Avail E-Book

Salaha Kleb

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Seitenzahl: 1036

Beschreibung

"Help! Out loud I cry for help--yet no one seems to hear me!" The merchant is infected! Great pains have betide him; he is being reft of sanity little by little, spreading his plague upon many a man anon--and soon he should be accused of profanity and deemed accursed thereunto. Within days epidemics result. Injustice comes to throne in the whole nation; and for that this merchant had come from beyond the border and is claimed to have evoked a curse for his impiety, war is declared upon his motherland... The invasion hits in hard. The king's troops soon advance upon the capital, regardless of the various offenses that should arise within their own ranks: Severe tragedies befall; quarrel is the order of the day. While soldiers strive hard to bear through their ordeals, a watchman has arisen to the upkeep of peace. Tis a testimony.

Leseprobe

This book is entirely a work of fiction. The names, locations, characters and incidents in this novel are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, whether dead or alive, locations and/or events is solely coincidental.

Tis a hymn to peace…

CONTENTS

Phonation

This Merchant

Ferja

A Troubled Man

Feral Soul

Share In A Misdeed

To The Jurrh

Vermis

Succor

Progression

Gone

Heartbreak

Impact

To Set Forth In A Haste

Growth

Finding

Foreshadowing

Fortunate

Heartless

Confusion

Fervor

Madness

Anxiety

Hardened Soul

Each Of Them

of scouts and messengers

of a shield-man

of an earnest man

of the caring soul

of the loving one

Assembly

Push

To Shelter

What Comes Of Misery

Before War

of the messenger

of a lonely fellow

of the leaders

Remembrance

Presage

Where It Lingers

Trace Out

Conquest

of an army on march

of the first few

of three friends

of a high commander

Stronger

Fruitless

Pitfall

To Get Set

Brume

Blind

Hiatus

Fortune

To Give Fair Counsel

Under Arms

Rochgar

That Beast

A Champion’s Garment

Vicissitude

Dicta

Haunted

These Men

of him who rues the day of his falling

of a man on guard

of a traveler

of a bereaved brother

Tidings

Evil

Who Stands Firm

Unseen

Entrant

Clash

Reckless

Affliction

In Good Keep

Divergence

They

of the shield

of a lost fellow

of an anxious soul

To Guide In Silence

To Look Beyond

Forthcoming

To Be Hassled And Hustled

Extreme

Grit

Sound In Course

Loss

Discipline

Fantasy

Merit

Ways Of Yore

Plight

Directive

Out And Away

Account

To Lay Aside

Confession

Gelrian

Septem

Foresight

Taking The Field

Ascendancy

Penitence

Urge

At Good Measures

A Call To Arms

Reverberations

To Soothe

Leniency

Men Of All Races

of the savagest

of a sufferer

of a man of decency

Sundown

A Clouded Mind

To Thwart

Adjuration

Lay Bare

Men Of All Manners

of him who is esteemed

of him who reigns

of a lone wanderer

Aklinēs

Bright Gloom

Recognition

Encounter

A Last Act

Austerity

From The First To The Last

Commitment

Alleviation

Chill

Duplicity

Restoration

Henceforth

of the head of a nation

of a valiant man

of the marshal

of the chief Steward

Tailpiece

PHONATION

Vowels

a as in car

e as in end

i as ea in feast

j equal to y (treated as vowel for its correspondence to i)

y as in yes—treated as double i

o (short) as in nod

o (long after r) as in nor

u as in you

Consonants

g as in gizzard

w, sharp v—always stressed

v as in villain

h as in house

Note: erh equals är (pronounced ere); sch as in ship, th as in theme.

Umlaut

ä as e in bet

ö as er in herb

ü similar to u in iu

For where then the great many

have gone adwell, to be of a

greater growth, within that sphere

they are brought forth as concrete

substance. Dense in attribution to

where they are sited, and the

breathing of air unto the impact of

a feeble touch.

For in such the vest is used, as is

the vintage the nectar thereof, a

haze obscures to be amerged with

the attributes, and raised up at

each of their paths.

According to the tree of their being, that which they take be either

like unto that which they give, less

or more, or absent at whole. And

so is likewise with their tongue; by

their words, the bearing of their

vests, their need and the desires of

their hearts reflects. Even, then, no

one may be mute; words recompose

manyfold.

Help! Out loud I cry for help—yet no one seems to hear me!

RISE

Radicalism is fanaticism; neither is well taken to.

THIS MERCHANT

See the rain, how it pelts down upon this merchant, who set forth in search of the finest and certainly rarest of herbs. For weeks he has been traveling straight across The Great Greenery—this the vastest of prairies upon Earth—to leave his motherland and proceed into a country he knows of by tale only, Arjovan.

For he has a wagon full of gear of all manner, a strong creature is to draw it—an ox, which he has named Arönal. This creature he treasures above all his goods, above all gear: Neither the hardest of equipment ever to be obtained nor even the scarcest of all his items matters as much to him as this one ox. For this creature he would die: Belief holds that no critter may be harmed, mistreated, or slain and that there be no man to own neither cattle nor horse, not the smallest nor the tamest of creatures; for Haiörengal—brother of Lerjan, with whom is made be everything below and above the Sun—looks upon those who do wrong unto whatever critter as a disgrace, and so this merchant has never allowed nor thought on letting Arönal toil away, and not once has he eaten without sharing his supplies with him.

After many nights and days he comes in sight of Arjovan’s abundant greenery and turns to the skies straight, asking for Haiörengal’s guidance, “What may await me within these fields of trees? Say, what beings may I be among there and what beasts may I behold there? Prithee, hold me upon my way. Verily, I seek to trade my stock for the herbs of that turf, for I wish to learn the art of healing.”

A furlong westward he crosses the border, seeing the forest’s edge bordering on a plain while he treads onto foreign ground; and as he rather not seek cover from the rain in the forest, which seems to grow too dense for a wagon to pass, he approaches a group of trees north of the forest’s edge—there he should find cover and pause awhile to eat and groom Arönal.

