Tod Langley's Blog - Posts Tagged "tod"
The Use of Allegory in Modern Fantasy Fiction: Prince Kristian’s Honor
‘The people shouted out prices quickly. Several argued over the worth and cost of the slave. Eventually, only one person was able to keep bidding higher. His love stepped away from the crowd, handing the slave trader a few gold coins. She grabbed the rope that was dangling on the stage and gently guided her new servant off. The beautiful girl seemed to feel Mikhal’s stare and turned to face him. Her wicked smile quickly fell from her face as she saw his disbelief, but only for a moment. The girl Mikhal knew to be the demon smiled again, pulling her slave behind her.
In his dream, Mikhal fell from the barrels as a tremor from the earth shook the city. People in the middle of the street cringed, unsure of what to do. A statue of a beautiful goddess fell from its pedestal crushing a man. The delicate glass torch that was held in the statue’s outstretched hand shattered on the paved street. A loud boom rocked the foundation of the tavern next to Mikhal even as the earth stopped shaking. He looked up from where he lay to see a column of dark smoke rise from somewhere deeper in the city.’
Many stories, through out recorded history, have included allegories as a means of conveying an important message to readers. An allegory can be a story in which the apparent use of characters and events symbolizes a moral meaning; an allegory is a symbolic reference to something of importance to the reader. The opening paragraphs in this discussion are from Prince Kristian’s Honor, Book One of the Erinia Saga; I wrote them to point out issues of racism and depravity within a fictional society. The description of the falling statue with a delicate glass torch should help readers understand that I am alluding to issues within our own society. The earthquake and signs of disaster deeper in the city warn readers that there is something more troubling at the heart of the kingdom within the book, but I am also suggesting there may be issues within our own society.
Stories of fantasy are nothing more than the retelling of our own triumphs and sad, sad tragedies. I believe the fantasy fiction genre provides an outstanding vehicle for presenting moral and societal issues (through the use of allegories). In my first novel, Prince Kristian’s Honor (PKH), I use the allegorical convention to describe events and emotions I experienced over the last decade. This discussion will highlight three examples of allegory within my novel, with the intent of encouraging debate on writing conventions within modern Fantasy, as well as inform readers interested in some of the more nuanced portions of PKH.
‘The king shook his head. “Religious fanatics don’t win wars, Ferral. I thought you would have learned at least that much from me. If you want to have a kingdom to rule after I am gone, you will follow my lead. Politics can be as threatening as any war and can do as much harm as any army. We shall defeat the Erandians through intrigue and sabotage, not by rushing them with a thousand suicidal zealots.”
“There are the loyal followers of Belatarn and then there are those that deserve to die. The Erandians especially deserve death. Those meddling fools have influenced our world for too long. It’s time they realize that we don’t want or need them. It’s Belatarn’s will that all non-believers die, and I’ll be his messenger.” (Ferral declared)’
The previous passage from PKH was carefully constructed to reflect the conflict between two rivals struggling for control and influence over a larger kingdom. One of the characters, the King of Belarn, believes the way to control the world is through subtle changes and power-plays while Ferral, the villain in the novel, believes the only way to dominate the world and force his brand of religion upon everyone is through fanaticism and violence.
In my book, Ferral and his father represent Osama bin Laden and his long time comrade, Abdullah Azzam. Both were early members of the Maktab al-Khadamat movement but Azzam wanted to take a more unified, cautious and subtle approach that would work through existing Middle East fighting forces rather than create a separate, militant force. He also wanted to focus the global jihad against a different area than what Osama planned. Osama bin Laden did not agree with Azzam; he felt the only way to change the world was through violent uprising against apostate regimes and the Americans that backed them. In the end, Azzam was murdered. It is not certain whether bin Laden was responsible for his comrade’s death, but it certainly was a catalyst for increased radicalization of people in many countries.
In PKH, Ferral also gets his way and is responsible for the chaos that engulfs the land of Erinia. Additionally, Ferral’s quest to obtain magic so he can terrorize the other kingdoms directly relates to the very real threat of terrorists acquiring Weapons of Mass Destruction:
Ferral smiled. “These powers will help Belarn influence the rest of the world. Those that might have stronger armies will be afraid to use them out of fear of what I can and will do to their people. They will surrender to me or watch helplessly as their kingdoms are destroyed.”’
In PKH, Ferral is able to control the population through intimidation, radicalization, and magic. His followers become nothing more than puppets that perform their duties blindly. The same could be said of people through out history that have aided cruel leaders in their personal quests for power. Osama bin Laden is a master at understanding and twisting religion to suit his needs. People, desperate for change, cling to leaders like bin Laden and Ferral because they offer motivation and an alternative to the status quo. They may not even realize that they are being manipulated; they are simply doing what they believe has to be done for a greater good.
‘Those in the army that had not perished in the fires that erupted from several places at once, like a coordinated attack, fought to save their king. Several servants reported seeing a large fire ball slam into the side of tower that the king slept in . . .
From below the balcony, soldiers and servants tried one last time to rush through the flames and save their beloved king . . . Suddenly, a rumbling sound grew from inside the palace. The grand building collapsed, the ground underneath the rescuers trembling. The tower fell in on itself. First, the roof and battlements fell; their massive weight tearing through reinforced floors. As the added weight and momentum continued to fall down, floor upon floor, the outside walls simply sagged in and fell. Hundreds were still trapped inside. There was no way for them to escape the wreckage. Dozens of rescuers were crushed by the falling rock and smoke, and dust engulfed those that ran from the royal grounds.’
Hopefully, readers will immediately see this as a remembrance of the terrible events of 9/11. I did not incorporate it into my novel for any personal gain; I describe the event as a way to convey my own emotions (I was involved in the Global War on Terror for several years and I volunteered for hazardous assignments because of what happened on 9/11).
The argument, and perhaps the challenge, that I am writing about is that the Fantasy genre has much more to offer. Stories that cause intense emotion or introduce us to new characters are the foundation of any good novel, but a story that can also remind us of the issues we face in our lives can be worth so much more. Stories of fantasy are nothing more than the retelling of our own triumphs and sad, sad tragedies. I made that argument at the beginning of this discussion; it’s a quote I wrote for the book back in the year 2000. The phrase took on much more significance for me after the events of 9/11 and the years I spent in various combat zones. The allegories within PKH are meant to be entertaining, but they are also intended to be thought-provoking. I used allegory to reflect the issues I personally faced over the last ten years and I intend to continue using the convention in future projects.
For those of you who have supported me by purchasing and reading PKH … thank you. I have room to grow as a writer, but I am also pleased by the amount of feedback I have received. I hope you can now better understand some of the things that I intentionally incorporated into the book. I hope it left you wanting to read more about Prince Kristian, Cairn, and Mikhal, but I also hope it made you think about some of the issues that we face as a society.
Regards, Tod
Tod Langley
Author of Prince Kristian’s Honor, Book One of the Erinia Saga
In his dream, Mikhal fell from the barrels as a tremor from the earth shook the city. People in the middle of the street cringed, unsure of what to do. A statue of a beautiful goddess fell from its pedestal crushing a man. The delicate glass torch that was held in the statue’s outstretched hand shattered on the paved street. A loud boom rocked the foundation of the tavern next to Mikhal even as the earth stopped shaking. He looked up from where he lay to see a column of dark smoke rise from somewhere deeper in the city.’
Many stories, through out recorded history, have included allegories as a means of conveying an important message to readers. An allegory can be a story in which the apparent use of characters and events symbolizes a moral meaning; an allegory is a symbolic reference to something of importance to the reader. The opening paragraphs in this discussion are from Prince Kristian’s Honor, Book One of the Erinia Saga; I wrote them to point out issues of racism and depravity within a fictional society. The description of the falling statue with a delicate glass torch should help readers understand that I am alluding to issues within our own society. The earthquake and signs of disaster deeper in the city warn readers that there is something more troubling at the heart of the kingdom within the book, but I am also suggesting there may be issues within our own society.
