Pagewalker (12 page)

Shaw stopped, a look of sadness on his face.
I could tell that he could feel the emotion of the tale he was
retelling. Repeating words of someone else had a way of inflicting
the emotions onto one self.

! I clearly remember that sadness filled the
faces of the luchorpán listening to the tale. They told stories of
joy and happiness with punchlines then ended in Congregational
laughter. They had no experience of tales of threat, danger and
loss. The storyteller saw the eyes drill into his own, he held the
hearts, dreams and emotions of the entire village at the tip of
silver tongue.”

Shaw continued farther. Once again the vision
returned and he could see the story being told to the
luchorpán.

“Now my friends, here’s where our little tale
becomes interesting. Several long, cold years followed the 10 years
of joy. Kain-Finn led the forces of Renir on many campaigns,
lending aid to many other Thanes and Kings that called upon him.
His time on the throne had grown the town of Renir to a city of
industry, wealth and prosperity. He was adored and kind to all
subjects and even to those who wronged him. He fought cruel tongues
and armed hands with kind words and outstretched arms. However
after a few years of silence the need of a Thane was not so
important. The city stood on its own legs. It made its own deals
and guilds there in ran the day to day of trade and commerce.
Kain-Finn sat idly on the throne for too long. The joy turned to
boredom, halls filled with dust. No feasts were held. Routine was
the poison that weighed heavy on the Thane’s back. Several more
cold years fell from the hourglass and post-coronation Kain-Finn
had been filled with agony. How appropriate it was that on the
15
^th
anniversary of his father’s passing, a strange
visitor paid his Kingdom a visit.

The prophetic woman who had provided the rare
horse – all knew her by name and description – made awestruck the
Kingdom upon her arrival, face streaking with crystal tears that
tore through the dirt caked upon her worn skin. She demanded
audience with the new Thane, a request no one quelled with
fulfilling. In good time, she stood before him in his audience
chamber, tears still rolling down her face. To see her again after
the cold year, Kain-Finn was somewhat perplexed. Ah, but he
wouldn’t be for long. Her presence there reminded him of long ago
when he promised to return to her bearing four strong horses.

‘You!’ he exclaimed, softly, unable to meet
the woman’s eyes.

‘You fiend! She shrieked a response,
staggering across the chamber to reach him at the end of the table.
Her arms and legs trembled like a great thunder, sliding across the
floor and table.

‘Calm yourself and hold your tongue before it
writes your demise’ warned the Thane. ‘I can provide what you seek.
Gold, jewels, land.’

‘A promise unbroken,’ came her shrill cry
once more ‘cannot be mended with gifts. No gold. No land. They’re
all gone. I lost everything.’

‘What do you mean by this?’

By her account, the warrior-King Daragh
raided her lands, raising all to dust. Her home burned to the
ground and the ground, trampled by flame and death, blackened the
green. The name Daragh had been growing like a weed in the cracks
of Renir’s walls. The whispered stories, like vines wrapping around
the throats of the memories past in 10 years. Chocking all
recollection of security from the minds of Renir’s people and
leaving a poisonous fear. This was Daragh’s greatest weapon. Before
he even arrived or a single weapon was drawn, his victory was
almost sealed by surrender of towns. Kain-Finn knew in his heart
the nature of war and the desire of those held under its mighty
thumb. He expected nothing less than to hear the Black Hag
conscript his assistance as repayment for neglecting his prior
promise, and having nothing but guilt, regret, and pity in his
heart, he could not refuse her offer. Many battles and skirmishes
followed but none relevant to this tale. Gratitude ran rampant
about the Kingdom, for all respected the Black Hag’s sale of the
steer that might have saved their late King. In a fury of rage,
they took up armour and arms, driven to crush Daragh’s forces
against Kain-Finn’s better judgement; as you know, dedication to
one’s goals holds no tangible form, cannot cut a man, and cannot
defend against swift sword strokes – oh! And were there ever sword
strokes!”

The storyteller chuckles amusedly to himself,
as if recalling some timeless joke.

“Somehow, the overpowered army diverted
defeat, even if only for a short and gruelling month. Many defeats
brought them to their knees, and the archers’ gambit stripped away
what remained of blood and dignity. Word travelled like a great
wildfire across the land, quickly breaching into the
Northland.”

