HOW TO MOVE A MAN
“Tell us a story! A last one!” the children begged as they jumped to a squatting pose in a closest siege near by the fire and the storyteller. The flames painted sunset shades on their faces, children and adults. “Isn’t getting too late for you younglings?” the robed figured paused to look at the window. The village was still quiet, even in the break of war, not so far from those woods. How could those witless farmers protect their homes by ignoring what was happening so near? How would anyone be unharmed just by ignoring the continuous and rapidly spinning of the world?
The children gathered closest to the fire and to the storyteller. For five nights, the faceless figure had been enchanting their minds with heroic and glamour tales of heroes and traitors. In such a way, he conquered everyone’s sympathy in his ragged cloths, which brought in its putrid ends remains of the road and path traveled over. The tall figure, of little undercover skin in his long arms, from each ten new branches budded gold and rubies like blood, had a similar mysterious companion. An elder figure stared at the children in the front row, eyes without iris, thin and cracked lips, and wrinkled skin, made them shiver no more than some stories already told.
“Tell us what happened to the Mantis, the biggest thief of Tirail.”
“Didn’t I finish that story already? I was almost certain I have, haven’t I?”
“Oh, please, do tell us again, sir, the other night our mothers fetch us to sleep,” plead Esian on behalf of all children. The boy was twin of Gellie Morgar, only almost eight years old.
“Your mothers know it well, when our little heroes need rest. Go on, its time.”
“No. Just one more”
“Tell us the story of the two tails Strangers.”
“Not today!” he clapped his hands and pulled his robe over his face to create a shadow above his pitch black eyes.
“Why have you come to this town? Tell us that story! I don’t recall hearing your name ever since you came.” The innkeeper voice echoed as he clean the tables by the stairs.
The sound of mugs over the counter, against each other, over the tables, revealed great bustle of those who served. While on the other side of the counter, the drag of the chairs, the windy doorway and the steps of those who searched the tavern for some comfort, united the village in such common place every night since he arrived. The old woman abandon her fetus pose by the fire, uncurled her spine in such a way that they could hear it between the intense crepitate and the floor creak. She turned her head over the scenery before them. She was following the steps of a particular dweller, like a predator that sense its prey at a distance, and that movement came to her companion’s attention.
“You don’t seem as old as your granny…” the innkeeper persisted, “what was your name again?”
The old woman leaned over the lender figure, striped bloody white wide-open eyes of pure ecstasy to whisper something, than groped the walls, handrail, and vanished to the upper floor of the tavern. Only than did the storyteller give attention to his inquisitor.
The children hopped around the foreigner, chanting his name, fake but proud name that did not convince any of the present adults in the room.
“The children do not lie, do they? In the meantime, my dearest heroes, it has came the time of depart. I should bid you farewell.”
The children cried their sincerely anguish. There would be no more fairy tales from that night on. Overall, the stories were hard to understand, but even so, those evening-parties would be longing.
“Don’t leave us. Stay. Oh please, do stay” again Esian made his voice shine trough his anguish for the lost joy. It was so much easier to hear the stories than read them from some old dusty book that his father made them devour.
The storyteller raised his hand for silence.
“Before I go, I should tell you one more tale, than.”
The children, not so strangers to him, quieted. He knew them already as an open book. He set his eyes on the twins before him. The girl had disobeyed her father only because her brother begged her, by her will she would not stay in the same compartment as that stranger, he did not seem human to her at all. The word stranger could not have the better use in his case. Being before him was the same feeling as when the village was under attack by those hideous creatures know as Strangers. However, for her brother, and her friend, Keen, the innkeeper’s son, he was the greatest storyteller ever. The sorrow for his depart was shared by the grownups, knowing they were about to listen to one last story. The evening gathering in the tavern would truly lose the enthusiasm that made them work faster during the day with such anxiety for a new story of the night.
His grim smile turn out to be a pre-hence for a new tale.
“I should tell you why I am here”, the innkeeper drew his attention to the attentive mob. The children were not the only ones enchanted by his voice.
“…and in the end you will see my face, so you can remember me when I am gone”, the children applauded.
“Is it a story about a King?”
“No, my child” answered the storyteller to the innkeeper’s son “it’s about decision!”
“Decision??” emphasize the small children.
The word echoed thought the room, many were those who laughed about it.
“Decision, or resolution, as we know, doesn’t appear inside any of us, unless… you didn’t know that? Unless something outside as a motivation allows it to be born.”
“I see ruin over our heads, from a king that doesn’t give a damn about any city or village but his own luxury capital. Poverty and famine is closer, and that doesn’t seem enough to motivate men,” the innkeeper was loud enough.
“To that my friend, I call cowardice, but that is another story, for another night.”
He draw his hand in to the fire, he dived it between rebellion flames that lick him as penitent souls begging for salvation. The children, as children, applauded once more. Uninjured, he grabbed one flame with his fingers and dragged it as a falling start before them, as he drew in an ephemeral firework the chosen theme.
More cheering applauses.
The storyteller began his speech.
About a hero of a rude armor and a devilish sword that accomplish his mission to conquer the land from demons in his great-grandfathers honor with great glory. By demons, he meant no Strangers, the monsters that devour everything as they pass by, and implant fear that drives a man insane, nor ethereal creatures, but people, slave face people, continuously rejected and made into prisoners.
