#tales from icarium

[talesfromicarium]

Death of the Warden

Story Starter

"Your protagonist is the warden of a library full of rare and expensive books."

The broken man collapses onto his knees, unheeding the small, jagged rocks that cut into his bony calf. Another wound will not make a difference, now. The sharp sting adds simply to a patchwork of pain that blankets him, wrapping him in its feverish embrace. A familiarity he learnt, long ago, to find some comfort in.

The fresh, crimson blood trickles lazily forward, running over old scabs and closed scars. He feels it leave him, it and the rest. With practiced effort he wills his head to lift, and turns his eyes to the ruins strewn lazily about him.

The small unblinking eye of the sun refuses to relinquish its light, perching defiantly between the two spires of Riverend Keep, far to the west. Yet its harsh glare is softened here by the glinting stars above, and if one was patient enough he could spot the early slivers of moonlight, their soft touch silhouetting the thinner clouds in silver and white. Soon theirs will be the only luminescence to be reflected int eh still, tranquil pools of rainwater, resting amongst the wreckage of what was once his library, his ward.

His home.

The Warden lays down his tattered, leather bag, nothing but strips and rags now, like those that hang loosely around his waist and shoulders, caked in dried blood, filthy with mud and the remains of a dead hero.

He shuffles back, finds a pillar and rests against it. He takes one, shaky breath. After a few slow, laboured heartbeats, he releases it. He closes his eyes. He remembers.

~

The sun’s rays hit the Library’s stained glass windows, spilling colours and warmth onto its clean, marble floors. The clear chiming of a bell signalled a visitor, and he placed Samwell’s Guide to the First World: Volume IX carefully—noting with some displeasure the leaning gap between Volumes III and V—and walked towards the front desk.

He stopped. A hand reached almost instinctively for the cold amulet, pulsing menacingly against his tightened chest.

He knew this day would come. He’d always known. The past did not stay buried forever. He of all people knew this to be the truth.

Still, he forced the gentle smile of a guileless bookkeeper. He took another step forward, and heard the pleasant, simple voice of a man who had never known strife. Who had never truly known fear. Who had never taken another life.

“Can I help you?”

The man shifted, azure cape fluttered silently as his broad shoulders turned. The golden hilt of his sheathed longsword glinted in the filtered light by his side, beneath the grip of one large scarred hand.

The Warden waited as Aniketos the Unbowed studied him with cold, grey eyes. They all said that the Saviour of Llyeria had his father’s looks. He could see that, now. He could see where the resemblance lay. Aratos had that same furious hardness in his gaze, when he looked up from the knife’s hilt protruding from his chest.

“I think you can, yes. I think you know what I am here for.”

He let his arm fall by his side. He stared, unseeing, at the marble by his feet. He had had a good life. He would accept retribution, and atone for his sins. He would face death with the ease and dignity of an honest man.

He heard the scraping of metal against wood as Aniketos unsheathed his blade.

“For the murder of my father, Aratos Snowborne, High King of Llyeria, I sentence you, Dolios, son of Hektor, to-“

“NO!”

He saw the blood before he heard the scream. His own, he realised, after a moment’s reflection. Curse the boy’s speed. Curse his son’s unruliness, his mischief, his stealth, his ever-curiosity. Curse him, curse him, curse him.

He looked up to meet the Saviour’s stunned eyes. He screamed, again, and sank onto his knees, clutching the limp body of his boy, his sticky, warm blood saturating his robe, his shirt, washing over him, paying for his crimes.

~

The Warden opens his eyes, once more. Watches as the sun is forced at last to surrender its glow, and disappears beneath the horizon. He draws another haggard breath.

He is tired.

He is so, very tired.

Vengeance is a cold, ugly path. It leads nowhere, and yields nothing but pain. He is tired of walking it.

Let it end, now. Let it end with him.

He closes his eyes. Lets out a breath.

The clouds part. The crescent moon shines upon the ruins of a library. The books are gone.

The Warden is dead.

Art

[talesfromicarium]

Gold (Part I)

Lugrik is not an advocate of violence. In fact, he quite abhors it. That distaste of blood and glory marks him out amongst the Isles, where brawling for sport is a favourite pastime, but he is not an Islander. No, no amount of tasteless ale and frozen digits will reduce him to a rabid barbarian. True, he has spent more winters than he'd like battling sea waves and ingratiating himself with drunk sailors, but—Xathanael be his witness—he remains a Commonwealther at heart. He does not claim to always understand the Grand Architect’s Plans, but it is by His design that there be a place and a role for each and every man, and Lugrik will be damned if he does not take and fulfil his.

