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Borderline
Hospitality
Prologue
Tales come from the north and east. Tales carried far
swifter than the dirge-like
processional that is the speed of
the Caravan Jodassian. Even in the
deepest months of this bitter
winter, a winter that has been
harsher than most have known,
stories, gossip and rumour sprout
and flourish. Despite the savaging
winds, the unrelenting snowstorms
and the stinging hail upon our
faces, tales grow from the deadest
ground. The druids speak of the
coming of a highking, a figure that
will unite the scattered Gaelic
tribes into a single nation. Three
aspirants are spoken of, each from a
large and masterful tribe; the
Venetii, the Dardani and the Silures.
As I near Tirnalian borders, the air
is hung with the scent of these
politics, even down to the
attentions of the Dobunni tribe.
Attentions that are, for my part at
least, extremely unwanted. After my
ministrations of their fallen
kinsmen, of my fervent retellings of
older legends and songs about my
life and journeys, these Gaels have
embraced me as a brother, seeing my
coming as an omen of times ahead, as
if I have some part to play in the
unfolding events. I tolerated their
fawning because our continuing
journey required the tribe’s
implicit aid. Dobunni hunters are
renowned for their skill with spear
and trap, and their experience of
eking out an existence across
ice-ravaged tundra proved a
much-needed boon. It is by their
skills at tracking and killing in
the wilderness alone that we
survived.
Yet even out in places where hunger and biting cold
are the staples of each and every
day, still talk of the coming storms
hound us. One day we are led to
believe that an unnamed Gael
pendragon has assembled a great
warband in hope to smash the
generation-long truce between
Tirnalis and my people, and in so
doing set themselves as lord of all.
Another day we learn that not every
Gael agrees with the fragile peace
that the current truce imparts. On
still another we are hear of other
moves that are more political, and
therefore infinitely more terrible.
One of the most interesting stories
in the current round of hearsay is
from shamans who proclaim that
Tirnalis is behind this attempt to
break the truce. There is even
rumour that the Dobunni are set to
unmask the threat of hostilities,
yet none will speak of it directly.
How much truth lies within these
tales is debatable, and I am
increasingly aware that the
Dobunni’s current position may
certainly colour its perception of
unfolding events. For the tribe to
which we are so indebted was exiled
for their opposition of the Venetii
and has wandered since.
This want of war is unfathomable to me, yet I
understand from my Gaelic training
that peace makes fat the nation it
feeds. War is like the starving
harshness of this winter. It causes
all within it leaner and stronger.
So while as a member of the
caravan’s council I eat better
than most, the paleness and
tiredness that so haunts the drovers
and freefolk is mirrored in my eyes
and face also. For these past
months, it is true to say that
suffering is never far from our
thoughts.
Of course, for the caravan, there are also many
concerns a little closer to home.
Thuram sees Tirnalis as a good
place. Members of his family are
there, and having been away from my
home for these many moons, I can
understand his eagerness to be among
his kith and kin once more. My own
mind these long days and nights,
frequently flies to remember the
peaks and shores of my homeland, and
sometimes even of the craftsmen who
shall fashion a new harp for me. I
still grieve for Iana. Her loss is
as keen now as ever. It is like having lost
a limb. Life goes on without it,
yes, but not a life as before. Not a
full life. Not a life any sane man
would want or enjoy.
As we approach the edges of Tirnalis, it is heard
tell that Thuram’s uncle, one
Kheysur Jodassian, owns a border
fort and uses it as a trading post,
and that we have been invited there
to rest and to feast. I am not sure
if this is a certainty or just a
carrot held before the famished
donkey, but it does its job of
spurring us forward. Step by painful
step. Mile by uncertain mile. My
boots, worn through, are mended with
ever more threadbare materials, and
likewise the entire caravan is in
need of essential repairs. So it is
a tattered and beaten shadow of its
former self that crosses the
borderlands and comes at last to the
gates of Lisingarde.