Stories of fantasy are nothing more than the retelling of our own triumphs and sad, sad tragedies. I believe the fantasy fiction genre provides an outstanding vehicle for presenting moral and societal issues (through the use of allegories). In my first novel, Prince Kristian’s Honor (PKH), I use the allegorical convention to describe events and emotions I experienced over the last decade. This discussion will highlight three examples of allegory within my novel, with the intent of encouraging debate on writing conventions within modern Fantasy, as well as inform readers interested in some of the more nuanced portions of PKH.
‘The king shook his head. “Religious fanatics don’t win wars, Ferral. I thought you would have learned at least that much from me. If you want to have a kingdom to rule after I am gone, you will follow my lead. Politics can be as threatening as any war and can do as much harm as any army. We shall defeat the Erandians through intrigue and sabotage, not by rushing them with a thousand suicidal zealots.”
“There are the loyal followers of Belatarn and then there are those that deserve to die. The Erandians especially deserve death. Those meddling fools have influenced our world for too long. It’s time they realize that we don’t want or need them. It’s Belatarn’s will that all non-believers die, and I’ll be his messenger.” (Ferral declared)’
The previous passage from PKH was carefully constructed to reflect the conflict between two rivals struggling for control and influence over a larger kingdom. One of the characters, the King of Belarn, believes the way to control the world is through subtle changes and power-plays while Ferral, the villain in the novel, believes the only way to dominate the world and force his brand of religion upon everyone is through fanaticism and violence.
In my book, Ferral and his father represent Osama bin Laden and his long time comrade, Abdullah Azzam. Both were early members of the Maktab al-Khadamat movement but Azzam wanted to take a more unified, cautious and subtle approach that would work through existing Middle East fighting forces rather than create a separate, militant force. He also wanted to focus the global jihad against a different area than what Osama planned. Osama bin Laden did not agree with Azzam; he felt the only way to change the world was through violent uprising against apostate regimes and the Americans that backed them. In the end, Azzam was murdered. It is not certain whether bin Laden was responsible for his comrade’s death, but it certainly was a catalyst for increased radicalization of people in many countries.
In PKH, Ferral also gets his way and is responsible for the chaos that engulfs the land of Erinia. Additionally, Ferral’s quest to obtain magic so he can terrorize the other kingdoms directly relates to the very real threat of terrorists acquiring Weapons of Mass Destruction:
Ferral smiled. “These powers will help Belarn influence the rest of the world. Those that might have stronger armies will be afraid to use them out of fear of what I can and will do to their people. They will surrender to me or watch helplessly as their kingdoms are destroyed.”’
In PKH, Ferral is able to control the population through intimidation, radicalization, and magic. His followers become nothing more than puppets that perform their duties blindly. The same could be said of people through out history that have aided cruel leaders in their personal quests for power. Osama bin Laden is a master at understanding and twisting religion to suit his needs. People, desperate for change, cling to leaders like bin Laden and Ferral because they offer motivation and an alternative to the status quo. They may not even realize that they are being manipulated; they are simply doing what they believe has to be done for a greater good.
‘Those in the army that had not perished in the fires that erupted from several places at once, like a coordinated attack, fought to save their king. Several servants reported seeing a large fire ball slam into the side of tower that the king slept in . . .
From below the balcony, soldiers and servants tried one last time to rush through the flames and save their beloved king . . . Suddenly, a rumbling sound grew from inside the palace. The grand building collapsed, the ground underneath the rescuers trembling. The tower fell in on itself. First, the roof and battlements fell; their massive weight tearing through reinforced floors. As the added weight and momentum continued to fall down, floor upon floor, the outside walls simply sagged in and fell. Hundreds were still trapped inside. There was no way for them to escape the wreckage. Dozens of rescuers were crushed by the falling rock and smoke, and dust engulfed those that ran from the royal grounds.’
Hopefully, readers will immediately see this as a remembrance of the terrible events of 9/11. I did not incorporate it into my novel for any personal gain; I describe the event as a way to convey my own emotions (I was involved in the Global War on Terror for several years and I volunteered for hazardous assignments because of what happened on 9/11).
The argument, and perhaps the challenge, that I am writing about is that the Fantasy genre has much more to offer. Stories that cause intense emotion or introduce us to new characters are the foundation of any good novel, but a story that can also remind us of the issues we face in our lives can be worth so much more. Stories of fantasy are nothing more than the retelling of our own triumphs and sad, sad tragedies. I made that argument at the beginning of this discussion; it’s a quote I wrote for the book back in the year 2000. The phrase took on much more significance for me after the events of 9/11 and the years I spent in various combat zones. The allegories within PKH are meant to be entertaining, but they are also intended to be thought-provoking. I used allegory to reflect the issues I personally faced over the last ten years and I intend to continue using the convention in future projects.
For those of you who have supported me by purchasing and reading PKH … thank you. I have room to grow as a writer, but I am also pleased by the amount of feedback I have received. I hope you can now better understand some of the things that I intentionally incorporated into the book. I hope it left you wanting to read more about Prince Kristian, Cairn, and Mikhal, but I also hope it made you think about some of the issues that we face as a society.
Regards, Tod
Tod Langley
Author of Prince Kristian’s Honor, Book One of the Erinia Saga
My First CON (SFF Convention) … Where I failed, What I learned, Why I still had Fun!
I attended my first Sci-Fi/Fantasy Convention, the PhilCon 2009 (Philadelphia), last weekend. My primary goal was to promote the release of my first Fantasy novel, Prince Kristian’s Honor. I planned to establish a dealer’s table to use as a platform to introduce myself to convention participants, fellow authors, as well as industry insiders. My (overly) optimistic goal was to sell 100 copies of my book while there (to pay for the expenses of the convention and to put some money aside for my next book project).
I sold one book in three days … compared to the 25 books I sold in just four hours at a Border’s book signing the evening before the CON. So what happened? What did I do wrong? Is my book horrible? Should I give up!?!
Putting things into a "calmer" perspective, I met my primary goal and I learned a lot of useful information about the traditional and self-publishing businesses, conventions, and the great people that attend them. I failed because I confused and combined two very different objectives; promoting and selling. I did, however, learn a lot about how to work a convention and I had fun because I met people with similar interests.
Here are some of my lessons learned:
1. Selling vs. Promoting = Dealer Table vs. Panels. As a new writer, you want to be seen and heard more then you want to sell books. The best way to establish credibility is by sitting in on discussions, asking valid questions, listening and learning. Don’t be afraid to provide your own opinion/observations (when appropriate), but don’t showboat either. If panel members and the audience consider your comments valid, their opinion of you will rise. That could lead to people wanting to know more about your published works. Potential readers will then connect with you during breaks or parties to find out more about you and how they can get a copy of your book. If you have the time and resources to participate in panels AND run a dealer’s table you can do that too. That works best if you have a second person at your table that can answer questions about your book, point readers to additional resources on the book and sell the book while you are away. This option comes in handy if people want to go directly from an outstanding conversation with you to your table and buy a copy of your future bestseller!
2. Networking = Get to Know the Graybeards and the Up and Coming. I found there were two types of dedicated writers/insiders at the CON. There were those staffers, insiders and writers that had made a successful career through the CON circuit (Graybeards) and there were those, like me, that want to become the best new writer. You can, and should, learn from both. Questions are encouraged and all of the people I had conversations with enjoyed talking about their passion for Sci-Fi/Fantasy writing. There will likely be parties (some large and rowdy and some more subdued) every night of the CON. I’d encourage would-be writers to attend these parties. It’s a great way to meet new people in the regional industry, talk about the CON, and even a little about future business opportunities. Though I didn’t walk away from the CON with an agent, larger publisher, or 100 copies sold, I acquired a lot of contacts for potential business, references, and continued dialogue.
3. The Lexicon of the CON = Know the Language. There’s got to be a site out there that will help you understand the lingo better. Find it and be ready for the “Non-traditional” lifestyles, behaviors, costumes, attitudes and expectations of a CON.