Not that many know of his roots, fortunately, and Lugrik has gone to great lengths to ensure it stays that way. None may know his secret—or secrets, as it were—and so far, none has questioned his unerring way of knowing, of making things happen just at the right time… And that is well to him. Throughout these long cold years he has procured success, earning the Clan's trust despite being an outsider and working his way through the ranks, eventually taking up position as boatswain, then helmsman, and finally first mate. He was but a few days away from becoming Captain, had all gone according to plan, until the fool man got himself executed at the hands of some sea wench.

They lost more men in the battle, of course. Some threw themselves at the creature following the Captain's death, screaming all known names for Him, Her and the glory of the Clan. Like moths to a flame. Lugrik, however, is a firm believer that there are always better solutions to his problems than beating them with a glorified stick. As he himself oft said to Bolg, "trust not in the sword, but in the hand that wields it.” And on the Sealion, as it had been, his is the hand that wields the blade.

So when his new leaderess orders for treasures to be thrown overboard, he does not lament the loss of coins that could've bought him land, women, even a small title. He hears the outcries, sees the clenched fists, smells the simmering rage sour against the sweet sea air… and Lugrik scents opportunity.

~

Zoltan watches as another chest sinks into the water. Another 500 gold pieces, gone, drowned, claimed by Her Wrath. Except She is calm today, and very generous. They'd caught a full week's worth of critters this morning alone. Of course, it has been easier gathering foodstuff for the kitchen since the new captain and her kin took over. Tritons, they call themselves, and they appear to have a way with the ocean beasts.

He likes the Sealion's new captain. Saf, they've taken to calling her. Sapphire, after the sea-blue of her skin. She's only been at its helm for little over a fortnight, but they have already seen more Commonwealth ships sunk than the last raiding year under Bolg. Gold has been flowing, and freely. For all her skill and enthusiasm in combat, the captain does not seem to care much for the bounty she's a right to. Save the odd jewelled blade or a brightly adorned garment the merchant ships sometimes carry, she keeps none of the spoils for herself. Victory secured and battlelust over, Captain Saf often leaves the aftermath to her crew. Zoltan, along with his crewmates, has quite enjoyed his captain's disinterest in gold, until now.

"That's the second coffer she's tossed to the seabeasts, Zoltan! A whole thousand gold, brother!”

"Appears our Captain does not share our love for coin, Bari.”

"So I can see. So we can all see.”

Zoltan grunts in response, stifling a weary sigh that he suspects would provoke more trouble than is worth. He'd taken more than a handful, naturally, before their fate was sealed. Most of the crew had. Still, Bari seethes beside him, glaring at the spot where their gold was but a moment ago, as though his resentment could persuade the glinting waves from taunting him with their mirth.

Shaking his head, the dwarf turns, resting his strong back against the oaken rails, giving his companion room to scowl in peace. Along the length of the ship his crewmates mourn, some glowering with almost as much force as Bari is, some lounging despondently on deck, faces turned towards the setting sun and away from the offending sight. Others try still to reason with the Captain, to no avail. Her verdict is unyielding—the gold was weighing the Sealion down. 

“Last one, men! Come, and we shall sail the seas fast as marlins!” Curses fly the deck with renewed vigour. Three miserable lads shuffle once more towards the third and final chest, enduring spits and bitter jests along the way. Zoltan looks towards the prow, where the true target of the crew’s wrath stands, beaming, navy hair rippling in the twilight breeze, blue against the lilac skies. Behind her, leaning against the stempost and trident embedded at her feet, stands the true reason for the crew’s inaction. Visraza, the Captain’s supposed First Mate.

Unwilling to risk her attention, Zoltan glances away—and meets the eyes of Lugrik, the Sealion’s unmade leader. He holds the human’s gaze. He’s never liked the man, and not just because of his height, or his dry, sometimes morbid sense of humour. No, something about the gaunt islander unnerves him, in the way a too-warm day in the midst of winter might unnerve a sailor. It is true that he owed much of his fortune under Bolg to the taller clansman, and the crew had enjoyed an unusually long summer for which Lugrik had taken credit, yet while his honeyed words might have had their former captain and the rest fooled, Zoltan knows better. There is something not quite right with their current helmsman. 

Lugrik winks, and Zoltan feels a shiver travel down his spine. He wraps the sealskin tunic tighter around himself. Suddenly anxious to savour the withering dusk, he watches as the last rays of daylight retire beyond the horizon, the autumn air shifting with the darkening sky, yielding graciously, but prematurely, to the first gusts of winter.