The chosen one was a south hero. His name yield by the wind to every corner of the realm, and his heroic exploits register in every living memory. He became not only a hero but also a divinity between humankind. He was a model to follow but hardly to copy. He was the one who raised an army of valorous men to conquer his homeland.
The storyteller paused for an instant staring into the dancing flames. As many adults thought about the true meaning of homeland. For how many generations the people fought for the White Chapel, capital, seen as the only true homeland.
“Nevertheless, the hero set his sword aside, as soon as he mercifully banished the demons from the land. He gave back to his family, fields, and city. Above all, he believed, before that victory, that the demons were forever conquered, controlled.” The innkeeper saw how tense his enclosed fist was, as he spit the words with such emotion during the narrative. “That long-lasting war from both sides, made them forgot on which side was the great reason. Our hero helped his people; chose to ignore his gift, given by the gods. He kept his sword away, buried his armor, and erected, together with his brothers, a great wall surrounded the city to preserve forever his legacy.” There was no doubt he was talking about the White Chapel.
The innkeeper read the adults expressions, in that village, there was only the so call demons, everyone descended from a slaved people. However, the storyteller was not talking of Evar, the charitable. That south hero was not their hero at all.
“What about the demons? What did the demons do?”
The storyteller made a brief sound to soothe the younglings. There was silence again. The fire cracked before the story. That time, he caught every adult’s attention, not only the children’s parents, but all of them. The city mentioned was not so far away from that land as they could wish.
“The way the hero dignify his kind without claiming the throne to his own profit made him the most respected man ever lived, but his fighting days were far from over. Neither that was a destiny he could control. The demons returned to the land known to them as their home. They would conquer the city back, even if it meant to destroy it. However, they knew he wasn’t easy to defeat, because our hero was a sage man and the best warrior ever lived.
The men by the counter exchanged an accomplice look and the men closest to the doorway throw coins over the table as they abandoned the tavern, gesture that the storyteller kept up with some discreetness.
“There were four battles to follow, each one for a following heir. Neither of conquer, nor of defense. Of which, from the first came total annihilation of Idul´s port, every single ship was sink and the supplies completely suppressed in its way to the north. From the second resulted the submission of people and all periphery villages, our heroes abandoned the capital in surrender for a few years. The demons had returned home. A third battle, the bloodiest, at the same time the last Assembly reunion, by the hand of a mad king that returned the south people to the capital. He wasn’t worried with the people’s protection. He laid a siege to the city, as did the demons before him. He conquered the villages, but not the capital. He died before it, and it was his son who proceeded with his conquers. Nevertheless, the Great Wall never fell” the pause brought a provocative smile to his lips.
“The demons abandoned the city once more?”
“This time, in this fourth battle, the demons had a hero of their own” he nodded to the children exclamations. The innkeeper felt some disturbance in his voice. He was not so sure, anymore of which side the storyteller was when he mentioned the existence of Evar with such devotion as a hero between the devil and the deep blue see.
“Did they fight each other? Who won?” Esian could not bear his enthusiasm, it was definitely so much better to listen rather fell asleep over some dull History book. How lucky was he, for his father the village professor, was going to make a test on the subject.
“The hero!” he smiled before the confusion.
“Which one? Which one?”
“Evar decided not to fight again; he would not shed human blood over the land, so he demanded a peaceful discussion of terms. Not knowing that Draquemar, the south descendant hero already planed the destruction of everything. Some said he was mad as his father, by scarifying his own men to experiences, making them unvanquished warriors. There were those who believed that the present Stangers were actually his men While Evar was discussing with his knights the city and the people’s destiny, outside the wall, his people was being slaughter with no tolerance. Its was then, something Evar didn’t saw it coming. The citizens” he stretch out his finger to emphasize the story, “raged by the fact his decision brought death to his own kind, leaving the villagers dying on the city’s step doorway outside the wall, decided not to trust his decision any longer. It fact, it was impossible to explain to them, if he had ordered to open the gate walls to help his people, that the enemy would finally claim his way thought the city. If he had done it, that time, all inhabitants would be death already. If only there was a single chance to negotiate, he would take it, he was no coward, and maybe he could save perhaps all of the citizen’s life. Some said their gods cursed him, by his refusing to hold his sword again. Others thought of him as a ruthless tyrant no less fearful as Draquemar who slaughter man, women and children with no guilt; they said he was only worried about his secret treasure hidden in the city core. So many stories and rumors were born to explain such a decision” the word popped to every ones attention, “that divided the people and soon there were only chaos.”
The way the storyteller moved his hands, seemed like the graceful dance of a dozen arms. The astonished children followed him with distinguished attention.
“Evar was no coward; neither did he lose his faith on his gods nor his people. To those who could manage to run, the enemy army welcomed them warmly. In no time, the demons became heroes that acted like true demons.
The storyteller paused again. As all his stories before that, the children need some time to think over the subtle semantics. Every tavern table was paying attention, the innkeeper looked for one of the crudest man, and his soiled hands told him not to move.