Arrival
Over
the past six decades, all the great
Tirnalian strongholds that once
housed many hundreds of guardsmen
have fallen into disrepair and such
was evident even from a distance as
we approached. As we climbed the
track to the wooden gates, here for
the first time did I see with my own
eyes the vestiges of a bellicose
past, and perhaps of why there were
some who would wish this past
rekindled. For in these times the
remaining forts are little more than
ghosts of their former grandeur,
acting now as places of trade and
administration. I am told that of
the thirteen structures strung
across the Battledales, only this
one and three others have survived a
generation of peace. Lisingarde was
leased some years ago to the Khazim
merchant, who has turned the
dilapidated edifice of wood and
stone into a thriving business
asset. Inhabited by Tirnalian
frontiersmen, traders, dalelanders,
Gaels and Vetivan settlers, after
moons in the wilds, here we
encounter an oasis of prosperity in
the veritable desert of our need.
Unfortunately,
our first encounter with Tirnalian
hospitality was to be told that
before entering the Khazim’s
banqueting hall we were to form an
orderly line, in order of highest
ranking to lowest. I stood apart
from the resulting squabbles between
merchants and Cocal, rangers and
ladies in their finery. Most of
those who had found themselves with
a personal invitation to the
feasting were known to me, yet there
were a few faces that were not at
all familiar. Having spoken to her
servant and learned her name, the
silk-clad Lucia di Malefici I did
not know, and nor was I to make more
than a passing acquaintance with her
as the evening progressed. Even from
the off, this woman of quite visible
means had no interest in what she
possibly thought was no more than a
savage minstrel; she it seemed, was
after larger fish than I. Also among
the waiting guests were men with
names such as Dimitri and accents as
thick as thieves, their regional
drawl hard on my ears, their banter
punctuated with deep laughter and
references to unfamiliar terms such
as ‘kabaks’ and ‘vadkar’.
Yet I had plenty of time to uncover
the meaning of these phrases. All
told, we must have stood outside
that hall in the cold and dark for
almost two bells. The icy wind
ripped through even my loden wool
cloak, bringing no comfort. Indeed,
the air being full as it was with
smells of cooking meat and spiced
wines, waiting only aggravated the
tense situation. Yet finally the
great doors opened and we were
allowed into the canopied chambers
beyond.
Standing
some ten or so places back from
Snake and the other caravan’s
fieflords, it was in no little time
that I was basking in a wave of heat
that warmed me deeper than ever I
had felt those past months. I was
met at the threshold by a former
member of the Wall Guard and now
local Superintendent known
as Donnakov, whose officious
efficiency would run like a backbone
through the night’s revelry. Much
like the mountain range that ran
along the ridge of the continent.
The bureaucracy began when I was
asked my name, the next request
being that I must relinquish my
weapons. Like the murmurs from those
before me, I added my unease at
being stripped of my sword and
dagger, even down to my athame, yet
the superintendent brooked no
deviation or hesitation from his
duties. So Iolairn and Taran,
Fionn’s prized bronze weapons,
were removed from my waist and
unceremoniously dumped into a barrel
beside the doorway. Then and only
then was I allowed to enter and
mingle with the other guests.
Before
The Feast
I
had heard that Tirnalians have a
natural distrust of foreigners, yet
this was not in evidence in the
opening hours of the feast. As
others browsed the fine perfumes and
unusual trinkets on display upon
various merchant tables, I went to
speak to the master of ceremonies.
Isagaffe was all that could be
expected of a man in his position;
courteous without being agreeable,
apologetic without offering
recompense. All-told, his mastery of
the revellers was to prove even more
of a mainstay to the banquet, though
my initial questioning as to the
sequence of the evening’s events,
an overview of any diplomatic
delicacies, and also a request to
perform, revealed a far greater list
of issues than even the meeting of
Feral and Urdaal had created. Of the
itinerary, there was little
surprise, though the two missing
Khazim, both uncle and nephew, were
ongoing concerns. Also was I
troubled by the various taboos that
Isagaffe casually listed. Among the
rules of not eating with the left
hand and never refusing any food or
drink that was offered, I was also
informed that the only man who had
ever bested Kheysur in a trading
deal was a musician, and that no
song or music could be played in the
master’s presence. This, of all
the rules, was the hardest to both
understand and tolerate; for a bard
without swords is still a bard, but
a bard without his song…
My
thoughts were distracted by the
approach of a robed merchant, who,
after much deliberation offered me a
deal that seemed to involve me
smuggling certain ‘sharp
objects’ through the borderlands.
