Laws of the House

Filthy water dripped off the hulking figure standing in the doorway, the distant boom of thunder covering the hush that had fallen over the smoky common room of the Bent Penny. The stranger stood completely still for a moment and then shook himself like a dog, causing drops of water to fly everywhere. The five men near the fire hastily pulled their stools back as the stranger strode towards the hearth. Anyone with arms that thick and a huge sword strapped to his back, they reasoned, is due a few minutes warmth by himself. The innkeeper shuffled up to the hulking giant, crouching slightly and wringing his hands as if to preemptively placate the stranger.

“Could I offer you some mulled cider and some hot dinner…” he trailed off for a moment, struggling to think of some sufficiently respectful appellation before settling on “…sir?”

The muscled stranger grunted. Relieved, the innkeeper beckoned one of the serving boys over and told him to bring out a repast. Turning back to the giant, the innkeeper asked “Do you have a horse that needs tending, sir? And will you be staying the night? I’d imagine anyone would be glad to leave that storm.”

The stranger turned his head to glance at the innkeeper with a look of mingled haughtiness and contempt. “I have no horse. The paths I dare to tread are beyond the limits of any beast.” He turned towards the half empty room of suddenly immobile men, their faces awash with mingled fear and apprehension. The stranger cast his cloak into a crumpled heap against the far wall, revealing a huge, musclebound torso wrapped in thick leather armor. His aquiline nose and shoulder length black hair gave him an almost aristocratic quality that jarred against his rough attire and brawny figure.

“I am Caardyth, son of Karnoth. I have defeated the savage Lukrons of Ganleria, killed the dreaded troll king of the Jonton Mountains, and stolen the scintillating emerald of Ishtal from her temple on the Island of Shasa. No foe can resist my strength, cunning, and magic sword.” Caardyth glanced at the innkeeper and continued with disdain.

“I will remain here while I review my plans, means, and methods, collect intelligence, and see to my supplies. Tell your boy to keep my bowl, trencher, and tankard filled, for the road here is harsh, and it takes much to satisfy my appetites after a week’s adventure.”

He made this last pronouncement with a lascivious smile upon his face and a meaningful look at the young barmaid, who blushed deeply and looked away. The innkeeper scurried off to the kitchen as Caardyth strode over to one of the long tables in the middle of the room. The other men hastily made room for him on the bench.

Caardyth began to eat as soon as the serving boy set the platter of food in front of him, tearing chunks of bread off with his teeth and devouring whole roast potatoes in two huge mouthfuls. The other guests resumed their drinking and talking now that the barbarian seemed occupied, and the warm cheerful atmosphere that had ceased when Caardyth had walked in from the storm started to return. While he ate, Caardyth himself took no notice of anyone else except for the barmaid. Whenever she returned to refill his tankard, he would make his aims known with crude innuendo or pinchings.

Back in the kitchen, the innkeeper was critically inspecting a knobbly lump of cheese which was proffered to the serving boy as he stumbled in from the common room, covered in sweat. “Does this still smell good to you? I think it may be a little off, but I’m not sure.”

The serving boy shrugged. “I don’t think he’ll notice. He already ate the pie that you ruined without saying anything.”

The innkeeper raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

“I brought it our while you were getting sausages from the back. Didn’t say a thing, just shoveled it down with his hands.”

“I see. Well, I’ll just add this to the next pile for you to take out.”

The serving boy held up the wide board that acted as a serving tray while the innkeeper loaded it up with apples, sausages, and the suspect cheese. Just as he was about to leave the serving boy turned around. “By the way, Bridgett says she knows what you’re going to say, and she says you don’t need to say it, and she says she’s okay.”

The innkeeper paused for a moment while he worked out the layers of indirect statement. “She’s sure? We still have some nighmane, and if he ate the pie I doubt he’d notice if we spiked his drink.”

The serving boy nodded and blushed a little. “She says this one’s her favorite since Hrun the Avenger.”

The innkeeper raised his eyebrows again. “I will never understand that girl’s tastes, but if she wants to, I won’t do anything. Anyway, once he’s finished eating, go out and fetch Father Dumar. He should still be awake, but if you have to wake him and he’s in a bad mood, tell him we’ve got a lively one that needs some pacing.”