4. Table Display = Professionalism but Not Necessarily Sales. I had an AWESOME table. I had a professional sign, a lot of neatly arranged books, bookmarks, a binder full of sample blogs, reviews, and proof of rankings on Amazon. I even had a personalized table cloth! All of those things demonstrated that I took my promotion seriously, but it didn’t necessarily mean people were interested in the book. I think a good way to look at a table is to consider what draws people in, what keeps them there long enough for conversation, and what will convince them to make a buy. More than one product on the table certainly brings over more people; even if they’re things unassociated with your novel. Things like collectable badges, magnets, buttons, bookmarks, stickers, and candy would have brought more people over. I also thought candy was an inviting way for a few of the more savvy writers to encourage dialogue with people. A huge part of the CON is about establishing a longer term presence within the community. Being friendly, open and honest about what you are doing and what you hope to do are big part of what people want to know about you before making a book purchase.
5. Essential Supplies = What do I need and what can I forget about?
a. Professional Sign – advertise your book and ensure it includes the Title, Cover Picture, portion of a review or synopsis, and your name.
b. Table Cloth – one may be provided but you should have a back-up.
c. Book Stand – a book that stands up catches the eye better.
d. Books
e. Bookmarks
f. References – Reviews, Biography
g. Sales Receipt Book
h. State Sales Tax Registration/Confirmation papers
i. CON Dealer Acceptance Letter
j. Pens – medium tip marker or pen
k. Cash bag – at least make sure you have something secure to put your change in. Make sure you are also prepared to make change.
l. Calculator
m. Notepad – I used this to write down all of the contacts I made, as well as the notes I took for this blog.
n. Business Cards – have something prepared to hand out to agents, writers and other dealers.
o. I also tried to run a looping slide show of photos (of me and the book) to entice people to stop and look and ask questions. It didn’t work well. I wouldn’t put a lot of time into Fantastic Effects … focus on engaging people when they stop by.
6. Follow-up. When you’ve survived your first CON, make sure to recontact those that you met. I think it reinforces how much you appreciated meeting, talking and learning from those you encountered. It may also demonstrate how committed you are to becoming better … and who knows … maybe you’ll make a new friend, associate or partner in the process.
7. FUN = Embrace Your Geekiness! Hey! It’s a CON … people are attracted to these things because they get to express themselves in ways they normally can’t. My biggest regret is that I didn’t have my wife with me to watch the table so that I could visit the PA Jedi table, grab a custom made lightsaber and perform my newest Jedi Master Kata Form 6! There are a lot of things to participate in at a CON, from lightsaber duels, re-enactments, card games, panels, Philking, and parties to masquerade contests, art exhibits, auctions and concerts. Promoting your new release is very important, but having fun and learning are probably equally (if not) more important.
I hope these lessons learned helped out other new writers preparing for their first CON.
Regards and Good Luck! Tod
I sold one book in three days … compared to the 25 books I sold in just four hours at a Border’s book signing the evening before the CON. So what happened? What did I do wrong? Is my book horrible? Should I give up!?!
Putting things into a "calmer" perspective, I met my primary goal and I learned a lot of useful information about the traditional and self-publishing businesses, conventions, and the great people that attend them. I failed because I confused and combined two very different objectives; promoting and selling. I did, however, learn a lot about how to work a convention and I had fun because I met people with similar interests.
Here are some of my lessons learned:
1. Selling vs. Promoting = Dealer Table vs. Panels. As a new writer, you want to be seen and heard more then you want to sell books. The best way to establish credibility is by sitting in on discussions, asking valid questions, listening and learning. Don’t be afraid to provide your own opinion/observations (when appropriate), but don’t showboat either. If panel members and the audience consider your comments valid, their opinion of you will rise. That could lead to people wanting to know more about your published works. Potential readers will then connect with you during breaks or parties to find out more about you and how they can get a copy of your book. If you have the time and resources to participate in panels AND run a dealer’s table you can do that too. That works best if you have a second person at your table that can answer questions about your book, point readers to additional resources on the book and sell the book while you are away. This option comes in handy if people want to go directly from an outstanding conversation with you to your table and buy a copy of your future bestseller!
2. Networking = Get to Know the Graybeards and the Up and Coming. I found there were two types of dedicated writers/insiders at the CON. There were those staffers, insiders and writers that had made a successful career through the CON circuit (Graybeards) and there were those, like me, that want to become the best new writer. You can, and should, learn from both. Questions are encouraged and all of the people I had conversations with enjoyed talking about their passion for Sci-Fi/Fantasy writing. There will likely be parties (some large and rowdy and some more subdued) every night of the CON. I’d encourage would-be writers to attend these parties. It’s a great way to meet new people in the regional industry, talk about the CON, and even a little about future business opportunities. Though I didn’t walk away from the CON with an agent, larger publisher, or 100 copies sold, I acquired a lot of contacts for potential business, references, and continued dialogue.
3. The Lexicon of the CON = Know the Language. There’s got to be a site out there that will help you understand the lingo better. Find it and be ready for the “Non-traditional” lifestyles, behaviors, costumes, attitudes and expectations of a CON.
4. Table Display = Professionalism but Not Necessarily Sales. I had an AWESOME table. I had a professional sign, a lot of neatly arranged books, bookmarks, a binder full of sample blogs, reviews, and proof of rankings on Amazon. I even had a personalized table cloth! All of those things demonstrated that I took my promotion seriously, but it didn’t necessarily mean people were interested in the book. I think a good way to look at a table is to consider what draws people in, what keeps them there long enough for conversation, and what will convince them to make a buy. More than one product on the table certainly brings over more people; even if they’re things unassociated with your novel. Things like collectable badges, magnets, buttons, bookmarks, stickers, and candy would have brought more people over. I also thought candy was an inviting way for a few of the more savvy writers to encourage dialogue with people. A huge part of the CON is about establishing a longer term presence within the community. Being friendly, open and honest about what you are doing and what you hope to do are big part of what people want to know about you before making a book purchase.
5. Essential Supplies = What do I need and what can I forget about?
a. Professional Sign – advertise your book and ensure it includes the Title, Cover Picture, portion of a review or synopsis, and your name.
b. Table Cloth – one may be provided but you should have a back-up.
c. Book Stand – a book that stands up catches the eye better.
d. Books
e. Bookmarks
f. References – Reviews, Biography
g. Sales Receipt Book
h. State Sales Tax Registration/Confirmation papers
i. CON Dealer Acceptance Letter
j. Pens – medium tip marker or pen
k. Cash bag – at least make sure you have something secure to put your change in. Make sure you are also prepared to make change.
l. Calculator
m. Notepad – I used this to write down all of the contacts I made, as well as the notes I took for this blog.
n. Business Cards – have something prepared to hand out to agents, writers and other dealers.
o. I also tried to run a looping slide show of photos (of me and the book) to entice people to stop and look and ask questions. It didn’t work well. I wouldn’t put a lot of time into Fantastic Effects … focus on engaging people when they stop by.
6. Follow-up. When you’ve survived your first CON, make sure to recontact those that you met. I think it reinforces how much you appreciated meeting, talking and learning from those you encountered. It may also demonstrate how committed you are to becoming better … and who knows … maybe you’ll make a new friend, associate or partner in the process.
7. FUN = Embrace Your Geekiness! Hey! It’s a CON … people are attracted to these things because they get to express themselves in ways they normally can’t. My biggest regret is that I didn’t have my wife with me to watch the table so that I could visit the PA Jedi table, grab a custom made lightsaber and perform my newest Jedi Master Kata Form 6! There are a lot of things to participate in at a CON, from lightsaber duels, re-enactments, card games, panels, Philking, and parties to masquerade contests, art exhibits, auctions and concerts. Promoting your new release is very important, but having fun and learning are probably equally (if not) more important.
I hope these lessons learned helped out other new writers preparing for their first CON.
Regards and Good Luck! Tod
Prince Kristian's Honor, Chapter One: Quest's End
“Do you still dream of me, Cairn?” she asked.
The cold was so bitter that anyone would have trouble
finding the strength to go on. After several hours in the storm, the man had lost some of the feeling in his fingers and toes and could feel an icy pain working its way up his back. His chest ached, and his throat was raw; his eyelids were almost frozen shut. His body was sore, and yet, his mind remained clear. He knew where he was and where he was
going.
