The Storyteller

The articulately named Dancer with a Hairy Upper Lip, unlike most other similar inns of ill-repute was not crowded. In fact, many an inebriated patron had questioned the proprietor of this dinghy establishment on the wisdom of starting an inn in the middle of a forest of dead trees next to the largest, most dangerous swamp in the not-so-fair Queendom of Jarkala. The proprietor, a werewolf of rather nasty temperament and indiscriminate taste, would then eat this patron and hang his or her or its clothing on the wall behind the bar as a warning to the next suicidal imbecile. Or maybe it was a Vaastu thing.

On this particular cold moonless night, the rubber-bats hanging from the uppermost branches of the tall, naked, nameless trees that surrounded the little inn saw three cloaked and hooded riders arrive and screamed terrible ultrasonic insults at them, which the riders, not being able to hear, ignored easily. Their mounts were thoroughbred unicorns with glimmer tattoos that cast a pale glow around the company. Not the stealthiest of steeds, they made up for this with their ability to outrun typhoons. Something they often had to do in their native steppes of Sirabyss.

The first rider had just dismounted from his unicorn when without preamble the pitch black, corrosive rainstorm began to rage. The riders alighted and hurriedly tied their pronged mounts to the rickety wooden fence that wound around the inn like the drunk path treaded by its customers. They hastened up the steep path and the figure in the lead pushed through the thick oaken door.

As the last member of the trio entered and shut the door behind him, the first one drew back his hood and studied the dimly lit room. The furnishing was frugal. There were two identical tables set apart from each other and the long, wooden bar ran along the right hand side of the room and that was it. A slightly elevated portion of the floor in one corner hinted at an absent musician. Or perhaps an incompetent architect. There were four large windows, each of which provided the exact same bleak view. Very déjà vu. The only color in the room was provided by the strange assortment of clothes that hung behind the bar. A flash of lightning was followed by roll of thunder. Then the only sound was of the incessant poisonous rain. Surprisingly, the roof didn’t fall in.

Behind the bar the tall, hirsute innkeeper stood studying the company with golden eyes. The three took off their cloaks and hung them from the oddly human-shaped coat hanger next to the door and occupied the only empty table in the room. This being so because there was a remarkably short man seated at the other. It would have made no difference had he been tall anyway. As the group settled down, a pretty-from-far, plump waitress appeared with a pitcher of lager, looking completely out of place with her freckled grin and good cheer.

“Evening je-je-genta’men! I’m Emma! Wu-wu-wu-what’ll you be having then?” she asked them as she deposited three remarkably dirty mugs on the table.

The eldest brother, for brothers they were, was tall and gangly, with a thick coarse beard that hid a weak jaw and not a few indigenous species of many-legged monsters-in-the-making. He had a long, straight scar running across one eye which some women would have found quite fetching on, well, more fetching men. He had a good voice though – a deep, bassy baritone which he employed now, since it was the only one he had.

“Aren’t you a pretty one missy? What would you be doing here in this pig-sty of an inn in the middle of nowhere eh?”

Smiling a toothy smile, she stuttered “We-we-well, the tables aren’t going to wa-wa-wait themselves now, are they love?”

“Undeniable logic that” murmured the second brother, glancing around furtively. Furtive was the word used most often when describing the second brother. Of average height and average build with a face you could forget without trying, “average” should have been the word used most often if not for the permanent expression he wore which suggested he was up to no good. Which he was often was.

“So what can we have here that’s not spoilt rotten and did not come from your local tourist attraction?” asked the eldest, gesturing with a jerk of his head towards the swamp.

“Oh th-th-there’s the horse meat shtew, its o-o-o-only three days old!” was the excited reply. Emma’s default state of existence seemed to be one of excitement.

“Ah you hear that Zorgen? Only three days old! And a pretty young lady to keep us company. Why we are in luck tonight eh?!!”

“Indeed brother” agreed the second one.

