Blood Calling - Prologue

Reynaer Walraven: The Soldier of Misfortune

He was stuck in a dark, confined space filled with murky mist. Amidst the stuffy darkness, naked fairies were fluttering about. However, an obtrusive figure drew his attention from the playful sprites: before him stood a heavyset but small and gnarly man who bore a striking resemblance to a tree stump. The walls throbbed inwards along to a dull beating of a tired heart, causing nauseating shifts in air pressure.

            Reynaer opened his eyes but shut them again. Why did the fairies disappear? He brought his hands to shield his face from bright sunlight and slowly opened his eyes again. Water... He groped around for his water flask but felt only dirt and warm ashes under his shaking hand. I have to get up. I need to get up and drink water. He sat up, grabbed his flask, and drank deeply.

            Reynaer awoke and realized he was still sprawled on the ground, his water flask was still missing, and he was still thirsty. Swearing silently, the big man sat up with an all too familiar throbbing in his head and a foul taste in his mouth. Wondering where his flask had gone, Reynaer remembered something, looked around the camp, jumped up, and let out a string of curses. His horse was nowhere to be seen. It had disappeared with most of his belongings. Panic started to set in. He ran around a bit but then, noticing his hangover had abated some, shrugged and decided to relieve himself in a nearby bush, hoping that the procedure in all its nastiness would rid him of persistent morning wood.

            After half a bush of leaves spent wiping, the tall man pulled up his worn, black pants and slouched back to the remains of his camp-fire. He noticed that his armor and weapons were scattered around the ashes. After failing to remember why he had taken off most of his clothes and disarmed himself, Reynaer put on his gambeson, leather brigandine, and hung a long, black cloak over his broad shoulders. He gathered his few remaining belongings and belted a dagger and a longsword, both of which had seen better days. Yawning deeply, he started walking down a narrow road, glad that the sun had disappeared behind tall firs.

            Reynaer's mood improved with every step and he was actually grinning by the time he heard the steady ripple of a nearby mountain stream. He stepped off the road and wandered deeper into the dense woods, following the sound. Soon he came to the stream, kneeled before it, and quenched his thirst. It seemed that just this once the gods were smiling upon him as he felt the purifying and healing effects of the water. Since cold water is this good, why would anyone drink wine? Ever? Again? His musings were cut short by the sound of hooves coming from the road. It was followed by a distant rumble of thunder and, of course, rain. Perfect. Just how many miles is it to the nearest village?

            With a steady step, Reynaer strode back towards the road, hoping to meet the rider and possibly talk himself a horseback ride to the next village. Not that it matters much anyway, it must be only some miles by now if my calculations are correct... but the sun is going down and the rain just won't, can't let up, not an inch, not today. Damn.

            By the time he reached the road, the rider was gone but he could still hear sounds ahead. However, something did not seem quite right. Despite the steady rainfall, he could have sworn he heard a fight break out somewhere. Ahh, yes, a woman! She was shouting at someone. Reynaer broke into a run, cursing his presently horseless state. With a pleasant surprise, he noticed his step was light and his stride long. He felt proud of his ability to recover quickly from a less-than-ideal, mostly liquid supper. Reynaer had sprinted perhaps five hundred yards when he came to the head of a curve and saw a rider galloping away on a blue roan while two ragged men gathered themselves from nearby bushes. He guessed it had been the rider’s voice he had heard a moment ago.

            Highwaymen. Should've guessed... Reynaer slipped off the road and moved quietly through the undergrowth. He picked up a fallen tree branch, heavy enough to work as a cudgel. The two men were still standing on the road, looking at something on the ground. The first one fell without making a sound. The second raised his blade but Reynaer struck it aside with the cudgel and landed a solid punch on the man's jaw. He fell down into a miserable heap but Reynaer lifted his foot and stomped on the unmoving head just the same. He then proceeded to loot his victims and found a purse containing a small handful of silver coins. Reynaer pocketed the money, collected the swords of the two men, and started walking along the road.

            By the time he reached a sign that read ‘Welcome to Kumby', he was soaking wet and angry. Unconscious... dead... what does it matter? What does any of it matter? Wouldn't the world be better off with most people dead? Well, a job well done is a job well done, I'll drink to that. At least the swords will go for good money. So thinking Reynaer strode through the thoroughfare as if knowing exactly where the village tavern was.