“So this fourth battle wasn’t in open battle field,” this time he was not speaking only to the front rows, but for the terrific silence before him. “No weapons were used, nor did the gate walls were opened to the conqueror army. The citizens took care of the massacre. My sweet children, “he smiled towards the twins, Gellie was the only one to shiver, “this story has no happy ending. Let it be say, that the citizens, for their freedom, reunited in the castle, on the highest top, the royal family and the king himself. The same people, who claimed him as king against his will, for they believed he was the only man capable of ruling, were the same who deposed him. It was in that tower the slaughter began. From his eleven trusty knights, four gave their lives instinctively in effort to save him, the rest escaped with their own families. The city cheered the conqueror army warmly. Draquemar was finally in his ancestor’s home city. It was only when the doors shut that the screams began.
Most of the children were petrified. Dull staring eyes, expressionless before the fire. The storyteller drank slowly from his cup of wine.
“The knights manage to run?” it was the first time Keen made himself heard.
“Yes, they run. They stepped away from every heroic exploit to live as common person, ignoring the massacre, the assassination of their king, of both kings; actually, until today no one knows what really happened inside those walls. It was the first time Strangers entered the city to hunt. That was the last time we heard about heroes.
“But the knight escaped, didn’t they?” rephrased Esian as Keen nodded immediately.
“It sounds like a bunch of cowards if you ask me.”
The storyteller smiled in agreement, raised his face to the taverns farthest end tables. The way men stopped drinking a while ago, and the way food lost its taste made him satisfied.
“They never should have left the capital!” insisted Keen.
“Yes, yes, young master, from a certain point of view, it may have been seen as a coward gesture, however they were able to save their families and some members of the royal family as well. Ah, but the story is far from ending.”
“If both kings were dead, who became king?”
“A young warrior. He became a king never seen as a true hero by those who survived. Each side only considered their lost king as the last true hero. That’s why the young king decided to distinguish himself in the land marks of History. He had to be the most powerful ever existed, the most heroic and strongest above all. He started to hunt down every man that could offer him a true challenge. Do you know what happened?”
The children became agitated again.
“Man hided gave up fighting. How the young king could become such a hero if there were no valorous enemies to vanquish?”
“Cowards! Told you so!” shouted Keen on his feet.
“The young king started to promote challenges, tournaments, games, rewards, hunts, he made everything possible to attract the long lost heroes back to his presence, but it was no good,” his gesture was quick and strong, “nothing, no one! Until
The innkeeper searched for Soren in the furthest table, but he was nowhere to been found.
“Until in his search he found the whereabouts of one, and another, followed clues through cities, mountains and rivers to find some of the lost men, their families, because he wanted to vanquish all of them one by one, especially when he discovered between them” he smiled towards Keen “the runaway prince.”
The innkeeper removed his apron, he did not like at all where that story was going. The old woman never returned, besides that did not seem to disturb her companion or the public but it did in fact affect him considerably. The storyteller saw how he moved across the room. They were watching over one another. He walked toward him, amongst the children, chairs and tables, because he wanted to catch a glance of his face no matter what. Maybe the innkeeper thought he was a bounty hunter of some kind, if it was that way, the story had not been to no purpose. It meant that he was actually in the good track. The campaign to hunt the murdered king’s knights had become an excuse for the terror amongst people.
Yes. They did think he was a bounty hunter. Probably a man who sold his soul to real demons that no one wished to mention, and had to take to his king news of a possible hidden hero in that village.
A murderer behind filthy rags. Only the dark arts could explain such mysterious men and the miracles he had done, by holding the fire that way. His hand was uninjured. What else if not witchcraft?
Wile the innkeeper studied him, he notice that another man climbed the stairs, his posture hided a sword.
“How many were found?”
“Only two, but they were so weak that only made the king angrier. That is why, for years, he encourage them to leave their lair. He lost all interest for defying games, tournaments. He also lost his patience and started to show some sings of tyranny. Even threaten, the villagers didn’t denounce them. His wrath fall upon the people, even then man didn’t shown.
“Cowards, they are all a bunch of cowards.”
“Did the find the prince?” Gellie voice sounded filled with concern.
“Not yet, but even now he is been searched for.”
“That is enough! Children leave this place!” the innkeepers voice sounded like a thunder.
“You didn’t like my story? Maybe you are afraid the children have nightmares tonight?”
“I didn’t approved once bit the lies you just told them. Those men you have spoke of with less consideration had to run with no option. I won’t stand for you to teach our children about their ancestors in such a vile way. Where’re proud of those who survived the slaughter, those who can actually tell their makings, and of those true heroes. The only coward I presently know is your king. If you wish to hunt in our village, you can return to your majesty and tell him another story! His cowardice in hunting innocent men and their families for own glory doesn’t deserve any praise whatsoever!
“So that means… you believe the present king that rules the White Chapel is in fact a coward?
The storyteller looked at the ceiling.
“No doubt! If one day I praised him for letting leave both peoples in the same capital, for believing he wished to live in peace between humankind, today I m certain that it never will reach Evar´s greatness.