The youngest brother turned to look at the door, his hand raised in warning. His siblings fell silent, all traces of strained humor vanishing in a misting breath.

The door was flung open just as a fork of lightning tore open the sky, chased by crashing thunder making for a very dramatic entrance. The newcomer was over six feet and covered from head to toe in a long, black cloak, with the hood drawn low enough to hide most of his face in shadow. With the lightning splitting him into halves of black and white, he looked like the Reaper come a soul-collecting. At his side was a tiny, cute dog that slightly ruined the formidable scene by yipping loudly in greeting. Dripping wet, the man shut the door and with measured steps walked to the bar and took the only bar stool available which groaned and complained under his weight before lapsing into unconscious silence. His dog followed him but did not take a seat.

He muttered something to the innkeeper, who grunted and thumped a mug of cheap beer in front of the man who probably found shoes his size a rare delight. Suitably impressed, the inn was about to go back to its former bustle when it realized it had never had one and was sad. The rain continued to drum a steady, subdued beat. The roof still held.

“Would you gentlemen mind terribly if I joined you?” the cultured voice was that of the short man in the dark blood-red khilani lined with shimmering yeti-fur.

The siblings eyed the stranger warily.

“…Sure friend, as long as you pay for your own booze and ask no questions, you will find us excellent company, won’t he Keegan?” the raised eyebrow was aimed at the slim, effeminate third brother, who smiled at the short man and lifted casually with a single hand the largest, most evil-looking broadsword anyone present in any inn had ever seen. A gold medallion depicting a winged crown atop a lotus hung from the cross guard.

The little man didn’t even blink. “Pay for what I drink and mind my own bees-wax“, a look of contemplation, “These, fellow travelers, are conditions I can live with” saying so he slid into the seat opposite Zorgen and the eldest brother.

The little man pulled out a flask from an inner pocket and poured its contents into a wine glass so filthy, it was nearly opaque. “They don’t get a lot of wine drinkers here apparently” said the tiny man with a lopsided grin as way of explanation.

He took a sip and sat back and had he been tall enough would have put his feet up.

“Aaah, nothing like a little faerie-blood on a dreary night to lighten the heart. And the fine company of course” he said with an acknowledging tip of his head.

“My name is Kasander Al’tucron. I am of a minor but wealthy noble house so I do little work that contributes in any way to society, but one of these days I am going to make a discovery so astounding they are going to have to put me back on the family tree tapestry. Currently, and I believe this is the breakthrough, I am trying to discover if pampa venom has any curative properties at all…” all of this was delivered with an off-handed arrogance that gave it a credibility it did not deserve.

“The pampa?” Zorgen inquired, “The monstrous snake that is said to be able to fly on scaly, silent wings, and whose venom is so lethal that even the scent of it can prove fatal to children or those of weak constitution?” his tone expressing his thoughts on such a venture, even as his face did the same.

“Exactly dear sir! I have met few people who know of it, and those few foolishly believe it a legend, a bedside monster. But then again, they have never have had courses on zoology and history and loonology and access to one of the largest, dustiest libraries in the new world like I was fortunate to have, you know with them being poor and all” Kasander had obviously not been at his attentive best during the course on political correctness.

“But alas! The pampa is an incredibly shy creature and other than in the dead forests of Jarkala,” a well manicured hand gestured majestically around “they can be found only in the sky-creeper forests of the Zamona but obviously, only an idiot would walk into those ravaged lands, with skirmishes breaking out all the time between the pandas and the members of the AFAS.” The disappointment in his voice would have moved less callous listeners.

“Yes. Only an idiot” agreed Zorgen. Zorgen was big on sarcasm.

“AFAS?” the eldest brother asked, with another arched eyebrow showing his unfamiliarity with the acronym. Everyone knew about the Shaolin pandas.

“AFAS – the Association of Failed Actors on Steroids. They are what remain of some organization from the ancient world – have forgotten which now.” The noble eyebrows of Kazander disappeared into his shaggy mop of black hair as he strained to remember. They returned once he had given up.