Beneath a tree, he halts and guides his ox into the grove.

“I shall groom you after we have eaten,” says he, picking up his provisions from amid the load—he has merely one loaf of bread left, which he surely divides equally between him and his beloved animal.

Seating himself on a rock, he offers up a crumb for the needy afore he begins to eat, rather troubled about the weather. His garment is drenched. “Tis all soaked…” The heavy rainfall is a struggle, although he would never gripe nor meet the torrent with anger, let alone complain aloud. Strongly as he holds with the teachings of his gods, he says but: “Yes… yes the plants do all need water to grow.”

Some time later he arises and is just about to groom Arönal when, listen, he hears a flap. Though thinking nothing of it at first, he grows curious on hearing it again. The grove is small, with a few rocks near its verge; and there, just behind the boulder he sat on, he happens upon a bird, a rather large one, that tries to soar. Flapping its wings most vigorously, it moves round and round, seemingly injured and unable to take off.

“What has come on you!” utters he, drawing nigher, keen to help. And at a glance of its wings he is overcome with fret; they are crippled, appear twisted out of shape, with merely few feathers left. And see! Oddly enough, its eyelids seem to have grown close, and its beak is drenched in blood—perchance its own blood or haply that of whatever critter has wounded it so severely.

He distresses, starts to pant: “Just what happened to you?”

Caring as he is, showing love for every being upon Earth, he tries to seize it, to hold it firmly, to just keep it from dying of exhaustion. “Prithee, calm now; let me avail you!”

But, woe, the bird rages at his very touch: clawing his forearm, pecking around as if in a frenzy. “What is with you!”

Hying to his wagon to fetch a cloth, he digs through his gear in great haste, waling out to Arönal that he must help the bird. “I need to avail that poor creature; for, see, ’tis in pain!”

Indeed, the bird is in pain, a pain that he should share in the days to come, for that which has been passed on to him he does not know of.

Now he spreads the cloth over the bird, hoping to clutch it safely—in vain: When he tries to grasp it, quick as he might, it attacks more savagely, pecking away at anything near it, even injuring itself once.

“Oh no! No!” he cries. “You pecked yourself, you pecked yourself!”

Tugging the cloth away straight, he sees the wound, the blood running down the bird’s feathering, and steps back in horror: He has never witnessed a bird acting so strangely, and appearing so awkwardly withal.

And he sees no other way than to release it from its pains, much more as he notes it crapping without end, and so he grabs a rock, with struggle heaving it aloft.

“O Haiörengal, I cannot let this creature suffer like this!”

Stepping to the bird, seeing its pain, its wounds and crippled wings, he draws a breath, screaming above his lungs on smashing its head.

On bended knees he looks at it, daring not to remove the rock.

In V’arra, a dead animal or man is to be left lying for beasts, for only when devoured by a creature can the dead pass on to the realm above. “And there you may spread your wings and soar—yes, there you may soar without pain, and with wings that only ever grow healthy and large.”

Certain to have done the right thing, he takes a few bandages from his gear and a bottle of water from his provisions and washes his wounds thoroughly. The bird left many a cut on his forearm; and even when he has swathed it in bandages, the blood still soaks through from beneath.

The rain is still pouring down the skies when he climbs onto the wagon bench, eager to part from the grove.

“But, no!” he suddenly mutters, getting down the wagon again: “I shall walk beside you, Arönal, for you could not pause now because of my eagerness to leave—and, furthermore, shall you get your favored soup twice this day.”

Time goes by; streams cleave the turf. In the rain he walks, across the far open without cover and in drenched attire. He is sure to fall ill in the cold, should not by chance a village arise, or another groove appear anon; and he feels as if he were mistreating Arönal, more guilt unto every step, for that he is wandering about the elements.

A while later, he trudges no more but only slogs and each beat of his heart is as unto a sting and surging.

He feels unwell, coughs up slime. “It is too cold, too rainy to travel—all muddy! Sure the cold caught up on me at last!”

Fortune is upon him, though; he crosses ways with a merchant caravan. He counts six wagons, all of which are guarded by ten horsemen—strong warriors of a skillful fashion, clad in fine leather armor, with spears and bucklers.

The caravan moves by slowly, holding on its way. One rider only draws to a halt and heads over to him, looking at Arönal and the soaked merchant beside this mighty ox.

“Have you come off your way?” asks he: “I say, you do not seem to know where to go.”

Greeting the horseman kindly, Eldös lays a hand upon his chest and bows his head, saying, “Verily, I do not know my way around this land.”

“What is your name?”

“Eldös and—”

“What a peculiar name; but, be that as it may, perchance you want to join us—the rain is not going to stop anytime soon now.”

Glimpsing the bloody bandage wrapped about Eldös’ forearm, the horseman wonders, “What has happened to you anyway?”

But Eldös does not speak of the bird and neither does he answer the question. “May I ask where you are heading?” he merely says.

“To Ilsra—come now.”

Certainly relieved, Eldös carries on with the caravan, hearing one of the wagoners speaking sharply to the horseman, inquiring of him whether he wishes to lose a weekly wage. “If not, then you better not part from us again—you are getting paid to ward us and not to speak to lonesome travelers.”

“He was lost!” utters the horseman.

“Indeed I was,” Eldös strikes in.

Looking back quickly, the wagoner frowns at him, saying, “Tell me your name afore you interrupt, you lonesome wanderer?”

“Verily, verily, my name is Eldös, and this is—”

“What an odd name you have! Say, are you a merchant? Can it be that you are a merchant?”

“I am, yes, and yo—”

“Speak louder!”

“I said I am, I am a merchant, and you? Are you all merchants, too?”

“No, I am a wagoner, the fella next to me is a merchant!” The man at his side is lean and quite young, and he greets Eldös with a nod only afore he asks, “From where do you stem?”

“Forgive me, but I do not understand.”

“Your origin? I am wondering about your origin?”

“Oh, I see! I am from V’arra. I mean… I stem from V’arra.”

“V’arra, eh? What’s your name you said?”

“Eldös.”

