnar could not quite place it. "Are you well?"
"I believe so, thank you." Accepting Aorthain's hand, Oxnar allowed himself to be drawn to his feet. "Thank you."
"Allow me to see you back to your lodging, eh?" The soldier smiled. "You kind of remind me of my grandfather, what little I remember of him. I would be greatly grieved if anything should happen to you between here and there."
"Of course, son, your help is much appreciated."
For several minutes, they walked in silence. The Old Storyteller was feeling much better, though he was eager as ever to get back to the warmth of his room. The bitter cold had only gotten worse during the evening's adventures. Perhaps a block from his destination, the soldier finally spoke again. "You are that Storyteller, aren't you? I've seen you perform twice now."
"Really." Oxnar was hardly surprised. He had been quite visible the past few days. "Did you enjoy my work?"
"I've heard worse." Aorthain gave him an apologetic smile. "Honestly, though, I've met a few dryads. I kind of like them, so the story of Ytyrra does not do it for me. I prefer lighter fare."
The older man could only laugh at this. "Me too, son. Me too!"
Today's word count is 4,761. :D
Be sure and read 'Dryad Eyes part 12.5' over on my friend kimerastorm's page. The only reason it wasn't part 13 was because, while it was co-written with me, she did the write up, and I expected to have this installment done before she finished that one. Turns out I was wrong! *lol*
Its a great read.
Aorthain was the most ordinary man one would ever meet. Anyone would say so. From the top of his head, capped by soft brown hair that was, while thinning, neatly trimmed and combed, to the bottoms of his well-polished boots, he was exactly what one expected to see. His uniform, red and black, was immaculate. Not a single thread was out of place. In truth, the only thing about him that did not smack of simple, generic, unremarkability was his love life. There was a reason that he and his sword brother, Rhian, shared a room, and were often-but-not-always mocked behind their backs. Either it did not matter to of them, or if it did, they rarely showed it. They were lovers. They were in love. It was as simple as that.
There was, however, another side to Aorthain. It was a side concealed in shadows, and kept under lock and key during the daytime hours. Not even Rhian knew about it, though he was fully aware of the fact that his lover frequently left for hours at a time at night. Returning late in the afternoon from some simple, routine training exercises that he participated in every day, Aorthain was ready to embrace this side of himself. It was time. There were questions that needed to be asked, that had occurred to him while sitting in a tavern during lunch, and he intended to ask them before the sun rose again.
Carefully, quietly, he retrieved a small wooden trunk from where he had stashed it, in the far corner of his side of the closet space, and set it upon the bed. Normally he would be even more secretive, retrieving the items he needed while in the closet and in a hurry so that his lover would not become curious as to what he was doing. Rhian was not there, however, and he felt he should take a moment to inspect his equipment. One could never be too careful in his line of work. Slipping a key into the trunk's lock, he turned it, and flipped the lid open. Inside, lying atop a bundle of black cloth was a silver mask.
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Haron stood outside the tavern that the Old Storyteller had been working that day, incidentally the same tavern at which Aorthain had taken his lunch, when the old man emerged. He was exhausted, and dispirited. Seeing his 'employer' did nothing to change his mindset. What had started out as a simple, distasteful chore was rapidly turning into something far worse. Had it not been for the fact that the weather was turning colder, and it was almost surely going to snow again within the next few days, the Old Storyteller would have already gathered his few belongings and left Keeper's Gateway, and Haron, behind.
"Your audience can tell that you do not like what you are doing," Haron spoke. His voice was gruff and annoyed. He did not like dealing with the old man, but as both Thanik and Bawo were busy in other parts of the city, the task of dealing with the storyteller had fallen to him once again. "Try to put on a better front tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" The old man was not pleased. He had planned to stay in his room the next day, to rest and gather his strength. Since Haron had first approached him, he had been lucky to sleep three hours in a night. That did not sit well with him. He was not as young as he once was.
"Yes, tomorrow." Haron continued brusquely, handing him a crumpled sheet of paper. "We need you back here again. And since you seem to be growing weary of the story of Ytyrra, Thanik went to the trouble of writing this little piece for you."
Taking the paper, the Old Storyteller unfolded it. It took only the briefest moments of skimming over its text with his tired eyes to realize that this story was even worse than the one he had been telling. "My apologies, m'Lord, but I tell only the older tales. The classics. I have no use for this modern fare."