“So anyway that’s how I ended up here – searching for the elusive pampa!” the smiling little noble finished.

He waited, looking expectantly at the 3 brothers.

The rain gave no signs of letting up. The innkeeper had disappeared. They could hear the waitress singing a nonsensical song to herself as she worked in the kitchen. The giant on the bar stool sipped his inexpensive beverage. The dog sat patiently next to its master, its tail wagging.

“Why don’t I tell you a story?!!” asked the small man. “I have had a jaunt or two as a wordweaver and received much praise for my performances, even if I do say so myself. And this I promise you – never has any of the yarns spun by Sir Jambi Leeb failed to pique an audience’s interest. Though that pretentious rag The Daily Videshi had claimed this had something to do with me using spells of Elements and Dreams to illustrate some of the more moving scenes.” The corners of the noble mouth drooped slightly at the memory.

“Which scenes did you usually pick?” asked the eldest brother, leaning forward on knobby elbows.

“Ah the occasional love-making scene, or the moment when the well-endowed princess steps out of the bath and once even the birthing of the little prince – though that was not well received” he rubbed his jaw absently.

A chuckle escaped the eldest brother, which soon avalanched into a roaring laugh. It was joined by the low, wheezing laugh of the second brother. The third brother just smiled quietly. The little noble looked miserable for a bit but then cheered up when the eldest brother thumped him on the shoulder twice in merriment.

Once the laughter had died down to a few chuckles like stragglers at the end of a Grand Play, the eldest brother said “Let’s have it then! A good tale it better be or Keegan here will lop one of your ears off – he gives very enthusiastic feedback see.”

Kasander looked apprehensive for a moment, perhaps at the thought of losing a favored appendage, but being a man of ridiculous optimism, he took a sip of his wine, cleared his throat and was about to start when an unexpected guest joined their table. The little mongrel did not make a sound but just sat there staring at Kasander, managing to look very dignified and cuddly at the same time.

With a small bow to his audience, the noble launched into his story, his voice suddenly commanding and deep, his violet eyes glazed over.

“This story takes place four hundred years ago when the new world was still in its infancy, heaving and groaning as it searched for the strength to stand on its two feet, after the madness of the Ending. Upon the throne of Jarkala sat Queen Nayana, ruling with an iron fist in the softest of velvet gloves. And for all her youth, for she was only six and twenty when she took the Seat and it had been scarcely four years since her ascension, she had already achieved more than the last queen had managed in her entire tenure.

Now, there were three brothers in the employ of the queen, each noble and brave and steadfast. The eldest was Zehaan, the General of the Army as well as Captain of the Police. If Nayana was the divine tempest, wild, unstoppable shaping and sculpting as she saw fit, Zehaan was the stone that tempered her, the solid foundation the realm relied on. He was who the wretched lined up to seek counsel from, who the nobles watched with beady eyes and the man the Army would fall behind on the march through Fire and Void. He was also the Commander of the Rakshaks – the elite bodyguard of the Queen, as every monarch is wont to have.

In any other kingdom he would have been considered a threat by the throne. But in Jarkala as we all know, only a woman can rule from the Lotus Throne – as poor Prince Strayt, who the people now call Castrayta demonstrated unwittingly.

As the old movies, if you have seen enough will tell you, no man and woman can possibly spent so much time together, holding such positions of power, under such crushing responsibilities without falling in love. And they did, all very cinematically I assure you, with bare-bellied belles prancing in the background and lots of kisses that didn’t quite make it. Let us allow the lovers some time on their own now.”

The small man wet his throat with a sip of wine. The black rain still fell, though a little less noisily. The brothers and canine sat waiting for Kasander to continue. The giant on the bar stool was chewing loudly on what, from the sounds of it, was a small, bony animal. The two elder brothers were studying the little noble, their expressions inscrutable. The youngest waited, his feet tapping without rhythm. Emma the waitress came in with the food, which she served after refilling the mugs. The innkeeper had not reappeared yet.

