Elstan and Gerde once again exchanged sharp, somewhat confused glances. Elstan raised his hands and motioned for Gerde to lower the broken shard of the spoon away from their host's throat. He hesitated, while the man was sweating and holding his hands in the air, and after several heavy breaths Gerde pulled the edge away from the man's throat and lifted his chair, reluctantly sitting down on it.
The man took a deep breath and placed his hands on the table, and Elstan sat down again, now calm. The porridge had cooled in Ervin's mouth, and the meat seemed to have lost its taste because of the incident that had turned the previous atmosphere upside down.
"In the mountains," the man began, swallowing heavily as the saliva that had gathered in his mouth went down. The others were calm, still watching him suspiciously.
"Old Suzi isn't the only one who lost someone dear to those monsters. They took my wife as well, seven years ago. Jopi and Erhe were only two and three at the time, so they don't remember their mother very well. But since she's been gone, it's been hard." The man was visibly shaken as he spoke about his lost wife.
"These monsters…" Elstan leaned in closer. "What are they?"
"Trapies," he answered.
"Trapies…" Elstan repeated, confused. "I thought Trapies inhabited areas near the coast."
"When it gets cold, they hide in the mountains from the cold and wait there for winter to pass." The man explained.
Gerde cut in. "I've heard of that, but I've rarely traveled through these regions and never stayed long enough, so I didn't have the chance to see it for myself."
"That's right," Aran, their host, confirmed. "They wait there for unfortunate passersby, but… damn them, they have no trouble coming down from the caves to hunt nearby prey."
"Trapies…" Ervin uttered. "My grandfather used to tell me about them, but there aren't any in Luganor, are there?"
"People of Luganor?" the man asked. The others fell silent. "Ah, I've decided not to ask unnecessary questions."
"That's right, Ervin," Elstan replied. "They can't stand our climate, and I've never seen one personally."
"Neither have I," Gerde added.
"Nor have I," Aran continued. "They say they walk on three legs, and that their bodies are covered in gray, filthy scales, and that they have bald heads with a single eye on the crown and mouths on their faces."
"I've also heard they don't have ears," Ervin added. "Just a nose and a mouth with sharp teeth."
"That's right, and their heads are bent downward so their nose is always pointed at the ground, and their eye at their prey," Gerde finished the description of what they knew about the beasts.
Silence fell over the table.Then the door opened, and a draft swept through the room, stirring the fire and sending sparks from the embers crackling loudly. Everyone turned sharply toward the door; the atmosphere shook them for a brief moment—but it was only Jopi and Erhe carrying firewood.
One of the two quickly threw the logs down beside the entrance and hastily shut the door so the cold wouldn't get in. The impact of the wood was dull and heavy. The other gently set his bundle down and began gathering the pieces his brother had thrown.
They were dressed in thick woolen coats and other heavy fabrics. Fur-lined hoods covered their heads, and since they were similar in height—though they were only nine and ten years old—no one could tell which was which until they pulled their hoods back, revealing their faces. They differed in that the older one, Erhe, had brown eyes and short, dark brown hair like his father, while his younger brother had the same short hair but lighter in color, and a rounder face inherited from their mother.
"Put them by the fire," their father said, and they did so.
"Thank you, boys. I'd ask you one more thing—please help Old Suzi feed the horses." He asked them with a smile.
The others remained silent. Ervin stirred the pieces of meat in his bowl with his spoon; no one was hungry anymore. The boys merely nodded their heads and went back outside, once again into the sunny cold.
"You are not fools, gentlemen," Aran began again. "And you are no amateurs when it comes to handling weapons." He looked at Gerde, who sat coldly, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed.
"Even though we are a modest little place, I'm sure we can find a few swords or spears, or whatever it is you use for fighting. As well as clothing that will protect you from the mountain cold." For several moments, they all looked at one another.
'What's stopping us from killing all of you and taking the horses, clothes, and food without any obligations?' Gerde thought to himself.
"We kill the monsters, and you give us horses, clothing, and weapons for the road?" Elstan asked, seeking confirmation from their host.
"Some may not like giving away even this little that we have, but we will recover. I am not doing this, gentlemen, for myself. My children will live here after me, and the children of others who live here, and the children of their children." Aran clenched his fist angrily and in despair.
