Entry #264906, added on 01-15-08 @ 6:18 pm EST
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Days had passed since the celebration feast, but the horror of the events that had taken place still remained in the hearts of all the villagers. They had cleared the square of the tables and chairs, and in their place they had erected a stone bier for Marton’s funeral pyre. Some of the banners and decorations from the celebration still remained, since everyone was still in mourning and hadn’t bothered to take them down. However the banners didn’t look as lively now, twisted around themselves or torn in some places and hanging as shadowy reminders of the horror a few nights before.
All the villagers now stood in a circle around the bier, heads bowed in unison as they awaited the clerics to begin the ceremony. Not everyone knew Marton personally, but his name was well known throughout the community, so everyone felt for his loss. Some murmured silent invocations for his spirit to pass on happily, while others gave their blessing to his family and friends.
The head cleric approached the body, and as part of the funeral rites, recited some ancient prayers as he doused it with oils. When he was finished, the captain of the guard, suited in the armor he used for battle, carried the dead warrior’s sword. He walked slowly, in short steps, toward the bier, his head lowered in grief. A frown showed through his mustache as he laid the sword across the body, and wrapped Marton’s hands around the handle. It was the memory token, an important item left with the deceased to take with them when their soul departed.
Rugo and his mother watched as the wood was placed around Marton’s body. Tears trickled down his mother’s face as she fought back sobs. Rugo stood still, clenching his fists as he tried to come to terms with his father’s death. An empty yet weighted feeling hung in his gut. He put his arm around his mother’s waist, mainly to comfort her, but also because he felt the need to have her close. She looked at her son, forcing a smile before turning back to look at her husband.
The captain raised his hands in the air to signal for a moment of silence to honor the dead, and everyone bowed their heads in remembrance and respect. When it was over, Rugo’s mother lit the ceremonial torch, and carried it over to where her husband lay. Strangely, the wood refused to catch flame. She tried again at a different spot, getting the same result.
Rugo’s mind was elsewhere, dwelling on the thought of his ruined edaro celebration. Now it didn’t seem to matter as much anymore, with his father gone. “Rugo, go find some wood for your mother,” Roddy, who was standing next to him, said. As he looked around, he noticed the throne from his celebration leaning up against a tree, where the wind Lamnos had created had cast it. No one had bothered to move it, much less touch it, since that night. Many considered it to be disrespectful to Rugo if they lay a finger on it before he did. But even he did nothing to it since. The symbol of his edaro, now a marred memory that lay there, nearly forgotten. Regardless, it had no more use to him.
An idea came to him, and he ran to get an axe, finding one in the vacant general store. He began chopping up the throne, which he normally would have taken home and displayed in his room. He hacked away until there were plenty of shards of wood to add to the pile around his father’s body.
The fire took to the new wood quickly, and in no time the bier was aflame. Perhaps it was because the throne’s wood was drier, more brittle, but Rugo wondered if it was more of Lamnos’ magic at work, stealing both his father and his edaro all at once. He watched Marton’s body burn, knowing his father’s good deeds would be rewarded.
Staring into the pyre, he reached into his pocket and withdrew his edaro torque. He looked at the curved ornament, feeling the cold metal in his hands. His mind was set. Instead of the customary quest that he would he appointed by the elders, he vowed he would seek out Lamnos and avenge his father’s death.
* * *
Rugo tossed in his bed, deep in sleep. He could hear the sound of thousands of feet pounding and armor clanking as a phalanx of soldiers marched.
Looking to his left, he saw Marton walking alongside him. They carried identical swords, ready to face the next barbarian strike. He looked around to see if he could recognize any of the other soldiers, but he couldn’t see their faces. Instead, they were rather transparent facial forms with no distinct identity or expression of their own.
A shrill scream rose from the valley as Rugo and the men crested the valley’s edges. It was the barbarian’s war cry, and the enemy filled the valley below, lining the floor like a lava lake. Their bodies were bare, except for the animal hides and green and blue war paint they wore.
The answering war cry tore from Rugo’s throat as he and his men poured into the valley. Swords and axes flashed in the sunlight and bodies dropped like corn stalks during a harvest. Rugo fought beside his father proudly, bringing down an ugly sneering barbarian with one swift blow.
