am done. Now the bright and beautiful shall fall, one by one, into ruin.” Then, nothingness.
In the silence that fell briefly over the barracks and outbuildings, no one looked up although a few shrugged their shoulders in relief before putting their muscles back to the chores awaiting them. Of little imagination, they did not hold superstitions about what they heard. They knew whose tortured throat had uttered the ululations. Their master’s hound, as they called him, had been locked up for many days now. Or perhaps, as it was rumored about the rough fortress, he had locked the others out. Their ears had not the wit to hear more, nor their eyes the sagacity to see more, though many of them held a trace of Vaelinar in their bloodline. They were the chaff of the fields, and they knew it. They would work till the last ray of sun glinted across the landscape, or their master would exact a terrible discipline from them. Soldiers made into farmhands and blacksmiths, they toiled at what they must to survive. When the wars came, then would come their glory and their prosperity. They had been told that, and they believed it. That was a soldier’s lot and they had been chosen for it. The wind picked up again after a moment, unsubstantial and wavering. The tower remained silent.
Inside the tower, in a room locked from the inside, a spare, ragged man sat, his hollowed gaze upon a row of water jugs, most full and untouched. No crust or rind of bread could be found, nor any sign of meat or fruit. As lithe as any Vaelinar could be, he bordered more on skeletal, his strength wiry at best, whatever handsomeness his features had held long ago given way to gauntness and madness. Hair that might have been a lustrous brown in his youth was now lank and gray and corded back at the nape of his neck, his eyes flat and barely showing the jeweled multicolors of his people. Yet, as emaciated as he was, the very bones of his body shouted out his breeding. No one would mistake him as any other than Vaelinar.
He put a hand up and stroked his throat. His voice, if he had one left, would be raw and ragged, but his throat felt empty, as though there were no screams left to issue forth. Narskap nodded to himself and dragged one of the water vessels to him before drinking deeply, water cascading down his chin and over his chest. He dropped the jug wearily when he’d finished with it and it rolled about on its clay side, droplets running into a meager puddle. He looked into the wetness thinking to see himself there, scarcely more than skin and bones, hair pulled back into a severe queue at the back of his neck, his forehead peaked and high, the tips of his ears elegantly pointed, the only mark upon him that could be called one of Vaelinar quality. The rest of him could hardly be said to be so. He dressed in rags, he sat in sweat and dust, the tower confining him little more than wood and a bit of mortar here and there in the more severe cracks where the elements drove themselves in. Boards in the roof overhead rattled without cause. It was shelter but only just.
He gave a shrug. Dust drifted off him, a shroud of madness and delusion, and softly swirled to the floor around him, lesser motes floating on the air to be caught and studded by rays of sunlight managing to find their way inside. With a heave he found his feet, his body wavering back and forth with effort as though incapable of staying erect. He lifted trembling hands until he curved them into a position, holding an imaginary sword, a great sword, before him. In that pose, his body steadied. He found a gravity as he molded himself into a sword warrior’s stance. His hands tightened about that which he dreamed.
It had been his burden. He knew the heft and swing of it, the runes which had engraved it, the channels carved in it for the blood to run off, the elaborate hilt, the shining length of it. Narskap knew it as well as the smithy who’d fashioned and imbued it. He knew the Demon which had
In the silence that fell briefly over the barracks and outbuildings, no one looked up although a few shrugged their shoulders in relief before putting their muscles back to the chores awaiting them. Of little imagination, they did not hold superstitions about what they heard. They knew whose tortured throat had uttered the ululations. Their master’s hound, as they called him, had been locked up for many days now. Or perhaps, as it was rumored about the rough fortress, he had locked the others out. Their ears had not the wit to hear more, nor their eyes the sagacity to see more, though many of them held a trace of Vaelinar in their bloodline. They were the chaff of the fields, and they knew it. They would work till the last ray of sun glinted across the landscape, or their master would exact a terrible discipline from them. Soldiers made into farmhands and blacksmiths, they toiled at what they must to survive. When the wars came, then would come their glory and their prosperity. They had been told that, and they believed it. That was a soldier’s lot and they had been chosen for it. The wind picked up again after a moment, unsubstantial and wavering. The tower remained silent.
Inside the tower, in a room locked from the inside, a spare, ragged man sat, his hollowed gaze upon a row of water jugs, most full and untouched. No crust or rind of bread could be found, nor any sign of meat or fruit. As lithe as any Vaelinar could be, he bordered more on skeletal, his strength wiry at best, whatever handsomeness his features had held long ago given way to gauntness and madness. Hair that might have been a lustrous brown in his youth was now lank and gray and corded back at the nape of his neck, his eyes flat and barely showing the jeweled multicolors of his people. Yet, as emaciated as he was, the very bones of his body shouted out his breeding. No one would mistake him as any other than Vaelinar.
He put a hand up and stroked his throat. His voice, if he had one left, would be raw and ragged, but his throat felt empty, as though there were no screams left to issue forth. Narskap nodded to himself and dragged one of the water vessels to him before drinking deeply, water cascading down his chin and over his chest. He dropped the jug wearily when he’d finished with it and it rolled about on its clay side, droplets running into a meager puddle. He looked into the wetness thinking to see himself there, scarcely more than skin and bones, hair pulled back into a severe queue at the back of his neck, his forehead peaked and high, the tips of his ears elegantly pointed, the only mark upon him that could be called one of Vaelinar quality. The rest of him could hardly be said to be so. He dressed in rags, he sat in sweat and dust, the tower confining him little more than wood and a bit of mortar here and there in the more severe cracks where the elements drove themselves in. Boards in the roof overhead rattled without cause. It was shelter but only just.
He gave a shrug. Dust drifted off him, a shroud of madness and delusion, and softly swirled to the floor around him, lesser motes floating on the air to be caught and studded by rays of sunlight managing to find their way inside. With a heave he found his feet, his body wavering back and forth with effort as though incapable of staying erect. He lifted trembling hands until he curved them into a position, holding an imaginary sword, a great sword, before him. In that pose, his body steadied. He found a gravity as he molded himself into a sword warrior’s stance. His hands tightened about that which he dreamed.
It had been his burden. He knew the heft and swing of it, the runes which had engraved it, the channels carved in it for the blood to run off, the elaborate hilt, the shining length of it. Narskap knew it as well as the smithy who’d fashioned and imbued it. He knew the Demon which had
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