As I had heard that arms trading to
Dalelanders is punishable by being
boiled alive, I conveyed my polite
disinterest and quickly bade my
leave. My mind was on other matters.
Matters that showed the clear path
of the evening. For with mead, wine
and many other celebratory drinks
free and free-flowing, coupled with
the instruction that we could not
refuse to partake, both were clear
signs that someone wanted us in a
malleable state this night. Of all
the foul smelling spirits on offer
to my companions, the most prevalent
was the aforementioned vadkar, a
strongly alcoholic beverage,
colourless and odourless, that was
used exclusively in a series of
ever-more-outlandish round of
toasts.
Yet
for me, I had no time for drinking
the health of my gods or my
favourite goats, for I required an
answer to what manner of performance
I should make during the
proceedings. It was then that I met
the storyteller. His hooded robes
told of much travel, and upon
questioning, he explained that for
the past months he had been passing
through the northern lands, meeting
with Gael and Feral, collecting
stories and imparting news and tales
from distant lands. I had heard that
the Tirnalians have a great love of
stories, and looked forward to the
feast and hearing this fellow’s
skill with words, to savour his
adroit ability to make the legends
and heroes of the past come alive in
the minds of the here and now. I
should not have gathered my hopes,
but this, like the eventual chaos of
the final hours within the trading
post, were as invisible to me then
as torcs and spears cast into deep
waters. Strangely though, this
unnamed man offered a gift as
unexpected as any I had received on
my travels thus far. After speaking
briefly of his own journeying, he
told a tale concerning a certain
object that had come into his
possession from beastmen in the dark
north. The shaman that had given it
had explained that, though the
storyteller would carry it far, it
would leave his possession as a
gift. The vagaries of this story
worried me, yet the man seemed
sincere as he handed me a velvet
purse within which I found a curious
and precious stone. It was roughly
palm-sized, completely smooth and
shone brightly in the candlelight as
I examined it. The sliver was copper
blue and iridescent, glinting and
reflecting, almost mesmerising in
its beauty. I told the storyteller I
could not accept such a gift
unwarranted or unearned, but there
was no dissuading him. And as that
was the time when Thuram arrived in
the hall, there was nothing to do
but pocket the stone and move to
greet my current lord and master.
Thuram’s welcome was less than fulsome, his
movements and his mind on other
matters somehow far away from this
time and place. Speaking but briefly
on ephemeral matters, the
caravanmaster moved through the
hall, nodding to those who knew him
and exchanging words and greetings
in a semblance of composure. Yet I
have known this man for too long to
even doubt the disquiet in his eyes,
a disquiet that when next I saw him
had turned to full-blown
astonishment. Moving quickly to
where the Khazim crouched beside the
merchant’s tables, I saw that he
clutched some parchment ripped from
the noticeboard, where only that
evening I had read of news of our
exploits in Vetiver and how our
actions had effectively sealed trade
routes through that part of the
realm. Yet it was not this that so
blanched the caravanmaster’s face,
but another pronouncement. Moving to
stand between Thuram and his
fellows, I allowed the Khazim to
compose himself, then watched as he
retook his seat at high table.
Returning to my own place, I was
soon approached by the Lady Katriona,
herself suffering somewhat from the
ills of winter. In an uncertain and
hesitant voice she showed me her
likeness upon a parchment hailing a
reward of five sovereigns for her
arrest. I tried to calm her,
suggesting that the sketch looked
little like her, yet she was not
consoled. I would have said more,
but then, in a flourish of wenches
and fuss, our host Kheysur Jodassian
entered the great hall.
During
The Feast
To
one who has gazed into the face of
kings and princes all his life, I
have never looked upon such a hard,
bitten and unforgiving mien as the
caravanamaster’s uncle. His steel
grey eyes were piercing, his
temperament unforged iron, his words
falling like swords on the necks of
disobedient slaves. From my end of
the table, I saw nothing of what
transpired at the other, contenting
myself with talking to Nell, and
hearing how she had recently
purchased a wire-strung harp, of
which she was most proud.