Stepping close, Haron loomed over the old man. His shoulders, broad and strong, were more than twice as wide as the storyteller's frail frame. "You will tell the tales that you are told to tell, without fail. That is what I have been paying you for. Do you understand me, Old Timer?"
"I-I did not ask for this!" Unwilling to back away, but terribly frightened, the old man stared up at the officer with wild eyes. "I have no wish to be caught up in whatever it is you are about!"
Placing a strong hand on the Old Storyteller's shoulder, Haron dragged him around and pointed him in the direction he would have gone had he not been stopped. His room, warm and inviting in his mind, waited in this direction. "You should have thought about that before you took my money. Now go and get some rest. Do not be late tomorrow."
Beaten, the old man nodded and hurried away. The unspoken 'or else' had done the trick. He had no desire to involve himself in whatever was going on here or to speak the filth he had been speaking, but he wanted even less to be beaten within an inch of his life. His mind cringed from considering what worse fates the younger man might have had in mind.
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The sun was just beginning to set, igniting the clouds rolling in from the north with an orange fire, as Aorthain sprinted with sure-footed ease along the upper edge of a slate roof of a building that sat outside the inner ring of Keeper's Gateway. He was dressed all in black, with a great, similarly colored cloak that billowed out behind him as he ran. Though the sky was still bright, the mighty fortress itself was already steeped in shadows. Because of the great mountain range that reared up to the east and west, night descended upon the streets at least an hour before it did the sky. Likewise, in the morning, there would be an extra hour of darkness before the morning light spilled down from the sky.
Reaching the end of the roof, Aorthain leapt. Tucking in his strong limbs, he missed the iron safety rail on the patio of an opulent personal residence by mere inches, and rolled to his feet. He never broke stride. Bounding off the rail on the opposite side, he caught the edge of the roof with one hand and hauled himself up. Often, he could lose himself in this mode of travel, forcing his body to act on his environment without actively thinking about it. It was relaxing. It was freedom. It was an excellent way to move from one part of a city to another without being seen as long as he was careful around the busier sections of the city.
Running back and forth about the rooftops of a legendary fortress at the southern end of the Free World was very different from the life he had once envisioned for himself. He was a Daratan farmer's son, and had been raised to work the land from the time the sun rose to the time it set. That, too, had been work that he had enjoyed once. There had been a special kind of release in growing things, and caring for what little livestock his parents had had. His father, like most fathers, had wanted better for him, and, on his thirteenth birthday, had spent virtually every last coin in his possession to gain Aorthain entrance to the Darat Academy for Boys.
There, though he had been more than passably good with a sword, his graceful feet had gained the attention of the dance instructor, Master Sorbles. It had taken some convincing, some wheedling, and perhaps even some bullying to get the young Aorthain to agree to try the class, but when he did he found that he quite enjoyed it. It was only a passing interest, however. Perhaps it would have been more, but before his first year at the Academy was up, his father had taken ill and, with many apologies to and good wishes from his teachers, he had returned home. Within a week of his return, he and his mother buried his father near his favorite, secluded fishing hole.
Life went on as life does, and Aorthain became accustomed to the farm being, technically, his. It was a beautifully unremarkable time in his life.
Nearly a year after his father's death, Aorthain met the woman that would become his wife. It was on a trip to the Greater Market in Rilloa, Darat's capital city. Her name was Idara, and she was the daughter of one of the King's own scribes. It was not, perhaps, the grandest title a man could have, but he and his daughter were fairly well off because of it. She would hardly have given a farmer a second glance had he not abandoned his position in a long line for a limited supply of seeds in order to help repair the wheel on her little carriage. In response to his kindness, she had invited him home for dinner. The rest, as they say, and much to her father's chagrin, had been history.
Their wedding was held in Rilloa that spring, and he took her home to his simple little farm. Nine months had barely passed before his son, little Beldar, was born. Aorthain had been beside himself with joy. Though he could not say for certain, even that, that he had truly loved his wife, his son had been another matter entirely. Beldar was the very center of his world. For the next two years, his life had proceeded in the same unremarkable fashion that it always had. He worked his farm, buried his mother when her time came, enjoyed Idara's companionship, and doted on his son.