The serving boy nodded and bustled back into the common room.

Later that evening, after Caardyth had carried off a giggling Bridgett and the regulars had left, the serving boy returned leading a skinny, middle-aged man wrapped in a tattered cloak. The newcomer paused just inside the doorway to scrape the cloying mud off his boots and to hand his dripping cloak to the serving boy. The innkeeper bustled out of the kitchen with a plate of potatoes and a steaming tankard. He placed them down on the empty table, took a brief swipe at the uncovered surface with a damp rag, then moved over to the door to grab the new arrival in a brotherly embrace.

“It’s been too long, Father. Please, have something to eat. I’ve got a few odds and ends you can help me keep from going to waste.”

The other man chuckled good naturedly. “I very much doubt that if what young Robert tells me about your new guest is true. Be honest, Benjamin, you just take it upon yourself to act as wife and mother to all the unmarried men in town.”

The innkeeper laughed as he gestured towards the table. “Someone needs to make sure you get a nice hot meal every once in a while, and besides, Bridgett likes taking in mending. She says it gives her something to do on a slow night when it’s just two or three of my regulars.”

Father Dumar sat down at the table and drew a stiff leather tube off of his belt. He twisted its top off and pulled out a rolled parchment that he spread out on the table. He weighed down the corners with some coins from his pocket.

Benjamin sat down opposite him and peered at the unrolled parchment, which showed a map. The Bent Penny was a tiny labeled dot near the left edge, part of a cluster of dots near a crossroads. The land portrayed in the map looked rough and wild. Dots labeled as farms were few and scarce, nestled within the valleys between the skeins of mountain ridges. There were hundreds of other labeled dots, though, and hundreds of scrawled notes all in a multitude of colored inks. Some of these had been crossed out, but most were unblemished.

After he had finished off the potatoes, Father Dumar cleared his throat and looked up. “Before we start, you should tell me a little about this one. I’m guessing you didn’t receive a very detailed report before he showed up. Either that, or he’s completely unexpected. Otherwise you would have told me earlier that he was coming.”

Benjamin nodded. “Completely unexpected. He looks like the kind who doesn’t socialize a lot, so I’m not surprised Royce Tomson didn’t include him in the list when he came out to visit his daughter. Caardyth claims to have been to the Island of Shasa and survived, and his sword was definitely giving off a powerful aura when Rob took a reading earlier.”

He paused and leaned back, frowning slightly. “Personality wise, he seemed very much a loner and not one to seek comrades or help. Pretty determined and not impulsive, though. I get the feeling that he could be patient and thorough if he needs to be, and it certainly feels like he knows what he’s doing.” Benjamin chewed his lip for a moment. “I think that this one’s going to be potentially tricky, but if we’re careful and plan well it might just be the biggest break in twenty years.”

Father Dumar’s face crinkled into a broad smile. “Excellent. It will be nice to have a challenge again.” He took a long pull from his tankard and carefully patted his beard dry with his sleeve. “I have a few ideas to lead him in, but they all depend on why he’s here in the first place. I don’t suppose he mentioned what rumor brought him this way?”

Benjamin shook his head. “Didn’t say. He was mostly quiet while he ate and just proclaimed what he’d already done a little while after he came in. Bridgett should be able to tell us more in the morning.”

“I can’t say I approve of how she behaves with these types,” said Dumar, his lips pursed. “How can she expect to find a husband if she keeps lifting her skirts to every leather clad hero who walks through your door?”

“I’m not getting into this argument again,” said Benjamin. He held up a hand as Dumar started to speak again and continued, amicable but with steel in his eyes. “Frankly, if we’re clever and everyone does their job correctly, she could live comfortably off of her cut from Caardyth for a very long time. She doesn’t need a husband.”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Dumar grudgingly. “And I suppose it’s really none of my business, but I do worry for her. It’s hard being a foundling orphan. What would ever happen to her if something happened to you?”

Benjamin’s gaze softened. “I know you mean well. But she’s safe, and happy, and has a home here as long as she wants.” He gestured at the map spread out before them. “Let’s start before it gets too late. What are your ideas for this one?”