Kasander started off again.

“The second brother, Rehaan, was neither popular nor sought-after like eldest one. While Zehaan was helping the Queen realize her ambitious, if slightly unoriginal dream of a self-sustained and peaceful Jarkala from the forefront, the younger one was the spider in the shadows. Not an itty-bitty one but a gigantic, calculating arachnid. Rehaan controlled the Chayajaalah – the spy network. Hence his unimaginative pet name – the Spider. They say he restructured the organization using knowledge he had gleaned from hours spent poring over various yellowing documents from the ancient world. And not a few novels. He was a master weaver of deceit and deception and other depressing devices.

The third brother was a simpleton. A good lad, with a good heart who wanted nothing more than to make his distinguished elder brothers proud, Vihaam had one undeniable talent – in the arena of mortal combat. He was the deadliest warrior in the Queendom and was hailed as the second coming of Ruthar the Last Knight. But fame matters little to a simpleton. He was given the title of Queen’s champion and a gold medallion that bore the device of the Royal house. An empty title for sure, since duels were banned, but the moment he received his medallion from the beautiful queen in front of his brothers, the cheering crowd and the smirking nobles was the proudest of his twenty one years.”

There was a pause as the eldest brother pulled out a curved dagger from his boot and kept it on the table, the wicked blade glimmering as it reflected a streak of lighting that rent the sky. His eyes were chips of grey ice.

“So tell me why I shouldn’t kill you now little noble?” his voice was soft, but there was an edge to it sharper than the deadly weapon that lay in front of him. “I don’t know what game you are playing at. DO YOU TAKE US FOR FOOLS?!!” the last sentence was roared at the diminutive aristocrat, even as he flung the blade, with unerring accuracy at Kasander’s heart.

It never reached its mark.

The wordweaver’s elegant hand flickered. And he stood there casually holding the deadly projectile by its tip. He didn’t look particularly troubled by this outburst, his deep, violet eyes calm. Obviously he was used to a rough crowd.

The eldest brother, however, was racked by a violent fit of coughing. Zorgen watched Kasander Al’tucron while Keegan rushed over to the tallest sibling. The giant and the dog did not budge or make a sound.

“Poison. How?” enquired Zorgen of the little man, calmly, as if they were discussing nothing more severe than the weather.

“Poison” agreed Kasander, “However. May I suggest none of you make any abrupt movements that will elevate your heart rate which in turn will result in – well, you saw what it would result in. It is in your best interests to patiently sit there and behave, till I finish my telling. Perhaps at the end of it, there will be a way out of your predicament.”

“I see.” The eldest brother’s breathing was labored, his eyes bloodshot. “You leave us few options. Sit Keegan, I am fine.”

The youngest obeyed hesitatingly.

“Now where were we? Ah yes.

The brothers had one secret though. Nothing they were ashamed of, but something they knew would hinder their ability to serve the realm if made public knowledge. They were worshippers of Thanoki – the mad God. Not your average, run-of-the-mill, mass consumer variety occultists oh no, but the real deal. It was their religion, their spiritual safety net, like every religion since even before the Ending.

However, the rituals that they held were not exactly, to use one of my more beloved terms from the “movies” again, rated PG. The sacrifices, the orgies, the drug-induced group trances – as any occult worth its salt would claim to require, were rites of unpredictable Power.

I would know – I have been in an occult or two in my time.

They came from a family of practitioners and had never questioned their faith. Their meetings were held in the most private and well-guarded of sites, their very existence shrouded in shadow.

All the trouble started, ironically, through an act of compassion.

Zehaan was a passionate man. He was often known to make lavish gifts to the wretched and the miserable, and on more than one occasion had had nobles disgraced publicly for injustices most courts of law would have turned a blind eye to. Like when the drunken son of the noble Blackdoe family lost control of his chariot and crashed into the slums, killing a family of beggars, the Commander had him whipped publicly and paraded around the city with bottles of brandy hanging from his neck, despite his house having the favour of the queen.