“Will you always dream of me?” she insisted upon knowing.
The voice in his head comforted him and kept him focused. He
pushed the numbness out of his mind and continued walking north, further up the mountain trail.
He pulled his thin, black cloak tighter against his body, trying to keep warm as he guided his horse up the narrow valley. It was just after sunset when he was finally forced to dismount and lead them both through the growing snowdrifts, some so high they threatened to force him back with his purpose unfulfilled. He was determined to see this
through and was closer to completing his quest for revenge than he had ever been. No winter storm, no matter how cold or terrible it might be, was going to keep him from finally ending it.
“I should be there to keep you warm,” she teased with a whisper.
Would she talk like that? Cairn asked himself as he tried to pick up the pace. Was his love ever that forward? Yes, sometimes she was, he remembered. There was no happiness in thinking of her, though. There was only pain and sorrow.
Cairn tried to put her out of his mind for the moment to check his surroundings for signs of danger; he could not let anything steer him from his destination now. Three dead men in the foothills south of the valley were the latest proof of his determination and skill. It had been easy to kill them, Cairn reminded himself. He had hunted each of them down, stalking them like animals, slaughtering them like goats. The rest of his prey would not be as easy to kill.
He looked at the mountains around him, but he could discern little. It was dark and gloomy. The little bit of light there was refl ected off the heavy snowfall, highlighting the narrow path with an eerie glow. The skeletal branches of the nearby trees reached out to him like the desperate arms of his dead parents. They silently begged for Cairn to
help them, but it was too late for that. He could do nothing to save any of them.
The northern wind was so fierce that even the larger branches were frozen solid. Weighted down by ice and snow, they broke off and fell shattering on the rocky ground close by. Cairn could not hear their fall over the sound of the howling wind, the cold wind that made it hard to
keep going. The jagged mountains themselves protested the unnatural storm, echoing the vengeful sounds of the wind back at him.
Cairn pulled his scarf up higher to cover his scarred cheek and started walking again.
“Just keep walking, my love, and remember me.” Cairn could never forget.
It was the harshest winter any of them had ever experienced,
and they all regretted their decision to visit the tavern this night but not because of the storm. Settlers of the small mining village of Worndale had gathered in the town’s only inn, the Mother’s Vein, to forget about the storm as well as the rest of their bad luck. The sign out front
smacked the side of the wall, knocking snow from the roof as the storm continued unabated. Normally, the tavern was filled with laughter as trappers and miners tried to forget their problems, talking about the gold still hidden within the mountains. The rough men normally joked with each other and drank away what little coin they still possessed. They thought about better times.
Tonight, however, the tavern was deadly quiet. The villagers sat nervously eyeing those that had invaded their peaceful sanctuary. There were ten soldiers sitting amongst them and all wore black armor with red-smeared crosses painted on their chest plates. They had come into
Worndale late in the afternoon carrying broadswords and maces and demanded food and drink.
No one knew why they had come to their isolated part of the world, and the villagers really did not care. They simply wanted to be left alone. The soldiers, or more likely marauders, had burst into the tavern just as the storm hit the mountains, demanding the innkeeper serve them. They were evil men, full of anger and cruelty.
The villagers gave them plenty of space as they plopped down on chairs throughout the room. A few tried to escape when it was obvious the soldiers would not be leaving any time soon. One poor fool was immediately beaten and thrown back toward his table by the brutes; he tripped over his chair and fell to the fl oor, crying out as his elbow slammed into the wood. His shout seemed to annoy one of them, and they gathered around him. They were determined to force their brand of fun on all of the tavern’s occupants, and no one would be allowed to leave.
“Where do you think you’re going?” one of the soldiers asked, pointing at the nervous man that tried to scramble away from him. The villager’s eyes opened wide in fear as two men grabbed him again, laughing cruelly.
“Come. We’re going to play a game,” one of them said.
“But we’re missing a key player,” the other man dded. “Ever heard of Dead Man Swinging?” They laughed together as the villager squirmed between them.
“We’ll drink a toast to those that didn’t make it up this sorry mountain,” the one called Hefler cried out.
“To Pierren, Oril, and Dag,” his friend shouted back. “May the snow bury them so we don’t have to.” Hefler and the others laughed.
The frightened villager tried to break loose, but Hefler hit him hard with his fist. The man cringed, cupping his bloody nose with his hands. He watched in horror as Hefler’s companion grabbed a rope from his pouch and started making a noose.
A half mile down the snow-covered trail from Worndale, Cairn
continued struggling against the wind and the snow, but he knew he was close. His breath froze in the air as soon as it left the cowl of his hood, but he ignored the storm completely and made a final push north toward the lights in the village. Th e solitary man had traveled far and never stopped to think about the hazards to his own welfare, but he suddenly felt a slight hesitation. He had always believed in his mission, and one way or another it would finally be over, but he was not as confident as he had been that he could see it finished. Cairn was not nervous or frightened … he had trained too long and hard for that. He
was eager to kill those responsible for his loss, but he had no way of knowing if he would be successful.
“Better to die tonight than to keep on living,” he whispered.
The voice in his head giggled. “I love you, Cairn.”
“Not now,” Cairn told himself. “I’ve got to stay focused.”
He started searching for the men he had tracked for the last several weeks. Cairn walked up the one road in Worndale looking for signs of danger. They had to be here somewhere, he knew.
“They’d never face a storm like this in the open. They would seek shelter.” Halfway through the town, he spotted lights shining out from under the shuttered windows of the Mother’s Vein. He noticed several horses tied to the front porch and upon closer examination was able to tell they belonged to those he was searching for. He heard a man’s harsh laugh and a woman crying. This was definitely the place.
He tied his horse up separately from the others, making sure the knot was secure but could be easily undone. Cairn did not like leaving his horse exposed in the storm like this; he was not like those he hunted, but he had no choice. He patted the animal’s neck to say thanks and possibly good-bye and then crossed the porch slowly. Cairn paused in front of the tavern, hesitating for a moment … to make certain he was prepared … and then he opened the door and entered. The commotion inside abruptly stopped as they looked to see who was foolish enough to interrupt their cruel sport.
Cairn quickly scanned the room to ensure there were no immediate threats. Thick, greasy smoke floated around his head, but it did not keep him from seeing the occupants clearly. On the left side of the tavern, he saw a small hearth with a fire spreading its light out into the
main room. Soldiers and villagers occupied six round tables, unevenly spaced across the fl oor. A bald man sitting near the hearth abruptly ended the song he was singing and looked at him pleadingly. A body hanging from a nearby rafter was swinging slightly back and forth. The
man at the hearth kept getting tapped on the shoulder by the dead man’s boot. He looked up at his dead friend in shock, but was afraid to move or stop the body. Cairn guessed the soldiers had strung one of the villagers up to set an example. One of them laughed and gave the body a rough push.
“If it stops swinging, you’ve got to get the next round,” Hefler shouted to his companion.
Two more soldiers looked up from their table to stare threateningly at Cairn but then turned back to their drinks. Obviously, Cairn was not seen as any real threat. He turned his attention briefly to those nearest him. Villagers sat huddled together at their table, frightened
and worried. They did not look up, afraid they might accidentally draw attention to themselves. The villagers did not know Cairn and feared he might be another soldier that would do them harm.
At the bar counter on the right side of the room, one drunk soldier turned only momentarily toward him to make sure everything was alright before resuming his drinking. He was trying to keep his balance and was only able to stand by leaning on his axe handle. The bartender, an older, plump man wearing a gray smock under a beer-stained apron,
quickly shook his head, warning Cairn to leave before it was too late, but he was distracted by the pleading of a young woman. At the back of the room, two more men were trying to rip the skirt off a young girl near a stairway leading up to a second floor.
Cairn ignored that particular situation and continued to search for the man he was looking for. A group of men were gambling with stones at the very back table. They were so intent upon their game that they paid him no attention. He let out a deep sigh and then shut the door. He was committed to ending this … tonight. Cairn’s gaze remained
fixed on the one he had come for; he was one of the men at the back table and seemed oblivious to Cairn’s sudden appearance.