            Just as he spotted a public house, a young man bumped into him. Reynaer's foul mood took the best of him and he shoved the boy, causing him to fall down onto a pile of manure. Maybe I should help the poor lad up and apologize. Then again, maybe I should just fuck off and mind my own business. He stepped over the scrambling youth and continued towards the tavern.

            Reynaer glanced over his shoulder to ensure the youth wasn't coming after him to try anything stupid. Then he stepped into a musty, candle-lit room which smelled of spilled ale, cider, and roasted meat. Only the barmaid gave him a quick look but even she returned to waking up a patron who had passed out on the bar. The tavern was fairly crowded but the atmosphere was peaceful if somewhat melancholy. The tall man nodded in acceptance. Finally! A place where people take getting drunk as a task, a serious matter needing concentration, focus, and effort! He walked straight to the bar, placed the two stolen swords so that they rested against the counter, and asked what ales were available.

The girl behind the counter was barely in her twenties but replied with confidence. "We have two monastery ales, Carengie and Varvig, but my favorite is our own brew, the Thirsty Cock.”

Reynaer grinned. "I'll have one of each, lassie."

"The name's Catrain."

            "My apologies, Catrain. One of each, please. Here's the silver." With that Reynaer settled perfectly into the crowd and was soon immersed into the hypnotizing world of fine ales.

Mirlín: The Snow Wanderer

First it looked like a ghostly shadow gliding through a misty forest but gradually the figure took the form of a horse which moved with light, silent steps on thufts of moss. The animal was of rather sturdy build and its coat shared shades with the surrounding shreds of fog. The mane hung low like a coal-gray veil and the fine ears turned from left to right, listening carefully. A likewise gray figure was straddling the animal's broad back, dressed in a scruffy wolf hide which partly covered the rider's face. Still, at a closer look, it was sufficient to say that the face belonged to a woman.

            Soon the foggy forest spat the horse and its rider out to a narrow road and the woman tugged at the reins, stopping her mount.

            "Which way do you want to go?" Mirlín asked the horse; a fine blue roan. "Left? We might find a lake and a nice quiet shore where we could wash up and spend the night. Or right? There could be a settlement of some kind. Which way you want to go?"

            The gelding didn't hesitate when he turned right. Perhaps he could smell the oat and the warm stables of a village, patiently waiting for the two at the end of the road.

            "You're probably right, boy. It's going to rain and neither of us likes sleeping on a damp forest floor, a damn rain drenching us all the way to the bone," the woman muttered and let the animal trot.

            She squinted at the sky and her suspicions were proved right as she spotted heavy, dark clouds looming over the murky-green pine forests. The narrow road ahead already looked darker and the woman dreaded what she might find behind the next bend. This is the weather of―

            "Stop right fucking now! Get off the horse! Give us your fucking money! Fucking now!" ―highwaymen.

            Mirlín pulled the reins and took a quick look at the robbers: two men who seemed strong but the woman hoped their still sheathed swords were a sign of inexperience. As she didn't comply immediately, the men glanced at each other, as if expecting the other to take the lead. Then the one who had spoken grabbed the reins of the blue roan.

            "Did you hear what we said? Get down and give us the fucking money!"

            "I haven't got any," she grunted, keeping an eye on both men. Then the robber closest to her grabbed the woman's leg. "Get off!" she shouted and jerked at the left rein.

            The roan charged the highwayman, pushed him over with its muscular, wide breast and trampled him under its heavy hooves. The woman spurred on her mount and rode right towards the other man, and even though he started to run, the horse caught up easily and pushed him straight into the gutter. Raindrops were already in the air. The two highwaymen were left stunned and bruised by the road, as  the blue roan and his rider disappeared into the evening.

The village of Kumby looked fairly small as it had only one muddy main road along which stood rows of houses of wood and stone with idyllic back gardens, tightly closed window shutters, and doors that were painted with falu red. Since it was raining, Mirlín was the only rider on the thoroughfare.

            She rode past a public house and through its grainy windows, a lambent glow fell on the darkened street and the sounds of people chattering and dancing reached the woman's ears. However, despite her being soaked and hungry, she didn't cast a longing look at the warmth of company and frothy drinks. She avoided crowds as much as she could.

            After having left her gelding to a livery, Mirlín rushed away to look for a place where she could dry her clothes and, if she was lucky, take a bath. A little further down the road she found a small inn. A gale of wind swung a rusty sign above the entrance which read: ‘King's Head Inn'. Mirlín pushed open the red door and stepped into the building, her wolf hide dripping water on the floor, her boots leaving muddy tracks in the hallway. It smelled like leather and fresh linen inside.