The foreigner nodded in agreement. How many times he heard that speech from other villagers. He looked to the stairs once more; he could feel the steps of the man that walked until the old woman’s room. There was silence when he reached for the doorknob of her room. The moans came from inside but it didn’t seem of a old woman with walking difficulties. The strangeness increased when the duet spread the voices of a man and a woman through the corridor when he was certain that was the old woman’s compartment. The man hesitated, his steps across the corridor echoed from a door to another. Maybe he was confusing the rooms; the storyteller could hear his thoughts. Maybe the old woman was sleeping in the other room wile the youth animate the evening. The man took a peep thought the hole. There was no mistake; there was no old woman also. Her body meander over the man’s body in passion and made him step back with lust and desire over his upset body. The old woman had to be somewhere else…
It was time. The storyteller stared towards the innkeeper.
“It seams my story offended you. I had no idea that this village belonged to the survivors. I thought there were no longer any survivors.
“But the story wasn’t about decision?”
The storyteller looked at Keen, he was the same who was disturb with the cowardice of the runaway knights.
“That’s true, young master, sadly true. The king was so furious, but so furious, for the disrespect shown towards him, from those who forgot he delivered them from Draquemar´s tyranny and Evar´s weakness, that made him awake every man’s power of decision. Maybe they lacked motivation, you see.”
“What happened after that?” asked as the innkeeper stepped back with concern.
“If he could not deal with them directly he had to let motivation whisper in to their ears, the hunt began, one by one. He searched for the lost heroes, he scraped the land, searched every town, village, city and forest” the storyteller paused to look again to the ceiling. The moan that echoed in his head had ceased.
“Did he find every hero he was looking for?” it took a moment to get the answer; something above distracted him from the story.
“Hum… not yet.”
“How did it make them fight again? Motivation I mean…”
“It gave them a purpose, an aim, something so strong that over controlled them, blinded them to any human logic thought, something that no other strength had the power to silence.”
“Is there something so powerful like that?” Gellie shivered again.
“This story is getting to long, children. Go to your mothers. Enough of this rubbish already!”
“If there is? Something capable of moving a man against its will?... oh… there is for sure – he looked at the children, them the men – revenge, rage, as you know, devours the mind of a man, turns him insane, reborn with great strength,” – he spread his arms towards the ceiling, he was pleased with the event, “to find himself bigger than a god. Beyond imagination…
The exclamations echoed through the room.
There was a hollow cry.
The man in the corridor stepped back to regain his posture and pepped again. He wished to see her, the woman’s muse body and her black hair. Her smooth skin and the way she mounted over the man’s body. The man’s cry was not of pleasure anymore; she silenced him with her own mouth, kissed him as intensely as she made love to him. The climax corrupted his own body and made him desire to touch himself before that feverish vision.
The kiss ended, there was blood flown through her face. The intruder thrown himself to the locked door, once, twice, until the looker cracked, and saw the open window, there was no chance a woman could have jumped, nor did she had the time to do it. The bloody body over the bed was heartless.
There laid Soren, renounced and never forgotten hero.
The innkeeper saw the man run down the stairs in a panic runaway.
“Keen! Step away from that man this instance!” yield the innkeeper fearing the worst. The man belch in horror while he mumble “he´s dead, he´s dead!”
“God has to win over Evil, no matter what, isn’t that right, my dearest heroes?” The storyteller pretended to be surprised with the innkeeper’s overprotection. “Did something bad happen, sir?
“Step away from my son!” – threaded in a whisper while the man shouted on the floor. Luckily, perhaps that village had more than one hidden hero. He calculated how many he had already killed with a finger gesture. From seven survivors, two died by his hand at the capital, the others hunted, easily died with lust in Sae´s arms. However, that night he wasn’t hunting Soren. He looked at the twins before hum. Soren wasn’t the father of those children, he was certain of that. His mission in that village was to inspire that children’s father. Give him motivation for the necessary… resolution.
“Today these children will learn a worthy lesson, never forgotten.
His hand drew a new fire track that astonished the public like a spell, as a moth is attracted to the light.
The blade danced spilling blood. No one saw the gesture too quick, almost inhuman.
The innkeeper was to slow to react; he did not perceive what happened until he saw the children’s scattered body all over the floor. Men shouted and the panic was complete. Amongst victims there were still standing children, alive, some trembling, some paralyzed, not even feeling the warm droops of blood that stained their faces. Broken spirits for assisting theirs companions massacre.
The storyteller undressed his mantle and used it to sweep the blow of his sword. He was not old, on the contrary, his arrogance and slenderness gave him an immortal look.
Keen was petrified. His staring eyes were pure terror. He felt the storyteller icy hands on his shoulder, and it seams it burned like fire.
He could not hear the cries of the adults.
“See, young master… bless the gods, for your daddy” pointed towards the innkeeper” isn’t one of those hidden heroes.
The pestilent fragrance took over his body. Keen stepped away; he did not wish to dirty himself with Gellie´s blood, which face was paler then ever. He grabbed a stick and run after the murderer. There was not one single man who stopped him from leaving, or did any justice; the boy was the only one to run towards him without a second thought. He stroked his hand fiercely without considering his enemy. He pierced a broken spear into the foreigner’s hand.
Vangard punched the kid to the floor. He would not kill him. He left him unconscious on the stair steps by the end of that summer. As soon has he regained conscious, he could continue to live his peaceful life as everyone else would. For those who recognized him, he was not only the face of the people enemy, but the responsible for every ruin and poverty that would embrace the kingdom very soon, for he was Vangard, King, and conqueror in person.