Then one day it all came crashing down around him. It was ironic, he supposed, that it did so on his return trip from the Greater Market in Rilloa. A light snow had fallen in his absence, but he felt any concern over. He had been two miles from home, eager to get there and show Beldar the toy bear he had bought for him, when he saw what he realized was a person laying beneath the snow at the side of the rode. With a knot already forming in his belly, he had left his little wagon and gone to clear the snow away from whoever it was. Dear, sweet Idara's face, eyes wide and face contorted with horror, had greeted him. An hour later, having unhitched his horse and ridden it as hard and fast as it would go, he arrived at his home. Had he not just seen her out in the snow, he would have expected Idara to walk out from one of the adjoining rooms to greet him at any moment. Of Beldar, there had been no sign. To this day, he had no idea what had become of his boy.
Eventually, he did find his wife's killers. A pair of young, Caltherian noblemen had been on their way home from a prolonged hunting trip, and had seen her outside, gathering firewood. A friend of his in Darat had overhead them bragging about what they had done to 'some ignorant farm woman' on their way to the city. Of course, they had conveniently left out the part where one of them had wrapped his hands around her neck and squeezed the life from her body. That part Aorthain knew, for he had seen the handprints on her neck. Each of them had also confessed to this on separate occasions, alone with him and his knife. Neither had been able to tell him about his little Beldar, however, to his eternal fury.
Lost to despair, Aorthain had returned to his empty farm. He could not bring himself to deal with his daily chores. He had, instead, drank himself into a stupor, and fallen asleep, for nearly a week straight. Hunger would have gotten him eventually, or dehydration, but on the seventh day, a masked man had entered his home. A little short and dressed all in black, with a billowing, hooded cloak of the same color, and face covered in silver, the man had had a suggestion for what he might do with the rest of his life.
So it was that Aorthain, dressed nearly exactly as that man had been on that day, crouched low on the roof of an empty building across the street from where Haron and the Old Storyteller were talking. The sight of them had dissipated his reverie, bringing his mind back to the now. He could not hear what they were saying, but it did not matter. It would be easy enough for him to find out. When Haron turned the old man away, and sent him down the street, Aorthain hesitated for only a moment before following him. Though he would have preferred to speak with the Officer himself, it would be easier to silence the storyteller's tongue when he was done.
-----------------
The Old Storyteller, tired and angry, pulled his thin, threadbare cloak more tightly about himself as he quickened his pace. It was getting cold out. Casting an eye upwards, he noted that the looming clouds had already gone from orange to a deep, dark purple. By morning, he guessed, Keeper's Gateway would be under a blanket of snow. Though he had already been expecting it, it was disheartening to see it. Another day of clear skies, and he may have had the courage to flee this place without worrying about the weather of the next day.
He sighed. Then, as he turned his eyes back down to street level, he thought he saw something. Movement, a dark shape, he was not sure what it was. It had been too big to be a bird or a bat, and besides, he would have been surprised to see either of those. Picking up his pace a bit more, he hurried on. He had heard a story told once, though he had not learned it well enough to repeat it, of demons that liked to nest on the rooftops in larger cities. They would wait and watch, seeking easy prey on empty streets. Once they found a suitable victim, they would leap down from above, capturing their prey with their powerful hind legs. They would then use their arms, half again as long as their entire bodies, to haul them back up the walls to the tops of the buildings where they would feed upon their victims in the most horrifying ways imaginable.
Huffing more heavily with every step, his breath misted in the air. Gods, he thought. The temperature was dropping fast. Fright was lending strength to his legs, however, and he fully expected to make it back to his lodging before the first flake of snow fell. Then he heard a noise behind him, like a soft thud.
Glancing back over his shoulder, his blood suddenly ran colder than the freezing air he breathed. There was a dark shape behind him, pulling itself up from the ground. Its inky black form seemed to drink in the shadows around it, becoming bigger as it rose to its full height. It raised its head. The Old Storyteller got only a glimpse of that baleful, white face before he fled. With every bit of strength he had left within his wizened old body, he ran. He screamed when his toe caught a loose cobble, and his feet went out from under him. The last thing he saw was the cobblestones, rushing up at his face.
-----------------
"Wake up." The voice, hollow and deep, came to him as if in a dream. "Wake up now."
The Old Storyteller drew in, and let go, a harsh breath before cracking open his eyes. His head ached terribly, and his face was sore. The coppery taste of blood was on his tongue. What had happened, he wondered, looking up at the black sky. Night had fallen in earnest. Then he remembered; the tavern, Haron, the alley, the demon that had fallen behind him. Was he dead? Had the demon left him? He did not think so. Instead, he had the sudden sinking feeling that he was sprawled out on the roof of one of the buildings near where he had fallen, and that the demons had only been waiting for him to awaken before sinking their teeth into his withered body. He squeezed his eyes shut, his heart pounding. After several minutes, when no attack came, he opened them again. Another minute passed, and he became bold enough to raise his head and look around.
