Mrythdom: Game of Time (5 page)

Gabrian stood and offered him the hand which wasn’t holding his staff. “Come. We are almost there.”

Aurelius eyed the old man’s hand dubiously, but he took it anyway, only to find a surprising reserve of strength lurking beneath Gabrian’s frail appearance. They began walking together toward the looming palisades of the town which Aurelius had thought to be a movie set. As they drew near, Aurelius noted the two guards standing before the reinforced doors. They carried wicked looking halberds and were clothed from head to toe in thick furs.

“Who are they?”

“Guardsmen of Nordom. Whatever you do, do not speak to them. I will do the talking.”

“Okay . . .”

They came within ten paces of the heavy wooden doors before Gabrian called out, “Greetings!”

The two guards dropped their halberds in a defensive position, preventing Gabrian and Aurelius from coming any closer. Aurelius eyed the frosted steel heads of their weapons. They wouldn’t pierce his armor, but he had a feeling a good jab from one of those would leave him a nasty bruise.

Gabrian waved his hand and whispered something Aurelius couldn’t quite make out; then he spoke in a strident voice: “We come in peace, men of Nordom. Let us pass to join your hunters, for we are weary with travel and in need of food and shelter for the night.”

The halberds wavered and one of the guards raised his. The other shook his head and responded in a querulous voice, “You come in peace? Yet why should we share our food and shelter with strangers?”

“We are skilled hunters and will make a worthy contribution to your hunt.”

The second guard raised his halberd and Gabrian started toward the gates. Aurelius followed cautiously. As they came within a few paces of the gate, the guards rapped on the doors in a complex pattern of knocks. A second later the doors swung slowly open with a groan and cracking of ice.

Gabrian and Aurelius started across the threshold, but the nearest guard caught Aurelius’s arm in an iron fist and loomed menacingly close. He was a giant of a man. “You’re not from around here,
oudtlaander
.” Aurelius blinked up at the man’s snowy blond beard and couldn’t help but notice the angry ridge of scar tissue running from his eye to his ear.

“No, I’m not.”

“Then watch your step.”

Aurelius nodded as the guard let him go with a shove. He stumbled forward and his foot caught on some unseen obstacle. He tumbled to the trampled, dirty snow, and his face scraped painfully against the icy ground. He bounced to his feet a second later and turned back to see what had caught his foot. He was just in time to see the guardsman move his leg out of doorway.

“Sorry. I was in need of a stretch.”

A vein began pulsing in Aurelius’s forehead and he took half a step forward before Gabrian called out behind him, “COME.”

Aurelius felt his body turn of its own accord and he began walking into the city, one wooden step after another. He heard the gates shut with a groan and a thud behind them, and then his body suddenly lost all its momentum, as if an unseen hand had been pushing him from behind and now it had stopped.

Aurelius glared daggers into Gabrian’s back. “You need to stop doing that.”

Gabrian stopped and turned, his lips curving into a wry smile. “Doing what?”

“You know . . .” Aurelius had to force himself to say it, because it still sounded ridiculous to him. “Magic.”

“Ah.” The old man nodded slowly.

“If we’re going to be allies, you can’t constantly be taking advantage of me.”

“Allies? Who ever said were we allies? You can help me, elder, and by helping me you will help yourself. That is all we are, acquaintances by convenience and necessity.”

Aurelius caught up to Gabrian and they resumed walking through the city. “So you’re just going to keep overriding my will whenever it pleases you.”

“I will do what I must. You are but a small player in a game as old as time, and I cannot afford to lose because you got in the way and I was too polite to push you aside.”

Aurelius frowned deeply and cast Gabrian a sidelong look. He realized that he couldn’t trust the old man.

He was going to have to look out for himself.

*   *   *

The town of Dagheim was one log cabin after the next, there thatched roofs coated in snow. The air was thick with the spicy fragrance of wood smoke and gamey meat. People draped in thick furs walked the streets; mothers carried their children in hammock shaped furs that were strapped around their necks; giant men strolled here and there with long broadswords strapped to their hips and wicked spears or halberds in hand. Aurelius estimated the average man to be two meters tall and the average woman to be only a few inches from that mark. They were all giants, made even more imposing by their thick fur coats. The majority had long golden hair, pale skin and eyes; though a scattered few had red or brown hair.

After a few minutes of walking, Gabrian ducked down a side street and into a busy, noisy square. It was a marketplace of some kind. As they pushed through the crowd, Aurelius noticed all the strange looks he was getting. People were glaring at him, sneering at him, doing nothing to veil their suspicion or contempt.

Their hospitality was underwhelming.

Gabrian squeezed between a pair of hulking men and Aurelius lost sight of him for a moment.

“Come, elder!”