"I don't want them to live in constant fear of losing someone they love, so—" Their host lowered his head and placed his hands on the table. "Please, help us."
'This man—he is a far better man than I am', Elstan thought.
Gerde let out an irritated breath.
"Find us weapons." The captain of Ganalor stood up, his chair scraping backward across the floor. "Tomorrow morning we head for the mountains. The sooner we reach the capital, the better."
He left for the other room to lie down, and the man was visibly relieved when Elstan placed a hand on his shoulder in reassurance. The fire continued to burn. The sun slowly moved across the vault of the sky, alternately hiding behind clouds and then emerging again, bathing the land in light and giving the illusion of warmth in an environment that was already growing colder.
"We killed most of them, but some managed to escape," the young man beside Alder said.
"All in all, they shouldn't cause you any more trouble, Lord Braurels," Alder explained to a man of medium height, broad and slightly stocky build. His hair was dark brown, almost black, and short, emphasizing the color of his almond-shaped eyes.
He took a sip from his goblet while three mercenaries sat at the table and explained the sequence of events. They had already finished their dinner, but there were still remnants of bread on the table, some dried pork or beef, a few pieces of sausage, and two jugs with wine,almost empty,and water,half full. As they spoke, dull thudding sounds suddenly interrupted their story.
"With wounds like that?" Alder asked Desimir as he stepped into the dining hall.
The hall was not large but modest; it could have hosted a small wedding, fitting perhaps forty people, but at the moment it was empty except for the table in the center and the four men who were eating there. Now there were five. From the doorway, Desimir immediately surveyed the entire room with quick glances—left, right, up, and down—then started toward them on a wooden crutch tucked beneath his right armpit. He moved slowly and heavy, as he could do no faster nor lighter, each step accompanied by the sound of wood striking the floor.
"Well then, gentlemen." He stopped in front of them and bowed as much as he could. "I presume you wish to hear my story." After that, he limped over to Stighard, who was seated to the lord's left, opposite Alder and Kerin.
"But before that, I'd like to eat—if you don't mind." His voice was as boyish as always,but a bit raspier and deeper.
"Go right ahead, young man," Lord Braurels allowed in his rough voice.
Desimir first took a piece of bread, then poured himself water into a wooden mug.
"I'm glad you have an appetite, Desimir," Stighard said in his deep voice as Desimir combined bread and meat, washing it down with water.
"Try some of this," Alder said, pouring him wine. "A natural remedy."
Desimir took the mug and smelled the blood-colored liquid; he had never drunk wine before. The scent was bitter-sweet, somewhat heavy, and he liked it. The taste was the same, leaning more toward bitterness, but the young man drank it anyway, then coughed, which made Alder laugh.
"Why don't we leave the story for tomorrow morning," Lord Braurels said. "I'm sure the gentlemen would like to rest after the work they've done." He stood up from the table. "I expect you all at breakfast tomorrow."
They bowed their heads, and the lord of the castle departed for his chambers, accompanied by the clicking sound of his heels.
Desimir continued eating; he was very hungry.
'This meat is excellent—much better than that salted beef', he thought.
'And the wine… I still prefer water.' He didn't like the bitter taste.
"Get a good night's sleep, Desimir," Stighard said. "We're getting up early tomorrow morning."
After a long day, filled with countless broken shields and spears, numerous fallen fighters, and even some fatalities, after so much excitement, joy, and sorrow, the first day of the tournament in the royal capital of Tolan, Nilfalion, came to an end. The sun had already begun to set slowly, and people were gradually arriving for the evening feast. Some were well-dressed; the ladies in lavish, colorful dresses adorned with various motifs of flowers, leaves, and everything symbolizing their kingdom, while the men wore woven suits—jackets and shirts, with trousers below. They were a bit less colorful, mostly monochromatic or in two shades of the same color, without any flashy patterns. Instead, their suits were adorned with subtle, minimalist designs in the fabric, or occasional silver, gold, or bronze embroidery.