Remembrances of playing Iana flooded
back to me, and I could not resist
asking if I would be able to see it,
perhaps even play it. Gaily, she
agreed and was just about to fetch
the instrument when the storyteller
stood and began his first tale. It
was a long and winding fable,
delivered in such a way as to make
each of its many sentences less than
lyrical on the ears. Though I
listened to every word, there were
many who openly mocked the length
and execution of the story. Still, I
cannot lie that when it eventually
came to its conclusion, I was just
as relieved as the rest. Yet I had
little time to recover, for after
this I was called upon to sing.
After hearing of Kheysur’s hatred
of all things musical, I knew that I
had been granted a great favour. Yet
before I began I knew that there
were other words that I must impart,
to try to speak of my concerns for
the company in the only way I knew
how.
Praise
not the day till the night is come
Praise
not the night till the dawn is won
Praise
not the sword till the blade is
tested
The
foe is bested
Thy
wounds arrested
Praise
not the day till the night is come
For
the might of a hundred men are no
match for the power of one song.
In
that first telling, I showed of my
eagerness to return to my homeland,
and most importantly, my people. I
spoke to my memories of the golden
heathers, the peaks and the legends
that may yet come again in the
hearts of men. And, more than this,
I wanted those gathered to recognise
that the glorious name of bard was
more than a title bestowed to a
minstrel or singer, how it instead
marked an individual as a shaman,
versifier, witness and exemplar. How
a bard, like any spiritual being, is
both of and not of this world. In
Gaelic tradition it is death to mock
a bard, death to love a bard, and
death to be a bard. For without
bardic poetry and song, we would
live a half-life in the shadow of
ourselves. Bards are the guides on
an inner voyage of discovery to the
Otherworld. And for a while, my audience
journeyed with me there and caught a
glimpse of fairer shores than these.
I
sat and the eating continued. The
cooks producing dish after dish made
from strange rices, vegetables and
spices. The feasting continued. The
drinking continued. The storyteller
rose and told more tales. And I was
called upon to sing again. This
time, in both my native and common
tongues, I told the tale of the
wolfskin that hung from my cloaked
shoulders, of my chieftain, and my
story before I came to this place we
call now. This time the company
joined me, my mother and her two
sisters on the rain-lashed banks of
the River Ulbrûas, fleeing for our
lives from a burning hillfort, with
Vetivan raiders on our heels. Joined
me as we boarded the small coracle
and begin the perilous journey
across to the far banks…
Yn
badau o’r ochr gorllewin, ni
groesi yr afon llydan
Tri
chwiorydd a plentyn, pwy canu hanes
hwn’nawr.
Gadael
gyflym y goed torri garw, y glaw hwy
yna gwrthsefyll
Dewrion
yr awel ac ystorm yna golchiadau eu
bywyd i ffwrdd.
Rhoddi
fy enaid i Thorvaldr
Rhoddi
fy gwaed ac asgwrn
Rhoddi
fy cleddyf a gân i Thorvaldr
Thorvaldr,
fy hyn.
In
boats from the west side, we crossed
the river wide
Three
sisters and a child who sings this
story now.
Swift-leaving
rough-hewn wood, the rain we there
withstood
Braving
a storm and gale that washed our
lives away.
From
yonder prowling trees came midnight
hunters these
Awaiting
prey to come and fill their bellies
full
Yet
as we cowered back from the fierce
jaws’ attack
One
man rose from the dark and saved us
all.
Was
it a sun-forged knife or then a
wolf’s fang bright
That
cut across my sight like moonfire
drawn?
For
as the wolves came down, the choice
to fight or drown.
He
drew his blade and cut the leader
from the world.
So
as you gaze this night into the
firelight
His
rule shall shine much brighter than
the aching flame,
And
as the light’s unmade, his
feathers are displayed
On
wings of darkness raised above the
highest crown.
I
give my soul to Thorvaldr
I
give my blood and bone
I
give my sword and song to Thorvaldr
Thorvaldr,
my own.