Remembering his experience with the guardsman, Aurelius decided to weave a path around the two men in front of him. He found a relatively clear path along the storefronts to his right and he picked his way along there. He’d lost sight of Gabrian, but he had a feeling that the old man wouldn’t let him get too far away. Aurelius passed by a smithy. It was alive with the clanking of hammers on steel and the crackling and whooshing of a fiery furnace. Aurelius still couldn’t believe it. This was like something out of medieval lore; it couldn’t be real! And hadn’t Gabrian said he’d been brought to the
future?
So why did it look so much like the past? And what had happened to Fogrim city?

None of it made any sense.

Aurelius strolled past a storefront with an assortment of fur coats hanging up on display. He stopped to admire a few of them. They came in almost every conceivable color: slate gray, snow white, ash black, fire red, steel blue, and ruddy brown. Sometimes the colors were also mixed, and the coats were patched and streaked. Aurelius reached out to run a hand along the furs and found they were surprisingly coarse. Clearly they’d been skinned from some type of animal, but as far as he knew, fur trading was illegal, and moreover, he’d never seen such magnificent coats before. What animal could have produced them?

Yet more proof of Gabrian’s impossible story.

Aurelius moved on. Just as he rounded the rack of furs, a hand reached around and pulled him into the store. A furry brown coat was thrust at him.

“Put this on, Elder. You are attracting too much attention in antiquated raiment such as yours.”

Aurelius snorted at the irony of calling his armored, climate-controlled space suit “antiquated” but he was cold, so he gave no complaint as he shrugged into the coat. It came with a thick leather belt which he used to cinch the coat around his waist. He felt bulky and clumsy in the coat, but he suspected it would do a much better job of keeping him warm than his suit. Without his helmet, the suit’s climate control system was all but useless.

“What about my face?”

Gabrian tossed a wooly gray scarf at him. Aurelius promptly wrapped it around his neck and retreated his head into it like a turtle to its shell. He watched with his eyes barely peeking out above the scarf as Gabrian haggled with the chubby storekeeper. She had darting brown rat eyes and thick gray furs to match her stringy gray hair. He saw Gabrian place a few metal circles on the counter and watched the woman’s demeanor abruptly change from merely frosty to belligerent.
Coins?
Aurelius wondered. The only use such physical currency had in the world as he knew it was in a museum or a private collection. Of course, in such a technologically backward place, he supposed he could hardly expect them to use digital currency.

The storekeeper was gesturing violently and raising her voice while Gabrian tried in vain to calm her down. “You trying to cheat me, oudtlaander?” she shrilled. “You can’t even buy the scarf for that!”

Gabrian replied in that strange language he sometimes spoke, and Aurelius watched as the woman’s features suddenly went from angry to blank and confused. Abruptly she smiled and waved at them. Gabrian scooped his coins from the counter and turned to leave with a matching smile.

“What was that?” Aurelius asked as Gabrian guided him from the store.

“A bargain.”

“You were negotiating and then she gave up and let you have the clothes for free!”

“Yes.”

“You stole from her.”

Gabrian fixed him with narrow blue eyes. “I didn’t steal; she gave us the clothes.”

“You did something!”

“Did I?”

“Yes!”

“Aurelius. Our need is greater than hers. Were it not so, I would show
her
charity. And if the world were more as is should be, I would not have to compel her to do what she aught, yet when her life reaches its end, she will receive her due, if not from me, then from the gods she worships.”

“And if those gods don’t exist?” Aurelius challenged.

“That is not our problem. She has placed her trust in them, and there it lies for better or worse.”

“You’re confusing the issue.”

“Then let me simplify it, elder.” Gabrian stopped walking in the middle of the bustling crowds. Aurelius felt men and women jostling him roughly as they pushed past, a few turned to look at him, as if anticipating or looking for a fight. Aurelius tried to ignore them. “You will freeze to death if you don’t have these clothes. I do not have the money to provide them for you. She will not give you the clothes if you merely ask her nicely,” Gabrian said, pointing back to the storekeeper. “Therefore, make your choice. You can go back and give them to her, or you can look out for yourself. What will it be?” Aurelius hesitated. “And remember
you
did not steal. The fault is mine; you are merely benefiting by it.”

Aurelius heaved a sigh. “You don’t make it very easy to do the right thing, do you?”

Gabrian smiled and took a step toward him. His voice dropped to a whisper as he said, “And what is the right thing, Aurelius? Can
you
see all the consequences of your actions and judge them right or wrong?”

“No.”

“No one can. Not even I. Therefore, live your life with good intentions
if
that is important to you, but the consequences and therefore the rightness and wrongness of your actions are fundamentally unknowable.”

With that, Gabrian spun away in a swirl of his brown robes and stalked off, leaving Aurelius frowning after him. Reluctantly, he followed Gabrian through the milling crowds.
A dangerous philosophy to live by,
he thought, glaring at the old man’s back.