Two hours later yet another red door stood before her as she hesitated, weighed her options, her hunger and fatigue. The woman glanced over her shoulder but found the thoroughfare dark and deserted. Rainwater splashed down on the muddy ground from the eaves of the tavern. Even though she was shielded from the rain, a bristling autumn wind bit against her cheeks; the raindrops like needles.

            She took a deep breath and pushed open the tavern's door, her free hand hovering close to her father's knife.

Desiderius: The Great Warrior

The beast was great but the warrior was greater. His wavy, golden locks shone as bright as the sun, his well-defined muscles flexed under his skin on which sweat sparkled like pearls. No wait, like... like huge boulders! Of sweat. And his gaze was fierce, determined, and full of fury. He would end the beast as if his life depended on it. In fact, it did, for the warrior was in great peril. But he did not back off an inch!

            His white steed danced upon sand and stones as the warrior's glimmering blade flew through the air like a flash of lightning. The terrible swamp-monster of Doomoors revealed its pointy fangs and growled menacingly. Its skin was flaky and disgustingly brown, its eyes were like great balls of fire, and the stench... it was indescribable, unspeakable.

            Yet the magic blade of the warrior could not be stopped. It hovered in the air and then dived, surely, fatally, right through the stinking beast's heart it went. An unholy screech escaped the monster's throat. It was told that no mortal could ever stand the noise of a dying swamp-beast without perishing along with it.

            However, believe it or not my keen audience, our blond, brave warrior and his shiny steed stood still, as if they had turned into stone. The monster bellowed for the last time, gasped its last breath, and slowly sunk into an unidentifiable blob.

            Thus was the village saved. The noble warrior turned his horse around and returned to the people whose lives he had just saved. The village chief's beautiful and svelte daughter ran towards the warrior, crying out his name lovingly, anxiously...

            "Desiderius! Desiderius! Oh, Desiderius!"

            "Desiderius!"

            "Darn it, Desiderius have you gone barkin' deaf?"

Desiderius held a limb of birch wood like a sword, wore a bucket as a helmet, and a barrel lid played the part of a shield. He was confronted by no other than Hilfur the farmer who had offered Desiderius a job at his stables months ago and now greatly regretted it. Hilfur was a stout man and, in present circumstances, far greater a threat to young Desiderius than any swamp-monster the boy could think up. When Hilfur got irritated or mad, his complexion became like that of a ham and his bald head shook like the top of a jelly cake.

            "Collect your sorry bones at once and take some eggs to the village, now!" he huffed.

Then he looked suspiciously from the boy to a barrel and an oat sack placed upon it. Desiderius had drawn a grimacing face on the sack.

            The young man noticed Hilfur's look and hurried to explain. "It's supposed to resemble a monster. See, I was practicing for—"

            "For a band of jokers, eh?" Hilfur sneered.

            "No! For an epic battle!"

            Hilfur's patience had run out by now and Desiderius decided to lay down his shield and sword before his master got his unkind hands on him. Quickly the young man took his pony, Snappy, out from the stables, grabbed a basketful of eggs from the front porch, and rode down a road towards the small village of Kumby. The clouds in the sky promised rain for the evening.

Snappy had a thick coat even though the climate was mild throughout the year in that part of the fair country of Rodal. Sometimes the sea on the other side of the valley brought in cool winds but winters were often snowless. Snappy had been brought from the mountains two summers ago. Desiderius' father had given her to him though at first the boy had refused to ride a pony. He had asked for a real horse, a bucking stallion, but all he had gotten was an exceedingly furry, headstrong pony. Eventually Desiderius grew to tolerate his feisty Snappy but he could not help dreaming of a big knight's horse.

            But how could he, my own father, my flesh and blood, give me such a stupid, unfair ultimatum? It is utterly ridiculous... sending me away like that, having nothing else for the road but a stubborn pony, a dagger, and dry bread. Bitter thoughts filling his head, he forced Snappy into a gallop even though the basket on his back was full of eggs. I don't care about Hilfur's silly eggs! For a moment he pushed aside his dreams of glory and fortune and let in only anger. The weather seemed to agree with Desiderius and let the first drops of rain fall down.