“Eldos, Eldes—say again please.”

“Eldös, with ‘ö’—Eldös.”

“Tis rather difficult to utter… for some at least. Anyway, I am Adjr.”

“Pleased to meet you—may I ask whence you… stem?”

“Land of Boray.”

Though wishing to know more about Boray, Eldös remains still, plagued by a sudden, penetrating tone in his ears… a highpitched whistle that leaves him no pause.

While the caravan progresses eastwards, he comes to feel weakened more and more; and when they come in sight of their destination shortly before the fall of dusk, he is struck by such a headache that he squeeze close his eyes, shedding tears, clenching his fists to bear it without having to scream. Fortunately, it lasts for only a bit.

“Look ahead, merchant!” the horseman utters: “We are almost there.”

Eldös, though worried about his health just now, looks ahead. And behold! The sight of the city robs his breath, so greatly it aspires before him, enclosed by the highest of walls he has ever seen in his life. This one great bulwark—along with every last of the towers that rise from its top with turrets, flags, and banners—strikes him as the absolute proof that this city must have been built to outlast eons: It is truly great, and by far more massive than any of the tales can tell of. And he sees every flag and each banner, either charged with Ilsra’s emblem (a horse’s head above a sword) or emerging with a golden torch to resemble an everlasting light that shines even in the darkest hours.

And the closer they draw the bigger the gate appears. Though not as high as the bulwark itself, ’tis enormous to Eldös’ eyes.

The sentinels on the wall walk can see the merchant caravan well but look over the plain afore they signal to the gatekeepers that it is safe to open the gate.

Entering into the yard, the city guards fall into their sight near and far, and the leader of the merchant caravan is told to head straight for the area the Merchant Union has rented for its caravans at the market (to supply local merchants on market day).

As they move on along the high-street towards the heart of the city, glancing at the myriad of houses and stores around, Eldös feels tormented: The pain in his head appears anew, afflicting him badly.

The lovely timber homes of the common folk that flank the high-street do not meet his eye, nor would the castle—this great construction that seems to have been built to mirror the power and the fortune of the king, of him who is to be called The Glorious—; for Eldös is in such pain that he suddenly sinks to his knees, screaming out lout. And every last one around, from the carpenter to the blacksmith to all men near, stare at him alone, thinking he be mad.

“Quiet down now, I say!” demands the horseman, leaping down his horse. “Be still, you!”

“What is wrong with him?” asks Adjr, more concerned for Eldös’ well-being than he is worried about the approaching guards.

The horseman seizes Eldös by the arm and helps him up on his feet, saying in a whisper that ‘Breach of Public Order’ is a serious offense. “You will be arrested if you do not quiet down!”

Unfortunately, the guards have already heard him screaming and shove the horseman away from Eldös. “Let off him!”

“No!” pleads Eldös: “He has done me no wrong.”

But it is not that the guards try to ward him—this poor merchant who is in such pain. No, they do indeed force him to the ground, commanding that he either hold his tongue or lose it instead.

“You arrived with these men, yes,” say they, “but a moment ago?”

“Y-yes,” stutters Eldös.

“I say,” yells one of the guards, “scream again and I shall have your tongue!”

Neither guard cares about the eyes that are upon him, nor would he query whether this merchant needs help—order is kept at harsh measures. And they even say that they might as well cut his tongue out now, “lest you think of shouting about again!”

“Let go of him!” yells Adjr, showing true bravery. Normally, many a good man stays silent for fear of prosecution.

“What did you say, merchant!”

“I say, let go of him now! We are of the Merchant Union and have a contract from which we may withdraw at any given time if you dare and harm one of ours.”

Truth be told, the Merchant Union is the largest merchant guild with many powerful supporters, who may well issue sanctions. In general, guards are aware of this and rather not be held responsible for causing such a penalty; and they let go of Eldös thus and proceed with patrolling the alleys.

“You risk your life, foolish man!” utters the wagoner, looking upon Adjr with pity: “Whatever that man says of himself, he might as well be a rouge—so why back him!”

“Why show me pity,” scolds Adjr, “when the suffering man is better suited?”

“But—”

“It is wrong to turn a blind eye to injustice!” Now Adjr looks over to his fellowman, troubled at his appearance: Eldös is sweating heavily, and slime is dripping from his mouth. “What’s going on with you?” he inquires of him. “Man, you breathe in rattles!”

“Yea!” says the horseman, looking right into his eyes. “Speak to us, man of V’arra! Can you even hear me!”

“I-I am in… in pain—” Eldös coughs in the rider’s face, feeling the stings of a myriad needles in his neck. Spams befall him. A sharp stab in his head scourges him—and the pressure builds up, as if his skull is being wrenched apart.

Glancing at the horseman, Adjr calls upon him for help, saying, “Quick! We must take him to a healer!”

“I will take him to Olo, but what of his wagon and ox?”

“I shall take the wagon to the market with the rest, and the ox is going to the stable with the horses—and now go!”

Laying Eldös across his horse, Aljeras seeks the healer’s home. For it is forbidden to trot, canter or gallop through the city for anyone but soldiers, he is forced to go beside the creature.

The leader of the merchant caravan steps to Adjr meanwhile, telling him to not ever again lecture or threaten a guard.

“But—”

“No, listen to me, Adjr! That man is a merchant of his own, a traveling one: He is not a member of the Merchant Union, you hear! If this incident will have any consequences, then do not expect the Union to back you! As for the wagon and the ox, it is ours now—compensation for trouble, Adjr!”

“Hold your breath! How can you do that? You have not spoken a word over all the miles we had traveled, and you have not said a thing as I lectured the guards either; and now, now you even want to steal—”

“I rede you choose your words carefully, Adjr!”

Drawing a breath, Adjr is only just able to swallow his frustration; and with clenched fists he nods and gets on to the wagon.

