Dark Fire

The old man hunched over into his cloak. His head dwelt somewhere in the folds of its hood. Carr imagined it to be shrunken. Valleys of age rippling parallel to each other like the walnuts he’d seen as a child. Once again, the tankard was brought into the shadows of that hood and Carr was impressed at the deficit of beer when it returned to the firelit table.

“You wish to hear the tale?” although old, the man’s voice remained strong. There was a power to it. He knew how to convey his message. This man had lived a life and supped with great people.

Carr nodded and then recognised his error.

“I do,” he said, doing his best to match the storyteller’s voice.

“So be it,” the old one cleared his throat, “but first…” he extended a big hand that was out of sequence with the rest of him. Carr’s face contained an unspoken question as he placed two gold coins upon the palm.

“I require only one coin,” said the man, but his cupped hand closed into a fist all the same and the coins were stowed somewhere within the voluminous cloak. A garment that seemed to double as a home. Carr imagined it containing many rooms and a multitude of dark secrets.

“And I require the whole story,” answered Carr, “told as best as it can be told.”

There was a nodding motion animating the hood.

“Barkeep!” Carr shouted over the gentle hubbub of the tavern, “more beer, if you will!” The tavern owner had already had his palm crossed with gold and so the beer was conveyed to the near empty tankards in no time at all.

“Keep them filled,” Carr said quietly to the smiling woman. Carr cared not whether it was his gold or his good looks that had prompted her to pinch her cheeks and bestow this grin upon him. Not now in any case. Maybe later. There was always later and a bed warmer would never go amiss.

Both men reduced the contents of their tankards by a third. Travelling the open road was thirsty work and the weak beer was far cleaner than the water available off the muddy tracks.

“Very well,” there was resignation in the old one’s voice. A sadness even. “I will tell you the tale of Darven.” He cleared his throat again. Drank freely of his beer. An obvious reluctance to fulfil the contract he had just now entered into. Carr found he was becoming impatient, but stilled himself for fear of causing further delay. He waited some more, and then the story began.

Darven was born in Flea, a tiny peninsula on the back of The Dog. Whoever named the place took any semblance of mirth and merriment with them when they left that gods forsaken place. Those villagers were dour people. As grey as the weather and twice as hard. They worked tirelessly to scratch out a living and so there was precious little time for anything beyond the precious toil of survival.

When Darven’s mother, Gont, became with-child in the early days of Spring, there was an unease in the tight knit community. Darven’s father had died that Winter from The Fever and for a child to come into the world without its father was a terrible sin which carried with it the risk of dark curse. There was talk of forbidden magic and speculation that the real father of that child was the Dark Wolf himself. Come in the night to Gont’s hearth. Her welcome warm and desperate. The child a part of an evil bargain that could only bring ruin to Flea.

Gont’s age did not help matters. In the citadels, she would be considered of child-bearing age, but life in Flea was hard and it aged the folk prematurely. She was by their measures, an old maid. Secret prayers were said in the hope that mother and child would die during the birth. The desire to put this travesty to an end grew during the term of Gont’s pregnancy. A wave of resentment greeted the news that mother and baby were well following the birth. If anything, the two of them were as hale and hearty as the best in Flea.

There was an uneasy truce in the village during Darven’s early childhood. That he was the spit of his dead father helped in some way to allay the worst of the villager’s fears. An unease continued to follow the boy despite this though. He and his mother had gone against the natural order of things. Another mouth to feed without a man to put his shoulder to the plough and work the near-barren land for the sustenance vital to see each Winter through.

By the time he was ten Summers old, Darven was not a big lad, but he was strong and clever with it. He intuitively knew how to apply strength to get the best results. His hard work endeared him to the men of the village and they would have all but forgotten their reservations over his entry into this world, had it not been for the poisonous gossip of the womenfolk.

Although he sensed the animosity around him, Darven persevered. Resilience was in his blood. But so too was deep curiosity. He was born with a capacity to listen like no other. He heard things that he worried away at until he could make some sense of them. The women of the village thought they guarded their ancient secrets closely. That was not possible around one such as Darven and he naturally acquired knowledge that was never meant for men.

In the dead of the harsh and cold nights, as his mother slumbered away some portion of her exhaustion, Darven would whisper the rituals he had learnt from those around him. As he felt the stirrings of their power, he mingled them together with a casual alchemy until he was certain that he had something that would one day make him a force to be reckoned with and the saviour of his people. He sensed better days ahead and he prayed for their arrival.

