The Truth Behind the Lies

Deacon approached the quaint inn. It was early in the night, and his feet ached fiercely due to the long trek from the port. Never a stranger to ships, this particular journey was most inhospitable, causing a short bout of seasickness when crossing the stormy ocean from his native desert land, Kumoziko. But here he stood, in the coastal foothills of northern Starklevende. I will never get used to the cold air here. Fresh, crisp, but cold nonetheless, Deacon thought with a hearty shiver. It was fall season in the northeastern continent. A brisk breeze made sure to infiltrate every nook and cranny of his black tunic, making the inn look all the more welcoming.

The heavy wooden door opened with a creak. Despite having heard the commotion from outside, the inn was even livelier than expected. Patrons of all sorts bellowed laughter, clanked mugs, and ground copious amounts of meats, cheeses and bread between teeth. Pray have a vacant room. A tipsy fellow of rather rotund proportions bumped into Deacon as he stumbled past, queasily blurting out apologies. Deacon snickered, nodding his forgiveness before heading deeper into the fray.

Many a tavern wench walked about holding platters of mead and beer. No Sythian wine here... They ducked and dodged drunken guests’ swinging arms and groping hands. Some patrons would become a bit too handsy and the proprietor—a man of immense stature and seemingly untold strength—would come stomping from behind the bar and wallop them on the head with a treated leather baton, much to the enjoyment of the other guests. It was clear the inn was a popular place with regulars from the port. Deacon felt he would be comfortable to stay the night; these were no strangers to foreigners.

He approached the owner who now stood behind the polished bar, preparing various plates of food passed to him from the kitchen. The large, bearded man looked down at Deacon, standing a good two feet taller than the black-skinned assassin.

“Hello good sir. Welcome to the Raspy Rivers! I'm the owner, Torr. Come to me if you wish to have a room. Or one of my girls for food and drink.” The burly man titled his head. “We unfortunately don’t have fireplaces in the individual rooms. I know you Kumzik demons prefer the warmth. For that, I apologize. We northerners wield ice in our blood and frost in our bellies.”

“Not a problem. And yes, I would very much like a room,” Deacon looked around, unhopeful, “that is, if one is available.”

“Ah, don’t mind this rabble. Mostly port hands and locals. They’re here every night, and then off to the wives and children. We’ve plenty of open rooms. In fact, I think we’ve one that would suit you nicely. It holds a window facing the river.”

“Sounds lovely. I’ll take it.”

“Very good. Ten brogen a night. Meals are included. Mead and beer costs you extra.”

“Fine. Not much of a mead or beer drinker anyhow.” Deacon placed the coin on the counter, and then joined it with the bronze brooch that mercenary gave him the last time he was in Starklevende. “I'm looking for a man, a mercenary. Goes by the name Jarek Defiler. He told me to give this brooch to an innkeeper and he would find me.”

The large man’s charming face suddenly grew stoic and cold. “You seek the Defiler, you say?” His voice somewhat shaky. “Now why would you want to find that one? You’ve a death wish?”

“Quite the contrary. I seek a new life. One where I have…purpose. Last we clashed, I felt this Jarek would be able to assist me in one such endeavor.”

“Oh, aye. He’ll assist you to a new life indeed, one of the afterlife.” Torr took a mug and used it to gently push the brooch back across the counter before leaning in, whispering. “Rumor has it he’s killed a thousand men, women and children. Bloodthirsty animal massacred an entire village in the Oaken Fields Valley, beyond the mountain pass. Some say he even eats his victims; bones and all.”

“Truly? Well, if that’s the case. Perhaps you best help me find him, so I might stop his reign of terror,” Deacon smirked.

“This is no laughing matter, Kumzik. Ask anyone here and they’ll say the same. The man is a beast. Slaughters any who dare cross his path. Bathes in their blood and uses their skin as water jugs.”

“I see.” Deacon was well aware of the fantastical megrims of rumors when shuffled freely on cold winds. “I take it you’re unwilling to assist me then?

“Not my place, young master. I won't be the one to send you to your grave. But, if you wish to continue on your foolish journey, I will say that this Defiler was heard to be up north. Someone in the next town over may be more helpful. As for me, well…I’ve my principles. Can't bring no harm to my guests. You understand.”

“Fair enough. Appreciate what you were willing to part with, nonetheless.” Deacon snatched the brooch off the table, tossing it in the air before catching it and slipping it in his pocket. “For now, I’ll have a plate of that succulent smelling roast and bread.”

***

Two days passed since Deacon left the Raspy Rivers. The owner wished him a genuine farewell, sad to see him go on this foolish quest. But Deacon was not one to believe outlandish tales. He’d met Jarek before, looked into his eyes. The man was capable of barbarity, but not at the expense of the innocent. No, I will continue on. My curiosity piqued even further. And so, he made his way to the northern villages.

The third in which he arrived was called Slagjern: a prosperous lumber town nestled comfortably in a river-carved canyon surrounded by heavily forested mountains. The main road cut straight through, allowing for profitable trade and exposure to foreigners.