It was in such a moment of emotion that Zehaan agreed to try and heal his maid’s daughter using what he foolishly believed to be the power his rituals granted him, a power he thought he understood.

The little girl was a frail thing of eleven –“

“Twelve. She was twelve then.” The eyes of the eldest brother were unseeing, his voice barely a whisper.

The pretender gave an elegant nod, acknowledging his mistake.

“Aye, she was a frail child of twelve, with the prettiest smile you would ever see. Prone to fits and always bed-ridden, the healers did not expect her to see a thirteenth summer. She was the light of her mother’s world however and a mother does not give up her child on the words of mere healers. Magicians were consulted, Oracles were seen, and even a faith-doctor was talked to. All to no avail. And this was how the dying rays of the sun, on a cool summer day found her on her knees, her arms wrapped around a hapless General’s legs, her tears pooling at his feet, her body racked by sobs, a woman spent.

The poor General never stood a chance.

The ritual they held the next night, in the General’s sanctorium, for the child’s condition was dire, was perilous. For when the dead are invoked and when those of true belief and little knowledge are chanting, swaying, their naked bodies glistening with mudras drawn in blood of the sacrifice, faces hidden behind feathered masks, there is a madness in the air that can overwhelm the unprepared.

It was into this nightmare, the young queen, dressed in nothing but a silk robe stepped as she thought to surprise her lover. Very romantic she was, this young queen.

What she saw broke her.

Even as she turned to flee, she saw her paramour – the brave, solid General lying naked on top of a young girl, the only person unmasked, his body writhing, his face ecstatic, all the time chanting “

The little man’s voice fell to a whisper “En’doto mors mortatia virohana wazo devoveo”.

The lights in the room dimmed and wavered, the shadows lengthened and twisted as if in agony and the brothers imagined whispers and were terrified. The words hung in the air, reverberating, unwilling to fade away.

The brothers stared at the enigmatic little man with sad violet eyes and regal bearing. For a brief second, they had imagined him to be old and terrible, a marble statue of an old warrior-king.

Then the moment was gone.

“And the poor queen, driven by rage and terror,” he resumed, his voice soft and bitter, seized a knife from a reveler, and rushed at her lover, at the monster, at this nightmare given life. Her robe tore and her scream was primal. Just as she reached the dais at the centre were the General and the child lay, at the epicenter of this insanity, a frenzied devotee stumbled and stepped on her silk robe, causing the murderous young queen to trip.

The knife missed the General by a whisker. But not the girl. It went all the way through her neck and broke her frail spine.

A heartbeat of silence as the trance was shattered. And then the screams started, not all of them human.”

The rain was letting up now. They could hear the patter of the rain on the surprisingly steadfast roof.

Keegan was coughing blood now, his head lolling, but he smiled as he dreamt a happy dream. The Spider spat blood onto the floor, his expression calm though his breathing was ragged, listening intently. The eldest brother was studying the noble though. He wiped sweat from his brow.

“And when the Rakshaks finally appeared at the scene, they found the dead child’s body unmoved and the terrified queen, shaking uncontrollably in the corner, naked, the blood on her face obviously not hers. She held a cheap rag-doll clasped to her bosom. There was not a soul to be found in the entire castle.”

“The child was scared. Said she wanted Paris to get better as well, because apparently the rag-doll had gotten a bad case of the flu recently, what with the weather and all.” The General’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Tell me Kasander, or whoever you are – what happens next? We fled the city in a hurry. A foolish thing to do perhaps. But what’s done is done.”

“The queen spent the next two days confined to her chambers. She did not sleep and left her food untouched. And then on the third day, before the sun came up, she summoned the Asura.”

The second brother started.

“What? You jest surely? The Asura? The black fang of the Lotus throne? I have read every document, every parchment, and every book there is to read on the history of this state. And never have I found anything more substantial than rumours of rumours.”