FERJA

In her girlhood, she had often caught herself dreaming of a life that was not hers, imagining herself as being a soldier whom men of all cultures would look up to and adore for her merit and valor alike. She wished to grow the heart of a lion; and the power of a bear she desired to harbor, with love beating at its prime in her heart—such had been her drive… unto the day she has witnessed the slaying of a man: Once a night in the chill, a city guard struck down a thief with a sharp blow, cleaving the skull in twain before her eyes; and he let the corpse lie for the rest of the day, saying (that) “such be the fate of outlaws”.

Forsooth, the guard cut down a man who had stolen some bread, perhaps wholly of hunger. Regardless, whatever the thief’s motive, the guard did not query, nor did he regard his pledge to thenceforth steal no more. Indeed city guards are erstwhile soldiers, and it seemed that being a soldier meant to strike at even the innocent men and moreover yield to whatever the command—such is an enduring trait. Thus, she has chosen ministry over soldiery, praying that she may haply avoid both guards and servicemen during her apprenticeship. Oft she quoth: “And if, then, any a one be injured by the obedient mugger, I may hush their pains.”

Now, her father is a healer by trade and has instructed her into his field, showing her how to observe at very first, in that “the man who walks with a limp might have an aching back”. Hitherto he has taught her much, always advising that she demand payment upfront, or “risk to lose your patient, and hence your payment unto that”.

However, these days she has begun to draw beasts to characterize them by their looks, whence she had spoken to hunters who have had encounters with beasts of prey, lest she miss out on any detail. Besides, all those who are studying the flora and fauna are quite delighted in her work and have so far assisted her with writing a book for healers and travelers which offers a multitude of herbal remedies for bites and slashes, and lists all known predators and herbs thereunto. Sad to say, she is just about to stop working on her tome for definite, and that not only because she would need to leave for the wilderness to observer beasts firsthand but mainly as it may be that not every man is worth to be saved—although she feels ashamed for thinking so, the misdeeds of others lie heavy on her.

This night is cold, and the rain has been falling for three days straight. When she looks outside, risking but a glimpse of the darkness beyond the safety of her room, she sees only the gloom that wraps the city: To her, this place is where foulness reigns, and it stretches far to all sides. The lives of simple folks have no value here. There are nights when she lies wake in her bed, thinking of all the things that take place just outside of her shelter: She has heard of a man who sometimes stalks the alleys at night, shadowing on lonesome souls who seek some company; and, sad as it is, no guard would arrest him, for he is an officer of high rank, and that even though he has certainly committed the most gruesome of crimes many a time over. And truly there are various others who do alike, men who bow to villainy, who act sinisterly—soldiers who do as they are told and take pleasure in doing what they are being told.

Because of such things it has come to be that her room became her tower, her very own keep on the second floor, her “stronghold”, as her father often says—and if not for him, in whom she trusts, she might have long decided to nevermore leave her room.

Looking at the table she uses for writing and drawing and at all the unfinished pages and pictures upon, she sighs, all too certain in her decision to set it all aflame.

Someone pounds hard at the front door! She jerks and shrieks. “Who might that be? Perchance a patient?”

“Who’s there?” she hears her father shouting, the tread of his boots thumping across the floor as walks over to the door, saying, “Who’s there now?”

“It is me, Aljeras! Open up now! This man here needs your help—he needs your help, you hear me Olo!”

On hearing this Olo opens the door, finding his friend carrying a senseless soul in his arms.

“He has lost consciousness just before,” says Aljeras.

Olo escorts him to a large table in the middle of the room, close by to the chamber for the ill.

“Lay him down upon it,” says he.

Aljeras does so and then moves back a pace, observing his friend going about his trade.

“What is his name?”

“Eldos, or so.”

“What happened to his arm?” asks the father, seeing the bloody bandage. “Has he told you?”

“He did not say.”

And suddenly Olo raises his voice, shouting, “Ferja! Come here to me at once!”

“I take my leaving!” utters Aljeras; he must return to the caravan apace or risk to lose his wage. Before he can part, however, Olo insists on being paid upfront: “We know each other, are friends, close friends I believe; but I have to make a living.”

“Hey, I do not know this man!”

“But you brought him here.”

“Will you help him or—”

“It is upfront payment,” says Ferja, joining her father’s side. “That is just how it is.”

“You greedy geezer!” mutters Aljeras, handing him two gold coins. “Is this enough?”

“It should.”

“Good! You better make sure this man awakes from his haze, or else!”

Having heard this, Ferja forthwith asks him to leave, for “vile men are not welcome here”; but her father tells her to keep her eyes on the patient while he removes the bandage.

“I have my leaving,” says Aljeras. “Oh, and tell him his ox and wagon are at the market, and tell him too that he owes me two gold coins straight.”

“Will do,” says Ferja. “We bid you farewell.”

For the blink of a moment Aljeras keeps standing by the door, regarding Ferja as through and through lovely and certainly tough, for no woman has ever told him to be off before. He closes the door softly behind him as he leaves.

Olo takes a close look at Eldös’ wounds before he says to his daughter, “Look at these cuts, Ferja—what do you see?”

Inspecting the cuts, she concludes that these must have been made by claws, “bird claws”.

“Are you sure? I mean, Ferja, you are the one characterizing beast’, am I not right? So tell me what poisonous critters there are that could leave such marks?”

“Why would you say poisonous?”

“He is sweating! Do you not see how he is sweating?”

“I do smell it, but I do not suppose poisonous birds exist, so he might have caught a cold while out in the rain—he is drenched, you know.”

“His skin is hot—he might have hot spirits1.”

Laying a hand on Eldös’ forehead, she says, “Yes, he seems to be running a temperature.”

“Fever foreshadows an illness, so you might be right, although he could be suffering from an infection as well—whoever bandaged him did not clean these wounds properly.”

“Then we better clean them.”

“Yes, I will clean them now—hurry, my daughter, and get some water. Do add some vinegar and a drop of wine to it; and bring me the honey, too, please.”

“I’ll fetch it straight.”

Eldös is not all too gone in his mind; he can slightly hear them speaking. And the voice of this man who is attending to him is of such calmness that he feels relieved to have been taken to him. And even when this fellow begins to wash out his wounds—saying to his assistant, “Do always clean a wound from the center outward, and do never forget to irrigate it and clean the skin around it”—Eldös keeps still, bearing the pain.