“Tell us a story! A last one!” the children begged as they jumped to a squatting pose in a closest siege near by the fire and the storyteller. The flames painted sunset shades on their faces, children and adults. “Isn’t getting too late for you younglings?” the robed figured paused to look at the window. The village was still quiet, even in the break of war, not so far from those woods. How could those witless farmers protect their homes by ignoring what was happening so near? How would anyone be unharmed just by ignoring the continuous and rapidly spinning of the world?
The children gathered closest to the fire and to the storyteller. For five nights, the faceless figure had been enchanting their minds with heroic and glamour tales of heroes and traitors. In such a way, he conquered everyone’s sympathy in his ragged cloths, which brought in its putrid ends remains of the road and path traveled over. The tall figure, of little undercover skin in his long arms, from each ten new branches budded gold and rubies like blood, had a similar mysterious companion. An elder figure stared at the children in the front row, eyes without iris, thin and cracked lips, and wrinkled skin, made them shiver no more than some stories already told.
“Tell us what happened to the Mantis, the biggest thief of Tirail.”
“Didn’t I finish that story already? I was almost certain I have, haven’t I?”
“Oh, please, do tell us again, sir, the other night our mothers fetch us to sleep,” plead Esian on behalf of all children. The boy was twin of Gellie Morgar, only almost eight years old.
“Your mothers know it well, when our little heroes need rest. Go on, its time.”
“No. Just one more”
“Tell us the story of the two tails Strangers.”
“Not today!” he clapped his hands and pulled his robe over his face to create a shadow above his pitch black eyes.
“Why have you come to this town? Tell us that story! I don’t recall hearing your name ever since you came.” The innkeeper voice echoed as he clean the tables by the stairs.
The sound of mugs over the counter, against each other, over the tables, revealed great bustle of those who served. While on the other side of the counter, the drag of the chairs, the windy doorway and the steps of those who searched the tavern for some comfort, united the village in such common place every night since he arrived. The old woman abandon her fetus pose by the fire, uncurled her spine in such a way that they could hear it between the intense crepitate and the floor creak. She turned her head over the scenery before them. She was following the steps of a particular dweller, like a predator that sense its prey at a distance, and that movement came to her companion’s attention.
“You don’t seem as old as your granny…” the innkeeper persisted, “what was your name again?”
The old woman leaned over the lender figure, striped bloody white wide-open eyes of pure ecstasy to whisper something, than groped the walls, handrail, and vanished to the upper floor of the tavern. Only than did the storyteller give attention to his inquisitor.
The children hopped around the foreigner, chanting his name, fake but proud name that did not convince any of the present adults in the room.
“The children do not lie, do they? In the meantime, my dearest heroes, it has came the time of depart. I should bid you farewell.”
The children cried their sincerely anguish. There would be no more fairy tales from that night on. Overall, the stories were hard to understand, but even so, those evening-parties would be longing.
“Don’t leave us. Stay. Oh please, do stay” again Esian made his voice shine trough his anguish for the lost joy. It was so much easier to hear the stories than read them from some old dusty book that his father made them devour.
The storyteller raised his hand for silence.
“Before I go, I should tell you one more tale, than.”
The children, not so strangers to him, quieted. He knew them already as an open book. He set his eyes on the twins before him. The girl had disobeyed her father only because her brother begged her, by her will she would not stay in the same compartment as that stranger, he did not seem human to her at all. The word stranger could not have the better use in his case. Being before him was the same feeling as when the village was under attack by those hideous creatures know as Strangers. However, for her brother, and her friend, Keen, the innkeeper’s son, he was the greatest storyteller ever. The sorrow for his depart was shared by the grownups, knowing they were about to listen to one last story. The evening gathering in the tavern would truly lose the enthusiasm that made them work faster during the day with such anxiety for a new story of the night.
His grim smile turn out to be a pre-hence for a new tale.
“I should tell you why I am here”, the innkeeper drew his attention to the attentive mob. The children were not the only ones enchanted by his voice.
“…and in the end you will see my face, so you can remember me when I am gone”, the children applauded.
“Is it a story about a King?”
“No, my child” answered the storyteller to the innkeeper’s son “it’s about decision!”
“Decision??” emphasize the small children.
The word echoed thought the room, many were those who laughed about it.
“Decision, or resolution, as we know, doesn’t appear inside any of us, unless… you didn’t know that? Unless something outside as a motivation allows it to be born.”
“I see ruin over our heads, from a king that doesn’t give a damn about any city or village but his own luxury capital. Poverty and famine is closer, and that doesn’t seem enough to motivate men,” the innkeeper was loud enough.
“To that my friend, I call cowardice, but that is another story, for another night.”
He draw his hand in to the fire, he dived it between rebellion flames that lick him as penitent souls begging for salvation. The children, as children, applauded once more. Uninjured, he grabbed one flame with his fingers and dragged it as a falling start before them, as he drew in an ephemeral firework the chosen theme.
More cheering applauses.
The storyteller began his speech.
About a hero of a rude armor and a devilish sword that accomplish his mission to conquer the land from demons in his great-grandfathers honor with great glory. By demons, he meant no Strangers, the monsters that devour everything as they pass by, and implant fear that drives a man insane, nor ethereal creatures, but people, slave face people, continuously rejected and made into prisoners.