He was, indeed, on a roof somewhere. There, at its edge, was his 'demon.' Its form lit by torchlight from below, he realized that he was looking at a man. Whoever he was, he was tall. Not as tall as, say, the Battle King, but tall enough that the old man himself would probably stand eye-to-eye with his sternum. His muscular form was sheathed in tight, black clothing. Tall boots stopped just short of his knees, and long gloves swallowed fully half of his powerful forearms. He had his hood drawn up, hiding his face from view, and his voluminous black cloak flapped in the wind behind him like a banner. When the man turned his head toward the Old Storyteller, his breath caught in his throat. It was not a white, demonic face that he had seen. It was a silver mask. It was the silver mask.
"You! Y-your'e..."
"You have heard of me, then." The masked man's hollow voice reached the storyteller's ears again. "Good."
The old man could only nod. By all the Gods, he thought, this was Agani! It was a legend that began nearly two hundred years ago. There was much debate over what country it had originated from, but the consensus was that it was at least based on fact. The story was, as he had personally told it dozens of times throughout his career, that a particularly vicious tyrant of a king had written an order for an unsuspected man to be hanged at first light the next day. Theories concerning what crime this man may have committed were was wild and varied as were claims of his nationality. Whatever he had done, this wicked King had wanted him dead for it. However, the man had not been in his home when the soldiers had arrived. He may have been out drinking with friends, or visiting a relative, but whatever the case, he was nowhere to be found. Instead of taking him, then, the soldiers raped and killed his wife, and took his three children to the King so that they would have something to show for their efforts. At first light the next day, his children were hung in his stead.
His name had been Agani. Again, there were dozens of ideas about how he had come by his mask. Some said that he created it himself; others that it had been a gift to him from his wife, or the eldest of his children; still others said that he stole it, and in some stories, it was a prized possession of the king himself. Of course, the Old Storyteller had always thought it a logical conclusion that if it were so easy to get at things the King held dear, Agani would have killed him in relatively short order. Instead, he waged a very personal, one-man war against the tyrant, and it went on for nearly a decade before it claimed his life. In the wake of the death of his enemy, the hero had decided to travel, apparently no longer feeling tied to the city he had called home. There were stories of his deeds ranging from Caltheria, to Camelot, to ugly old Gelore on the eastern coast.
Most historians believed that Agani was either eventually killed, or retired from his never-ending war on injustice. He was, by most reports, simply a man, and men did normally live such incredibly long life spans. However, in the two hundred years that had followed the legend's inception, there had been hundreds of recorded sightings. If not by name, then by description. In Caltheria, a black robed man wearing a 'metal' mask would save a woman. In Dar Minask, a group of muggers was driven away by a man in black with a 'silvery' face. As recently as the Fall of Camelot, there had been sightings of a black clad man with a 'shining' face defending the citizens from the invading army.
Agani had always been a kind of pet project for the Old Stoyteller. He had always found the legend and the fact that there seemed to be someone, if not the same person, carrying on the legacy. Now, finding himself face-to-face with the living embodiment of that myth, the old man could think of nothing to say. He remained a bit frightened. What were his intentions, this Agani? What if he was not the good hero that the stories had always claimed? As the masked man walked across the roof and knelt beside him, he had a feeling that he was about to find out.
"I am going to ask you a question now." That deep, hollow voice, like the expressionless mask, gave away nothing. There was not even an accent by which the storyteller could place a guess at his country of origin. "I suggest you answer it honestly. I know that you are working for Haron. You, amongst others, have been using your words to stir old, petty hatreds. Why?"
"I do not know, Great sir!" The Old Storyteller cried. If he had felt guilt and shame for his involvement in Haron's agenda, what must a man like Agani think of him? "I do not know! Haron came to me, with good, hard gold, and offered me a way to earn it. I did not like his offer, but I am old now. I am tired, and I was never exactly a master at my craft to begin with. I could not turn down the thought of hot food in my belly or a shelter over my head. Not this winter! Please understand, Great sir. Please."
"I do." Indeed, there was a peculiar note of sympathy in Agani's voice. He placed a hand on the old man's shoulder. "May I ask your given name, Old Timer?"
"My mother called me Oxnar."
"I will remember it." Tilting his head in a way that looked thoughtful, the masked man seemed to be sizing the old man up for something. Finally, much to that person's relief, he spoke. "I would like to ask two favors of you, Master Oxnar. You may not like either of them."