            Snappy bucked and shook her head. Rain ran dark stripes on the pony's creamy white coat. She wanted to find dry shelter as much as anyone in such an ungodly weather and Desiderius didn't hold her back as Snappy cantered down the thoroughfare of Kumby. As if possessed, she rushed towards the door of the only tavern in the village, the aptly named Crying Cock.

            Desiderius tugged at the reins but Snappy was determined to have her share of tavern life too. Boldly she pushed the door open with her flour-white muzzle and neighed in a surprisingly demanding manner, causing all the heads in the tavern to turn towards the entrance. Desiderius glided down Snappy's shoulder and toppled on the floor, his legs shaking. A roaring wave of laughter erupted from the crowd.

”Oi! Lad! That sheep of yours thirsty or what?” someone shouted.

Gathering the last fragments of his dignity, Desiderius stumbled back on his feet and backed Snappy out into the rain. She protested and tried to bite him as Desiderius dragged her further away from the building and towards the stables on the other side of the road.

            "Um, good even, sir! You have a place for this little mare of mine?" he asked the stable master who stood in the doorway.

            "Always space for a small pony! One silver a night, bring her right in."

            "Thanks! There you go Snappy. Let's take this saddle off before you ruin it too," Desiderius murmured.

Then he remembered that the eggs had gotten shattered during his reckless gallop so he looked into his leather money purse with a due sense of dread. He would have received a rock of salt and coins for the now perished goods. I wonder if someone would buy smashed eggs… Luckily there were still plenty of silvers left. He paid the stable master and walked back to the tavern, counting the remaining silvers... one, two, three...

            Suddenly Desiderius bumped into someone. He was a tall, muscular man with such eyes as Desiderius could only imagine a madman would have.

            "Bloody hell!"

The stranger shoved Desiderius and he fell flat on his backside on a pile of something soft that felt and smelled very much like relatively fresh manure.

Fyen: The Twice Born

Poem of Death I

a lively kitchen

running feet

on the floor,

a sizzling pot

busy hands

on the door

now crowded room

surprised screams

silenced by gore.

The air smelled fresh, almost sweet even though there were clouds in the horizon. A raven-haired girl ran down the village thoroughfare and all who noticed her, smiled. Her whole being conveyed a sense of immense zest and joy of being alive. She finally came to a halt in front of a grocery stand.

            An old woman stood up with the aid of a gnarly cane. "Aye, Fyen, that's a beautiful blue dress! What can I get you today?"

            The raven girl smiled. "Eight eggs, a pound of butter, and some sugar, please."

            "Oh, my wrecked mind! Happy birthday Fyen! Is your mum baking you one of her wonderful cakes?"

            The girl laughed. "She is, Bess, and I know I'll get huge and fat and hideous but I don't care!"

            The old woman cackled. "That's the spirit! You are skin and bones anyway! Send Ayleth my greetings, she's a good woman."

            "Sure thing, Bess. Take care!"

            After getting her things, Fyen galloped back to her home where her mother was busy cleaning the house.

            "Fyen, did you get everything we still needed?" the woman asked, wiping their kitchen table with a moist cloth.

            "Yes, mum, everything's here. Bess sends her greetings."

            Ayleth laughed. "That old lady is still a piece of work. Remember when she pelted that Sun priest with eggs for saying her chickens looked sinister?"

            Fyen put the groceries on the now clean table and giggled. "Do I? I thought I'd never stop laughing!" Then she gazed around as if to see if there was something that needed to be done around the house.

            Without looking up from the groceries Ayleth smiled and said: "You can go downstairs, dear. Just lock the door behind you."

            Letting out an excited squeal, Fyen gave the woman a warm hug. "You're the best, mum! I will!" With that she dashed off into a dark cellar and locked the door behind her.

            She knew the darkness like the back of her hand. Six steps along the wall, third shelf up, flint and tinder, sparks that left funny figures in her vision, and behold, there was light. Fyen grabbed a large tome off the bookshelf and carried it to the center of the small room. She sprinkled sand in the form of a circle around herself and the book. Then the girl stood up and went to a cupboard beside the bookshelf. She took out nine white candles and a mirror. Sitting in the center of the sand circle, she placed the nine candles along the sand and the mirror beside her.

            Then she lit the first candle. "Lunar light, please give protection to Ayleth and me."

Repeating the phrase by each candle, soon all nine were alight and shadows fluttered across the walls. The girl opened the thick, leather-bound book and skimmed through it until she found the page she was looking for. Then she took the mirror and turned it towards the candles and closed her eyes.