“Jest? I do no such thing friend. I am simply telling you a story.”

“‘Course you are.” Zorgen smiled a thin smile shaking his head “’course you are.”

“The Asura, like you said is the black fang of the Lotus throne. It has less than a handful of members and they are subject only to the express wishes of the Lotus throne, though there are whispers that they are even older than the throne itself – as old as the Ending. And they say each one of them has abilities and powers beyond the comprehension of mortals. Though like everything too good to be true, there is a price that must be paid for summoning them, a terrible price.

And the greatest among them is Ratri, the Baron of the Night, the Prince of Lies, the Nightmare Lord. Some say he was born during the Endless Night, before the world was reborn. Others say nay, he has been here from the Beginning, that he is the heir to the Horn of Pataal, the next ruler of Hell. And yet others believe that he was born from the violent dreams of children lost in the Ending.

But all the stories agree that he is a master of Spells and Dreams, of folk-lore and herbs, that the undead bow to his wishes and the Keepers of the Light dare not cross him, that he has a faithful paramour who follows him wherever he goes, and a mute dead man who acts as his butler. And of course always keeping him company is an immortal, cute but wise dog called Doug.”

Zorgen nodded at the dog “Well met, Doug the dog”.

Doug yipped back politely.

“So…a paramour eh? She wouldn’t happen to have a pretty face, freckles and a stammer, would she?”

“Why yes, a very astute guess friend Zorgen” the Baron of the Night looked most impressed. Emma stepped out of the kitchen, still humming a tune, though a slightly dejected one this time.

“And a way out at the end of the tale – that was lie?”

“Pampa venom. There has never been an antidote and I doubt there ever will be” the Prince of Lies said.

The rain had stopped now. A rainbow of pure white was painted across the sky and for a while the inn was completely silent.

Keegan slid off his chair and fell heavily to the floor, one hand still clasping his medallion. He looked like he was asleep. Zorgen pushed himself to his feet with difficulty. He staggered to his elder brother and kissed him on the cheek.

“We had a good run brother. Maybe, we will meet again, in another life.” He fell heavily to his knees and toppled face first onto the hard wood, giving flight to a cloud of dust.

“So this is how it ends huh? In a dark, dreary inn in the middle of nowhere, mourned by no one. Tell me– tell me I have left something good in this world, something I will be remembered for.” The man who once commanded armies and dined with kings pleaded.

“The tale is unfinished yet you know?” Kasander pointed out.

“So, Ratri now returns to Nayana in her nightmares, and she knows when she wakes, her pillow damp with tears that her wishes have been carried out. As she knew it would be. The Asura, after all, never fails.

And she mourns. She mourns the loss of a good man, a man she knew had loved her, a man who had shown kindness even when he couldn’t afford to, a man whose child she bore. And the people mourn the loss of their great Captain. The entire nation wears black and stays silent for a whole day. The spin-doctors have done their work well. A statue is being raised of each of the three brothers, not as the queen saw them on that fateful day, but as the children remember them. As heroes. And when the mourning is over, they will celebrate with wine and dance and the world will move on. As it always has.”

The storyteller fell silent now, his violet eyes serene but sad. He rose and closed the half-open eyes of the first brother.

The giant on the stool appeared at his side.

“Get rid of the bodies. Bury their weapons along with them. Let the innkeeper do what he will with the mounts”.

The deadman bowed and lumbered to his task.

Emma took the chair next to him.

“I did not know the queen was pregnant. And I thought she was half-mad with grief and had declared their entire castle be burned with all of the brothers’ possessions?”

The little man took her by the hand and they walked to the door, Doug trotting at their side. As he pulled his gloves on, he looked at her with twinkling, violet eyes.

“Well don’t look at me like that. I am the Prince of Lies aren’t l. What did you expect?”

Emma laughed and joked about soft, old men loudly as they disappeared into the night.

__END__