By Chris Burns A tale of Larisnar
"Mamello, may I speak with you a moment?"
Baqbou Umbala walked towards the young havat-lahn, who appeared to be in deep meditation. Baqbou's men were billeted in the barracks of Vronish Kez's private guard. While Baqbou would prefer to speak with Mamello privately, Kez was insistent that no warriors other than his own would wander his halls. The Dominar was cautious his nation's security, and would not allow any foreign force to review his defenses. Baqbou silently questioned why he was allowed access to the manor, but he did not fully understand the ways of the north. He would not insult his host by asking when Kez had given Baqbuou his trust, and Baqbuo would return it. The fundisi quietly sat beside the contemplative form of Mamello, unsure if the havat-lahn had heard his request while in his state of meditation.
After the briefest of moments Mamello opened his eyes and turned to Baqbou. "Of course, Fundisi Umbala, how may I be of assistance?" The havat-lahn's tone was deep and melodious.
"I have been thinking these past few nights," Baqbou began, "of the disturbing events that transpired on the field of battle."
Mamello nodded. "I have as well, Fundisi, but my training did not prepare me to see our gods war. It was a most dire omen."
Baqbou looked up sharply at the havat-lahn's words. "An omen you say? Yes. Why did I not see it as such?" Noticing the slightly confused look on Mamello's face, Baqbou continued, "Your training may still be of use to us, Mamello. Havat-lahn train their minds as well as their bodies, and it is your mind that I have need of now."
"Of course, Fundisi. I am at your disposal," replied Mamello.
Baqbou took a deep breath. "Among the ancient texts there is a prophecy. 'When the four temples unite as one, the world changes forever.' I must confess that while I know the prophecy, I have neither dwelled on it nor researched it. In your training, have you come across it?"
"Yes, Fundisi. Years ago, while in Narawat, I had a very lively discussion with a fellow havat-lahn on the prophecy you speak of. He had devoted his life to that one line. He was most adamant the rest of the tablet could be found," Mamello said.
Baqbou raised an eyebrow. "Tablet? What tablet is this? I thought this prophecy was recorded in the scrolls of our people."
Mamello smiled. "This havat-lahn believes the prophecy predates Narawat and its people. His research led him to think it was a small part of a larger tablet, which detailed a vast ritual involving the temples. He spent his whole life searching for it."
"Did he ever find it?" Baqbou asked.
"I do not know, Fundisi. I never saw him again."
Baqbou's brow furrowed. "Did this havat-lahn you speak of mention a war between the gods?"
"No," answered Mamello. "But he did speak of great battles to come, ones which would be preceded by ill omens and portents."
"I can imagine no more ominous an omen than Djarat and Amoudosi coming to blows in foreign lands. I fear for Narawat and our people, Mamello. I must ask something of you," Baqbou said, the worry in his heart barely touching his voice.
"I am yours, Fundisi Umbala," the havat-lahn replied evenly.
"Go to Narawat. At the least the other Fundisi should know of what has happened here. Tell them of what we spoke. Perhaps they are learned enough to interpret this sign."
"I will, Fundisi. Might I ask a favor of you before I go?"
"Of course, Mamello, what is it?"
"My heart is heavy. Will you pray with me, so it will not burden me on my journey home?"
Baqbou smiled and placed a hand on Mamello's shoulder. "Yes, Mamello. Let us both pray for you, and for Narawat."
As the two Narawati prayed, they did not notice a silent figure, clad in red and blue, slink off into the darkness of a nearby hall.
A week after speaking with Mamello, Baqbou strode, with some weariness, through the halls of Misear's Dominar, Vronish Kez. As he roamed the corridors of his host's home he noted again the stark duality of the place. The walls and floor were dark stone, cut and fitted expertly, but somber and spartan. Simple iron sconces lined the walls, lighting the dark interior with a dim reddish glow. The only ornamentation were carefully displayed weapons. A pair of swords crossed over a shield on one wall, and a mighty battle-axe hanging on another. Only close inspection of the weapons hinted at the wealth of this country. Each one was a masterpiece of craftsmanship. Finely wrought and subtly gilded, the weapons were testaments to the nation's martial reputation. The Dominar did not spend his money on grandiose estates, but on tools to keep those estates his. It was a subtle warning to those who would wander these halls with thoughts of conquest; Vronish Kez would keep his kingdom his.
"What have I to offer one such as this?" the fundisi muttered to himself as he made his way back to his chambers. He had been afforded a large suite, as befitted a foreign dignitary though Baqbou's retinue had been quartered in the. The distance between the two locales was not inconsiderable. He longed to stay with his men; his discussion with Mamello had convinced him they would need his guidance now, more than ever. Yet he could not insult his host by not following the Misearian's customs. At least, he mused, he would stay fit with the daily walks.