“Tell me,” said Bridgett as she traced a finger around one of Caardyth’s massive pectorals, “what brings Caardyth son of Karnoth to this place? What heroic deeds of derring do will the songs say Caardyth has done when he as left?”

The corner of the barbarian’s mouth twitched. “You expect there will be songs about me before you even know my purpose?”

Bridgett continued drawing her finger over the hard lines that separated Caardyth’s well defined muscles. “Anyone who’s come back from the Island of Shasa has a glorious destiny ahead of them. Men like that don’t just travel for the coin or for the joy of the road. They have monsters they are fated to slay, and maidens they must rescue.” She illustrated this last statement by running her hand down her side in a sensuous manner. She sighed and drew the sheets higher up, shivering slightly as a gust of wind pushed a draft under the door.

Caardyth lay propped on his left elbow, gazing down on Bridgett, seemingly contented. After a moment he spoke.

“I have heard tales from traveling storytellers about the deeds of Velcerinor Elf-Blessed, who could tell a hawk from an eagle a mile away and could bring it down with a single shot from his great bow of horn and silk. They told of how Velcerinor journeyed among these very mountains, these Talons, and through their valleys for a year, and how after a year and a day he found the gates to the heart of the mountains. These he passed through, and when he reached the mountains’ heart he did battle a great and fierce serpent, slick with venom and whose scales were of hardened gold. When Velcerinor defeated his foe he returned and told of what he had done, and was made immortal through tale and song and legend.”

Bridgett smiled up at him dreamily. “And you want to see if you can do even better than Velcerinor? Everyone hears stories of Velcerinor growing up, but you want them to hear stories of you?” She gently squeezed his bicep.

“Of course,” laughed Caardyth, a booming, barking laugh. “There are many other stories of Velcerinor, but after the story of how he found the heart of the Talons, that is when he first achieves renown. Kings bid him to save their kingdoms once they hear of his might. He journeys to the elves and learns their magics and earns their esteem. If I want my stories to be told with the same awe and wonder, for kings and princes to beg my aid, then it seems I must journey into the Talons my self and win a place in the legends. Besides,” he said as a knowing smile slid across his face, “other tales, less fantastic and more recent, claim that there are still many horrific beasts and ancient treasures in the cracks and crannies of these mountains. If I fail to find my own Serpent of the Talons, then at least I should find glory and adventure in no small quantity.”

Bridgett leaned up and kissed his cheek. “I hope that my hero will return here when he has slain his beasts. He may need food, or rest, or for some lucky maid to tend to his…injuries.” She giggled.

Caardyth laughed again. “This place is a welcome respite in a hostile land, and it is not without its own draws. I must stay here a while, anyway, to gather intelligence and to condense plans from the vapor of rumor. But now I must rest, for forty miles in a single day is an ordeal for even one such as I, and I have had many such days since last I slept sheltered from the thunder, wind, and rain.”

The next morning found Bridgett gossiping with Benjamin in the kitchen as she tended the laundry and he scrubbed the floor. She had slipped out of Caardyth’s room early in the morning in order to start her chores for the day. Benjamin had helped her scrub out the heavy iron cauldron over the kitchen hearth before filling it with water and dirty clothes. It was easy to talk while cleaning, and the fire that boiled the laundry helped chase away the chilly fog that had crept under the door.

“I don’t think he’s after any thing in particular,” Bridgett said as the water started to boil. “He just talked a lot about mythology and wanting to have his own stories.”

“That’s it? Just stories?”

“I think so,” she replied. “You should hear the way he talks, it’s like he’s living in an epic poem. I got a little caught up in it and started talking about destiny and fate and things like that.”

Benjamin continued scrubbing the stone floor, only pausing to douse his brush periodically. “So you’re saying that he’s not in it for the treasure or the personal power or for vengeance or just for the killing? He didn’t hear about the Demrell necromancer and decide to steal his moonstones? I thought that might be it when he mentioned the eye of Ishtal.”

“You’re thinking about it wrong,” said Bridgett as she stirred the huge cauldron. “He may have heard about the necromancer, and he certainly wouldn’t turn down any treasure he found, but what he wants to do is wander around having adventures and for people to know about them, and he thinks this is the place he should do it. It’s kind of sweet, really.”