The lodgings at the inn were decent. Being no stranger to having to survive in the wilderness for days or weeks on end, the accommodations were more than adequate for Deacon. He stood atop the balcony overlooking the main road and river. The sun was approaching the horizon, yet the town was still bustling with activity.

Carts pulled by mammoth oxen carried giant logs to the sawmill. Several women sold flowers and fish at stalls along the road. A guard patrolled the markets, occasionally chasing off children attempting to pocket sweet breads. A lamper began his rounds, bringing light to the oil torches scattered along the roads. Soon the streets would be emptying, bringing much traffic to the inn. Deacon decided to seek answers now before the hall grew too loud.

The innkeeper was an older woman, hefty and full of life. Her green eyes shone bright in the light of the setting sun that peeked through the windows.

“How goes ye, Master Deacon?” she asked, wiping some grime from a used plate. “Are your lodgings sufficient?”

“Yes, quite sufficient, thank you.” Deacon fingered the brooch in his pocket, somewhat reluctant to pull it out. The last two innkeepers he showed it to were none too pleased. One cursed, another spat on the ground. Both warned him not to seek the Defiler. But Deacon was never one to be told what to do.

They informed him of how the one known as Jarek Defiler was a ruffian, a caravan raider who never left any survivors, “He rapes and pillages smaller villages, taking the women as slaves while killing the men and children. Traders don’t dare take the routes he’s spotted on, lest they succumb to his barbarism.” But Deacon always had to see such tales with his own two eyes.

“Madam, I seek the owner of this brooch.” He pulled it out, holding it up. Immediately, her eyes widened.

“And just where did you get that?” she licked her lips nervously, her eyes never leaving the brooch.

“A man gave it to me. Goes by the name—.”

“—And you wish to seek the Defiler out? Tsk, tsk, tsk. Some might call you brave. Others mad.”

“So I've heard. Still…” Deacon pressed her with his stare.

She was unable to meet his gaze. “Aye, he's come through here on occasion. Stinking of blood and death. You’ve heard the rumors, yeah? The man kills as if it were nothing more than a stroll through a garden. True, he gets the job done…so sayeth those that hire him. But he often kills off his clients once the contract’s fulfilled.”

“That sounds like a poor business decision.”

“Oh, aye. Makes no sense to me.”

“And who would keep hiring him if he simply kills off his clientele?”  

The woman shrugged, the pitcher of mead in her hands sloshed around with her movements, splashing some droplets on her stained bodice. “I've no mind to know nor care. The man is a menace. May he never come to these parts again.”

“Perhaps if you tell me where I might find him, I can prevent that from happening.” Deacon looked into those beautiful green eyes.

She tilted her head, raising a red eyebrow. “You wish to kill him off then? You a contractor as well?”

“That business is of mine and mine alone, madam. I simply seek information on the whereabouts of this Jarek Defiler. And I'm of the suspicion that you’re more familiar with him than you let on. So come now…” Deacon took out a pudgy little purse of coin, setting it on the table.

“Keep your coin, Master Deacon. I’m no broker of information. You want to find the brute, then by all means.” She nodded her head to the northeast. “Past the canyon’s edge, follow the road until it splits. Take the left fork and you’ll find yourself on a half a day’s journey to Jarkin: a hunting village. I've a cousin there that runs her own inn. Not as grand as mine, mind you, but she gets by. You show her that brooch and I'm sure she can assist. But I ask you not question me further. I've a family, grandpups. And don’t be telling no one it was me giving you the information.”

“My lips are sealed. And I thank you.” Deacon bowed cordially. This man has quite the reputation. No matter. I am set in mind and spirit. This is the task before me, and I will find it fulfilled.

“Indeed. I best be getting back to serving me guests. Would you like a meal, now that you're here?”

“Yes, please. That sounds lovely.”

***

The innkeeper in Slagjern wasn’t lying when she spoke of the modesty of Jarkin. The village was homely, not exposed to the main roads and thus lacked an influx of commerce. Its people were hardy and strong, living off the land by their own means. But they seemed happy, with bright smiles and welcoming demeanors.

The inn was a large hovel with straw bedding surrounding a central firepit. Upon stepping inside, the smell of stewed venison infiltrated Deacon’s nostrils. It’s not all bad, it seems. There were three other guests: two conversing on benches around the firepit, with the third lying on one of the straw beds, apparently stricken with a minor illness.

And in the middle, stirring the cooking pot, was an attractive young woman with similar red hair to the Slagjern innkeeper, but blue eyes instead of green. She was taller, more muscular. Strong and lean. The mountain people were a different breed.

Her captivating eyes met his. They were stoic, but friendly. “Hail stranger. You wish to use a bed for the night? Got a fresh stew brewing. Hunted just this morn,” her voice was surprisingly soft, like a gentle breeze washing over him.

“Yes, madam. A meal and lodging would be most appreciated.” Deacon bowed, as he does.

“Ha! Madam he says! Never been called that before. Maybe it’s me new dress,” the young woman guffawed, joined by the two men sitting on the benches.