Aurelius wondered if the old man would apply the same convenient philosophy if his own well-being were at stake. He suspected not.

They stood before an arching entrance to a towering chalet. Giant, knobby wooden beams supported the entrance to either side, and an elaborately carved sign hung above the doors.

“The Firestone Brewery,” Aurelius read.

Gabrian walked up to the heavy wooden doors and pushed them open. A raucous noise poured out, men cheering and singing, glasses clinking, and a booming backdrop of drum beats that could hardly be called music.

“Come,” Gabrian beckoned, holding the doors open.

They walked into an echoing hall of wooden beams, tables, and vaulted ceilings. Flickering orange firelight from several fireplaces lit the space, and tall lattice windows misted with frost admitted dim shafts of dust-speckled light into the hall. The air was rich with the scent of ale and gamey meat. Men were clustered in a circle, arms draped over one another, stomping their feet in time to the drums, with mugs of golden ale sloshing over their rims and splattering the floors. There in the center of the crowd Aurelius could just barely make out a pair of gleaming silver blades held aloft. Gabrian wove past overturned chairs and tables, brushing by a hefty barmaid until they reached the counter. Men were clustered to either side of them, placing coins on the counter while a harried barman with a neat ginger goatee scribbled furiously on a pad of brown paper.

“What are they doing?” Aurelius whispered.

“Placing bets.”

“On what?”

Gabrian gestured vaguely over his shoulder to the circle of men. “The outcome of the fight.”

Aurelius cast a quick, but worried glance over his shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of the men holding their swords aloft in the middle of the bar. “They’re going to duel?”

Gabrian’s eyes were closed. “Yes.”

“In here?!”

“Please be quiet.”

Aurelius bit his tongue and waited while the old man uttered a series of strange phrases, almost chanting under his breath.

What is he doing, now?
Probably trying to get us free drinks.
A smirk lit Aurelius’s face, but he felt a twinge of disquiet that he was already becoming so used to the strange world around him. His smirk faded to a thoughtful frown as he watched Gabrian place a number of coins on the counter and signal to the harried barman. After a number of minutes the barman came to their side of the counter and scooped up Gabrian’s coins. The barman spent a second counting the coins in his palm, then gave his full attention to them.

“Bet?”

“Marcus Thescapian.”

The barman nodded and scribbled on his pad before moving down the counter to the next man in line.

Aurelius grabbed Gabrian’s arm. “You’re betting?”

Gabrian eyed his hand until he removed it. “You don’t appreciate charity, so I thought we could make some honest money. Come, let’s get a look at our contender.”

Aurelius followed Gabrian to the circle of men and they elbowed their way in. Aurelius was surprised when he saw the combatants. They each stood motionless as statues and facing one another, swords held straight above their shoulders in a two-handed grip. One of them was young, very young—perhaps only twenty—while the other had the gray hair and beard of a man as old or older than Gabrian. From the way his arms shook as he held his sword aloft, Aurelius didn’t think he’d last long.

“This is not a fair fight,” Aurelius whispered.

“No, it isn’t,” Gabrian replied.

“The odds can’t be very good. We won’t make much.”

“Ah, that is where you are mistaken, elder.” Gabrian turned to him with a smile, his eyes dancing with reflected tongues of flame from the fireplace in the corner. “The odds are fifteen to one against Marcus Thescapian.”

“What? You bet on the old man?”

“With age comes experience.”

“And frailty.”

Gabrian smiled cryptically and left the circle. “Come, let’s wait outside.”

The men went on shouting to their champion and jeering the contender while stomping their feet in time to the drums. Aurelius gaped for a moment longer at the man they were betting on before turning to follow Gabrian out. He found the old man standing under the entrance to the brewery, gazing off into the distance. Aurelius tapped him sharply on the shoulder.

“What’s wrong with you? Do you know that man? Is he some type of master swordsman?”

“I’m not sure of his skills with a sword, but he is a master with a staff.”

“What good is a staff against a sword? What are we even doing here? Aren’t we looking for this damned relic of yours?”

“Yes, that is our objective. Unfortunately, Malgore has the relic.”

“So how does this help us?”

Gabrian turned to him with a small smile. “Malgore is the man we are betting on.”

*   *   *

 “Why didn’t he recognize you?” Aurelius asked.

“I blinded his eyes. He won’t be able to pick us out of a crowd, unless he is very certain we are there.”

“So why don’t you just walk up to him and steal the relic.”

“You’re assuming he hasn’t hidden it.”

“Well . . .”

“Even if he has it on him, we cannot steal it from him, nor can we kill him and take it. Both crimes would bring all of Dagheim against us. I may be powerful, but I cannot defeat an entire village of Nordic hunters.”