The chosen one was a south hero. His name yield by the wind to every corner of the realm, and his heroic exploits register in every living memory. He became not only a hero but also a divinity between humankind. He was a model to follow but hardly to copy. He was the one who raised an army of valorous men to conquer his homeland.
The storyteller paused for an instant staring into the dancing flames. As many adults thought about the true meaning of homeland. For how many generations the people fought for the White Chapel, capital, seen as the only true homeland.
“Nevertheless, the hero set his sword aside, as soon as he mercifully banished the demons from the land. He gave back to his family, fields, and city. Above all, he believed, before that victory, that the demons were forever conquered, controlled.” The innkeeper saw how tense his enclosed fist was, as he spit the words with such emotion during the narrative. “That long-lasting war from both sides, made them forgot on which side was the great reason. Our hero helped his people; chose to ignore his gift, given by the gods. He kept his sword away, buried his armor, and erected, together with his brothers, a great wall surrounded the city to preserve forever his legacy.” There was no doubt he was talking about the White Chapel.
The innkeeper read the adults expressions, in that village, there was only the so call demons, everyone descended from a slaved people. However, the storyteller was not talking of Evar, the charitable. That south hero was not their hero at all.
“What about the demons? What did the demons do?”
The storyteller made a brief sound to soothe the younglings. There was silence again. The fire cracked before the story. That time, he caught every adult’s attention, not only the children’s parents, but all of them. The city mentioned was not so far away from that land as they could wish.
“The way the hero dignify his kind without claiming the throne to his own profit made him the most respected man ever lived, but his fighting days were far from over. Neither that was a destiny he could control. The demons returned to the land known to them as their home. They would conquer the city back, even if it meant to destroy it. However, they knew he wasn’t easy to defeat, because our hero was a sage man and the best warrior ever lived.
The men by the counter exchanged an accomplice look and the men closest to the doorway throw coins over the table as they abandoned the tavern, gesture that the storyteller kept up with some discreetness.
“There were four battles to follow, each one for a following heir. Neither of conquer, nor of defense. Of which, from the first came total annihilation of Idul´s port, every single ship was sink and the supplies completely suppressed in its way to the north. From the second resulted the submission of people and all periphery villages, our heroes abandoned the capital in surrender for a few years. The demons had returned home. A third battle, the bloodiest, at the same time the last Assembly reunion, by the hand of a mad king that returned the south people to the capital. He wasn’t worried with the people’s protection. He laid a siege to the city, as did the demons before him. He conquered the villages, but not the capital. He died before it, and it was his son who proceeded with his conquers. Nevertheless, the Great Wall never fell” the pause brought a provocative smile to his lips.
“The demons abandoned the city once more?”
“This time, in this fourth battle, the demons had a hero of their own” he nodded to the children exclamations. The innkeeper felt some disturbance in his voice. He was not so sure, anymore of which side the storyteller was when he mentioned the existence of Evar with such devotion as a hero between the devil and the deep blue see.
“Did they fight each other? Who won?” Esian could not bear his enthusiasm, it was definitely so much better to listen rather fell asleep over some dull History book. How lucky was he, for his father the village professor, was going to make a test on the subject.
“The hero!” he smiled before the confusion.
“Which one? Which one?”
“Evar decided not to fight again; he would not shed human blood over the land, so he demanded a peaceful discussion of terms. Not knowing that Draquemar, the south descendant hero already planed the destruction of everything. Some said he was mad as his father, by scarifying his own men to experiences, making them unvanquished warriors. There were those who believed that the present Stangers were actually his men While Evar was discussing with his knights the city and the people’s destiny, outside the wall, his people was being slaughter with no tolerance. Its was then, something Evar didn’t saw it coming. The citizens” he stretch out his finger to emphasize the story, “raged by the fact his decision brought death to his own kind, leaving the villagers dying on the city’s step doorway outside the wall, decided not to trust his decision any longer. It fact, it was impossible to explain to them, if he had ordered to open the gate walls to help his people, that the enemy would finally claim his way thought the city. If he had done it, that time, all inhabitants would be death already. If only there was a single chance to negotiate, he would take it, he was no coward, and maybe he could save perhaps all of the citizen’s life. Some said their gods cursed him, by his refusing to hold his sword again. Others thought of him as a ruthless tyrant no less fearful as Draquemar who slaughter man, women and children with no guilt; they said he was only worried about his secret treasure hidden in the city core. So many stories and rumors were born to explain such a decision” the word popped to every ones attention, “that divided the people and soon there were only chaos.”
The way the storyteller moved his hands, seemed like the graceful dance of a dozen arms. The astonished children followed him with distinguished attention.
“Evar was no coward; neither did he lose his faith on his gods nor his people. To those who could manage to run, the enemy army welcomed them warmly. In no time, the demons became heroes that acted like true demons.
The storyteller paused again. As all his stories before that, the children need some time to think over the subtle semantics. Every tavern table was paying attention, the innkeeper looked for one of the crudest man, and his soiled hands told him not to move.