“It is a lovely dress, Maryn,” the older of the men complimented her with a toothless smile.

“Well sir,” Maryn bowed back to Deacon with lavish exaggeration. “Feel free to ‘ave a seat and grab a bowl of the good stuff. It was me pa’s recipe, you see. He was a renowned cook in this village before a bear got him when I was a but a pup. Inherited the inn from him I did.”

“A bear? You have my sympathies.” Deacon sat, taking the full bowl from Maryn’s outstretched hand. The meat and vegetables floating in the rich broth smelled heavenly after his long walk up the mountainside. A taste. Eyes glazed over. “Exquisite. I thank you.”

“Aye. Won't find none better in the peaks. We’re home to the most tender game.”

“I've no doubt.”

After having his fill, Deacon sat and conversed with the woman and her patrons. They exchanged stories of their journeys, tales of the trek through the mountains and beyond. Deacon was rather impressed by that of the older man, who had come from far east, living his last days on his feet with wide eyes and even wider smiles. But soon Deacon grew impatient, finding himself fingering the brooch in his pocket for the umpteenth time that journey.

“Might I ask you all a question. And please, it is not my intention to offend,” Deacon lowered his head a bit, almost shameful.

“Oh, by the gods, this one got serious all a sudden,” Maryn teased, lifting a heavy lager up to her lips.

“What is it, my boy?” The older man smiled his friendly smile. “Not much can offend me these days.”

“Well, you see…the reason I'm on this path is to find a man. A man that gave me this.” Deacon pulled out the brooch, holding it up for all to see.

Maryn immediately froze, mid drink. The brown liquid began seeping down the sides of her mouth. The older man looked at the brooch puzzlingly, while the more quiet, younger man gasped upon seeing it. I was afraid of this. Another reluctant piece to the puzzle. A wet cough from the ill guest lying in the back of the hovel broke the silence.

Maryn finally put down her drink, slamming it on the bench. She wiped away the beer staining her chin before asking, “Where you get that?” Her once soft voice was now dark, filled with poison.

“As I said, the man gave—”

“—You dare bring that filth here? The vile symbol of that abomination?” She spat on the ground, kicking up dust. “The Defiler consumes your soul, pitiful demon! None of your gods can protect you now, for you are in his domain! He feasts on the flesh of virgins and drinks the blood of babes. None can withstand his onslaught when he has you in his swollen eyes!” She looked at Deacon with gritted teeth, opening one eye extra wide while squinting the other.

It was then that he noticed the younger man giggling behind a scarred hand covering his mouth.

Then Maryn joined in, unable to hold her laughter. “Oi! Byron, you ruined it! I had him goin for a good minute now, ha!” she bellowed, her pronounced bosom bouncing up and down with the heaves of her chest.

“Sorry Mar. It was the eyes!” the young boy cried out; tears sliding down his cheeks. “Your damned eyes got me!”

The older man simply looked back and forth between them. Still smiling, but obviously confused.

Well, this was rather unexpected. “I take it you know of the man I seek,” Deacon asked with a grin. Their laughter was rather infectious, but he wasn’t one to let his emotions get the best of him.

“Oh of course we do!” Maryn picked up her mug again, taking a huge gulp. “All in Starklevende know of the Defiler. That there is Jarek’s family crest. His father was a mercenary too, ya know? Splendid man from what I hear. Passed before I was born. But Jarek, aye. He always buys meat when he passes through the village.”

Deacon’s eyes widened slightly. “So, the stories of him boiling children and skinning priests is somewhat embellished?”

“Well, not sure what ‘embellished’ means, but if you’re wondering if the horrific tales of his exploits are true, the answer is, most definitely not. Most of them, anyways. The man can carve you up real good if necessary, but only if you’re deserving. Believe that.” Another big gulp of beer slid down her throat.

“Then why the rumors? And the fear I've witnessed by so many?”

“Oh, it’s all but a bit of fun. We love our Defiler; we all know him well. He’s helped us many times. Many lives are owed to him. But, it’s also a test. For you.” Maryn pointed the mug at him.

“A test, you say?” One of Deacon’s eyebrows peaked.

“Aye. Do you ‘ave the mettle to continue your quest? Not only courage, but mindfulness? Can you cut through the lies and find the truth behind? Do you follow your own heart, or the will of others? That’s what he tells us to say anyways.”

“I see.” It was all a test. How…exhilarating. I must say, Defiler, I’m rather impressed.

“So, Master Deacon. What say you?” Maryn’s bright blue eyes stared deep into his, never faltering. “You still wish to seek him out?”

Deacon looked down at the brooch. He’s held it so many times he could carve it from memory in an oak plank. All this trouble to find the elusive Jarek Defiler, only to discover that his mark on this world was much greater than he could have possibly imagined. Perhaps even a greater mark than Deacon’s, one who’s lived for hundreds of years.

“I do say, Maryn,” Deacon smiled wide for the first time in ages, “I didn’t come all this way for nothing.”