Benjamin stood up and stretched, wincing slightly at the pops in his knees and back. “Do you think he’s cut out for it? Does he have it in him to do something big enough for a lasting narrative with some subsequent arcs?”

Bridgett wiped her forehead with the hem of her skirt and continued stirring. She seemed to consider Benjamin’s question deeply as she worked the heavy washing dolly around. “I really do,” she said thoughtfully after a minute. “He’s certainly capable of it physically, I mean, he ran the whole way here from Collingwood in just six days, and he had to catch his own food. He’s practical like that. But it’s the way he thinks that makes me say he can do it.”

Benjamin paused as he was about to lift the kitchen broom off its hook and turned back to face Bridgett, incredulity plain on his face. “How he thinks? I’d gotten the impression he hadn’t got two thoughts to rub together.”

Bridgett lifted the washing dolly out of the cauldron and flicked it at Benjamin, splattering him with hot, soapy water. “Don’t be mean. He was rude when he came in last night because he’d had a long, hard journey and because he was trying to make a dramatic entrance. Wandering heroes who appear on dark and stormy nights get to be standoffish in the stories he told me.”

Benjamin brushed the suds off his shirt and started to sweep the dirty water out the back door. “He told you stories?”

“For at least an hour. He kept saying he was tired, but it was easy to get him to keep going. He started with Velcerinor and the Talons’ Serpent. I wanted to hear more, so I’d ask him about the Island of Shasa, or I’d ask if he knew the one about how Krinos won his sword of glass, and he’d tell it happily, with plenty of descriptions, sometimes in meter. I think he was secretly enjoying himself.”

The snort of laughter that erupted from Benjamin nearly caused him to choke. “How on earth could he be enjoying himself, lying naked in bed next to a pretty girl who kept asking him to talk about himself?” He quieted down when Bridgett turned a scowling eye in his direction.

“Stop it. I like him, and I think he’s got a real chance at an epic story, maybe even a folk hero tale or two.”

Benjamin had the decency to look abashed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t intend to insult either of you. You’ve helped fill in a lot of details that Father Dumar and I needed, and I’m grateful, and I’m happy that you’re happy and that you had a pleasant night.”

“So the two of you have a plan?”

Benjamin waved his hand vaguely in the air. “We made some pieces of one, but a lot of it was guesswork and possibilities, and we didn’t try stringing it all together. I’ll fill him in once he comes over in the early afternoon. Do you know what your Caardyth plans on doing once he wakes up?”

Bridgett smiled. “He’s planning on staying for a few days. I think he’s going to spend today buying supplies, and then he’s going to listen to the old men talk when they come in here for dinner.”

“Good,” said Benjamin as he swept the last of the water out the back door. “I’ll send Rob around town to let people know he’s coming and what to expect. I can even put a few things in motion, now that you’ve told me what he’s after.” He hung the broom back up on its hook. “Let me know when you’re ready to wring out the clothes and we can use the water to scrub out the hearth. I need to go make a few calls and see if I can rustle up some more food for dinner tonight.”

“And so the traveler said, ‘If you will not turn back, I will give you my boots, for the road is long and weary. Their tread upon the ground is so slight that none shall hear your approach until you are close enough to steal the hat of their head.’ And Velcerinor thanked the stranger and continued on his way.”

Old Billium Gregor paused to take a pull from his beer and cast a quick eye around his audience. Nearly twenty men were seated in the Bent Penny’s common room. Some of them had even pulled the benches around him in a rough circle like children watching a puppet show. Billium took one last swallow of beer and set his tankard down on the table beside him. He took a few moments to wipe the droplets out of his scraggly beard and continued.

“Velcerinor returned to the king of the Stones and said ‘I would know what tests I must pass in order to win the favor of the stone folk, for their magic is essential to my quest.’ And the stone king said ‘Bring me a ghost spark from the marshes in the north, trapped in a lantern made without metal or glass.’”

As he gave the stone king’s speech, Billium leaned forward and lowered his voice. The already silent listeners held their breath, not daring to let the slightest noise cover Billium’s next words.