The soldiers returned to what they were doing, as if the shut door was a signal that the stranger was just another stupid villager, not worth the bother. The two would-be rapists lifted the poor young barmaid off the floor and manhandled her up the stairs.
“Father,” the girl begged for help, reaching out toward the barkeep.
A moan escaped the man’s mouth as he rushed toward the back of the room. “Not my girl, please, not my girl.”
The soldier at the bar grabbed him and put a dagger close to his face. A menacing snarl and a shove were more than enough to force the owner back. “They can poke her or I can poke you and a few others with this.”
The man waved a rusty blade at the innkeeper’s face. The man with the lute struck a few uneasy notes hoping to ease the situation, but the leader of the marauders looked up from his game and snarled at him. He then laughed as his men joked about what they would do to the girl.
“Come, lass, let me show you what a real pike looks like,” one of the men on the stairs shouted.
The girl sobbed, reaching out a final time to her father. He raised a hand feebly back toward her, but did not move from his spot. The old man looked around at the intruders to gauge what might happen if he tried to stop them from raping his daughter. He let his hand drop back down to his side with a defeated sigh. The drunken soldier grinned in
triumph and shoved him back toward the bar.
“I need another drink,” he demanded.
The leader of the soldiers finally sighed and then grimaced. He waved his spiked glove around the room, counting, “One, two, three, six … ten, twelve. Fourteen. Fourteen.” He shook his head in disgust.
“That’s why this is happening to you. That is why we have come. Because you are weak and we are strong. There are fourteen of you in here. There’s probably another twenty hiding in their homes. If you had any courage, you’d attack us. Sure, some of you would die … a lot of you
would die. But you would win.”
The man nodded toward the stairs. “And she would be safe. But you won’t do it. You won’t move your scared asses off those chairs to help an innocent, young girl. And that’s why we’re here.”
He scratched his matted, black beard and sighed in pity. Then he casually picked his stones back up off the table and asked, “Whose turn was it any way?”
“Do you still dream of me?” the voice asked Cairn again.
“Of course,” he murmured back to the voice.
Cairn took a step deeper into the room, knowing he had found his man. He was their leader, and Cairn meant to kill him. He began to move slowly toward the back of the room.
He stopped at the table directly across from his enemy, scrutinizing each of the men carefully. One person, a local man, obviously did not want to be in the game. He looked up at Cairn nervously as if to determine what stone he should play next.
Two of the black armored soldiers sat to either side of the villager, their sheathed broadswords resting casually in their laps. On the far side of the table sat another black-armored man. He was the one that had taunted the villagers. He was the one in charge of the soldiers, and Cairn focused all of his attention on him.
He was a Belarnian officer, and Cairn noticed his armor was better maintained than the other soldiers’, though somewhat dented. His face was riddled with old scars and bore a permanent scowl. He wore a red cloak with black fur trim and had a helm of similar design setting on the table in front of him. On top of the helm rested a pair of spiked, leather gloves.
Cairn hesitated, staring at the gloves, as if reliving a deeply buried memory. Lost in the impossible past, he struggled to maintain his composure as the man across the table deliberately ignored him and continued to play out his stones.
Images of fire and smoke and cries of pain, agony, and grief emerged from somewhere deep inside him. It almost seemed that Cairn swayed, hypnotized by the rhythm of the cries in his mind. He first saw a thatched roof on fire. The yellow flames quickly sprang from the roof to the surrounding walls and structure, engulfing everything in its intense heat. Cries for help and screams of terror and pain echoed through his mind as he turned away from the blazing house to look for survivors. Every house in the village seemed to be on fi re. People ran in all directions
screaming in agony as fl ames ate at their bodies. A woman’s voice screamed in terror, “Cairn … Cairn ….”
“Remember.”
“Are you drunk or just another stupid villager?” The comment and the immediate laughter of the other two soldiers at the table brought Cairn out of his trance.
He stared at the leader again, prepared to follow through with his promise of revenge.
“You’re Garnis,” Cairn said softly. It was a statement not a question.
“You’re a Belarnian lieutenant and serve the Prince of Belarn.” This got the attention of everyone at the table.
The one named Garnis set his remaining stones down and looked at the stranger closely for the fi rst time. Cairn was tall and slender and dressed in tattered, black clothes. Little could be discerned about him other than his eyes and the small flash of brown hair escaping the folds
of his scarf and hood. The leader briefly scanned him for weapons and finding none focused back on his eyes. Garnis was unsettled for a moment; there was something familiar about the stranger. He had seen this man before, but could not remember where they had met. The officer could not figure it out and it bothered him more than he liked.
Trying to play off the mystery of the stranger and his eyes, Garnis said, “So? Many have come to know of Garnis. Unfortunately for them, the wrong way. Unless you want to end your life like they did, I suggest you crawl away.”
The slight attempt at humor caused low grumbles of agreement
from Garnis’ men.
“I would have you know my name as well,” Cairn said, standing a little straighter.
“And what might that be? Are you the village idiot? Are you the son of an important miner? Perhaps you are the King of the Mercies … isn’t that what you people call these cursed mountains? You people make me sick. You’ve lived here for too long without control. You’ve forgotten that your allegiance is to Belarn. Well, we’re here to help you
remember.
“Now, sit down or I am going to string you up and gut you. We’ll use your intestines for replacement strings on that lousy musician’s lute.” The singer heard them mentioning him and plucked the wrong note, filling the tavern with a sharp twang. Again, Garnis’ taunts made his men laugh. The rest of the tavern, fi nally catching on to the drama
unfolding before them, turned in their chairs to see what would happen.
Garnis looked around at his men, seeking encouragement in his name calling, laughing along with his soldiers. Then Garnis looked back at Cairn. The Belarnian officer looked into the stranger’s eyes, and he suddenly remembered him.
But it was too late.
“My name is Death,” Cairn promised him. Suddenly, the ebony
handle of a dagger was protruding from Garnis’ throat. The officer’s eyes opened wide in shock. He had not seen the stranger pull the blade from his cloak or the swift flick of his wrist that sent it flying toward him faster than anyone could track.
Garnis was being strangled to death, the blade completely blocking his air passage, but he could not get anyone to help him. Villagers’ mouths dropped open in surprise, and soldiers looked on in drunken silence; no one seemed to understand what was happening. The soldiers shook their heads in disbelief, trying to shake off the effects of
the ale and wondering what kind of man would have the audacity to murder a Black Guards officer.
Garnis tried to say something, but no word would ever escape his lips again. Slowly, his eyes lost focus, and he blinked hard in a vain attempt to refocus on Cairn. His head began to wobble, and he reached out across the table to grab his killer. The officer failed and fell away from the table, his facing turning blue. The last thing he saw were the dirty boots of the villagers he had terrorized.
“My name is Death,” Cairn repeated in a low but determined voice. He deftly pulled a slender, two-handed sword out from the depths of his cloak and moved to take care of Garnis’ men. The remaining two soldiers at the table fell back with their throats cut before they could even get their weapons free of their scabbards.
Cairn’s movements were so quick and precise that the remaining soldiers hesitated before attacking. The four soldiers behind Cairn formed a tight wedge and prepared to hack at him with all of their weapons at once. He spun smoothly to one side, deflecting the blow of the lead soldier while returning a diagonal slash across the guard’s face. Cairn then moved to his left to dodge the downward swing of a wicked mace while swinging his own blade in a wide arc that sliced open the stomach of one of the other guards. He moved so quickly around the soldiers that all they saw was a blur of motion.
He took advantage of every available opening. As he turned back to his right to face the remaining soldiers, he saw that only two remained. One man lay crumpled on the floor at Cairn’s feet trying to keep his guts from bursting out through the large gash he had made. Another was dead, his face a bloody ruin.
Cairn cut down the other two men just as easily. They did not know how to work together, and he parried one man’s sword into the cross guard of the other soldier. He then used quick, jabbing strikes into the first man’s neck and then into the other man’s unprotected armpit. The two quickly fell, their life’s blood pumping out through punctured arteries.