“I reckon you won’t be needing to stitch?” says Ferja to her father, giving him what he has asked for.

“No, no, but I need you to prepare a paste with a fir’s resin, quendel2, coltsfoot, and the leaves of birch. Mix and mortar everything, add some warm water the while.

“Are you going to use that for a poultice?”

He sighs only while smearing honey over the cuts; and as he then lays a cloth over his patient’s forearm without having answered her yet, she grows annoyed at his silence.

“What is it now?” she asks.

“I have told you about these things, have I not?”

“Yes, but—”

“How do you apply a poultice, Ferja?”

“With gentle pressure, I suppose?”

“Wha—no! You smear it over a wound, wrap moss about it then, and set a bandage! Tell me now: For how long must he keep it on him?”

“For about two days… or—”

“Three, ’tis three days, and it must be repeated twice to thrice afore such wounds as his may heal up on their own! That is how it should be done, and you should know by now!”

“I do, but it would do better to take birchbark instead of moss, maybe even clay?”

“If I had these ingredients, I probably would.”

“I thought you still have—”

“No, I do not! And you would know that too if you would not be upstairs all day long. I wonder sometimes what I am teaching you for—and now make that poultice please so that I can put on a bandage.”

Even if the fireplace is more than a few steps away from the table he is at, he can hear her muttering and grumbling very well and sadly assumes that she is angry at having been rebuked for her fears—it is not so, and if only he would see that she solely sought to make him proud, then haply he would understand how painful such a remark as his can be.

As for her, she believes he is angry at her for that she keeps in her room for fear, whereas he merely felt unheard, as so often before. And he mutters, “I know what I am doing, yet you seem to doubt that”; and she mutters, “This city frightens me yet that you think trifle, for you do not know what to say to me to make me feel at home.”

Somewhat later she returns to him with the poultice and some moss, saying, “It is still warm, but although I am upstairs all day long, I do know that it must be applied warm!”

Before he can say something, Eldös begins to mumble “Arönal” over and over again.

His headache has not ceased anymore since before—it weakened only and strikes him now again with much greater pain. And yet, despite the savage throbbing in his head, he fears most for Arönal.

“He is awake, father.” Bending down to Eldös, Ferja says to him, “We will get you healthy again.”

“Warm up some wine,” says Olo, “warm up some wine, mix with a spoon full of honey, and pour it down his throat.”

While Olo applies the bandage, Ferja hurries to a cabinet nearby the fireplace and grasps the best vintage her father owns, whereupon she fills some of the wine into a pail, which she then sets on the grate straight. Having made sure that there is enough ember to heat it up quickly, she returns to her father, asking him to hand her the honey.

“Do you measure with a tablespoon or a teaspoon?”

“A teaspoon, take a teaspoon of honey.”

Whereas she prepares the liquor—which many define as a syrup, calling it either ‘Physician’s aid’ or ‘Tormonia’—, Olo inspects Eldös’ eyes, covering them with his hands shortly to see how the pupils react to light: strangely, the reaction is very slowly.

“Me head,” utters Eldös, “me head aches s-so s-severe’…”

“We will give you something against the pain, and to help you sleep—say, Eldos, from where do you have these wounds on your forearm?”

“I ha-had to do wrong to… to end it’ s-suffer.”

Much as he slurs, let alone the tears he sheds, Olo considers the pain to be graver even than thought: “Ferja, Ferja,” he thus says, “make enough syrup to knock him out!”

In a while she has prepared the syrup.

“Drink this,” she says to Eldös, pouring it down his throat. “You must drink it all; it will take the pain away.”

For someone who is not used to drinking, who has in sooth never even tasted any kind of liquor, Eldös is quickly affected by this medical beverage. And shortly after he has been given yet another cup full, which he surely had to empty straightway too, he falls into a deep sleep.

In the chamber for the ill—this being no other than a simple room with a single bed—Olo lays him down for a good night’s rest and covers him with a blanket, saying, “His body shall sweat out whatever unwanted substances that disturb his system.”

He has faith in his treatment and is sure Eldös will feel much better in the morning.

1 old-fashioned term for fever.

2 lat. wild thyme

A TROUBLED MAN

Adjr is all alone strolling around the city at night, thinking only about Eldös and how to tell him that his wagon has been taken from him, claimed along with ox and load. “Just how shall I tell him?” Might he say that the leader of the merchant caravan has seized the whole for compensation… mere compensation for the trouble they have had with the guards because of his screaming, whereas it was nothing else than stealing a man’s belongings! An entire wagon full of gear—and truly the gear is exceptional and some items are so rare that Adjr can only wonder where Eldös had obtained them—must be worth as much as a fortune together with the ox. And ’tis all gone now. It may be that Eldös is a merchant of his own. It must be so given that he was traveling alone, and now he is ruined, left with only what he has on him.

Such injustice Adjr cannot abide and indeed thinks about stealing both wagon and ox wholly to return them to their rightful owner. He is willing to take great pains upon himself to keep Eldös out of the gutter. Perchance he should first apprise the head of the Merchant Union of the incident before breaching the law himself, although Eldös might not be given any compensation whatsoever: After all, the Merchant Union has no contract with V’arra; so why, just why should anyone care about a simple man, whom they might even judge a competitor?

Things such as these make it hard for Adjr to stay honest; it appears that the good-hearted are always those who suffer most; and this angers him and disgusts him and he begins to resent the wealthy and the fortunate men for the benefits they enjoy, saying, “How much, o how much! I hate you so much!”

He proceeds with wandering about the alleys, drawing nearer to Ilsra’s northern districts.

The closer he comes to the city wall, the fewer the men who appear fully clothed, let alone in good heath. Privation holds the rein. The houses come to be sheds and huts and he more often finds doubtful characters lingering around than he sees a patrol.