“So this fourth battle wasn’t in open battle field,” this time he was not speaking only to the front rows, but for the terrific silence before him. “No weapons were used, nor did the gate walls were opened to the conqueror army. The citizens took care of the massacre. My sweet children, “he smiled towards the twins, Gellie was the only one to shiver, “this story has no happy ending. Let it be say, that the citizens, for their freedom, reunited in the castle, on the highest top, the royal family and the king himself. The same people, who claimed him as king against his will, for they believed he was the only man capable of ruling, were the same who deposed him. It was in that tower the slaughter began. From his eleven trusty knights, four gave their lives instinctively in effort to save him, the rest escaped with their own families. The city cheered the conqueror army warmly. Draquemar was finally in his ancestor’s home city. It was only when the doors shut that the screams began.
Most of the children were petrified. Dull staring eyes, expressionless before the fire. The storyteller drank slowly from his cup of wine.
“The knights manage to run?” it was the first time Keen made himself heard.
“Yes, they run. They stepped away from every heroic exploit to live as common person, ignoring the massacre, the assassination of their king, of both kings; actually, until today no one knows what really happened inside those walls. It was the first time Strangers entered the city to hunt. That was the last time we heard about heroes.
“But the knight escaped, didn’t they?” rephrased Esian as Keen nodded immediately.
“It sounds like a bunch of cowards if you ask me.”
The storyteller smiled in agreement, raised his face to the taverns farthest end tables. The way men stopped drinking a while ago, and the way food lost its taste made him satisfied.
“They never should have left the capital!” insisted Keen.
“Yes, yes, young master, from a certain point of view, it may have been seen as a coward gesture, however they were able to save their families and some members of the royal family as well. Ah, but the story is far from ending.”
“If both kings were dead, who became king?”
“A young warrior. He became a king never seen as a true hero by those who survived. Each side only considered their lost king as the last true hero. That’s why the young king decided to distinguish himself in the land marks of History. He had to be the most powerful ever existed, the most heroic and strongest above all. He started to hunt down every man that could offer him a true challenge. Do you know what happened?”
The children became agitated again.
“Man hided gave up fighting. How the young king could become such a hero if there were no valorous enemies to vanquish?”
“Cowards! Told you so!” shouted Keen on his feet.
“The young king started to promote challenges, tournaments, games, rewards, hunts, he made everything possible to attract the long lost heroes back to his presence, but it was no good,” his gesture was quick and strong, “nothing, no one! Until
The innkeeper searched for Soren in the furthest table, but he was nowhere to been found.
“Until in his search he found the whereabouts of one, and another, followed clues through cities, mountains and rivers to find some of the lost men, their families, because he wanted to vanquish all of them one by one, especially when he discovered between them” he smiled towards Keen “the runaway prince.”
The innkeeper removed his apron, he did not like at all where that story was going. The old woman never returned, besides that did not seem to disturb her companion or the public but it did in fact affect him considerably. The storyteller saw how he moved across the room. They were watching over one another. He walked toward him, amongst the children, chairs and tables, because he wanted to catch a glance of his face no matter what. Maybe the innkeeper thought he was a bounty hunter of some kind, if it was that way, the story had not been to no purpose. It meant that he was actually in the good track. The campaign to hunt the murdered king’s knights had become an excuse for the terror amongst people.
Yes. They did think he was a bounty hunter. Probably a man who sold his soul to real demons that no one wished to mention, and had to take to his king news of a possible hidden hero in that village.
A murderer behind filthy rags. Only the dark arts could explain such mysterious men and the miracles he had done, by holding the fire that way. His hand was uninjured. What else if not witchcraft?
Wile the innkeeper studied him, he notice that another man climbed the stairs, his posture hided a sword.
“How many were found?”
“Only two, but they were so weak that only made the king angrier. That is why, for years, he encourage them to leave their lair. He lost all interest for defying games, tournaments. He also lost his patience and started to show some sings of tyranny. Even threaten, the villagers didn’t denounce them. His wrath fall upon the people, even then man didn’t shown.
“Cowards, they are all a bunch of cowards.”
“Did the find the prince?” Gellie voice sounded filled with concern.
“Not yet, but even now he is been searched for.”
“That is enough! Children leave this place!” the innkeepers voice sounded like a thunder.
“You didn’t like my story? Maybe you are afraid the children have nightmares tonight?”
“I didn’t approved once bit the lies you just told them. Those men you have spoke of with less consideration had to run with no option. I won’t stand for you to teach our children about their ancestors in such a vile way. Where’re proud of those who survived the slaughter, those who can actually tell their makings, and of those true heroes. The only coward I presently know is your king. If you wish to hunt in our village, you can return to your majesty and tell him another story! His cowardice in hunting innocent men and their families for own glory doesn’t deserve any praise whatsoever!
“So that means… you believe the present king that rules the White Chapel is in fact a coward?
The storyteller looked at the ceiling.
“No doubt! If one day I praised him for letting leave both peoples in the same capital, for believing he wished to live in peace between humankind, today I m certain that it never will reach Evar´s greatness.
