"One page after another . . ."
20th Saun, 717
Nidhoffnir
Nidhoffnir
They say that upon reaching the apex of life, one could only go down, which was a dreadful latter half to one’s existence. Of course, they also say that instead it’s the hike upward that’s the worst, and its only after the climax that it’s a smooth descent to finality. Truly it came down to perspective and the acceptance that perhaps life wasn’t one or another. Perhaps it was not one hill, but many, a winding snake of valleys and hills. But which was worse: to be in the shadows of the former, or the glaring heat of the latter?
There was only certainty on the apex of the year 717: Silv was mildly drunk.
Saun had not bested her with its heat, but with its reminder of her lack of place in this world she lived in. It had dangled the carrot in front of her eyes early on, shown her what it felt like to have friends, to have a purpose here in Uthaldria. A short-lived experience that has stepped aside to allowed loneliness and depression to kick in. She had not seen or heard from many of the men and women she had meant in the first days of the cycle, and Silv quickly realized that the scribe’s life was not the one she had made for. Moreover, she had had no time to begin any sort of research for her personal studies. She had done her best to overcome these feelings, but they bested her. And so here she was, nursing an ale in a place she had never thought she’d ever step foot in: Nidhoffnir.
Silv had known the tavern only for its reputation for periodical brawls by its patrons. A deep part of her had always wanted to come and bear witness to the culture of the locale, but fear for her well-being and safety had always superseded her anthropological curiosity. Now . . . well now, Silv was in a mood where a fight might actually cure her of her stagnation. She had only attending that one session of Kren Maii thus far, but she still felt somewhat prepared should a brawl break out. If nothing else, that session taught her how to take a punch.
The tavern was quiet, though, and only at half-capacity. The Lotharen Horde had marched north to besiege the city of Melrath, the people still high off their successful siege of Argos last cycle, which depleted Uthaldria of a good number of its more bloody-thirsty denizens. Silv was not to be disappointed, though; she found company with the Onyx Company, a band of mercenaries out of Yaralon recently arrived from the east. And with them, Silv found the thing she had realized she missed the most from her old life in Hiladrith: stories.
“I didn’t like fighting with dem Aviel, though. Winged bastards. Never trust a fighter whose just gonna pick you up and drop you from a high place.” Cattail was the loudest member of the Onyx Company, a dwarfish lout whose wispy white hair stood up in a half dozen places. He was a self-proclaimed sapper, though there seemed little need for an engineer in a mercenary company. Foam from his ale clung to his salt-and-pepper goatee as he rocked back and forth on his three-legged stool, a heavy crossbow nestled underneath him. His name, and the names of many of the other members of the company, intrigued Silv. Solder’s names, drawn from their pasts and their experiences with one another. Cattail, Skunk, Chigger . . . Sixty odd names, all with a story.
Only three of the mercenaries chose to sit with the Eidisi, the rest of the eighteen sell-swords who stepped through the door moving to other tables, and it was clear to Silv that they were ranking members with the company. Elon’s amber eyes fell on his comrade. His skin was the shade of obsidian, the darkest hue Silv had ever been exposed to in her life thus far. A white crescent scar ran across his forehead, the only break in his dark complexion, which only seemed to intensify the man’s sharp features. Silv would’ve named him Hawk or Peregrine, had she been present at the time of his naming day. “Now now, Cat, enunciate, else our guest is going to think our old allies dropped you on your head for your disrespect towards them.” He had a smooth voice, crystal and unhardened by the life he led.
“Don’t mind me,” Silv said, interrupting with a dismissive wave of a hand. “I’ve read enough accounts from soldiers. I am unfazed.”
“You must admit, of course, that it’s a different experience when blood is spilt, not ink.” Elon’s reply was soft.
“I know,” Silv’s replied, even softer. The memories that rose to the forefront of her mind had a sobering effect. “I’ve seen it first hand.”
“Tell us, then,” Nymph said, the first words she had uttered all evening. The Naerrik had seemed drawn away from her two other companions, refusing to engage in the conversation even when Elon had pointedly addressed her. Her black hair fell across the front of her face, obscuring much of her features, though Silv could make out a hint of her tattoos. A band of dots crowned her forehead, with thin rivulets of blood trails running down her brow, stopping just above her eyebrows. She leaned forward then, pale arms pressed against the edge of the table they sat at, her vibrant violet eyes locking with hers. Elon and Cattail struck similar poses, though the latter was lacking the same grace as his companions.