Unfortunately,
it was after I had finished and was
again seated beside Nell that
Kheysur’s questioning began. The
first I realised that the tone of
the evening had changed, I was
utterly engrossed in telling the
history and lineage of Iana, my lost
harp, and discovering more of
Nell’s ownership of her
twenty-three string clarsach. Such
was my joy at realising that after
months away I would this evening
once more be able to play my chosen
instrument again, I bade Nell fetch
it at once, only to become aware
that the Khazim had begun an angry
and animated probing of fellow
members of the caravan. The main
thrust of the questions concerned
our encounter with the Vetivan Fist
on the plains between the capital
and the border fort. It began with
Snake and there were few of the
caravan that escaped unasked. The
Ranger was Cocal, and therefore seen
as brethren, a member of the
Jodassian household. Unfortunately,
Snake’s attempts to smooth over
the incident only enraged Kheysur
further. The Khazim told, and I have
no reason to disbelieve it, that he
possessed the power to see truth in
men’s hearts. So, as Nell went to
fetch her instrument, I stood and
positioned myself in a place where I
would be chosen, but alas, this did
not happen. Instead our host chose
Mathus the brewer, then Magnus, and
then Quinn from House Pentath. I
watched all this from my vantage
point, realising that, as the
various facts were amassed, that I
was the reason that this had
happened. I was the one held back
upon my knees. I was the one their
captain had ordered to brand. I was
the one that had swayed Fionn’s
hand to attack. So intent was I on
the unfolding events, that I hardly
noticed that Nell had returned, harp
in hand, and now sat scant feet
away, tuning and readying herself.
Unable to move, unable to intervene,
I managed to gain the attentions of
Katriona, and luckily, at the height
of Kheysur’s ranting, we at least
averted the diplomatic catastrophe
of his hearing the strains of harp
music in his halls.
It
was at this time that the warrior
known as Daenn passed across the
hall to speak to me. This curious
waylander had been hired by Magnus
as a bodyguard of sorts, though I
had had scant dealing with the
strange fur-clad fellow. Rumour said
that he was Gael turned Feral and
hunter in the wastes, though this
hour he was messenger, requesting
for others why I did not step
forwards and reveal that I was
indeed the Gael that had been
mentioned many times in the
disparate recountings. I could not
answer, of course, could not say
that I was waiting for the wolves of
anger to run their course in the
Khazim’s boiling blood. And then I
found the exact moment to speak. The
very point of the interrogation
where my words would affect all that
had come before and all that would
come after. Kheysur was once more
threatening Malthus with death by
any number of horrendous means if he
would not still his flapping tongue,
yet the wine and mead and vadkar had
loosened them beyond halter. What
our host wanted to know was who was
the man mentioned in all stories,
all versions of events, the one upon
whom the wrath of the Vetivans had
fallen, had brought the wrath of the
caravan Joddassian upon them, and in
turn had brought the wrath of the
Vetivans upon his trade routes.
“I
was that Gael,” I said.
In
an instant the piercing gaze of
Thuram’s uncle turned upon me. I
tried, as best I could, to return
the withering stare, focusing
instead on telling the story of that
day in as clear and impassioned way
as my skills allowed. At the end of
the telling, the Khazim clasped me
to his breast like a brother, and
then admonished his remaining guests
saying how at last he had learned
the truth from a storyteller. Why,
he opined, could not this version
have been told at the very
beginning. I said nothing, even
though I wanted to say to this
arrogant, bloated pig of a merchant,
what I wanted to add was the
observation that in my country the
bards were always consulted first.
A
semblance of calm settled upon the
hall after that. The Khazim
withdrew. The feast continued once
more. A Gael lord had arrived as
another guest of the Khazim, though
in truth his manners were no better
than those of his hosts. Some of the
Dubonni appeared with more tales of
foreboding and another decoration
for their favourite bard, before
squabbling to no good end with the
Gael lord whose assessment was not
altogether far from my own.
After The Feast
Yet
as the final dishes were cleared and
I tried once more to ascertain
details concerning where the caravan
was left after these latest
revelations, it was then that I
heard the storyteller had been
slain. The confusion of the previous
hours was as if nothing against what
happened then. For Kheysur returned
anew and with a newly-fired venom in
his words. We were told that unless
the murderer was revealed, then all
would suffer. I doubted it not, but
between the drunkards and the
dispirited, no amount of questioning
seemed to take anyone a single step
closer to unmasking the culprit.
Even if that culprit was the Khazim
himself. And then I remembered the
weirdstone that the storyteller had
given me. I had seen the Saurian
warlock meditate upon ancient
objects many times, and felt this
might impart some small insight into
why I had been given such a gift.