“A fine warrior indeed, my son,” he heard his father cheer behind him.
The militia fought strongly against the barbarian horde, and the enemy’s numbers diminished. Their victory was near. Some of the other soldiers had already stopped fighting to rejoice.
“No! We must defeat them all before we can celebrate,” Rugo cried out to them, beheading another hapless barbarian.
The men didn’t listen, and now the only ones left fighting were his father and him. Suddenly he heard his father shout, and turned around just in time to see him go down from a sword wound to the stomach.
“No!” Rugo filled with a rage that consumed him and immediately began slicing down the remaining barbarians as if he were stepping on ants until there was not one left standing. Then he raced to his father’s wounded body, shouting in anger.
“You did a good job, my son. You have the blood of a warrior, my blood, running through you. Just remember: never give up.”
His father’s dying words echoed in Rugo’s mind as he woke from the dream.
All morning long he couldn’t stop thinking about his dream, seeing his father again and how victorious he had been in the battle. He wondered if it was some kind of sign, but he wasn’t sure what type it could be. Still, the thought of fighting with his father was an enjoyable one, and it aroused in him even more the desire to seek out Lamnos and avenge his father’s death. He drifted back to sleep, anxiously waiting the next morning to begin his journey.
* * *
“Mother, I really must go,” Rugo said, for what seemed to be the hundredth time over the course of the morning, as he tucked a dagger into his belt.
Kylia embraced her son tightly, clutching him to her breast with her trembling hands. “But you’re all I have left. You can’t leave. Not now. Why do want to leave me alone like this?” Rugo struggled to extricate himself from her grasp. Finally he took a step back and turned to face her.
As he looked into his mother’s watery eyes, his heart melted at the pleading look she gave him. Normally she looked so young and fair, but now her face was wrinkled and pale as though she had suddenly become thirty years older. She didn’t even bother with the upkeep of her soft mahogany hair, and it now lay in a tangled mess across her shoulders.
“I’m not a little boy anymore, Mother.”
“You may be considered a man now,” she said in a low, soft voice, “but you’ll always be my son.”
With a sigh, Rugo put a hand lovingly on her shoulder. “I don’t want to leave, but I must. My edaro calls for me to go on a quest, and I have made this mine.”
Rugo sighed as he forced himself to turn away and finish packing for his journey. He packed lightly, as he had learned from his father. He selected only his best set of traveling clothes: a hunter green tunic that fit his shape snugly, breeches and black hiking boots. To complete the outfit, he slung his father’s black cloak, which was oiled to protect against the elements, over his shoulders. It was long for him, but he would cut it to fit him later. Under his tunic he wore a suit of leather armor that was made especially for him. It was a gift from his mother, which she had planned on giving him after his first quest. A rush swept over him as he hooked the scabbard that contained his new sword onto his belt. He was ready.
He paused for a moment to take a last look at his familiar, comfortable house. The fireplace, where the cauldron of soup was cooking, was a place of warmth during the cold winter months and of storytelling all year round. His father would tell him about his past battles and missions, instilling in Rugo a desire to take up a sword to defend village and kingdom. He looked at the shelves where his mother kept the dishes and pottery, and remembered the time when he accidentally knocked off a favorite pot of hers. His punishment had been to muck out the village farm’s stables for a week. The house was full of memories. He missed it already.
There was still the option to stay home and try to live a normal life. That option was always there, but Rugo knew that if he made that decision, he would never be complete. His father’s death would only continue to haunt him, even if only in his dreams. No, there was no turning back now. He knew what he must do.
As he walked out the door, he could hear his mother wailing behind him. “First my husband, then my son! Why do you do this to me?”
He paused, hoping those would not be the last words he would ever hear from her.
As Rugo passed by Cerine’s house, he peeked into the small semi-circular window that looked into the kitchen. Cerine wasn’t there, washing the vegetables for dinner as she normally did at this time. Rugo wondered where she had gone, for he wanted to see her one more time before he left. He decided that it was best, for he had no lie thought up to explain the reason for leaving. After all, the village assumed that Rugo had given up his edaro quest to mourn for Marton. He hadn’t even said anything to Cerine, for he didn’t want her to fret over his leaving like his mother had.