Time can work a magic of its own, bringing together players and elements to create quite the show. A few years into Darven’s secret and unfettered apprenticeship of ritual, he came of age. This was a serious affair. Young men were vital to the village’s future. Surviving if not thriving was the order of each day. There was a celebration and the imminent makings of merriment, had not a band of travelling warriors arrived as the sun took its leave of the land.

Flea had no need of weapons. Their tools were the plough, the fork and the shovel. They eyed the strangers suspiciously and knew them for that they were; trouble. The leader was called Pig. He was missing part of his nose and what remained looked like a badly formed snout. It was difficult not to stare at the man’s ruined face and this was all the invitation he needed for a fight. As was anyone averting their eyes in what they hoped was respect. Pig was a swaggering challenge. Even his name could not be spoken without causing controversy that swiftly opened the door to violence.

At first, all was well. Guest rights were observed. The strangers were provided with bread, salt and beer, which they made very short work of. The concerned villagers brought more food and beer for the brigands despite this depleting their meagre stocks. They had no other course of action, unaccustomed as they were to receiving visitors, less so outlaws intent on violence. They were not a cowardly people. They merely had no knowledge to bring to bear on a situation such as this. If they had thought on, they would have laced the outlaws’ beer with a sleeping draft. Time robs us of these ideas when they are most needed. Instead, the villagers hoped and prayed that the ruffians would drink themselves into a stupor. Little did they realise, all they were doing was feeding the violence in each and every one of those men.

As they consumed more beer, the men of violence began pawing and clutching at the women folk. At first it seemed good natured, but soon enough, there was a foul intent to it. When Pig pulled Gont onto his lap and began to molest her, tearing at her garments, rendering her half naked, an eerie still fell upon the gathering.

The change in the atmosphere of what had been a celebration even caught the attention of Pig causing him to cease his molestation of the woman he’d chosen for this night’s entertainment. He looked all about him with an expression of something like wonder before returning his shrewd gaze to the figure standing before him.

“Unhand her,” hissed Darven.

Pig burst forth with the heartiest laugh of the night. He shook in mirth at the challenge, “go suckle on your whore mother’s teat, boy!” he boomed as his laughter abated.

“That is my mother,” Darven’s voice was louder and harsher. There was a sharp edge to it that wiped the smile from Pig’s face.

“You’ll do,” he said as he stood up, discarding Gont like a ragdoll, “easy meat is still meat, eh boys?”

The outlaws cheered, remaining seated, pleased to watch the ensuing entertainment.

As Pig drew his weapon and brandished it, a long butcher’s blade that had seen its fair share of death and butchery, Darven raised his arm and pointed a finger at the man’s chest.

Pig laughed again, “he’s going to fight me with his finger, boys!”

There followed another raucous cheer. Pig’s men knew the score and how best to deal with their leader. Humouring him as best they could. A few of their number saw the boy’s lips moving and knew it to be ritual. An incantation that, were the boy to be a mage, would undo Pig where he stood. None said a word though. The fear they were steeped in held their tongues. They would not dare ruin Pig’s fun. Even less so would they provoke a powerful mage if this was what he be.

Darven was no mage. The people of Flea knew that well. How could he be? They had known him since he was a babe. But then there was the travesty of his beginning. Tales of Gont’s assignation with the Dark Wolf. The expectant silence of foreboding grew darker and in that darkness something stirred. No one moved now save the two main players. The imposing figure of a man with murderous intent and the young lad who had dared speak out against him and his foul minions.

Now the villagers gave sway to their cowardice. None of them stirred. Not one whispered a word. Pig was no longer a concern. All eyes were on the shadow rising up from within the boy. The words of the ritual alien in their strange familiarity. Heard within the mind. Growing in substance and in power. Threatening to break skulls apart as they vibrated with ill intent.

When the moment of truth came, Pig saw it too late. His sword arm seemed to grow heavy, fell by his side. The blade clattering to the ground. Whether he intended to surrender or accept his fate was not clear. All that was clear was that this was Pig’s last moment. He smiled an idiotic smile as though of greeting as the shadow rearing up from Darven and blew a deadly breath at him. More shadow. Impossibly dark. Focused on the limp figure of a man who once though he was brave and fearless. Few people saw him piss his britches, but Pig felt the enormous shame of it and would have cried in protest if he’d had but a moment more. Then he was no more. Only ash remained of the man that had named himself Pig.