A furlong off the city wall, the pavement descends into an alley where more than few fellows are moving about, appearing adrift and well off the right path. Here, in this rarely visited district, he could get robbed or killed for just about nothing. Fortunate for him, he strikes many of the souls whom he finds himself roaming among as being alike them—yet another one who has come astray, who has indeed been forgotten and left in the gutter, cast away into a life of wretchedness and poverty.

Such a sight he has grown used to seeing in Perper, the only port in all of Arjovan where the Merchant Union’s ships arrive every now and then to replenish their caravans’ goods. Now Perper’s warren of narrow alleys is alike a grave: The whole city resembles destitution, harbors outlaws, blackguards, knaves, and rogues—it is the most horrendous place to be at or live in. Here in Ilsra he may not witness such savageness or penury, but it is even so enough to never forget; and just these sites of oppression confirm him in his decision to steal back all of Eldös’ possessions tonight… to be no man who turns a blind eye to the doings of the corrupted ones nor to that of the tyrant and oppressor.

Yet, how shall he get both a fully loaded wagon and a great ox out and away at night, when not a soul is allowed to leave Ilsra unto the wake of day? And therewithal, the consequences of such an action—yes, even just the attempt—will like enough end at the gallows. He does not seem to care about either problem, however; should he wait for too long, he might catch himself fighting shy of doing what he believes is right.

Returning to the market, where Eldös wagon stands amid the merchant caravan’s, he looks around and about for the caravan guards: At least four horsemen are to keep constant vigil over the wagons and their load for the night, while everyone else may rest in a nearby tavern. Apparently, given that the market will open tomorrow and quite a few local traders are going to set up their stands in the early hours, well before the Sun has even rises, the whole half of their lot is on watch.

Even if Adjr is still working for the Merchant Union, he cannot just fare away with the wagon: The horsemen are obliged by contract to inform the caravan leader of anything that concerns the wagons and their load. Besides, he would need to fetch the ox first, yoke it and beat the wedges…

“Oh man, what shall I do?” he wonders. “Just what shall I do without getting myself killed?”

Sadly, he strikes upon a poor thought: He wants to report the caravan leader to the city guards. “For larceny I’ll get you!”

West of the market, about a furlong yonder, he espies a patrol and runs over to the guards, yelling, “I have witnessed a crime!”

“Of what sort?” ask they.

“Larceny! The leader of the merchant caravan has stolen a man’s property!”

“Are you speaking of the Union’s caravan.”

“Yes! The leader of the caravan—”

“Do you know the victim?”

“Somehow… yes.”

“Does he live here in Ilsra?”

“No, he has come from V’arra. We met him in Ahron an—”

“You are a merchant for the Merchant Union, are you?”

“I prefer the term ‘trader of the Union’—but, yea, I’m with them.”

“Well then, trader of the Union, listen here to me: Since the victim is not living here but is in fact a foreigner, you must inform a representative of the Merchant Union of this crime and not us.”

“But his belongings have been stolen from him—here in Ilsra!”

“In Ahron or Eridian, there you can find a representative at a merchant caravan inn. Apart from telling you this, which you ought to know yourself, there is nothing we shall do.”

“But—”

“I rede you take off now!”

“You cannot do this!”

“You yourself have stated that the Union has the right to withdraw from any contract it has with Arjovan if a merchant of theirs is harm—”

“I haven’t said this to you, to neither of you!”

“No, but to a fellow guard you have. Natheless, this has little to do with that than it has with the Ebenisis of Ilsra.”

“So this the book of Ilsra’s law grants you the right to forget about an injustice that has taken place in Ilsra itself?”

“You better be careful, trader of the Union, unless you wish to spend the night in a spithole!”

“Be it Ahron, Eridian, Rochgar, or Reogan—which region ever, there is no justice for the common men!”

Drawing his blade, the guard steps nearer to Adjr, seizing him by the throat all at once.

“You should be taught manners, I say!”

Trying to get free of the guard’s hold, Adjr grasps him by the wrist, shouting abuse: “Get off me, you law-sweeper15!”

“What was that, jester!” The guard hits him down hard—a strong punch to the gut and Adjr drops to his knees, vomiting on the pavement, wherefore he is arrested straight.

“Mock!” utters the guard. “You should have taken my counsel, spewing the streets—and offending authorities withal!”

In the dead of night they drag him through the city to one of the many shafts that are sunken into the high-street. “Here in the spithole,” they say to him, opening the latticed lid, “all who see you know that you are an offender, and down on you they will spit and look; and when you are allowed to go, you will be a marked man!”

Despite the gloom that befalls Adjr on being cast down into the dark, he speaks in rage, saying, “You are in trouble, so much trouble!”

“Trouble you say? We shall see what the leader of your caravan will have to say about that accusation of yours—what will he say, I wonder. Maybe he will simply carry on and leave you to rot in your very own spithole.”

Adjr feels a sudden shiver running down his spine: He must be present on market day, which is no later than tomorrow, or else the leader of his caravan can deem his absence a violation of his contract. Moreover—and of this Adjr has little knowledge as he is not working for the Merchant Union long enough—, if it comes to light that he has issued an accusation to the city guards and not to a representative of the Merchant Union, he can be prosecuted for ‘defamation’.

“You cannot do this!” yells he. “I must be present on market day!”

But the guards merely say, “Draw a deep breath! It looks like it will rain tonight.”

15 (vulgar slang) a guard who does not keep to the law himself.

FERAL SOUL

In the early morning Eldös awakens. Knowing neither what has happened after his arrival at the city nor how he has come to lie in this bed, he tries to rise, worrying about Arönal and what might have happened to his goods meanwhile. Sadly, though, he struggles with taking but a pace. Even worse, he is swaying and stumbling while trying to reach the door of this chamber, within which he feels confined, not at last since V’arra’s vast prairie made him regard freedom as no less than thousands of miles of open land.

Ferja, who is often bedeviled by nightmares and found no rest thus, hears a thud from the chamber and hurries in, finding Eldös lying upon the floor.

“I cannot rise on my own”, he speaks: “Me legs, I can not get on to me legs.”