Aurelius let out a long sigh and slowly shook his head. His eyes skipped along the wooden cabins across the street and focused on a drainpipe clogged with hanging tentacles of ice. “So why is Malgore fighting in a petty duel?”

“I suspect he has no choice. When he came to Dagheim, he must have offered some slight against one of the warriors here.”

“And?”

Gabrian turned to regard him curiously. “Surely the rest is self-evident? The man who was offended is fighting for his honor, or the honor of someone he loves. Malgore must defend himself, or submit to be his contender’s slave.”

“But can't the people can see how unfair the fight is? What honor is there in besting a weak old man?”

“Old he is; weak he is not, but the people of Dagheim must not know this. The slight must have been very great for someone to have challenged Malgore to a duel, because there isn't much honor to be gained from the fight.”

“And what if he loses?”

Gabrian’s reply was interrupted as the doors behind them burst open. Raucous cheering split the cool winter air and men poured out of the brewery to either side of them. The crowd was pushing the combatants ahead of them. Once both contenders were standing in the middle of the street and facing each other, the men formed a circle around them to watch. The barman stepped out from the crowd and held his hand up to the waiting combatants. Aurelius noticed that now Malgore had traded his long sword for a shorter, lighter blade, which he now held in an easy one-handed grip. In his other hand, partially concealed by his robes, Aurelius saw that he was leaning heavily on a wooden staff, as if he needed it to support his weight.

Suddenly, the barman’s upraised hand closed into a fist. That seemed to be the cue the fighters were waiting for. The cheering crowd grew still as death, and the young man began circling closer. Malgore didn’t even move, but Aurelius saw that his lips were moving.

The younger man circled into striking distance, and then with an incoherent shout he swung his blade with such force that it whistled as it sliced through the air.

At the last possible instant, Malgore swung his own blade up to parry. A mighty clang of steel on steel rang out, joined by gasps of surprise from the crowd as they realized that the old man had just stopped a two-handed swing from a heavier sword and a younger, stronger man—one-handed. It should have been impossible.

The younger man launched himself backward, parrying a quick set of strikes and jabs from Malgore. He stood panting freezing clouds of condensation and eyeing his opponent thoughtfully. At length, the young man began circling once more, being careful to keep out of range of Malgore’s shorter sword.

Aurelius watched as Malgore’s eyes closed and his lips began moving again. This time someone else noticed.

“He’s using sorcery! Stop him!”

But it was too late. Malgore’s sword began to glow blue, then it appeared to burst into flames with a mighty
whoosh
of air. Blue tongues of fire began licking off the glinting edges of the blade and Malgore stalked toward his astonished opponent. The young man began backpedaling crazily, but Malgore kept pace with him and closed the gap.

“Your debt is paid, old man!” the younger one screamed, still backpedaling furiously.

Aurelius turned to Gabrian with an urgent whisper, “We can’t let Malgore kill him!”

“It is not our place to interfere.”

“But—”

A crack of steel split the air once more and Aurelius turned to see half of the younger man’s long sword fall to the snowy ground with an ominous
clunk.

Malgore continued advancing, and the younger man kept retreating.

“Leave me, wizard! What honor will you find in defeating a mortal man?”

Yet Malgore continued forward. Suddenly, the young man stopped his retreat. His back snapped straight and his chin jutted out to the sky. He held his arms out to either side, palms up.

“What is he doing?” Aurelius asked.

“Embracing death,” Gabrian replied.

“Help him!” Aurelius hissed.

Malgore reared back for a swing, lifting his fiery blue sword high above his shoulder for a decapitating blow. The crowd grew stiff and silent.

The blade hissed through the air, flames trailing behind it like streamers of liquid sapphire. Aurelius closed his eyes, unable to watch.

*   *   *

Blade and flesh connected soundlessly, drawing another gasp from the waiting crowd. Aurelius peeked one eye half open to see the gruesome result.

Yet Malgore had not decapitated his opponent. He stood plainly before the young man, his sword now extinguished and planted in the snow beside him. The young man’s neck was bleeding in a thin line, but he was otherwise unharmed. Aurelius watched Malgore place a hand on the boy’s shoulder in a reassuring grip before turning to leave.

“Let that be a lesson to all of you,” Malgore said to the crowd. “There is no glory, no honor in death—only in life, lived to its fullest. To die in a petty squabble is to betray the very virtue you seek to defend.” And with that, Malgore pushed back through the crowd to the entrance of the brewery. Aurelius watched Gabrian turn and hide his face in his cowl, but Malgore gave no sign of recognition as he walked by.

Gabrian waited until the rest of the grumbling crowd had filed into the brewery, before turning to follow them.

“He doesn’t seem too bad,” Aurelius said.

“No, he doesn’t, does he?” Gabrian returned. “That’s the problem.”