Death sends messages to the people around it. Some will freeze. Others will fight. The remainder will run. The villagers remained seated and enraptured at what was occurring before them. Pig’s men ran. They ran silently into the night. The villagers watched on in horror as Darven walked calmly after them, his right arm still pointing a deadly warning.

There was silence. Then there was the punctuation of occasional screams. And that was the end of it as far as the unfortunate band of outlaws were concerned. They ran into the dark night in terror and they burned in a darkness that became hungrier with ever tortured soul it took.

The people of Flea however remained stewing in a madness of fear. Statues of insanity wishing away the reality of what had happened before their eyes. Hoping that Darven would not return to the fire they were gathered around. A fire that had kept their fears at bay for generations, but could do nothing in the face of the dark weapon that Darven had summoned.

The old man withdrew a shaking hand to grab at his tankard. He seemed diminished by the telling of the tale, but his thirst was not. He emptied the vessel in one go, gasping as he finished. A man attempting to drown himself or extinguish the flames of a past he would never forget.

Carr waved at the serving wench. She made a point of brushing herself against him before pouring his beer first. Again the smile, her eyes twinkling as a result of whatever she drank to make the long nights pass more quickly.

Carr grabbed her wrist and pulled her towards him, breathing a word in her ear, “later.” He watched her skip away. An approximation of happiness in her movements. Some people were easily pleased, Carr mused.

“The tale does not end there,” Carr insisted.

“Does it not?” asked the old man with something approaching artifice.

Carr sighed, he quickly tired of games. Expected more. Especially for two gold pieces, “you have told me only what I already knew.”

“Is that not what tales are?” said the old man.

Carr drew in a breath, looking upon the hidden figure of the man. A walking riddle. A meaning to be unlocked, “I travelled The Dog,” he said quietly, “there is no Flea.”

The old man nodded, “you saw the peninsular though?”

Carr also nodded and as he realised his mistake he was answered with a dry chuckle, “I see you well enough, Carr of the Held.”

“Of course you do,” Carr smiled, “of course you do.”

“What did you see on the peninsula?” the old man’s voice was serious now.

“Nothing,” said Carr, “the place was desolate. Nothing could live there.”

“And why is that?” asked the hooded man.

Carr cast his mind back to the barren spot. His long days and nights travelling to that place, a futile quest. No answers resided there. The questions remained. Now though, as the old man awaited his answer, Carr saw it. He saw another part of the story.

“The ground was solid black glass,” now he sighed at that which he had overlooked, “that place had been burned with an intensity I’ve only ever seen when lightning strikes, and even then…” he trailed off at the enormity of what this meant, “all of them?”

He was greeted with an affirmative silence.

Both men drank their beer as the silence enclosed them and removed them from the world about them. A careful world that wished away the reality of darkness and night. A world that held a flickering candle to fend off monsters beyond comprehension.

“And yet here you are,” said the old man eventually.

“Here I am,” confirmed Carr, “completely at your mercy, Lord.”

The old man chuckled, “there’s no need for that, boy. You can call me Darven, it’s a common enough name.”

“Not Wolf then?” enquired Carr, a touch of humour to his words.

Another chuckle, “I am but an old man who knows a few things,” and with that Darven reached up and slipped his hood off revealing the unremarkable features of a man who had seen many Summers. Unremarkable right up until something dark moved across the wrinkled contours of the left side of his face, “and now you’ve met us both, Carr. Are we well met?”

Carr managed a smile despite the new found cauldron of fear in his belly, “we’re well met,” he agreed.

“Good,” the old man patted Carr’s hand, “then I think it’s high time we had another beer, don’t you?”

Carr nodded, unsure as to where the story would go from there. But sure in the knowledge that he was now a part of it. After all, stories were rituals as much as spells and incantations were.

Once the serving wench had left them with full tankards, Darven leant over the small, rough-hewn table, the flames from the open fire painting his features in a way that spoke of many lives lived, “tell me, did you touch the ground at Flea?”

Carr shivered with the memory of it. That was answer enough. “I did.”

Darven nodded, “you heard it. Few do.”

Carr’s uncertainty grew. He had come in search of simple answers, now a vista of questions opened up beneath him, threatening to consume him. The words of the next part of the story were forming before him. He heard them awakening. Heard them louder and clearer than he ever had. He’d knocked on a door few would linger by, and something was coming, that was all he could discern. He hoped he was ready and he hoped they would be well met.