Seated alone, gazing into the stone
by candlelight, after half a bell it
had revealed more than that. And in
the vision that I beheld I saw a
council torn apart by rage, a single
lord seated watching me, and as I
lost the reverie, the clear symbol
of Tirnalis: a black ring upon a red
field. Looking away from the
dreamstone: I knew what I must do.
What the vision represented. I had
to go – and go now. Despite the
threats of what would befall us
should we stray. Yet there were some
final words I wished to impart
before I left, perhaps never to
return from what I saw as an
uncertain mission. So, for a third
and final time, I called the hall to
silence, and rose to sing once more.
A
great fight is going on in this
world.
It
is a fight that is in all of us. It
is a fight between two wolves.
One
is evil, anger, hate, envy sorrow,
regret, guilt, lies, resentment,
superiority and ego.
The
other is good, joy peace, love,
hope, warmth, truth, generosity,
compassion and faith.
Which
wolf will win?
The
one you feed.
When
the dark wood fell before me
And
all the paths were overgrown
When
the priests of pride say there is no
other way
I
tilled the sorrows of stone
Cast
your eyes on the ocean
Cast
your soul to the sea
When
the dark night seems endless
Please
remember me…
And then left the hall, the fortress and, most
importantly of all, Fionn’s
leafbladed weapons, bound for the
martial courts of Tirnalis and
whatever fate awaited me.
Thuram's
Words THURAM
SPEAKS TO THE CARAVAN AT THE FIRST
GATHERING AFTER LEAVING LISINGARDE
TOWARDS THE CITY OF TIRNALIS, OF
FORTUNES, OUR DEBTS, AND OUR NEED
FOR CAUTION WITHIN TROUBLED TIMES.
How
much we long for the free and even
road, to feel it opening up
gloriously before us, new
opportunities guiding our feet and
wider experience holding sure our
grasp. Just as this true caravan
life appeared upon our horizon, our
fortunes curved elsewhere once
again. The dangers of the wild
behind us, only to be replaced with
the danger of gold and its effects
on men’s hearts, that most foul
alliance that creates the danger
within the city states.
How
our caravan has suffered on this
journey. A journey starting as the
Urdaal ravaged through the very land
in which we started, made worse by a
foolish Gael, accepted only because
of his glorious past as a noble and
caravan notable. Exceptional
circumstance rallies against our
fortunes, leading headstrong
Vetivans directly to our encampment.
Then the surprise meeting with
displaced Feral, the enforced saving
of an abandoned caravan to feed, and
the cruellest of winters at a time
it could be ill afforded. Even as we
seek the sanctuary of Tirnalian land
and a fort in occupancy by my
brethren, thieves, vagabonds and
murderers are rife, and to find
there also word of Vetiver’s rage
against my peoples, because it can
find not those who stole the blessed
treasures of its own opulent city.
Indeed Death too; a storyteller dies
suddenly, perhaps of more than long
years, investigation by the local
ranger, telling us nothing. Perhaps
no surprise as he seems not even up
to the task of retrieving swords
stolen, is there no trail?
After
almost a moon of repairs to feet,
stomachs, wheels and will, deep is
our debt and gratitude to my most
wise and kindly uncle. Although our
thanksgivings may yet be greater
still to the Host of Lisingarde, the
richly talented Isgaffe, whose
knowledge of the range of existing
markets in these quarters, may yet
see a good sun rise on these darkest
of times.
After
the hardships endured and the
sacrifices made to keep us going, it
will be of no surprise that this
caravan does not boast great wealth
upon its arrival in Tirnalis, even
before making the reparations that
it must for caravans affected by our
actions.
Therefore,
as Caravan Jodassian reaches its
first destination, and fulfils its
obligation to House Pentath, much now
rests for all of our futures on good
fortune within the Tirnalian
markets. As any merchant knows we
create those fortunes, by luck, by
skill and by question true, so all
prepare for new roads of
opportunities, specifically there
will be more information of Tirnalis
trade given through the
co-operative.
Those
who scout for us, may rest now a
little, for your service has been
great, those who guard though let up
not, for no road is ever completely
safe.
And all debts that the caravan has with you, and
you to the caravan need settling in
Tirnalis, so make ready to make
good, with your coins and your wits.
Other Tales:
Lady
Lucia di Malefici's Comments
Snake's
Recollections
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