"Divine Goddess of lunar light

and Mistress of seas;

Divine Goddess of the darkest night

and of mysteries;

Within this place of candles bright

and with Your mirror nigh;

Protect Ayleth and me

with Your loving might!"

After saying the words, she stood up, held the mirror in her hands, pointed it at the flames, and started moving clockwise around the circle, gradually gaining speed. As the girl skipped around the circle of candles, the whole room was filled with light and dancing shadows until Fyen finally slowed down to a halt, smiling to herself with her eyes closed, relishing the peaceful and loving atmosphere of the house. Briefly she touched a bloodstone that hung around her neck, a gift her mother had given her a few years ago. After opening her eyes, she blew out the candles, carried everything back to the cupboards, and returned the tome to the bookshelf. Soon the room was like any normal cellar again.

            Just as Fyen was ascending the stairs back into the kitchen, her mother opened the door. "Fyen, get back! Hide under the stairs and stay there!"

            "What is it, mum?"

            Ayleth's eyes flashed. "Do as I say! Now!"

            The woman gazed at her daughter, a peculiar expression on her face before she closed and locked the cellar door. Fyen did as her mother had told her and sat quietly in the dark under the stairs with her arms around her knees. After a moment she heard a loud crash from upstairs and the sound of several heavy feet stomping into the house.

            "What is this, priest?" It was her mother's voice.

            "You would do well to come with us, Ayleth Caradas. We don't want to cause a scene, do we?" an emotionless though somewhat unfriendly voice asked.

            "You don't call bursting through the front door ‘causing a scene'?" Ayleth sneered.

            Fyen heard a loud slap and several footsteps of people leaving the house. Then everything was quiet and still, the only sound the girl's pounding heart. After several moments, Fyen stood up and listened intently. Silence. She walked up the stairs and reached to her left. Finding the spare key, she opened the cellar door and peered out. The house was empty. As she stepped into the kitchen, Fyen felt a stab in her heart. The dough for her birthday cake had been ready. Now it was smeared across the floor next to a broken bowl. Where have they taken mum? And why? What's going on? She stepped out but saw no other signs that anybody had ever even been to their home.

            As Fyen walked out to the village thoroughfare, she noticed that her hands were trembling and that her heart was beating fast and hard, slamming against her ribcage. A wave of nausea and dizziness came over her and she had to steady herself against a passing woman who, oddly enough, behaved like a post of wood. She stared straight ahead as if Fyen wasn't even there. When the girl let go, the woman walked on in silence. Fyen went to Bess, who was holding her arm.

            “Fyen, you poor darling...” the old woman started.

            Alarmed, Fyen felt another surge of dizziness. "What happened to your arm, Bess?"

            The old woman waved her good hand in dismissal. "It's nothing. That damn priest had his ruffians break it since I ‘breed sinister animals and have acted disrespectfully towards the church of the Sun.'"

            "But that's awf—"

            "Dear girl, never mind! It's important that you are all right, that you are still here!"

            The woman's words reminded Fyen of what had happened. "Bess, some men came into our home and took away my mother! I don't know what to do!"

            The old woman lowered her eyes and started weeping. "They took her away, child, they took her away. Somebody had heard her talking about magick and they took her away."

            For a while Fyen couldn't think, let alone say anything. She anticipated thoughts starting a race through her head but none came. Everything just stood still.

            "Poor dear, do you have everything you need? Can I help you with anything?" It was as if the old woman's words drifted off with the wind.

            Then something cracked and Fyen felt like she had to be somewhere very urgently, somewhere that was anywhere but here. Just as Bess opened her mouth to say something else, the girl broke into a sprint and ran without direction. As she felt the air stinging her lungs, it occurred to her that she did have a direction after all: away.

            Out of breath and her thighs burning with exertion, eventually the girl found herself in the surrounding forest. She slowed down to a walk and then, reaching a small clearing, to a complete halt. Just at that moment a raindrop fell on the tip of her sharp nose. Soon it was pouring and she seemed to regain control of her body, her mind. One by one the thoughts started coming: the birthday cake on the floor, mother taken away by the priest and the soldiers, the cellar door locked, the birthday cake on the floor, mother on the way to the dungeons, then to the gallows, the priest's soldiers hitting Bess, the birthday cake on the floor... Fyen fell on her knees and her hunched shoulders started shaking as she cried her heart out, raining tears on the soaked earth.