She helps him back into bed apace, telling him that he better rest for another day; but, “No”, says Eldös; “I-I need find Arönal.”

“Who is that?” she wonders. “Perchance your brother or—”

“No, no, me brother is Ürian, but Arönal is me fellow ox.”

“Ah! I should tell you that the man who has brought you to us, Aljeras, he asked of us to tell you that your wagon and ox are at the market, but—”

“Prithee, do say, where is this market?”

“At the heart of Ilsra, but the market day is—”

“There I need go now.”

“But you cannot get up just yet; you need rest—”

“No! I care not.”

Rising straight, Eldös lurches to the door, saying, “Where are me boots, me boots?”

“By the door, the front door.”

Olo emerges descending the stairs swiftly.

“What is going on here?” he asks, wearing only his nightgown. “What is all this noise about?”

“I go,” says Eldös. “I go to rejoin w-with Arönal.”

“What you say! Just look at you! You are barely able to stand! See how you sway and—”

“I care not!”

Stepping out into bright daylight, Eldös seeks the market, unaware that he has slept for longer than a mere night. Apparently, market day is over; the caravan has likely moved on already.

He shuffles through the alleys, asking every man he stumbles across for directions.

“Head on straight along the high-street,” says a fellow, staring at him as if Eldös were insane.

“Th-the high-street is… is what—where is?”

“If you just follow this alley, you will come right on it.”

Doing so, Eldös reaches the high-street quickly, yet his legs are trembling and he is swaying; and ill as he looks, many whom he comes by thrust him away, demanding that he stay away. He falls on the ground by even the slightest shove, while all the people around him—all who thrust at him or say to him that he shall not step near—are watching him with disgust only.

By now he is drooling and his hair are damp, and the Sun’s bright light hurts his eyes; and though he has no feeling on his skin, ’tis as if his flesh were aflame.

Whoever sees him can tell that he is tormented, that he is in need of help, that he is in such agony that he can hardly distinguish anything—he is on the verge of dying. Still and all, not a soul offers him a hand to hold: nobody cares but the man in the spithole.

Virtually struck senseless by what ever has befallen him, Eldös endeavors to hold on his way, pleading all men to treat him fairly: “Why you are so to me? Please, do not cast me away as y-you do!”

His begging is of no avail: No one cares to help him or seems interested in his suffering; they propel him away altogether and observer how he disappears into an alley, whimpering and begging for someone to show him the way.

The cruelty with which he is treated evokes anger, which turns to rage, whereupon he starts to cry at whomever he see that Lerjan and Haiörengal will cast a cruse upon them for their foulness; and he says that he wants to be taken to Arönal, or he will not speak to the gods to avert Man’s extinction.

“You see my gods,” he yells, “yes, upon you they are! All of you … I take you on me!”

At the end of the alley, he comes to wander around the poor, cursing them, too: blustering, bringing forth a myriad charges.

Whereas some call for the guards, others stand frozen in their tracks, thinking of this fellow as being truly peculiar, and some do indeed assume that he must be in the hands of evil spirits.

Eldös is only faintly aware of his surroundings: He feels as if he were a ghost that is caged in the flesh and bone of a body other than his own—until struck by such pain that the very last bit of his self perishes and he comes to be wilder than even the wildest of beasts, falling upon the first soul in his reach. Battering the man without end, he is screaming, seemingly crying, while squashing the head with ever so many blows.

Engulfed in everlasting darkness, he runs through the alleys, setting upon men and children while often whirling his arms around, as if trying to strike at even the air.

He is groaning and growling and with his fists beating his own head. Whoever sees him takes to his heels, rushing to the nearest house to be sheltered from this beast that prowls the alleys.

“This man is insane,” they say, “as a creature suffering from rabies.”

Eldös does not see what he is doing to others or himself. While stalking the alleys, at times lingering around as if lying in wait, he bites into his arm, tearing off chunks of his own flesh. As yet he is walking in circles, searching for just anything to come at. Hying west, he comes to the city wall, by and by losing his balance.

The guards espy him before the city wall, where he is choking on bended knees, spewing out blood every now and again.

“Look!” they cry, surrounding him with shields raised and swords drawn. “He is taken by evil spirits!”

Oblivious of all and everything around him, Eldös fights for breath alone afore he vomits, coughing up yet more blood. And then—as the bird—he cannot rise anymore: His legs cannot bear him and his strengths seems to have left him. His every muscle is quivering!

“Archers!” cry the guards, commanding them to set their aim—and many are the arrows that are fired at him thereon.

In the midst of the guards are those whom Adjr has lectured. Seeing that Eldös had screamed after his arrival in Ilsra for seemingly no reason whatsoever, they are certain that he must have been ill already.

“He was taken to Olo,” says one of them to his fellow guards. “I heard the horseman saying that he will take him to Olo—whatever the reason of his state, Olo should have told us! And I say, that man who interfered with our duty, we best have a chat with him too.”

SHARE IN A MISDEED

In the region Ahron, the merchant caravan is on its way to Perper, having many miles yet to cover: The merchants had sold well-nigh everything that was left of their stock in Ilsra and so embarked for the port yesterday at midday, shortly before the end of market day, to replenish their goods.

Aljeras has been warding caravans of the Union for years, although he never had to obey to a man quite alike the leader of this train—Jaosh, whom he knows to have stolen another’s possessions only to swell his own pockets.

For Eldös’ wagon is not registered as one of the Merchant Union’s, Jaosh will not have to fear prosecution when he keeps all the gold he earns from sealing Eldös’ gear for himself, insofar nobody speaks of his misdeed; and given that Adjr has violated his contract by being absent at market day, Jaosh chances to part from this journey as a wealthy man are in good fortunes. Aljeras, however, certainly thinks about speaking to a representative of the Union in Eridian. Whether the word of a guard weights as much as that of a merchant is uncertain. Either way, it would be difficult for Jaosh to explain whence Eldös’ wagon comes and why it is not registered. But make no mistake! Aljeras does not want to turn on Jaosh for the sake of justice—he wants to be payed for his silence.