“Now, the stone king figured that nobody would ever agree to undertake such an impossible task. But Velcerinor agreed immediately. ‘By my name and my power, I will bring this to you ‘ere ten days have passed.’”

Billium tapped the side of his nose and grinned slyly. “The stone people guard their magic jealously, and the king had chosen a task that would surely thwart or kill even the most powerful warrior. But Velcerinor was crafty and unafraid. Once he had left the court of the stone king, he used his knife that was sharp enough to cut anything to slice sheets off of the diamond tooth he had stolen from the troll in the king’s cavern. He stuck the sheets together with pitch to make a sparkling box that was light as a soap bubble. When he had finished making this glittering cage, he journeyed to the edge of the northern marshes, where few travelers dared to venture for fear of the shifting, sucking mud. But Velcerinor gathered a sack full of wide, flat stones, which cast into the swamp. He then took out his magic flute and played a tune of such captivating loveliness that the stones stopped sinking in order to hear the beautiful melody. Stepping quickly upon the stones, he followed the path he had made into the heart of the marshes.”

Billium’s voice shrank to barely a whisper, and the crackle of the fire seemed deafening against the total silence of the rest of the room.

“Now, as everyone knows, ghost sparks are only found in the heart of the Talons, near water, and a man could live his entire life in the mountains and see a spark barely a handful of times. When you’re alone by a lake on a misty night, you might catch a glimmer in the corner of your eye, but if you so much as turn your head it vanishes into nothing. Some say the sparks are former servants of the dreaded Ilondra who have broken free and now hide from her gaze. Some say they’re spies of the river spirits traveling on secret business of their own. All I know is that such things are elusive and rare, and the king of the stones expected that Velcerinor would find the moon’s reflection easier to catch than a ghost spark.

“But Velcerinor wore the soft soled boots that the third traveler had given him, and when he had made his way into the heart of the swamp he stowed his magic flute and walked on submerged logs between the little islands in the water. He crept through the swamp making less noise than starlight. And so after he had trekked for many hours, he stumbled upon a ghost spark, bobbing quietly above the water. Quick as lightning he had it in his diamond box, and though the captured spark flitted against the side like a moth it remained trapped inside.

“When Velcerinor returned to his court, the stone king was at a loss, for he had never really expected such an outcome. He was very nearly tempted to have his guards attack Velcerinor and have them do away with this most troublesome guest. Velcerinor, guessing the king’s mind, proclaimed ‘I bind thee, monarch, eep to your word, and give me the reward that was promised to me, lest all know thee to be craven.’ So powerful and command was his voice that all those gathered trembled. And the stone king was much afraid, and did bless his guest as was promised.”

Billium drained his mug and leaned back in his chair, contented. The others in the common room sat still for a minute, basking in the glow of the fire and the end of the story. Then, from a dark, smoke filled corner-

“Tell me, grandfather, do the stone folk still dwell in their crystal caves?”

A scraggly redheaded farmer sitting at the bar snorted into his beer at the question. “Stone and sinew, don’t pay any attention to old Billium’s stories. He knows that the longer and more fantastic a tale he spins the more drinks he can get gullible idiots to buy for him to ‘whet his memory’.”

Billium growled and cast a wrathful eye at the farmer. “Don’t you go talking all disdainfully at me, boy. I’ve been farther into these mountains than anyone in living memory. Yer pappy and I got lost for two weeks in the deepest part of the Talons after we was snowed under while hunting, and if I hadn’t carried him out on my back after he’d broken his leg falling into a crevice you wouldn’t be here to doubt my wisdom! Go on and ask him if all the old stories are for gullible idiots, if you think you’re hard enough.”

The younger man flushed angrily and sank his head into his beer. Billium cleared his throat and proclaimed loftily, “There’s clearly some of the old magic still alive in the mountains. You’d need breadcrumbs for brains to deny that. The truth don’t always make a good story, and maybe there’s a few details that got ‘embellished’ over the years when passed from one storyteller to another. But these things I do know, from the evidence of my own eyes.” Billium’s voice grew softer and more intimate, and he seemed to be focusing on long ago and far away.