The foreigner nodded in agreement. How many times he heard that speech from other villagers. He looked to the stairs once more; he could feel the steps of the man that walked until the old woman’s room. There was silence when he reached for the doorknob of her room. The moans came from inside but it didn’t seem of a old woman with walking difficulties. The strangeness increased when the duet spread the voices of a man and a woman through the corridor when he was certain that was the old woman’s compartment. The man hesitated, his steps across the corridor echoed from a door to another. Maybe he was confusing the rooms; the storyteller could hear his thoughts. Maybe the old woman was sleeping in the other room wile the youth animate the evening. The man took a peep thought the hole. There was no mistake; there was no old woman also. Her body meander over the man’s body in passion and made him step back with lust and desire over his upset body. The old woman had to be somewhere else…
It was time. The storyteller stared towards the innkeeper.
“It seams my story offended you. I had no idea that this village belonged to the survivors. I thought there were no longer any survivors.
“But the story wasn’t about decision?”
The storyteller looked at Keen, he was the same who was disturb with the cowardice of the runaway knights.
“That’s true, young master, sadly true. The king was so furious, but so furious, for the disrespect shown towards him, from those who forgot he delivered them from Draquemar´s tyranny and Evar´s weakness, that made him awake every man’s power of decision. Maybe they lacked motivation, you see.”
“What happened after that?” asked as the innkeeper stepped back with concern.
“If he could not deal with them directly he had to let motivation whisper in to their ears, the hunt began, one by one. He searched for the lost heroes, he scraped the land, searched every town, village, city and forest” the storyteller paused to look again to the ceiling. The moan that echoed in his head had ceased.
“Did he find every hero he was looking for?” it took a moment to get the answer; something above distracted him from the story.
“Hum… not yet.”
“How did it make them fight again? Motivation I mean…”
“It gave them a purpose, an aim, something so strong that over controlled them, blinded them to any human logic thought, something that no other strength had the power to silence.”
“Is there something so powerful like that?” Gellie shivered again.
“This story is getting to long, children. Go to your mothers. Enough of this rubbish already!”
“If there is? Something capable of moving a man against its will?... oh… there is for sure – he looked at the children, them the men – revenge, rage, as you know, devours the mind of a man, turns him insane, reborn with great strength,” – he spread his arms towards the ceiling, he was pleased with the event, “to find himself bigger than a god. Beyond imagination…
The exclamations echoed through the room.
There was a hollow cry.
The man in the corridor stepped back to regain his posture and pepped again. He wished to see her, the woman’s muse body and her black hair. Her smooth skin and the way she mounted over the man’s body. The man’s cry was not of pleasure anymore; she silenced him with her own mouth, kissed him as intensely as she made love to him. The climax corrupted his own body and made him desire to touch himself before that feverish vision.
The kiss ended, there was blood flown through her face. The intruder thrown himself to the locked door, once, twice, until the looker cracked, and saw the open window, there was no chance a woman could have jumped, nor did she had the time to do it. The bloody body over the bed was heartless.
There laid Soren, renounced and never forgotten hero.
The innkeeper saw the man run down the stairs in a panic runaway.
“Keen! Step away from that man this instance!” yield the innkeeper fearing the worst. The man belch in horror while he mumble “he´s dead, he´s dead!”
“God has to win over Evil, no matter what, isn’t that right, my dearest heroes?” The storyteller pretended to be surprised with the innkeeper’s overprotection. “Did something bad happen, sir?
“Step away from my son!” – threaded in a whisper while the man shouted on the floor. Luckily, perhaps that village had more than one hidden hero. He calculated how many he had already killed with a finger gesture. From seven survivors, two died by his hand at the capital, the others hunted, easily died with lust in Sae´s arms. However, that night he wasn’t hunting Soren. He looked at the twins before hum. Soren wasn’t the father of those children, he was certain of that. His mission in that village was to inspire that children’s father. Give him motivation for the necessary… resolution.
“Today these children will learn a worthy lesson, never forgotten.
His hand drew a new fire track that astonished the public like a spell, as a moth is attracted to the light.
The blade danced spilling blood. No one saw the gesture too quick, almost inhuman.
The innkeeper was to slow to react; he did not perceive what happened until he saw the children’s scattered body all over the floor. Men shouted and the panic was complete. Amongst victims there were still standing children, alive, some trembling, some paralyzed, not even feeling the warm droops of blood that stained their faces. Broken spirits for assisting theirs companions massacre.
The storyteller undressed his mantle and used it to sweep the blow of his sword. He was not old, on the contrary, his arrogance and slenderness gave him an immortal look.
Keen was petrified. His staring eyes were pure terror. He felt the storyteller icy hands on his shoulder, and it seams it burned like fire.
He could not hear the cries of the adults.
“See, young master… bless the gods, for your daddy” pointed towards the innkeeper” isn’t one of those hidden heroes.
The pestilent fragrance took over his body. Keen stepped away; he did not wish to dirty himself with Gellie´s blood, which face was paler then ever. He grabbed a stick and run after the murderer. There was not one single man who stopped him from leaving, or did any justice; the boy was the only one to run towards him without a second thought. He stroked his hand fiercely without considering his enemy. He pierced a broken spear into the foreigner’s hand.
Vangard punched the kid to the floor. He would not kill him. He left him unconscious on the stair steps by the end of that summer. As soon has he regained conscious, he could continue to live his peaceful life as everyone else would. For those who recognized him, he was not only the face of the people enemy, but the responsible for every ruin and poverty that would embrace the kingdom very soon, for he was Vangard, King, and conqueror in person.