“And the people fled?” I asked.

“That, indeed, they did do,” Shaw laughs
again, breaking from what I now believed to be a vision spell. Cast
again by words and we were under once more.

“They ran like cattle from a predator, too
spineless to defend their land against impending invasion. The
signs were clear. Daragh commanded powerful legions of witches that
blackened the lands the conquered, and word of the black’s
trajectory made clear the army’s intent. But perhaps it was
Daragh’s arrogance that undid him.

Every Kingdom to encounter `the Black’ sent
messengers to other Kingdoms, ravens were often shot from the skies
and messages burnt on their landing but sometimes the birds could
make it from the walls. Word eventually fell upon the ears of a
Chieftain named Mattock. He was the unappointed but socially
elected leader of a misfit band of rangers native to the Goblin
Isles. The history of these rangers has never been written. No
scrolls were kept. No drawings or relics. Although historians in
the great city of Shann researched the history of the Goblin
Isles.

They were once several fishing villages on
the coastline of the island but people disappeared regularly. On
discovering a village of Goblins the rangers were sent to eradicate
the beasts. While they were fighting the townsfolk left the
islands, abandoning the rangers on the island with no means to
escape. It was thought that the problem had been solved either way.
Either the goblins defeated or the rangers lost but either way the
island was abandoned and re-named Goblin Island.

When news of Kain-Finn’s defeat reached his
people, Mattock was taken to grieving. Renir was Mattock’s homeland
before he was a ranger. His heart always belonged to that town. He
and Kain had been great friends; they spoke much and exchanged
tales of warfare whenever their company permitted.

That the tales of Kain-Finn’s conflict with
Daragh came as second-hand whisperings gave him pause for thought:
that vengeance alone could remedy his friend’s disgrace.

After many messages back and forth from the
mainland Mattock’s men learned that Kain-Finn had only been
imprisoned in Lochlann Keep, deep within Daragh’s territory. A
Kingdom of grey walls meeting grey stone floors. A joyless place of
empty values, silent halls and empty churches. A city lost and
consumed by its own desire to conquer all in the north.

Word of Kain-Finn’s capture had reached many
but nothing of his death had been heard. Mattock knew it would take
more than a simple capture to kill Kain-Finn it would take a
cataclysm to wipe that great man from this earth!’ Mattock’s
confidence in his friend and his sense of duty to his once thane
heralded his troops. Mattock, however, would not charge into battle
recklessly.

Weeks of surveillance were rewarded when
scouts brought news of Kain-Finn’s location. As there was no heir
in line to the throne, Renir had fallen progressively into ruin,
and Mattock negotiated – quite brilliantly – a day’s acquisition of
that throne in exchange for the full strength of his troops upon
the advancing Daragh. Emaciated and without hope Kain-Finns
stewards agreed to those terms. Grateful for the Rangers return to
aid them although very wary of his true intentions. Still, they
amply prepared. Trained by the rangers in the courtyards in
stealth, speed, stamina and archery. The Rangers were strong,
disciplined and through many shared experience in guerrilla warfare
and daily skirmishes to survive on the Goblin Isles they were
fearless of men and fearless of death. Much unlike Kain-Finn’s
troops, Mattock’s were capable of levying tremendous damage,
skulking about in shadows and striking from the cover of night. In
only a few weeks, he trimmed Daragh’s army noticeably. By following
them on every small manoeuvre or training exercise they learnt the
way they fought, defended and made strategical manoeuvres. The
Rangers were able to infiltrate the barracks on several evenings,
slitting the throats of the sleeping soldiers, and leaving a simple
red hand print on the face of each dead soul. The Red hand was the
banner of Laughlin before Daragh came to power. He saw this as a
taunt at first. A threat the second and third time and eventually
he saw it as a call to war by the 4
^th
time. His numbers
were shrinking considerably by now. The Rangers, were taking our
garrisons, envoys, convoys and even palace guards almost every day
there were reported casualties. Not to mention the men lost due to
messengers joining the pile of corpses. The Black’s advances slowed
to a halt. Daragh was furious and his rage had wrestled his sound
mind to the depths of his soul. His blind desire for revenge and
the fear consuming him won over his sound strategy to conquer the
North. This is when the final strike occurred. Messengers provided
word of Daragh’s most terrible habit: a burning love for ale and
spirits.