“I was out near the base of the Pinchers, looking for a particular kind of mushroom that you can dry and use to make broth good enough for a king to ask seconds when I heard a great snuffling and crashing. I scrambled up a tree fast as I could, and had just managed to reach the top when a bear walked into the clearing.” Billium gave an involuntary shudder. “I’ve seen bears before, even up close, and I’m not one to exaggerate what I see. But if that bear wasn’t fifteen feet tall, may all my beer turn to vinegar henceforth. It was walking on its hind legs, jerking and twitching as it moved like it didn’t know how to move itself right. Oh, and it was glowing green.”

Billium nodded at this point. “Not like someone had painted it green, but it’s eyes were like dark river weed, and everything around it looked like you were staring through bottle glass. It walked right past my tree without even stopping, walked right out of the clearing as fast as it had walked in, but I stayed in that tree for a long time before I dared climb down.”

Caardyth rose from his seat in the corner, looming suddenly like a mountain ridge forming at the intersection of two particularly frisky colliding tectonic plates. He strode over to Billium slowly but purposefully. As he reached the old man he cast a small bag onto the table with the solid ‘clink’ of gold coins hitting wood. “What other things have you seen in the mountains, grandfather? Where did you see them? What can else can you tell me?”

Billium exhaled slowly, the air whistling out between his front teeth, his eyes fixed on the bag of coins in front of him. “Stone and sinew, you certainly know how to show respect for your elders. Pull up a chair, and I’ll see if I can wrestle a few more memories out of this old head of mine.”

The sun rose slowly, casting a cool glow through the morning mist. Caardyth had already awakened and was busy cooking his breakfast in the embers of his campfire. He had penetrated deep into the forest near the meeting point of the two sweeping, curved mountain ridges known as the pinchers. The past four days had been full of fruitless searching, but it was clear that there was something unnatural about the place. The most obvious was the grey, chilly mist that clung to everything and failed to disperse even in the glare of the afternoon sun. There was also the noise Caardyth had heard when he had been about to make camp on his first night in the mountains.

A gibbous moon had just been rising when Caardyth had started building his fire next to a small, rocky stream when the sound broke the stillness of the night. It was as if a giant, inch thick sheet of iron was being raggedly torn in half. Even after it had stopped, the echoes seemed to persist long after they should have died out. Caardyth was not a man easily frightened, but even he had been unnerved. Unnerved, but also undaunted.

Before the noise had completely died out, Caardyth had marked an arrow in the dirt pointing in the direction the sound seemed to have come from. The next morning he had set out to investigate. He found nothing except for a mass of churned earth with long, deep furrows. The location of the furrows was then added and carefully annotated on the creased, wrinkled, yellowing map that Caardyth had been given by old man Billium himself.

---

Hello again. It's been a while, partly because this particular story was getting longer and longer and just would not wrap up, but also partly for boring overhead other-thing-going-on-in-my-life reasons. As you may be able to tell, this story also just kind of ends incompletely. I know exactly where it's supposed to go, how it ends, and how it gets there, but I'm having trouble with the climactic scene in the mountains. I may work at it backwards from the resolution and penultimate scene and then just sort of hope that the climactic scene falls out naturally.
In any case, this story is something I've wanted to do for a while as part of a deconstruction of the pulp-fantasy/sword and sorcery subgenre. Everyone in those stories takes themselves and the world around them too seriously, and I can never help but feel that someone somewhere is laughing into their sleeves at the whole melodramatic mishegas. 

Stylistic and thematic inspirations include The Name of Wind, whose style I riffed off of a bit especially; Terry Pratchett's Discworld, particularly the earlier works (Color of Magic, Light Fantastic) that also feel like they're poking fun at bad fantasy writing; Korgoth of Barbaria; The Last Unicorn; Conan the Barbarian; Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser; and the cheesy but fun title track off the eponymous EP by an incredibly obscure 80's metal band called Medieval Steel.

I'm also working on something longer that I hope is going to be a lot of fun. It's going to be quite a bit longer, possibly in the novella length. There's a lot of research I need to do for it, and I'm not sure how to achieve certain effects just with the writing. It's going to be a fair bit more challenging that anything I've written so far, and it's going to be a long while before I post any part of it. I may do smaller stuff in the meanwhile as particular writing exercises, and I do hope to finish Laws of the House at some point, but there is just so much to do.