Shocked at how easy it was for this stranger to kill his friends, the drunken guard at the front of the tavern just stared at him. There was a hint of confusion and despair reflected in his eyes.
Cairn did not hesitate, and he launched himself at the clumsy man who waved his axe wildly in front of him. Cairn swung his sword in a backhanded motion that easily deflected the attack. He landed lightly on the floor allowing his momentum to carry him forward; he tucked
and then rolled right past the man. Before the Belarnian soldier could turn and face him, Cairn cut across the back of the man’s legs, severing his hamstring muscles and forcing him to his knees. Cairn quickly and efficiently jabbed his sword into the man’s back as the guard knelt
on the floor in front of the villagers. The guard’s axe dropped from his hands as he clutched at the steel protruding from his chest.
Not wasting a second, Cairn jerked the sword free of the dead man and moved behind the stairwell as the villagers looked on in amazement. The two soldiers upstairs with the owner’s daughter, confused by the commotion in the main hall, came rushing down looking for signs of danger. They were pulling their clothes back on as they started to see the devastation below. Cairn jumped out from beneath them and thrust his sword across the steps in front of the down-rushing soldiers, letting their momentum cut their legs out from underneath them. The two guards lay crumpled on the floor, moaning and holding onto what remained of their lower legs.
Again, Cairn moved over to finish them off, jabbing his sword through their leather armor and into their hearts.
He scanned the tavern looking for any other threats before he walked back toward the center of the room. Seeing only shocked faces, he wearily lowered his guard. Then he walked over to Garnis to see if he was truly dead. Convinced that his quest was finally ended, he closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh of relief.
“I will never forget,” Cairn promised her.
After only a brief moment, he walked back toward the front of the tavern. He paused near the door and looked around at the surprised faces of the villagers. His scarf had fallen away, and they could see the terrible scars that had ruined one side of his face, three parallel cuts that had not healed properly went from his right eye down to his chin.
Cairn put the scarf back in place and then turned to the innkeeper. He nodded once at the old man, pulled the hood of his cloak back over his head, and opened the door to leave. Just as he was about to close the door behind him, Cairn thought he heard all of them let out a longheld
breath.
He looked past his horse into the night, confused about what to do. For the first time in many years, he had no idea where to go. Cairn hesitated, reflecting on his past and struggling with the terrible memories. Then he finally guided his horse down the street away from the town. The snow quickly concealed him from the villagers that rushed out of the tavern to watch him disappear into the storm.
The wind still blew fiercely through the mountain valley, forcing him to huddle under an outcropping of rock only a few miles from Worndale. He found little wood that would catch fire, and he knew the best thing for him to do was to continue down the valley away from the village. Cairn was anxious to leave the mountains, but he was cold and exhausted. He looked at the fire trying to keep warm but felt a chill running through his entire body; it touched every part of his soul.
Cairn frowned. “It’s not the storm that makes me feel so cold,” he complained aloud.
But there was no turning back now, he thought.
“I am what I am,” he whispered.
He had finished his quest for revenge. The years of intense training and hunting had paid off . He had made good on the promise he set six years ago, and there was a certain sense of accomplishment and relief in the fact that it was finally over. He could sleep now. After six long years,
he would finally sleep and let the past go.
“It’s over now. It’s over. It’s over.” Cairn kept telling himself this as he ran his fingers lightly over the scars that covered the right side of his face. He stood and began pacing around the small fire, clenching and unclenching his fists in an attempt to control his rising emotions.
“Do you still dream of me?” she asked him again. She asked him that a thousand times every day.
Unable to restrain his anger and pain any longer, he suddenly turned his face to heaven and shouted.
“Julia! Julia!”
It was the first time he had let his emotions run their course in six years, but it did not relieve him of his grief. He fell to his knees and gave in to the desperation that engulfed him.Prince Kristian's Honor Book One of The Erinia Saga
The cold was so bitter that anyone would have trouble
finding the strength to go on. After several hours in the storm, the man had lost some of the feeling in his fingers and toes and could feel an icy pain working its way up his back. His chest ached, and his throat was raw; his eyelids were almost frozen shut. His body was sore, and yet, his mind remained clear. He knew where he was and where he was
going.
“Will you always dream of me?” she insisted upon knowing.
The voice in his head comforted him and kept him focused. He
pushed the numbness out of his mind and continued walking north, further up the mountain trail.
He pulled his thin, black cloak tighter against his body, trying to keep warm as he guided his horse up the narrow valley. It was just after sunset when he was finally forced to dismount and lead them both through the growing snowdrifts, some so high they threatened to force him back with his purpose unfulfilled. He was determined to see this
through and was closer to completing his quest for revenge than he had ever been. No winter storm, no matter how cold or terrible it might be, was going to keep him from finally ending it.
“I should be there to keep you warm,” she teased with a whisper.
Would she talk like that? Cairn asked himself as he tried to pick up the pace. Was his love ever that forward? Yes, sometimes she was, he remembered. There was no happiness in thinking of her, though. There was only pain and sorrow.
Cairn tried to put her out of his mind for the moment to check his surroundings for signs of danger; he could not let anything steer him from his destination now. Three dead men in the foothills south of the valley were the latest proof of his determination and skill. It had been easy to kill them, Cairn reminded himself. He had hunted each of them down, stalking them like animals, slaughtering them like goats. The rest of his prey would not be as easy to kill.
He looked at the mountains around him, but he could discern little. It was dark and gloomy. The little bit of light there was refl ected off the heavy snowfall, highlighting the narrow path with an eerie glow. The skeletal branches of the nearby trees reached out to him like the desperate arms of his dead parents. They silently begged for Cairn to
help them, but it was too late for that. He could do nothing to save any of them.
The northern wind was so fierce that even the larger branches were frozen solid. Weighted down by ice and snow, they broke off and fell shattering on the rocky ground close by. Cairn could not hear their fall over the sound of the howling wind, the cold wind that made it hard to
keep going. The jagged mountains themselves protested the unnatural storm, echoing the vengeful sounds of the wind back at him.
Cairn pulled his scarf up higher to cover his scarred cheek and started walking again.
“Just keep walking, my love, and remember me.” Cairn could never forget.
It was the harshest winter any of them had ever experienced,
and they all regretted their decision to visit the tavern this night but not because of the storm. Settlers of the small mining village of Worndale had gathered in the town’s only inn, the Mother’s Vein, to forget about the storm as well as the rest of their bad luck. The sign out front
smacked the side of the wall, knocking snow from the roof as the storm continued unabated. Normally, the tavern was filled with laughter as trappers and miners tried to forget their problems, talking about the gold still hidden within the mountains. The rough men normally joked with each other and drank away what little coin they still possessed. They thought about better times.
Tonight, however, the tavern was deadly quiet. The villagers sat nervously eyeing those that had invaded their peaceful sanctuary. There were ten soldiers sitting amongst them and all wore black armor with red-smeared crosses painted on their chest plates. They had come into
Worndale late in the afternoon carrying broadswords and maces and demanded food and drink.
No one knew why they had come to their isolated part of the world, and the villagers really did not care. They simply wanted to be left alone. The soldiers, or more likely marauders, had burst into the tavern just as the storm hit the mountains, demanding the innkeeper serve them. They were evil men, full of anger and cruelty.
The villagers gave them plenty of space as they plopped down on chairs throughout the room. A few tried to escape when it was obvious the soldiers would not be leaving any time soon. One poor fool was immediately beaten and thrown back toward his table by the brutes; he tripped over his chair and fell to the fl oor, crying out as his elbow slammed into the wood. His shout seemed to annoy one of them, and they gathered around him. They were determined to force their brand of fun on all of the tavern’s occupants, and no one would be allowed to leave.
“Where do you think you’re going?” one of the soldiers asked, pointing at the nervous man that tried to scramble away from him. The villager’s eyes opened wide in fear as two men grabbed him again, laughing cruelly.
“Come. We’re going to play a game,” one of them said.