Riding to the wagon in the fore, upon which Jaosh is sitting all by himself, Aljeras wants to have a word with him.

“What about?” wonders Jaosh.

“This wagon that you sit on, I believe it is not yours.”

“It is since Ilsra!”

“As I see it, you have stolen this wagon and that ox from someone.”

“You better watch your mouth!”

Glancing back quickly, Aljeras continues in whispers lest the others hear of his strive for a share: “Either I am going to visit a representative, in which case I shall smile when you try to explain why this wagon here is not registered—neither load nor ox is anywhere on record, Jaosh—or you simply hand me a share of your selling.”

Thinking whether or not he should pay up the horseman, Jaosh must eventually admit that he has only very few alternatives, all of which could only draw suspicion.

“Fine,” says he, “I shall hand you ten percent!”

“No, you shall hand me a good half, or I am going to part for a merchant caravan inn!”

“Then do so!”

“You attempt to replenish loads, yes—although you have a wagon right here full of the finest gear? Yea, gear which you would not sell in Ilsra, for you rather sell it to the nobles in Perper, where the actual owner of these items will most likely never be at…”

“A fool’s talk!”

“Is it? Well, I do believe we have left Ilsra so soon only because you wish to sell all the gear before the ship arrives. I could ask the others what they think—shall I ask them?”

“I tell you this once, Aljeras—once only: This entire gear is for The Descendant!”

“For whom?”

“For the king, the king of Eridian!”

“Liar! You have stolen it! And I am aware, fully aware of your misdeed. I even begin to think that every last of these merchants is your confederate!”

Whether it is so or not, Jaosh would not say, keeping still lest the others claim him a double-crosser. To Aljeras, though, his silence is an all too clear sign of the others’ participation.

“You may keep the truth to yourself, just do not think I am blind of it; and be a man of your word—I trust you to hand me a fair share.”

“Fair? You dare claim the half a fair share?”

“Oh yea, I do… unless the others are expecting something, too: Do they expect something, Jaosh? I should be satisfied with less, then.”

“Tis ten percent each, from which everyone gives me another two percent to my share!”

“I see you have no qualms about stealing from your fellows! Hear me, Jaosh, you get as much as nothing from my share, and neither from that of the others—takings are going to be allotted equally among us!”

“No! I am the leader of this caravan and therefore solely responsible for all loads!”

“Be glad that I show such patience with you, Jaosh. Before you mistaken me for someone I am not, think carefully about your life and then ask yourself, Jaosh, ask yourself if you want it to end just now!”

“Without me you will not get anywhere, you hear!”

“All I am hearing is the gold that you will personally put into my purse! Perchance that be both my share and yours!”

Throughout all the days and nights Jaosh has been traveling with Aljeras, he has never come to be aware of this man’s actual nature.

“For you have enjoyed the comfort of being a merchant without ever caring to regard our exertions as worth more than our lousy wage, it is about time that you wake to the extend of your problem! You think yourself better than us who keep you safe on your travels. No, Jaosh, not anymore—I say, you are hereby under my command!”

“What?”

Turning to his fellow horsemen, Aljeras raises his voice, saying, “The days to come be our last journey, for part we will as wealthy men!”

“What are you saying?” wonders one of his most trusted friends—Joren, who has stood at his side through all of his fights.

“I am saying that this caravan is ours now, and I say to all of you merchants and wagoners—”

“Are you mad!” utters Joren. “You will have us be hounded for robbery!”

“Not if you are willing to show the strengths needed to bid the poor lives that you live farewell and welcome prosperity!”

“And just how shall we gain such wealth? By stealing!”

“This man here has stolen for his own purse and that of his fellows, turning away from us! See the wagon he is upon, it has been stolen—he is a fortune-plugger23.”

“Is that so?” Joren asks Jaosh. “I say, is that so?”

Again Jaosh keeps silent.

“Are you strong enough, Joren,” Aljeras raises his spear aloft, stepping nearer to Eldös’ wagon on horseback, “are you strong enough to follow me… to do as I do and see what I see? If so, then do forget the Union and follow me!”

“What are you tellin—”

“He has stolen a man’s belongings and shall therefore be punished for his greed!” And straightway ramming his spear into Jaosh’s chest, Aljeras drives the blade all through to the spine, saying, “Here! Have your share, thief!”

Shocked into silence, frightened merchants and wagoners are staring at him, mouths agape.

“A slayer!” mumbles a merchant, “he is a slayer, a slayer!”

Leaping down his wagon, he gawks at the dead body, seeing the blood dripping down to the side. “By the gods, how could you! How could you kill him!”

“He brought this on himself!”

“You are a knave! Yes, a knave who cares for his own desires only! I will not—”

“I care for you as much as for myself!”

Grasping Aljeras by the leg, the merchant wants to tear him down the horse, crying, “Damn you, horseman, damn you!”

“Get off!” Aljeras kicks him away and directs the spear at him straight, bearing the tip at the throat. “Dare you try that again!”

“You slayer, you damn slayer—we will lose our heads because of you!”

“I—and only I—killed him!”

“That will not matter to them!” yells another merchant.

“Only with Jaosh I had quarreled but not with you, and neither have I had quarreled with whomever else I am among!” Looking at every man who is sitting on a wagon, he speaks out to them all, saying, “Hear me all of you wagoners and merchants! Part now with your wagons and say to whomever you encounter that you have been attacked by brigands! You may keep what you have with you, but first witness what I am doing for you alone.” Aljeras dismounts his horse and loots Jaosh’s body for the official documents, which he keeps; and a bag of gold, which he throws over to the wagoner. “Have all the takings! Give everyone a fair share, and live on with more in your pockets than you have ever had before.”

“You speak as if we had a choice!” utters a merchant, “as if you would allow us to decline!”

“You have had a choice! Is it not so that you decided to band together to earn more than your wage by selling stolen gear?”

“What? Who has accused us of—”

“Hush now! I know the truth! Jaosh himself told me all about your mutual aim!”