“Well I saw my first man killed when I was twelve.” Silv began, setting her empty mug aside. “We found out later that he was a mage, after the mess had been cleaned up, but to us he was just our neighbor. My mother and I, that is. He was a scholar studying in the Realm of Knowledge, lived there for as long as I could remember. Never should any sort of inclination to harm anyone. A kind man whose kindness got him killed.”
Silv leaned forward, looking at her companions once before continuing. “There was a fire in our neighborhood. An isolated incident, with no chance of spreading beyond the house. No one was going to get hurt except for the little girl who had gotten trapped inside. We could hear her screaming, the onlookers on the street waiting for the water brigade to show up; he was the only one to respond to her. He walked right through the flames, which parted around him, and he saved that little girl. It didn’t take much to put two and two together after that. Hiladrith doesn’t like domain magic, even if its used in the way it had been used.”
Her eyes lost focus for a moment as she looked beyond Nymph into the past. “I was running errands for my mother when the Sacrasav struck the mage down in the streets. He had been talking to a candle hawker, never even saw them coming. A backhanded swing of a longsword cleaved through his skull and splattered his brains all over the poor hawker. The candles, they looked like they were crying the way the blood ran down the sides of them.” A pause. “The worst part was the smell after the man’s bowels released there on the cobblestones. It was reminder that death did not yield a pretty narrative. It was a stain upon history that we men and women just love to leave behind.”
“And what was the mage’s name?” Elon asked, leaning back in his chair.
“I don’t remember,” Silv admitted, tapping the table with her knuckles. “I didn’t know the man that well, to be honest. And Hiladrith, for all of its love of remembering names, has a tendency to purposefully forget men like him. But I still remember that day and the sensations that came with it. The stench of death. The singing of steel. The sight of idealism and war. I remember that every time I crack open a book, lest I forget the reality of the things I read.”
Silence followed until it was finally broken by a snort from Cattail, “That it, lass? Let me just tell ya ‘bout my first death. I was eight years old—“
The door to the tavern slammed open, revealing at broad Lothar in its frame. He ducked through the doorway and stepped quickly into the center of the room, a wide hand resting on the head of his double-bladed axe shoved through his leather belt. He looked around the room, eyes lingering on the Onyx Company in the corner before moving away to the few other Lothar in the room. He said with a booming voice in Haltunga, “I come seeking fighters. Rumors have reached Uthaldria that Clan Nordhoff are amassing for war. There will be a battle before the change of Saun, and we under the command of Shae Stigr are marching to be a part of it.”
“What did he say?” Elon asked, staring at the warrior across the room, not really expecting anyone to answer.
“He wants fighters,” Silv replied, glancing at the dark-skinned mercenary. “There seems to be a Clan war brewing.” A new feeling coursed through her veins: excitement.
“Sounds right up our alley,” Cattail said, stroking at his beard.
“We have no means of communication, though, Cat,” Elon replied. “Our only Haltunga speaker died on the way here, remember. We couldn’t possibly—“
“I’ll go,” Silv said suddenly. “I speak Haltunga. I can interpret for your company and the Lothar we march with.” Her sentences were short and rapid, an indication of the adrenaline pumping through her. Perhaps it was the alcohol clouding her judgment, but she just knew this was the right thing to do.
Elon stared at her. “You’re a historian, lass, not a fighter—“
“—train me on the way.”
“And what if you die?”
“Then I’m dead, and it won’t matter anymore. Just another stain. Maybe someone will even remember my name.”
“I don’t know.”
“Elon, look at her,” Nymph said, “Does she look like the kind of person whose going to let herself get killed.”
“I’d say so,” Catttail said with a grin, tongue sticking through where his two front teeth should’ve been.
“She wields a pen, not a sword.” Elon sighed. “But the way I see it, she’s our best option. Better her than hoping Common is going to cut it.”
That was all Silv needed. Standing to her feet, she shouted in Haltunga. “The Onyx Company will march with you.”
The Lothar cocked an eyebrow, but finally nodded. “Follow me, then.”
