Skycleft: Tales from the Mad Bard [updated 11/04/04]

The fact that it was a unanimous decision comforted none of them. Winter was coming early; they could all feel its snap in the air and see its herald’s colors coming rapidly to the trees. To make the colony site in time to build their homes, it would be hard days through this as-yet-unnamed wood rather than the relative ease of weeks going around. If the trail held they could make good time. Brenjar, their guide, had done well thus far. His path through the tall trees had been wide enough for their wagons and his fords had been well chosen. With little to delay them aside from the occasional broken wagon wheel, the settler’s caravan had made good time. Today would see them pass the halfway point by Brenjar’s reckoning.

Halfway in is halfway out, Hurgen thought as he guided Bula, his ox, at the rear of the line of carts and wagons. The wood unnerved him, although he saw beauty in it. The day was clear, and bright sunlight shafted through the canopy - columns of light between the tall, straight trunks of the trees. The light had a name, Brenjar had said, the Greengold. It wasn’t to be trusted, as it drew the eye and made the dark places darker.

“Mind the light, Arik, lest it trick your eyes.” He told his youngest boy, sparing a glance back to ensure his boy was perched in his place on the wagon, his back frontward, keeping watch at the rear of the line.

“I will, Papa.” The boy called without looking front. His voice held no irritation, even if it was the hundredth time his father had given that advice today. Hurgen turned his eyes back to the trail in front of him, trying not to let the pang he felt at seeing his youngest child’s slight frame creep into a worried line on his brow. He failed, but there was no one to see it. All of Hurgen’s boys (four of them, bless his late wife) had grown as large framed as he was, and thick muscles had quickly formed on their limbs. All had followed Hurgen into careers as artisans, choosing crafts that benefited from strong backs and limbs. Hurgen was himself a carpenter by trade, his eldest, Tojon, a blacksmith (“Someone has to make the nails, Papa”), second was Carild, a stonemason, and Hurgen’s third boy, Ilan, had followed him into carpentry. They all chose trades that would let them return to their home, and return they did, although home had changed.

Arik was no different from his brothers until the age of eleven winters. He had been a stout boy, and was likely to fill his tall frame with muscles, but fell prey to the Wasting instead. The disease struck without warning: Hurgen and his wife had watched their baby boy wither to skin and bones, nearly too weak to breathe. He hung on like that through a winter and spring, but he survived, although not before the stress of his care had worn Hurgen’s wife to nothing. The next winter took her.

Arik recovered slowly and regained strength of a sort. He remained painfully (to his father’s eyes) thin, and the hard labor of his family wore him before the highsun meal. He had fallen ill at the age of apprenticeship and was not able to secure a master in trade. None of Hurgen’s boys were dunces, however, and Arik seemed the brightest of them all. Maybe it was necessity owing to his weak frame, but the result was a will to succeed, to not disappoint the memory of his mother, coupled with the same calculative nature that led his older brothers to choose their trades. Whatever the reasons, Arik found his trade. Wherever he found those with the skills, he begged, bargained, and bartered for lessons. Arik was a bowyer and fletcher, and although he never had a proper master in trade, he also never learned a mere one man’s way. He took his lessons from a variety of instructors, including a few elves his town had seen pass through. While not a journeyman yet, more than one hunter had praised the straightness of his arrows and the strength of his strings.

Tojon, and then Carild a year later, returned from apprenticeship to a changed house. The empty places their mother had occupied seemed deep, and although Hurgen provided a good home and business thrived, the emptiness was pervasive. Ilan of the three had not left home, being apprenticed to his father, and when he became journeyman he longed for time away. It was he that found the colonists, and he was quickly offered a place among them. When they asked if he knew any other artisans, it was Arik who said it first: “Why don’t we all go?” And so they had. And so it was that nearly four winters past Arik’s wasting Hurgen found himself staring at an unfamiliar trail in an unfamiliar wood, taking his turn at the back, his eldest three sons’ carts somewhere ahead of him in the long line.

Which had stopped. Hurgen grunted with effort, reigning Bula to a quick halt. He looked back to his son, who looked front to him, creases of puzzlement mirrored on their brows. That’s when they heard it. It came sinuously and many-headed through the trees, dancing in the places between the greengold columns of light. The rhythm first, then a sad melody that settled over everything. Hurgen felt all the pain of his lost wife fall on him at once and his throat tightened. He dropped Bula’s reigns and sank to his knees as his face sank into his calloused hands. His breath came in ragged sobs as the music bathed him in grief. He didn’t know how long he was lost to it, but he was roughly pulled back to himself as he felt the odd sensation of cloth being stuffed in his ears. Strong hands (the hands of an artisan) pulled him to his feet and brushed his blond-gray hair from where it had fallen in his face. He found himself looking into Arik’s tear streaked face, bits of cloth sticking out of his ears beneath his shock blond hair. He grabbed his youngest son in a bear hug and pressed his mouth to his ear.

“It wasn’t your fault, boy,” Hurgen said, his breath still hitching between his words, “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I know, Papa, I know.” Arik’s own breath was only slightly calmer, their words muffled by the wads of cloth in their ears. Arik pulled himself away and looked at his father. “We need to help the others.”

Hurgen slumped against their wagon, still shaking, but gaining more control by the second. He nodded and turned to the wagon, pulling out some rags and after a moment of wrangling, his maul. He turned to see his son had strung his longbow.

“Arik, stay here and watch the back. Help Gunild and Tairia if you can,” He said, a bit loudly, indicating the next two carts up, “Pull the carts as even as you can get them. Mind the light. I’m going to fetch your brothers.” Arik just nodded, still tearing up but under control. Hurgen became suddenly aware that the woods had become a cacophony of sadness accompanied by that strange panging music. Were all his boys kneeling in the loam, lost to undeserved pain? He swallowed his rising anger and shouldered his big maul. His face set in grim lines; Hurgen went forward to collect his sons.

Only one post in and I'm diggin' your style here already, Threshel. I will definitely stay tuned for more.

Thanks,
That's high praise coming from you.
I hope to update every couple of days (yeah, how long does that last?), so stay tuned.

J
PS Consider yourself copied, pasted, and quoted for the publicity machine that is my sig.

Hurgen the carpenter slowly made his way up the line of stalled carts and wagons. His maul lay over his shoulder in a white-knuckled grip. His eyes were still glossy with recent tears as they searched the line ahead for the bright blond and broad backs of his boys. Through the cloth stuffed in his ears, he could hear the cries and wails of the entire party suffused with strains of song that still tugged at his mind. Gunild, the farmer with the two carts in front of his own, was still sitting in the driver’s seat of his farm cart, reigns dropped from his hands. The mule in the harness stood with ignorant patience, as did the cow tethered to the rear of the cart. Gunild’s mouth hung open in his lean face and his eyes looked far off while tears traced shiny lines on his cheeks. He listed slightly to one side, and looked in danger of falling off the wagon entirely. Hurgen forced himself to turn away, knowing that Arik was bringing their cart up and would help the man. Likewise for the next, Gunild’s wife Tairia; although it was harder to leave the woman curled up in the back of their home wagon, clutching her belly and cooing as if to a child.

Hurgen’s empty hand steadied him against the trunks of the tall trees as he negotiated the trail. The carts were prudently spaced to guard against accidents entangling multiple wagons. In the thickness of the wood, Hurgen couldn’t see more than the next couple of carts ahead at a time. The greengold split the forest into bands of light and dark, giving only frustrating glimpses of the settler’s line as it stretched through the wood. The next wagon belonged to a family, the Schadts. They were splayed about it like carelessly dropped cordwood, each mewling in their own torment. They didn’t seem aware of each other, and the children wailed in the dirt mere feet from their parents. Hurgen paused here long enough to lift the youngest child off the ground and place her in the arms of her mother, who curled reflexively around her. Hurgen’s grim lines became crevasses as he witnessed the Schadts publicly tour their own very private grief. The hydra-headed intrusion of song in his mind broke. It shattered against the wall of his anger and embarrassment. It stole away to its coiling through the leaves, and Hurgen dropped his maul to his right hand and began to run.

His breath shortened quickly, his knees popped; he stumbled and tripped over the uneven forest floor. His left hand was torn and bleeding from catching himself on rough bark and stone. Hurgen was a big strong man to be sure, but bulk and age are not a combination for agility. He passed carts and wagons, men and women, wailing children and oblivious animals. The scenes with Gunild and Tairia, with the Schadts, were duplicated again and again. He paused only to move babes into older arms, to guide those in danger of falling softly to the ground, and to ensure that no one was looking to end their pain in the most tragic fashion. Hurgen had known men who had taken their lives out of grief, and saw the same desperate look in the faces of many he passed. Fortunately, the song induced sadness seemed so incapacitating that those who would end it all lacked the presence of mind to do so.

Lungs burning, Hurgen counted himself lucky that they were in the wood. On the plains the settler’s caravan would stretch nearly a mile long. After a quarter of that, he guessed he was about halfway through the line. He was dimly aware that the music had gotten louder, but it held no entrancement for him now. The sound of it was strange, like no lute or guitar he’d ever heard. Something with strings, that was certain, but strings that were coaxed to cry and wail. Tremulous and tumbling, it built continuously upon itself. It leapt through leaves, twined around trunks, and danced in the dark bands between the greengold.

Hurgen skidded to a halt. Ahead, a well-built wagon lay on its side, new carpentry tools and provisions for trail lay scattered among clothes, pots, and barrels. The ox in the harness was laying down in effort to ease the discomfort of a twisted yoke. It’s irritated bleats mixed with the cries of the colonists and a new sound that caused the hair on Hurgen’s neck to stiffen in a cold rush. Slowly grinding a hatchet across his whetstone, Ilan Hurgensen sat facing his father, but his eyes were focused beyond him. The young man was red-faced and blubbering, his smooth skin twisted in grief and rage.

Ilan was the only other of Hurgen’s boys who lived in the home during Arik’s wasting and their mother’s subsequent decline and death. It tore at him that he could neither help his brother, and later his mother, nor could he make any decisions about his own life apprenticed as he was. It was a time of great pain mixed with the least control over any event in his life. Once his mother passed, some of that pain passed to Arik in the form of blame. Hurgen had seen it, they had dealt with it then, and the brothers had once again become as close as they were prior. Hurgen could see now the music had opened old wounds, and the same stubborn strength that had allowed Arik to act to save his father was now allowing Ilan to act. The music was louder here, though. Ilan couldn’t shake its influence. All he could do was sharpen and look towards the rear of the line. Hurgen knew it wouldn’t last. Ilan was working himself to a crescendo; the cadence of his incoherent speech and twitching of his right shoulder said that he was already seeing the act take place. His body would soon follow. Hurgen’s boys were about to be set at one another in murderous rage.

Oooh. I like it.

Sorry to clutter your thread, but I just had to stop by real quick and say...

Wow.

What an update. I felt nearly as enthralled as those poor folks in the story. Nice buildup, and the only disappointment in it is that it ended, breaking the nice little spell you had on me there.

Clutter away.
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Hurgen was worried. Usually he had nothing to fear from his sons. A fatherly hand upside the head had calmed more than one raging son, but this wasn’t the flaring temper of a jealous teenager or the heated dispute of sibling rivalry. Ilan was induced to this rage by grief unnatural. It was likely he would turn on his father, who was still out of breath from running. So Hurgen did the only thing he was sure about: he tossed his maul away. As it landed with a thick thud on the loamy earth, he knew that his best hope for stopping Ilan had been to keep it. Hurgen shook his head to clear the thought. He couldn’t bring himself to lift a weapon to his boy. He was still worried, but struggled to think. It was hard to do while looking into the rage ruddy face of his incoherent son. He had to be smart. His instincts were screaming at him to put a stop to it, to put his foot down, to nip it in the bud. He fought to stifle them. The deference would not be there. This was going to get physical, and Ilan was younger, just as strong if not stronger, and fueled by mindless rage. All of Hurgen’s life he had been a direct man, sure of his physical ability and his son’s respect for him. His way was the direct way: to stop something, you stood in its path until it stopped. For the first time in his life, the big man looked at that something, and knew it would mow him down. Something flickered in his mind’s eye: his boys wrestling in the yard back home. The big three boys trying to out-muscle each other while Arik…

Ilan erupted into motion, blood and spittle flying as his rage burst from him in a tearing scream. He charged down the trail, towards the rear of the line, towards Arik. The only thing in his way was Hurgen, and just as the big boy was about to collide with his father, Hurgen stepped aside.

And stuck out his foot.

To be honest, had Ilan been aware of his father’s presence, the tactic would’ve failed. But he wasn’t, and he went sprawling in the dark dirt, breath rushing from his barrel chest in a great whoosh. The hatchet flew from his hand, and Hurgen leapt upon his back. Ilan bucked and raged under him, but Hurgen knew leverage and how to apply it. Pinning his boy, he grabbed the rags from his belt, and stuffed one in each of the big lad’s ears. Ilan managed to push himself up on his hands, and flipped over to vent his rage on his attacker. Hurgen promptly laid a fatherly hand upside his son’s head with a muffled thwack.

“Ilan!” He shouted, as sharply as he had ever said it, with all the gravitas he could muster. Ilan’s eyes focused in recognition, then widened in shock. Hurgen hoped he wouldn’t remember, but knew he would.

“Papa?” The realization dawned. His words caught in his throat. Hurgen helped him to his feet and Ilan found his voice again, rough though it was. “No… no.” He looked around wildly. “Arik!” He called desperately. “Arik!”

“Calm yourself, boy!” Hurgen gripped Ilan by the shoulders, holding his attention. “You never made it, we’re still near your wagon. I doubt he could hear you, besides.” Hurgen pointed to the scraps of rags hanging from his own ears. Ilan’s hands came up to touch the longer rags hanging from the side of his head. He stood like that for a moment, and Hurgen could see the tightness ease from his shoulders. The flush of rage and grief left his face; replaced by a stony look his father knew hid embarrassment and guilt. Hurgen didn’t let him dwell on it long. “Fetch your hatchet, “ he said as he pointed to where it had flown, “and right your wagon. I don’t think Hersh likes the position he’s in.” Ilan snatched the hatchet, and quickly walked to the sideways wagon. Raising one arm, Ilan yanked it right without breaking stride. The wagon fell on its wheels with a solid bang, and Hersh bellowed in irritation as his yoke jerked with it.

“Quit whinin’, Hersh.” Ilan freed the ox from the harness and coaxed it to its feet. Ilan checked the big bull over to make sure it wasn’t injured, and hung the yoke back over Hersh’s shoulders.

“We don’t have time, boy,” said Hurgen as he walked up, the maul again gripped in his hand.

“I have to yoke him at least, or he’ll go lookin’.” Ilan said as he finished up. “Maybe for Bula.” He gave his father a sideways look.

“You should’ve tied him off like I said.” Hurgen said gruffly as they turned to continue up the trail.

“A great beast like him? There’s those that’ll pay for his stud. I’ve had offers.” Ever the optimist, his Ilan was.

“I didn’t know you were husbander as well as carpenter. How do you expect to keep him in harness?” By the Sword, it felt good to banter with one of his boys again.

“Hersh and I have an understanding, Papa.”

“An understanding. Is this why all I see is tracks into the woods? How far had the two of you fallen behind?” Hurgen’s irritation was real. He wasn’t as close to the front as he had thought, and as prudent as spacing the carts could be, too much of a gap split the line and made it more vulnerable. He broke into a trot, giving Ilan a look that said he expected an answer to his question.

“I could still see Carild, Papa.” Ilan was trotting beside him, their feet thumping in time. Hurgen raised an eyebrow. “Well, sometimes I mean.”

They crested a low rise that dropped sharply on the other side. The trail straightened here, and descended into a bowl depression. There was a sharp ascent on the other side, but Hurgen could see why Brenjar had chosen this way. It was the only way through the trees wide enough for the wagons. A tangled mess of provisions, oxen, and the last two carts of Hurgen’s family were strewn in the bottom of the bowl. A bright blond and broad backed figure lay face down in the loam, unmoving.

“Carild!” Hurgen cried as he gingerly made his way down the slope. Ilan shot past him, his young joints able to soak up the impact, and slid to his knees beside his fallen brother.

“He’s still breathin’, Papa, but he’s hurt!” Ilan cried, already tearing his own shirt into strips. Carild was bleeding. He stuffed the first two strips of cloth into his brother’s ears and searched him for wounds. He found a gash where Carild had struck his head when he fell. Ilan bound it best he could, and looked up to his see his father had reached the bottom of the bowl.