The next stop Rugo had planned was at Roddy’s tavern for some provisions for his journey. As he approached the door, he thought about his days of occasionally pilfering a sweet bun or two, or slabs of bacon or jerky to snack on with his friends. Roddy always seemed to know what he had done, and would half-heartedly swipe at him with a broom, not nearly hard enough to affect the friendly relations between them.
Rugo stepped inside, noticing that the patrons were few on this particular day. Most of them he had never seen before, but he recognized a few regulars who never seemed to leave. There was Bert, the fat old drunkard who always had a raunchy tale to tell, sitting at his normal place in the booth. He didn’t acknowledge Rugo’s entrance, but then again, he was too drunk or senile to notice much of anything anyway.
Roddy greeted him with a hearty shout, waving him over to the counter. “What brings you in here today, young man?”
Rugo grinned as he approached, putting on an impersonation of the various travelers he had seen come through. “I need some rations for a short trip I’m taking.” He rested his arm on the countertop and leaned his weight onto it.
“Doesn’t have anything to do with that stranger we saw at your celebration feast, does it?” Roddy laughed, trying to make light of the grim situation. It must have been from all the people he met in his time, but he always knew things that people didn’t think he’d know.
Especially about the real length of his trip, Rugo thought as he noticed the amount of food Roddy had packed for him in a sack. “If I hear about you doing any pilfering, Rugo, I’ll make sure you have a heap of potatoes to peel and cut for me when you return.”
This brought a smile to Rugo’s face as he tossed a few coins onto the counter to pay for the food. “Thank you, Roddy. Look after my mother until I get back.”
He took the main road out of the village into the forest, seeing the light set of footprints he had left in the ground. He was surprised that they hadn’t been erased by weather or new prints. If he had looked closer, he would have noticed the footprints were leading out of the village.
It felt like much longer than a week since his meditation and the attack on his father. Between the funeral and the preparations to find Lamnos, the week seemed to both fly by and last a lifetime. The forest was larger than Rugo remembered it to be as well, but that was because Marton had never let him venture this far from the village when he was younger. The path twisted into an intricate network of turns, somewhat of a maze, and several times Rugo thought he had traveled in circles. Or taken a wrong turn. He wished he had brought a guide along with him.
He took a moment to stop and look around, to regain his bearings and rest his feet. Leaning against the trunk of a massive oak, he looked up to the sky, and noticed one tree rising high above the others, its tip piercing the sun. And like his father had said, a ribbon of the brightest red fluttered in the breeze above.
Seeing it, however, was bittersweet. He wasn’t able to share the moment with Marton. Rugo sighed and continued walking, this time in the direction of the tree. If Lockley had found it, it mustn’t be too far from some sort of trail. Finally he found his way back onto the main path, and made sure not to stray from it again.
Rugo strolled casually along the path through one of the denser parts of the forest. He hummed the tune of the ‘Ballad of the Edaron’ as he walked. The smooth condition of the path showed how heavily trodden it was. The path was a trade route for the village as well as a thoroughfare for the army to march through during wartime. Following it now felt a little awkward, especially after the dream he had about his father.
The path led up to a small rock-lined brook, over which crossed a rickety old bridge. There were rumors that trolls lived under bridges such as this. A part of Rugo wished he’d encounter one, but he doubted he would. It was the fey, though, who were said to trick humans into their hidden dwellings, never to return, that Rugo feared. No one had ever seen one, especially Rugo, but the images in his mind of pale, sniveling creatures had haunted his memory since childhood. Because of this, any sudden movement made him start and become more alert.
As he stepped up to the bridge, he could hear the grinding of rope and wood as it softly swayed back and forth. Taking a deep breath, he walked across the first couple of planks. The bridge creaked as it gave way slightly to the new weight on it. He grabbed hold of the ropes along the sides to keep his balance and slowly made his way across.