At the end of each day, he summoned his grand
guard to watch over him as he downed bottle after bottle of alcohol
while sharing the company of his attendants. The guardsmen were
slain quickly by a thousand roaring soldiers bursting through the
covers of bushes, hidden in the thicket of night. The whole castle
of Laughlin was on alert. Men ran through the halls, most, only
half armed. Leaving heavy armour behind to reach the combat
quickly. They were unprepared, excused and scared. They knew this
would be the final assault. Many fled, or surrendered. The lucky
ones lay at the front of their houses and locked themselves inside.
The rest perished at the end of a northern blade. Mattock and 6 of
his rangers entered the keep from the roof after a long and
dangerous climb. It took them almost 5 hours to scale the wall.
Long before the assault began. This was all planned as to coincide
with the confusion in the city. Mattock was alone in the chamber.
He, as always, had sent his guards outside as he conversed with his
greatest adviser. One he could only find at the bottom of an empty
whiskey bottle. He ran to the chamber doors to call his great
guards but as he pulled open the doors three bodies fell inward and
above them stood two more hooded rangers. More of Mattock’s Men. He
was surrounded and he was drunk. He fell to his knees in defeat as
Mattock approached him tossing his hood back to reveal his face. A
scarred face, weathered and rough. A long blond beard with grey
streaks flowing from the chin. Hair tightly combed back and set
tight to his head with wax and sweat. Some rogue fringe hairs fell
over his face but the sky blue eyes cut through the shadows cast by
his sunken eye sockets, scars decorated his face, one through his
lips and one vertically down his left eye. Leaving him blind and a
milky white iris that was still fixed on Daragh’s.

Daragh knew he was done. His reign had ended
but in the true fashion of the Black he spat in the face of death.
Unfortunately for him the face of death was Mattock’s. The Ranger
had many fables told of him, whispers among his men. None of which
were stories of forgiveness or mercy. Daragh met a slow end. Pain
was taken to new limits and beyond by the hands of Mattock and his
rangers. Not until the rangers turned the key to Kain- Finn’s cell
did Daragh know misery. For 3 long days revenge was taken on
Daragh’s body. The once great Thane of Renir, who held virtue and
fairness above all else, slipped into a dark place. He worked his
demons into the flesh of Daragh and even as he cried for death
Kain-Finn kept him alive. After the third day of torture Mattock
stopped Kain-Finn from inflicting any more pain. Daragh was not a
man any more. Nothing remotely human was left of him, blood and
bone was all that remained. Just a breathing body left on the slab
in Kain-Finn’s old cell. Mattock handed Kain-Finn his sword to cast
the final blow but Kain-Finn refused. Part of his humanity was lost
also after the experience he and Daragh shared. Mattock took his
blade and ended Daragh without a second thought. No ceremony or
dramatic words. Just one slice, severing head from body. Some say
the spirit of the demon that resided in Laughlan was present those
days. Reviling, growing, strengthening and preparing for something,
something large and unspeakable. Kain-Finn left Lochlann that
following morning leaving Mattock in charge in his stead. He simply
wanted to return home.

The people of Lochlann succumbed to enamour
and intimidation, hailing the man who had slain their army so
mercilessly (and surely knowing they’d need a new protector) and
nearly begging Mattock to replace the fallen Daragh on the
throne.

This is where Mattock took up residence and
his rangers also sat as his advisers on his council. Many years of
peace followed and Renir and Lochlann established profitable trade
routes between Northland and past the borders. This continued for
many years until a young prince named Falair began to make his name
echo through Northland but that my friends is a tale for yet
another evening.”

Shaw sat back, stretching his back from his
crouched storytelling position. The spell had worn off and we were
back in the Rebel’s Rest. We looked at each other without saying a
word. I was speechless and the others were basking in the feeling
of reliving yet another recounting of the tale. This one much more
potent than any before. I turned to look at Tessa who had somehow
moved from my lap to Bonnie’s, who was stroking her head as one
would with a scared child.