As he reached his rooms, he paused before opening his door at the sound of oncoming footsteps. Baqbou turned to see a servant in blue and red livery bow low before him.
"Lord Umbala," the servant said in a deep, clear voice, "Dominar Kez wishes you to meet with him." The polite tone of the servant aside, Baqbou knew this was no request. It was an order.
"Thank you. Please, lead on," Baqbou replied.
The servant led Baqbou through the confusing maze of the manor's corridors. Even after a month Baqbou knew he would easily be lost in here without a guide. He was again reminded this manor was not built for luxury, but for war. He shortly found himself in the throne room of Vronish Kez.
"Fundisi Baqbou Umbala of Narawat," the servant announced.
"Thank you for your services Mathius," answered the Dominar of Misear with a smile. "Leave us now." The servant bowed to his lord and left the room, closing the doors behind him.
This was Baqbou's second meeting with his host. Kez had been busy, or so he claimed, overseeing the defense of his city-state. Kez was dressed in his military finery; a deep blue leather jacket trimmed red. Golden griffins accented his collar and cuffs, as well as the hilt of his sword. The Misearian was not a tall man, but he was imposing nonetheless. His stocky frame belied his nimbleness, which Baqbou had briefly glimpsed as the Dominar commanded his men in battle two weeks prior.
"I am sorry that we have not had the chance to speak again until now, Fundisi. Please accept my most abject apologies," Kez said.
"No apology is necessary, Dominar. You have had to see to the defense of your country. Truly there is no more noble a cause."
"Truly," Kez replied. "It is fortunate for me that you are a man of words. A man of action would not be so ... understanding."
Compliant is the word you mean, Baqbou thought briefly before banishing the thought. Kez had been a good, if distant host, he would not insult him, even if silently. "What is it you wish to speak with me about, Dominar," he said.
"I fear I have grave news, Fundisi. Narawat is besieged," said Kez calmly, his ice blue eyes locked on Baqbou.
A look of shock briefly passed over Baqbou's features. "How long? By whom?" he stammered as he struggled to regain his composure.
"From what my scouts say," Kez said as he moved to pour himself a glass of wine, "A week, maybe more, maybe less. As to who, well that is less clear. It is no army known to my people. Wine?"
"What? No, no thank you," Baqbou replied shakily. The fundisi took a deep breath and composed himself. "Thank you for this news, Dominar. I must ask that my men and I be allowed to leave, elven war parties or no. We must return home."
Kez nodded and took a sip from his goblet. "Of course, Fundisi Umbala. I would not think to keep you here when circumstances are so dire. However, I could not allow you to return to Narawat without some assistance."
"You would seek to delay me, Dominar, in this most dire hour? I may be a man of words," Baqbou said, with barely controlled ire, "But I recognize when it is a time for action."
The Dominar of Misear smiled shrewdly. "Indeed it is, Fundisi. No, I will not keep you any longer, but you may benefit from staying long enough to hear what I have to say."
Baqbou exhaled slowly. "Speak then, Dominar, for we must be swift."
Kez drained his goblet of wine. "I have sent word to Sir Robert in Toris Kelt. The Free Kingdoms are willing to send help to Narawat, but only one man is... readily available for this task. Sadly Robert does not know where he can be found. I, however, do. Find him, and your cause will not be so grave I think."
"You have sent word? And received a reply!" Baqbou said sternly. The fundisi's control over his emotions was strained, but he would not allow Kez to see him unnerved. "How long have you known, Kez? How long have you known my people are at war and not told me?"
Kez set his goblet down sharply. "Long enough, Fundisi. I knew you would race off as soon as you were informed, and I could not in good conscience allow you to leave without some aid, could I now?"
"So instead of giving us soldiers or even some of your gladiators to turn the tide of this war, you will make us search for one man in all of the Accordlands?"
Kez smiled, "Misear needs its men against to steel itself against the Elven threat. However, we are member of the Free Kingdoms, Fundisi. We must all do our part."
"Fine, then, Dominar of Misear. Who is this man, and where may I find him? Tell me and I shall be gone," Baqbou said sharply.
"He can be found in northern Llyr. It is far from the capital and has yet to be touched by the elves. There is not much there but grasslands and small farming communities. His name is Sir Eddard Hume. Your people know him by another name, however."
In his wildest dreams Zagreb Umbala never would have imagined himself traipsing through a war torn land in search of a legend. Vronish Kez had said that this northern section of Llyr had not been touched by the elves, but that was not entirely true. It could be said, perhaps, that they touched this region lighter than in the south, but evidence of their attacks was still obvious. For every farm town he passed that still carried on, he passed three that had been razed. Fire brought about life and change, but in its own time and way. Wars, Zagreb thought as he made his way along the edge of a road, disrupt the natural cycle of life most vilely.