"I am almost afraid to ask. But what are they?"
Beneath his mask, Aorthain smiled. This Oxnar was a cautious man. He liked that. "First, I would like to ask that you do not speak of me. I do not desire attention, as I am sure you understand. My work is easier done within the cloak of mystery."
"That has ever been the case with you, Great Sir." The Storyteller was warming to this man, and could not help but grin. Of course, Agani would prefer to not draw attention to himself. That was the mark of a true hero, to give selflessly with no regard to the adulation he might receive.
"Perhaps." The masked man agreed, taking that answer as a yes. "Second, I would ask you to stay your course. Remain in Haron's employ. Do what he asks. You may find yourself in a position to do some good from the inside of his insidious little plot."
"If nothing else, I may have more information next time I see you, eh?"
"Such a possibility had crossed my mind."
Oxnar, the Old Storyteller, lifted his chin and gazed at the sky for a moment. How long had it been since he had felt even potentially useful, he wondered? He had never fathered any children, at least of which he was aware. As a storyteller, he had only ever been passably good at best. Perhaps, he was not even that, anymore.
Finally, after a lengthy deliberation, he nodded once. "I will do it."
"Thank you. Now, one last thing."
Curious, Oxnar turned his head toward the legendary hero. What else could there be? Raising his arm from beneath his cloak, Agani waved something small, with a strangely sweet smell under the storyteller's crooked nose. "Sleep."
-----------------
The cold brought him awake. That and the ground was hard and uncomfortable beneath him. Oxnar shifted, groaning pitifully as he cracked open his eyes again. He was back in the alley, in almost the exact spot he had fallen when he had tried to run from Agani. The coppery taste of blood was still heavy in his mouth. Not for the last time, he was certain, he found himself wondering if it had been a dream. Perhaps, he mused, somebody had put a little something extra in his drink before he left the tavern. He knew that this was not the case, but it was at least an interesting line of thought as he collected himself.
Struggling to his feet and dusting himself off, Oxnar scowled. He understood, of course, that Agani could not have simply carried him to his destination. Still, he wondered, was it truly necessary to do whatever it was he had done to knock him back out? A simple farewell after helping him back down from the rooftop would have been far more appreciated.
"You there!"
"AIIIEEE!!!!" Startled, his heart having skidded to a halt for several beats, the Old Storyteller shrieked as he took a swift step backwards and tripped over the same loose cobble that had been his undoing before. This time, he was only somewhat thankful for the fact that he had landed on his bony old ass instead of his face.
"Sorry about that, Old Timer." By the light of the lantern he carried, Oxnar could see this man clearly. His hair was a soft brown, and thinning. He wore the black and red uniform, its color scheme lifted directly from the face of their king, that had recently been adopted by the local military. The Keepers of the Gate, they called themselves. He had been seeing these uniforms, and their variant, a great deal of late. Some men wore a blood red sash, embroidered with a black eye, in honor of the One Eyed General they had served others. A select few others had taken to wearing purple armbands with their uniforms. The reason for this was less obvious, but Oxnar had learned that most of these men had served under Arimus, whom had lead them to destroy a branch of Kerim Thiathe's enormous army that had reached around the Keepers' Gate into the north. This young man wore neither of these.
"My name is Aorthain," he was saying. His voice sounded somehow familiar, but Oxnar could not quite place it. "Are you well?"
"I believe so, thank you." Accepting Aorthain's hand, Oxnar allowed himself to be drawn to his feet. "Thank you."
"Allow me to see you back to your lodging, eh?" The soldier smiled. "You kind of remind me of my grandfather, what little I remember of him. I would be greatly grieved if anything should happen to you between here and there."
"Of course, son, your help is much appreciated."
For several minutes, they walked in silence. The Old Storyteller was feeling much better, though he was eager as ever to get back to the warmth of his room. The bitter cold had only gotten worse during the evening's adventures. Perhaps a block from his destination, the soldier finally spoke again. "You are that Storyteller, aren't you? I've seen you perform twice now."
"Really." Oxnar was hardly surprised. He had been quite visible the past few days. "Did you enjoy my work?"
"I've heard worse." Aorthain gave him an apologetic smile. "Honestly, though, I've met a few dryads. I kind of like them, so the story of Ytyrra does not do it for me. I prefer lighter fare."
The older man could only laugh at this. "Me too, son. Me too!"