“But we’re missing a key player,” the other man dded. “Ever heard of Dead Man Swinging?” They laughed together as the villager squirmed between them.
“We’ll drink a toast to those that didn’t make it up this sorry mountain,” the one called Hefler cried out.
“To Pierren, Oril, and Dag,” his friend shouted back. “May the snow bury them so we don’t have to.” Hefler and the others laughed.
The frightened villager tried to break loose, but Hefler hit him hard with his fist. The man cringed, cupping his bloody nose with his hands. He watched in horror as Hefler’s companion grabbed a rope from his pouch and started making a noose.
A half mile down the snow-covered trail from Worndale, Cairn
continued struggling against the wind and the snow, but he knew he was close. His breath froze in the air as soon as it left the cowl of his hood, but he ignored the storm completely and made a final push north toward the lights in the village. Th e solitary man had traveled far and never stopped to think about the hazards to his own welfare, but he suddenly felt a slight hesitation. He had always believed in his mission, and one way or another it would finally be over, but he was not as confident as he had been that he could see it finished. Cairn was not nervous or frightened … he had trained too long and hard for that. He
was eager to kill those responsible for his loss, but he had no way of knowing if he would be successful.
“Better to die tonight than to keep on living,” he whispered.
The voice in his head giggled. “I love you, Cairn.”
“Not now,” Cairn told himself. “I’ve got to stay focused.”
He started searching for the men he had tracked for the last several weeks. Cairn walked up the one road in Worndale looking for signs of danger. They had to be here somewhere, he knew.
“They’d never face a storm like this in the open. They would seek shelter.” Halfway through the town, he spotted lights shining out from under the shuttered windows of the Mother’s Vein. He noticed several horses tied to the front porch and upon closer examination was able to tell they belonged to those he was searching for. He heard a man’s harsh laugh and a woman crying. This was definitely the place.
He tied his horse up separately from the others, making sure the knot was secure but could be easily undone. Cairn did not like leaving his horse exposed in the storm like this; he was not like those he hunted, but he had no choice. He patted the animal’s neck to say thanks and possibly good-bye and then crossed the porch slowly. Cairn paused in front of the tavern, hesitating for a moment … to make certain he was prepared … and then he opened the door and entered. The commotion inside abruptly stopped as they looked to see who was foolish enough to interrupt their cruel sport.
Cairn quickly scanned the room to ensure there were no immediate threats. Thick, greasy smoke floated around his head, but it did not keep him from seeing the occupants clearly. On the left side of the tavern, he saw a small hearth with a fire spreading its light out into the
main room. Soldiers and villagers occupied six round tables, unevenly spaced across the fl oor. A bald man sitting near the hearth abruptly ended the song he was singing and looked at him pleadingly. A body hanging from a nearby rafter was swinging slightly back and forth. The
man at the hearth kept getting tapped on the shoulder by the dead man’s boot. He looked up at his dead friend in shock, but was afraid to move or stop the body. Cairn guessed the soldiers had strung one of the villagers up to set an example. One of them laughed and gave the body a rough push.
“If it stops swinging, you’ve got to get the next round,” Hefler shouted to his companion.
Two more soldiers looked up from their table to stare threateningly at Cairn but then turned back to their drinks. Obviously, Cairn was not seen as any real threat. He turned his attention briefly to those nearest him. Villagers sat huddled together at their table, frightened
and worried. They did not look up, afraid they might accidentally draw attention to themselves. The villagers did not know Cairn and feared he might be another soldier that would do them harm.
At the bar counter on the right side of the room, one drunk soldier turned only momentarily toward him to make sure everything was alright before resuming his drinking. He was trying to keep his balance and was only able to stand by leaning on his axe handle. The bartender, an older, plump man wearing a gray smock under a beer-stained apron,
quickly shook his head, warning Cairn to leave before it was too late, but he was distracted by the pleading of a young woman. At the back of the room, two more men were trying to rip the skirt off a young girl near a stairway leading up to a second floor.
Cairn ignored that particular situation and continued to search for the man he was looking for. A group of men were gambling with stones at the very back table. They were so intent upon their game that they paid him no attention. He let out a deep sigh and then shut the door. He was committed to ending this … tonight. Cairn’s gaze remained
fixed on the one he had come for; he was one of the men at the back table and seemed oblivious to Cairn’s sudden appearance.
The soldiers returned to what they were doing, as if the shut door was a signal that the stranger was just another stupid villager, not worth the bother. The two would-be rapists lifted the poor young barmaid off the floor and manhandled her up the stairs.
“Father,” the girl begged for help, reaching out toward the barkeep.
A moan escaped the man’s mouth as he rushed toward the back of the room. “Not my girl, please, not my girl.”
The soldier at the bar grabbed him and put a dagger close to his face. A menacing snarl and a shove were more than enough to force the owner back. “They can poke her or I can poke you and a few others with this.”
The man waved a rusty blade at the innkeeper’s face. The man with the lute struck a few uneasy notes hoping to ease the situation, but the leader of the marauders looked up from his game and snarled at him. He then laughed as his men joked about what they would do to the girl.
“Come, lass, let me show you what a real pike looks like,” one of the men on the stairs shouted.
The girl sobbed, reaching out a final time to her father. He raised a hand feebly back toward her, but did not move from his spot. The old man looked around at the intruders to gauge what might happen if he tried to stop them from raping his daughter. He let his hand drop back down to his side with a defeated sigh. The drunken soldier grinned in
triumph and shoved him back toward the bar.
“I need another drink,” he demanded.
The leader of the soldiers finally sighed and then grimaced. He waved his spiked glove around the room, counting, “One, two, three, six … ten, twelve. Fourteen. Fourteen.” He shook his head in disgust.
“That’s why this is happening to you. That is why we have come. Because you are weak and we are strong. There are fourteen of you in here. There’s probably another twenty hiding in their homes. If you had any courage, you’d attack us. Sure, some of you would die … a lot of you
would die. But you would win.”
The man nodded toward the stairs. “And she would be safe. But you won’t do it. You won’t move your scared asses off those chairs to help an innocent, young girl. And that’s why we’re here.”
He scratched his matted, black beard and sighed in pity. Then he casually picked his stones back up off the table and asked, “Whose turn was it any way?”
“Do you still dream of me?” the voice asked Cairn again.
“Of course,” he murmured back to the voice.
Cairn took a step deeper into the room, knowing he had found his man. He was their leader, and Cairn meant to kill him. He began to move slowly toward the back of the room.
He stopped at the table directly across from his enemy, scrutinizing each of the men carefully. One person, a local man, obviously did not want to be in the game. He looked up at Cairn nervously as if to determine what stone he should play next.
Two of the black armored soldiers sat to either side of the villager, their sheathed broadswords resting casually in their laps. On the far side of the table sat another black-armored man. He was the one that had taunted the villagers. He was the one in charge of the soldiers, and Cairn focused all of his attention on him.
He was a Belarnian officer, and Cairn noticed his armor was better maintained than the other soldiers’, though somewhat dented. His face was riddled with old scars and bore a permanent scowl. He wore a red cloak with black fur trim and had a helm of similar design setting on the table in front of him. On top of the helm rested a pair of spiked, leather gloves.
Cairn hesitated, staring at the gloves, as if reliving a deeply buried memory. Lost in the impossible past, he struggled to maintain his composure as the man across the table deliberately ignored him and continued to play out his stones.
Images of fire and smoke and cries of pain, agony, and grief emerged from somewhere deep inside him. It almost seemed that Cairn swayed, hypnotized by the rhythm of the cries in his mind. He first saw a thatched roof on fire. The yellow flames quickly sprang from the roof to the surrounding walls and structure, engulfing everything in its intense heat. Cries for help and screams of terror and pain echoed through his mind as he turned away from the blazing house to look for survivors. Every house in the village seemed to be on fi re. People ran in all directions
screaming in agony as fl ames ate at their bodies. A woman’s voice screamed in terror, “Cairn … Cairn ….”
“Remember.”
“Are you drunk or just another stupid villager?” The comment and the immediate laughter of the other two soldiers at the table brought Cairn out of his trance.