His cousin, Baqbou, was most likely back in Narawat by now. It had taken Zagreb two weeks to travel from Misear to Llyr. He noted, with a little irony, that the skills his people had despised him for might yet save them. After consulting the map Kez had given to Baqbou, Zagreb turned off the road and made for a small manor house at the end of a tree-lined lane.
As he approached the house Zagreb was unsure of how to proceed. Should he announce himself far from the house? Stride up to it and knock on the door? Sneak through a window? This last he discounted as a bad idea. He was still crouching behind a bush wondering how to proceed when he noticed a shadow looming over his shoulder. Zagreb turned sharply to confront the person behind him, but merely ended up landing on his own backside in surprise. A tall man, wiry and tan, stood over him. In an instant Zagreb knew he had found whom he sought.
"You-" Zagreb began, but found himself quickly interrupted.
"If you think to pilfer my house, thief, you have chosen poorly. Leave now, and I may forget I saw you. Dally, even a little, and you will surely regret it."
"I am no thief!" Zagreb shouted. He paused, "Well, not anymore at least. I have come to see you, sir." Zagreb found himself scrutinizing the man before him. "You are Sir Eddard Hume, are you not?"
The other man's eyes narrowed. "Who are you? Robert sent you, didn't he?"
"Well," Zagreb stammered, "I suppose, after a fashion." The young Narawati slowly stood. "I am Zagreb Umbala and..."
"Umbala?" Sir Hume asked sharply. "Leave here, Umbala. I do not know how you found me, but any legends you have heard are false. That life is behind me now. My home is here."
"I am sure it is, Sir Eddard Hume, but Narawat is in trouble, besieged by an army that means to destroy it. It - it had hundreds of monsters, many-armed and breathing fire, and beasts that defy description! They attack Narawat with and will surely destroy it!" Zagreb stated excitedly.
"Cease your lies and be gone!"
"Okay, maybe I exaggerate," Zagreb said apologetically, "but Narawat is warred upon by unknown forces." He pulled a crumpled piece of parchment from inside his shirt. "Sir Robert has pledged help to Narawat, but he requests you lead them. Here. He sent this for you."
Sir Eddard took the parchment from Zagreb and opened it carefully. "That life is behind me," he muttered as he read the orders the Duke of Andover had sent.
Zagreb, not knowing what else to do, spoke, "Please, Sir Eddard Hume. You can help us. We did not know your name here, but we know of your deeds in my home. As a child I heard the legends of man known as Kedric; a man as mysterious as he was gifted. The elders and the young alike speak of you. If we hurry we can meet with Sir Robert's forces soon. He has sent work to the Kun monks. >From what I have heard they are to the Accordlands as the havat-lahn are to Narawat. With you at their head my people will rejoice, they-"
"Be silent," Hume said, resignedly. Letting the note fall from his grasp he made his way towards the road.
Zagreb stood, confused. "My lord? Were are you going?"
"To Narawat, young Umbala. Fate has forced my hand again it seems. Perhaps, after this, I will know peace. But until this is over I will not know, will I?"
Zagreb looked between the receding form of Hume and the manor house. "Don't you need to gather your things lord?"
"I have everything I need. Come, Umbala, lest we be late."
"Neus preserve us," Kun Tzin whispered.
The force of monks stood on a sandy dune over looking the besieged Narawat. Armies of undead fought the Narawati, who in turn engaged massive beasts, humanoid bulls that wielded sword and sorcery alike. Set against the backdrop of the desert nation, it was a sight that rivaled any the monks of Kun had seen in their wars in the Accordlands.
"How will we get through that, sir?" Kun Tzin asked.
"With our swords and our wits," Kedric replied.
"But there are thousands of them!"
"Bah! ‘Tis no different than when the Sir Robert broke the siege on Toris Kelt," another monk said.
"It is very much different!" retorted Mall, "Then, Sir Robert had the whole armies of Andover behind him. We're merely a company of monks here. Sir Eddard, this is hopeless, I suggest," Kun Mall trailed off as he felt the gaze of Kedric upon him.
"First, no situation is hopeless. You will do well to remember that. Second, I told you all before, Sir Eddard Hume has died his final death. I will not be called by that name any longer, is that understood?" Kedric waited for the monk to nod before he turned to Zagreb. "You must know a way into that city, one that will allow us to reach the fundisi?"
The young Narawati smiled proudly. "Of course," he said, beaming. "Follow me, I shall show you the way, Kedric."
Next Story: