Everflame (25 page)

“All right,” he had said. “Quit pullin’ my leg.”

A few months later, it had been discovered that Lady Montgomery and Lord Laughlin had, indeed, been having a secret affair. Ever since that time, it had become very common to say, when things of a tragic and unjust nature had occurred, ‘There they go, pulling Old Derrick’s leg again.’

After the adulterers had been outed, the feud had begun. All trade and general niceties had been cut off between the two villages, which had drastically cut down on traffic passing the little tavern. A few years after the feud had begun, the owner of the tavern decided to rename the tavern, Derrick’s L
eg, as a tribute to the man whose fate the tavern shared.

This night, as smoke poured from the chimney into the chilling air, a conversation about recent happenings sprung up between the patrons of Derrick’s Leg.

“I say it’s not true,” said a man named Jensen as the barkeeper poured him a small glass of strong-smelling stuff. “Too grotesque. Can’t be real.”

This wasn’t Jensen’s first glass of the night and he was beginning to give off a stronger smell of alcohol than the drinks themselves. His gray
, wispy hair, which he usually combed over his bald dome, was now waving in the air, giving the impression that Jensen was a drunkard. Jensen
was
a drunkard.

“I don’t know,” said Bing, a fat man, sitting at a table behind Jensen. “I travel all over Ephanlarea, and I’m starting to hear these stories everywhere.” Bing’s black hair was slicked back and he constantly eyed a pocket watch that he had set on the table next to his mug of ale. “What do you think, Bart?”

The barkeeper, Bart, was rubbing a glass with a rag he kept behind the counter. The rag was dirty and so was the glass, but Bart kept on rubbing as if friction alone would be enough to get the glass clean.

“Don’t know,” he grimaced. “I hear a lot of stories and rumors, but you know what they say about rumors.”

“See,” Jensen barked. “People are gettin’ all worked up for nothin’.” He put his fist around the glass on the bar and shot its contents back into his throat. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and continued. “Listen to this one I heard. So this guy, this…Messenger, I guess they’re callin’ him. One night, he just walks into this young couple’s house while they’re eatin’ dinner. He sits down at the table and starts eatin’ their food and talkin’ to them like he knows them. The young man asks him who he is, and this guy tells him that he’s a messenger. Real sense of humor this guy has. Then he turns to the young lady and tells her that her husband is a thief, and he stole all the food that she was eatin’. So the husband gets upset and tells the guy that he don’t know who he is or why he’s here but he better leave or else. And this guy’s shovin’ his finger into the Messenger’s face. Now listen to this, this is where it gets good. The Messenger gets up from his seat and grabs the guy’s finger. He tells the guy to tell his wife the truth or he’ll break it. So this guy starts cryin’ and he tells his wife that he’s a professional thief and everything they have was bought with dirty gold and whatnot. The guy’s wife starts cryin’ and yellin’ at him. The guy tells his wife he’s sorry and asks for forgiveness. Next thing you know the Messenger breaks this guy’s finger and then strangles him to death. The wife runs out of the house screamin’ and when she returns with the authorities, they find the dead guy sitting at the dinner table and the word thief is written on the walls in blood. And guess what? The Messenger is nowhere to be found.” Jensen shrugged his shoulders smugly as he finished his story. “Now you tell me that doesn’t sound fake.”

The barkeeper nodded, but Bing shook his head.

“I’m not saying this Messenger fellow isn’t a little off his rocker. But where there is smoke, there is usually fire, and there is smoke all over this land. Listen to this story I heard from a man claiming to have seen the Messenger, all the way down in Cerano. This fellow who said he saw the Messenger describes him as a large man, bigger than he’d ever seen. He also said that his hands glow with light.”

“Oh, I see,” laughed Jensen. “Ten feet tall and shoots lightnin’ out of his bum. I can see where this story’s goin’.”

“Just listen,” said Bing. “I ain’t making it up.” Bing shook his head and stole a look at his timepiece, then continued. “So this guy says he was riding his horse through the forest near Cerano, when he saw funny lights in the darkness. It was late and he thought he might be seeing things, but in the end, he decides to check it out. He rode through the brush where he had seen the lights and came upon a dead body. He looks at the body and there’s no head. So he panics and rides his horse as fast as he can into the village to alert the authorities. But when he gets there, he finds the officers outside of the jailhouse looking at something on the ground. Turns out it’s the head of the dead body in the forest, and the head’s got a piece of paper in its mouth. One of the officers pulls it out and sees that it’s a note. ‘I was selling your children as slaves’ is what it said. Turns out, kids had been disappearing in Cerano for about a year. So this guy tells the officers that he found the body out in the forest. So they all go out there to retrieve the body, but when they get out there, they find the Messenger waiting for them. He’s got a big hood over his face and his hands are glowing with blue light. They’re all so scared they can’t move a muscle. The Messenger tells all of them that what happened to the slave trader is what will happen to all who are evil. Then the Messenger disappears. The scary thing is,” added Bing, “that this guy who told me the story was a doctor, and he said that the head of the slave trader wasn’t cut clean. He said it looked like the head had been ripped off.”

Bart the barkeeper swallowed hard and ran his hand over his neck.

“Rubbish,” said Jensen. “Biggest pile o’ rubbish I ever heard. Glowing, blue hands. Please.”

“I’m telling you, Jensen,” argued Bing.
“I’ve heard a story about that Messenger from all corners of this land, and every one talks about those glowing hands. I’ve heard rumors before and the stories never match; the fundamentals change. All these stories match. This man, if he’s even a man at all, is out there, and he’s punishing those who do wrong.” Jensen waved an arm dismissively at Bing. “I even heard one account,” continued Bing, “of a guy who says he’d seen under the Messenger’s hood. He said he’s got no eyes.”

“Now I’ve heard it all,” said Jensen, throwing his arms into the air.

“Well, you know. It’s funny you should say that about the eyes,” said Bart, still rubbing the dirty rag against the dirty glass like a bad habit. “I just recently heard a story of this Messenger and the eyes came up. But this fellow told me that the Messenger was blind.”

“Really?” said Bing with a curious tone. “Let’s hear the story.”

“Well it wasn’t so much a story, I guess, as just a conversation.”

“Well
, go on anyway,” said Jensen, becoming more inebriated by the minute. He eyed his empty glass. “I’ll take another drink as well.”

“You sure you want more?” asked Bart. “You don’t look so good.”

“I’m fffine,” slurred Jensen.

Bart poured the man more alcohol and began to tell them what he had heard. “S
o, like I said, I was told the Messenger is blind. Well, sort of. The guy said that the Messenger sees through the grace of the Holy, but he can’t see like we can. He told me that the Messenger works for the Holy and that’s why he punishes evil. He told me that the world needs to change.”

“Well,” said Bing. “Sounds like that guy has spoken to the messenger himself.”

“Don’t know,” said Bart. “Didn’t want to pry. But you can ask him yourself if you want. He’s right over there.”

Bart pointed across the tavern at a large man in a white robe, slumped across a
table in the corner, sleeping.

“Oho,” started Jensen
. “Didn’t even see him over there. Thought it was just the three of us tonight.”

“Came in around supper time and ordered some water and potatoes,” said the barkeeper. “Talked to him briefly while he ate. He was the only customer in here. He kept that hood on the whole time though. Thought that was kinda weird. He fell asleep when he finished eating and I figured I’d just let him sleep. Must’ve needed it pretty bad.”

“You know, maybe we should just let him sleep,” said Bing tentatively.

“Nonsense,” said Jensen, stumbling off of his stool. “I’m starting to like these stories. Good entertainment. I want to hear what this fellow has to say.” Jensen tried with difficulty to walk in a straight line over to the man. When he finally reached him, he tapped him on the shoulder. “Hello,” he called. “Hello in there. Anybody home?” The stranger raised his head from the table and looked toward Jensen, his large
, white hood shading his eyes. “There you are,” continued Jensen. “My friends and I were just telling tales of this myth that’s been going around the land, and we were wondering if you might have any stories to add. Have you any tales to tell of the Messenger?”

The stranger grabbed the glass of water that he had not finished and poured the rest of the liquid down his throat.

“I’m sorry,” he said from under the hood. “I have no stories to tell. But I do have a question for Mr. Bing.”

Jensen turned his face to Bing with wide eyes and a foolish smile. “Bing, this man says he knows you.”

“Oh, uh, really?” said Bing nervously, his eyes darting to the watch on the table. “You must have misheard him, Jensen.”

“Why do you keep checking your watch, Bing?” asked the stranger with a louder and clearer voice.

“I-I-I don’t know w-what you’re talking about,” Bing stammered and slid his watch into an open pocket.

“Waiting for something?” asked the stranger.

“I th-think you have me confused f-for someone else.”

The stranger turned to Jensen. “I’m sorry, Mr. Jensen, but it would seem as though you’re going to have to die.”

“What are you talking about?” exclaimed Jensen.

“What I am talking about, Mr. Jensen, is the poison that Mr. Bing put in your drink when you left to relieve yourself. He continues to check his watch so that he knows when it will be a good time to leave the tavern and steal your horse. Probably about the same time that you, Mr. Jensen, lose the ability to breath. Am I right, Mr. Bing?”

Bing shot out of his chair and began to head for the door. “This is preposterous. I never. I’m not going to sit around and listen to–”

The stranger raised a hand and suddenly
, the tavern was bathed in blue light. Bing stood, frozen, unable to move.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Bing, but I just wouldn’t feel right with you leaving. At least not until we’ve seen eye to eye.” The stranger stood from his seat, hands glowing blue, and pulled his hood back from his head. He walked over to the petrified Mr. Bing and looked into his eyes. Behind him, Mr. Jensen clutched at his throat and fell to the floor. “As you can see, Mr. Bing, I do
, indeed, have eyes.”

As Bing stared into the milky-
white orbs that bore down upon him, he knew that the stories were true and that now, he would be added to their tome. The Messenger placed a hand upon Bing’s back and the other upon his chest and began to press.

“I-I’m sorry,” muttered Bing. “I’m s-so s-sorry.”

“I forgive you.”

Bing felt the M
essenger’s hand digging into his chest and gasped in pain as his ribs cracked. Sharp pain seared his chest and warm blood poured down the front of his shirt. The Messenger closed his hand around Bing’s frantically beating heart and then darkness enveloped Mr. Bing forever.

“Hmm,” groaned the M
essenger. “I thought it would be black.”

He dropped Bing’s heart to the tavern floor and walked a
way, scattering a pile of blood-soaked, gold coins along the bar as he exited the tavern. Bart stood alone, behind the bar, rubbing a dirty rag against a dirty glass, muttering prayers with every breath he took.

Chapter 23:
Hearing Voices

He had become a shadow in a world of darkness, walking across the land like a true creature of the night, smoothly, stealthily, unnoticed. He thought of the conversation in the tavern. One of them had called him a myth. He laughed inside of his head,
a myth
.
Let them think that I am a myth. Soon, I will become a legend.

He walked thro
ugh the blue smoke of his world as it whirled and bent itself to form the trees that surrounded him. Fluttering sounds came from above and he knew that they were bats; predators of the night, surveying the world below for food. The bats were killers, not murderers.
We have so much in common
, he thought.  Murder was evil; killing was natural, and necessary.
Only men murder,
he thought.
How have we become so flawed? How have we strayed so far?

He raised his hand and looked at it, framed in blue smoke, tiny wisps playing upon his fingertips. He could smell that evil man’s sickening blood still on his hand. He rubbed his fingers together. He felt dirty and he needed to be clean. He walked south until he came to a river and once he had disrobed, he waded in. The water was freezing to his skin, but it didn’t mat
ter, he needed to be clean.