Once on solid ground on the other side, Rugo adjusted his long cloak and looked at the forest ahead. It was darker on this side of the bridge, most likely because of the thicker canopy of leaves overhead. He warily walked on, his hand staying close to the sword on his belt.
The bushes along the side of the path rustled as he walked by, but something in the way they moved was not natural. A putrid odor, like that of a decaying corpse, emanated from the bushes, causing Rugo to wrinkle his nose. It was no mere animal. Rugo noticed a pair of hungry yellow-brown eyes peeking through. A set of slimy wrinkled hands clawed at the branches of the bush. Whatever the creature was, it made a sound that resembled a raspy mix of a purr and a growl.
Rugo froze, his legs starting to tremble as he stared at the bushes. The growling creature remained still as well. The face-off between the two seemed to last longer than the time it really lasted before finally the creature emerged from its hiding place with a giant leap. It landed on the path right in front of Rugo, sending him off his feet and falling back on his behind. It was then that he got to see it for what it really was.
The hideous face was unlike anything Rugo had ever imagined. Rippled gray skin, caked with dirt and scars from brambles, sagged from its cheeks. It sat in a crouch, its back hunched in the air. Saliva dripped from the corners of its mouth, which crooked into a toothy sneer. Rugo guessed the monster to be a troll.
It made no further sound, but pounced at Rugo with its arms extended. Rugo rolled to his right and rose to his feet. The troll also stood, rising to its full height, which was about up to Rugo’s chin. It stared long and thoughtfully at him and occasionally reached up to lick its fingers or scratch its head as if it was preening itself.
Rugo didn’t know why he didn’t just take off running right then and there, using the troll’s inactivity as the perfect opportunity for escape. Yes, he was curious, but was that a good enough reason to stand around like a fool?
Regardless, in a blink the troll sprinted toward him and grabbed a handful of his tunic. The monster’s grip was tighter than Rugo expected for its diminutive size. Its claws clenched onto the fabric and pulled Rugo’s body closer to it. He could feel the heavy rising and falling of the troll’s chest as it breathed on him. The breath, thrown in Rugo’s face, reeked of the rotten bits of food trapped between its broken yellow teeth.
Rugo struggled to slip out of the creature’s hold on him, and wrestled with it for some time before he finally pulled free. As he regained his stance, he drew his sword, not letting his guard down again.
The hungry look in the troll’s eyes was not lost on Rugo as it slinked across the path in a circular motion to try to get behind him. This time Rugo figured he had the upper hand, and quickly lunged at the monster with his sword. The blade hissed through the air and sank deep into the troll’s shoulder, bringing out a shrill scream from the creature.
Rugo almost fell back and dropped his sword from the blow, but managed to keep his posture. He moved away from the crumpled form of the troll, catching his breath. Wiping off his sword, he smiled to himself. While he hadn’t shown much finesse, he had proved himself in combat. He was victorious; the first he hoped of what would be many on his journey.
After a short rest, he continued walking practically nonstop for the next several days. It had been quite some time since he left home, probably been over a week, but he wasn’t sure. He had stopped to eat and relax his legs, but he didn’t sleep well the times he had tried before. His eyelids felt heavy and he grew tired. Choosing a comfortable-looking bed of grass surrounded by thick bushes, he curled up and was quickly lulled to sleep by the sounds of the breeze through the leaves and the crickets chirping.
As the sun peeked through the leaves and fell upon his face, he awoke refreshed and ready for another stretch of his journey. Looking around, he hoped he would encounter another troll. The confidence gained by his first encounter hadn’t faded, and Rugo walked with his head in the clouds, a wide grin on his face that nothing could seem to erase.
However, Rugo’s ears weren’t tuned to the sound of several scratching footsteps behind him. He may have if he had chosen the Path of the Leaf, which would have meant living the rest of his life alone as a ranger in the mountains and forests. If he had, he would have gained the skills to hear, see and detect things most would miss. But instead he had chosen the Path of the Sword, studying combat, and he hadn’t reached the level of skill necessary when ambushed from behind. And the ranger lifestyle might have prepared him for the defense from an attack by what had been following him nearly all afternoon. |
© Copyright 2008 Mark C Bradley (UN: auric at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
Mark C Bradley has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
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