“You think he’ll live?” Hurgen asked, looking at the collided carts and the tracks they made. Ilan’s reply was too quiet to hear through the rags. The older man turned towards his son. “Speak up, boy!” Ilan’s eyes were glossy, and he worked his throat as he searched for the strength to give his reply again.

“I don’t know, Papa. There’s a lot of blood.” Hurgen knelt beside his son, his big hands gentle as he checked Carild.

“Good job with the wrap. His bleeding has slowed.” He turned Carild gingerly to get a better look at his face, and then checked his hands. “His color’s still good." Ilan breathed a sigh of relief, and they stood to survey the wreckage.

It was plain what happened to the two oldest sons of Hurgen. Carild was descending, the tracks kicked sideways in the loam where he worked the brake on his cart. Tojon had been ascending the far side. Deep hoof prints marked where his oxen had strained to lug his big box wagon up the hill. When the song hit, they had fallen to it. Carild’s hand would have slipped off the brake as Tojon’s whip and reigns slipped from his own hands. The heavily laden carts of a blacksmith and stonemason overpowered the oxen pulling them, and the deep grooves in the hillsides showed where the wagons had slid out of control, careening into each other. Carild’s had flipped over, flinging him to where he lay, and his oxen were caught between the two carts. It was likely they were dead, or would need to be put down. They were visible in the wreckage, but motionless and silent.

“Where’s Tojon and Hili?” Ilan asked, running to the front of his eldest brother’s box wagon. Hili was Tojon’s new wife, brought home with him after his apprenticeship, and the box wagon was as much for her comfort as it was to guard the valuable tools of his trade, along with the raw iron he was bringing along. It all made for a heavy and dangerous place to be in a collision. The rear axle was broken where the box wagon had slammed into Carild’s oxen, and the whole affair was canted at a strange angle, the bodies of the oxen lifting the cart off the ground on one side. Tojon’s own oxen had dragged the broken harness with them and found young leaf to graze in a large patch of sunlight. They were lowing to each other in frustration. The harness kept them together and they each had different ideas of where the best leaf was. Ilan didn’t see any injuries or limps, so he let them be for the moment and climbed into the front of Tojon’s wagon. He figured that anyone on the driver’s board would have been flung into the back of the wagon. Poking his head past the curtains separating the driver’s seat from the enclosed back of the wagon he saw them. Hili was curled on the bunk and facing the wall, crying softly. Tojon knelt beside it sobbing apologies into her skirts. Ilan gathered there was some indiscretion in their past, but didn’t want to hear more. He tore two strips off his shirt and went to stuff his brother’s ears. He stopped as a thought struck him, then grinned and stuffed the strips into his mouth, chewing them into wads of spit and cloth. These he then stuffed in his brother’s ears.

It had the desired effect. Tojon sat bolt up, face twisted in repulsed shock and grabbed at his ears. Ilan clamped his hands over his brother’s.

“Don’t remove them! They keep the music away!” He shouted. Tojon looked at him dumbly for a moment, then nodded. Ilan took his hands away. “Are you hurt?”

“N…no.” Tojon cleared his throat. Ilan waited patiently as Tojon regained himself, then handed him two strips of cloth and nodded towards Hili. “Do…” Tojon looked at Hili. “Do I have to soak them first?” He looked around for water and saw that all of his had spilled through the floorboards. Ilan grinned back at his brother as he clambered out of the wagon.

“Nope,” he said, then spat on the ground and let the curtains close. Tojon understood at once and his anguished cry made Ilan’s grin wider as he rounded the corner. Hurgen was still sitting next to Carild, comforting his son as he was coming around.

"Easy, boy, easy. You'll be hale soon, just a knock on your skull." He looked up at Ilan, who was still grinning. "I take it you found Tojon and his bride?”

“Yes, Papa, they are well.”

Hurgen grinned back at his son.

Good times.

Just another lowly reader waiting for the next installment...

He tore two strips off his shirt and went to stuff his brother’s ears. He stopped as a thought struck him, then grinned and stuffed the strips into his mouth, chewing them into wads of spit and cloth. These he then stuffed in his brother’s ears.

Click to expand...

No matter how dire the circumstances, there's always time to put the screws to your sibling, if you're the bratty one.

A nice little bit of detail. Your story is an enjoyable read.

<confused look>
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Hm. Still don't understand what's happening, but it's a pretty good read.