He stared at the leader again, prepared to follow through with his promise of revenge.
“You’re Garnis,” Cairn said softly. It was a statement not a question.
“You’re a Belarnian lieutenant and serve the Prince of Belarn.” This got the attention of everyone at the table.
The one named Garnis set his remaining stones down and looked at the stranger closely for the fi rst time. Cairn was tall and slender and dressed in tattered, black clothes. Little could be discerned about him other than his eyes and the small flash of brown hair escaping the folds
of his scarf and hood. The leader briefly scanned him for weapons and finding none focused back on his eyes. Garnis was unsettled for a moment; there was something familiar about the stranger. He had seen this man before, but could not remember where they had met. The officer could not figure it out and it bothered him more than he liked.
Trying to play off the mystery of the stranger and his eyes, Garnis said, “So? Many have come to know of Garnis. Unfortunately for them, the wrong way. Unless you want to end your life like they did, I suggest you crawl away.”
The slight attempt at humor caused low grumbles of agreement
from Garnis’ men.
“I would have you know my name as well,” Cairn said, standing a little straighter.
“And what might that be? Are you the village idiot? Are you the son of an important miner? Perhaps you are the King of the Mercies … isn’t that what you people call these cursed mountains? You people make me sick. You’ve lived here for too long without control. You’ve forgotten that your allegiance is to Belarn. Well, we’re here to help you
remember.
“Now, sit down or I am going to string you up and gut you. We’ll use your intestines for replacement strings on that lousy musician’s lute.” The singer heard them mentioning him and plucked the wrong note, filling the tavern with a sharp twang. Again, Garnis’ taunts made his men laugh. The rest of the tavern, fi nally catching on to the drama
unfolding before them, turned in their chairs to see what would happen.
Garnis looked around at his men, seeking encouragement in his name calling, laughing along with his soldiers. Then Garnis looked back at Cairn. The Belarnian officer looked into the stranger’s eyes, and he suddenly remembered him.
But it was too late.
“My name is Death,” Cairn promised him. Suddenly, the ebony
handle of a dagger was protruding from Garnis’ throat. The officer’s eyes opened wide in shock. He had not seen the stranger pull the blade from his cloak or the swift flick of his wrist that sent it flying toward him faster than anyone could track.
Garnis was being strangled to death, the blade completely blocking his air passage, but he could not get anyone to help him. Villagers’ mouths dropped open in surprise, and soldiers looked on in drunken silence; no one seemed to understand what was happening. The soldiers shook their heads in disbelief, trying to shake off the effects of
the ale and wondering what kind of man would have the audacity to murder a Black Guards officer.
Garnis tried to say something, but no word would ever escape his lips again. Slowly, his eyes lost focus, and he blinked hard in a vain attempt to refocus on Cairn. His head began to wobble, and he reached out across the table to grab his killer. The officer failed and fell away from the table, his facing turning blue. The last thing he saw were the dirty boots of the villagers he had terrorized.
“My name is Death,” Cairn repeated in a low but determined voice. He deftly pulled a slender, two-handed sword out from the depths of his cloak and moved to take care of Garnis’ men. The remaining two soldiers at the table fell back with their throats cut before they could even get their weapons free of their scabbards.
Cairn’s movements were so quick and precise that the remaining soldiers hesitated before attacking. The four soldiers behind Cairn formed a tight wedge and prepared to hack at him with all of their weapons at once. He spun smoothly to one side, deflecting the blow of the lead soldier while returning a diagonal slash across the guard’s face. Cairn then moved to his left to dodge the downward swing of a wicked mace while swinging his own blade in a wide arc that sliced open the stomach of one of the other guards. He moved so quickly around the soldiers that all they saw was a blur of motion.
He took advantage of every available opening. As he turned back to his right to face the remaining soldiers, he saw that only two remained. One man lay crumpled on the floor at Cairn’s feet trying to keep his guts from bursting out through the large gash he had made. Another was dead, his face a bloody ruin.
Cairn cut down the other two men just as easily. They did not know how to work together, and he parried one man’s sword into the cross guard of the other soldier. He then used quick, jabbing strikes into the first man’s neck and then into the other man’s unprotected armpit. The two quickly fell, their life’s blood pumping out through punctured arteries.
Shocked at how easy it was for this stranger to kill his friends, the drunken guard at the front of the tavern just stared at him. There was a hint of confusion and despair reflected in his eyes.
Cairn did not hesitate, and he launched himself at the clumsy man who waved his axe wildly in front of him. Cairn swung his sword in a backhanded motion that easily deflected the attack. He landed lightly on the floor allowing his momentum to carry him forward; he tucked
and then rolled right past the man. Before the Belarnian soldier could turn and face him, Cairn cut across the back of the man’s legs, severing his hamstring muscles and forcing him to his knees. Cairn quickly and efficiently jabbed his sword into the man’s back as the guard knelt
on the floor in front of the villagers. The guard’s axe dropped from his hands as he clutched at the steel protruding from his chest.
Not wasting a second, Cairn jerked the sword free of the dead man and moved behind the stairwell as the villagers looked on in amazement. The two soldiers upstairs with the owner’s daughter, confused by the commotion in the main hall, came rushing down looking for signs of danger. They were pulling their clothes back on as they started to see the devastation below. Cairn jumped out from beneath them and thrust his sword across the steps in front of the down-rushing soldiers, letting their momentum cut their legs out from underneath them. The two guards lay crumpled on the floor, moaning and holding onto what remained of their lower legs.
Again, Cairn moved over to finish them off, jabbing his sword through their leather armor and into their hearts.
He scanned the tavern looking for any other threats before he walked back toward the center of the room. Seeing only shocked faces, he wearily lowered his guard. Then he walked over to Garnis to see if he was truly dead. Convinced that his quest was finally ended, he closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh of relief.
“I will never forget,” Cairn promised her.
After only a brief moment, he walked back toward the front of the tavern. He paused near the door and looked around at the surprised faces of the villagers. His scarf had fallen away, and they could see the terrible scars that had ruined one side of his face, three parallel cuts that had not healed properly went from his right eye down to his chin.
Cairn put the scarf back in place and then turned to the innkeeper. He nodded once at the old man, pulled the hood of his cloak back over his head, and opened the door to leave. Just as he was about to close the door behind him, Cairn thought he heard all of them let out a longheld
breath.
He looked past his horse into the night, confused about what to do. For the first time in many years, he had no idea where to go. Cairn hesitated, reflecting on his past and struggling with the terrible memories. Then he finally guided his horse down the street away from the town. The snow quickly concealed him from the villagers that rushed out of the tavern to watch him disappear into the storm.
The wind still blew fiercely through the mountain valley, forcing him to huddle under an outcropping of rock only a few miles from Worndale. He found little wood that would catch fire, and he knew the best thing for him to do was to continue down the valley away from the village. Cairn was anxious to leave the mountains, but he was cold and exhausted. He looked at the fire trying to keep warm but felt a chill running through his entire body; it touched every part of his soul.
Cairn frowned. “It’s not the storm that makes me feel so cold,” he complained aloud.
But there was no turning back now, he thought.
“I am what I am,” he whispered.
He had finished his quest for revenge. The years of intense training and hunting had paid off . He had made good on the promise he set six years ago, and there was a certain sense of accomplishment and relief in the fact that it was finally over. He could sleep now. After six long years,
he would finally sleep and let the past go.
“It’s over now. It’s over. It’s over.” Cairn kept telling himself this as he ran his fingers lightly over the scars that covered the right side of his face. He stood and began pacing around the small fire, clenching and unclenching his fists in an attempt to control his rising emotions.
“Do you still dream of me?” she asked him again. She asked him that a thousand times every day.
Unable to restrain his anger and pain any longer, he suddenly turned his face to heaven and shouted.
“Julia! Julia!”
It was the first time he had let his emotions run their course in six years, but it did not relieve him of his grief. He fell to his knees and gave in to the desperation that engulfed him.Prince Kristian's Honor Book One of The Erinia Saga