The feast had already started in full swing, and for various wandering knights and other self-proclaimed guests, or those merely passing through, who were seated outside under a canopy set up earlier in the day by diligent workers who had come to toast with the lower classes as well. Naturally, for some, the feast and celebration had begun even earlier in the day; for some, it had ended earlier; and some hadn't yet experienced the feast,nor the music, or the freely flowing drinks. In general, the drinks flowed down the throats of all present, while some tables consumed more than those seated nearby. The beverages, illuminated by the flickering lanterns, sometimes appeared green, reflecting the fire; at other times, dark red, yellow, or, on one side, pink or brown. The color depended on which alcoholic drink formed the base—wine, rosé, or dark red, perhaps even white; on the other side, rum or maybe whiskey. After some time, it all seemed the same to both the lower and upper classes, though the ladies and lords had to maintain their dignity and, after three hours from the start, stopped drinking, awaiting dinner, while the outdoor atmosphere heated up, and the knights, their stomachs full of liquid, grew hungrier and more impatient, searching for some amusement to pass the time faster.
"Come on, come on, push!" boomed a deep, resonant voice amid the crowd, among other shouts where each person called out something different. Someone shouted to push, another to fall, someone cursed, another demanded money. Words varied from cheers and encouragement to insults of every kind. Alcohol flew everywhere in the crowd, followed by screaming, shouting, and from both sides—mixed were cries of pain and joyous exclamations. Arm-wrestling competitions were among the most common events at such celebrations. They knew all they needed was a single table and two people willing to show who was stronger and who had more balls, and there were plenty of both here. Thus, there was ample entertainment for the knights who were still able to stand, though they were cautious with the drinks—not everyone got drunk immediately; after all, it wasn't every day one attended a royal feast where generosity overflowed. King Ailred, despite his outwardly cold, sharp, and disciplined demeanor, was internally a very generous ruler, evident in his policies toward the Darns. When it came to his kingdom, he was prepared for anything to protect it and ease the lives of his subjects.
While the knights outside rejoiced and passed the time until the dinner that would soon be served, inside the atmosphere was far more elegant—or at least, it was supposed to be.
"Come on, push," a similar shout as outside, but this voice was softer, gentler, and higher pitched. Surrounded by various colors, the scent of alcohol, chandelier and lantern illuminations, and pipe smoke, the captains of the first and second divisions decided to amuse themselves a bit before dinner. On one side, in a white, silk shirt barely containing the muscles straining beneath it, was Captain Caerwyn Slanei. On the other side, also in a white shirt, with lean, taut muscles visible beneath, was Captain Neremyn Elalynn. Both had rolled their sleeves to the elbows and removed their jackets. Neremyn wore dark green with silver patterns and embroidery in the shape of a wreath on the shoulders, while Caerwyn's light green jacket had golden embroidery shaped like a beech leaf. Both jackets lay on the chairs beside them, perhaps no longer needed after such exertion. Their forearms were tense, veins bulging on both sides, sweat running down their faces, smiles stretching across them.
"What's the matter?" Neremyn asked slowly, pressing down Caerwyn's hand. On Neremyn's right forearm, on the inner side, was a tattoo of a wheat stalk with an ancient inscription in Old Tolanian, legible only to a few. His tattooed arm slowly pressed down his challenger's from the other side. The music accelerated with the round, creating a tense atmosphere for this friendly duel. As their hands moved, so did the bow on the vielle, while the flute hit every note perfectly.
"Already tired?" teased Neremyn, though his face betrayed his own struggle. Eventually, Caerwyn faltered, his hand hitting the wooden table, drawing roars from the hall. Both slumped in their chairs, sweaty and exhausted. The music then grew louder, with bagpipes and flutes taking the lead while the vielle and flute provided melodic undertones, complementing the celebratory tone of the wind instruments. The crowd gradually dispersed and returned to their tables.
As the two captains sat catching their breath, tankards in hand, a soft yet sharp and subtly flirtatious voice sounded, almost unintentionally cunning.
"I'm glad you aren't bored, gentlemen." A young man in a light green jacket, fastened by a single middle button and adorned with copper epaulettes, which highlighted his strong shoulders and torso. Beneath it peeked a silver shirt with a collar, and his trousers matched the upper part of his attire.
"The embroidery brings out your hair color, my prince," Neremyn joked, the prince's hair a silvery-white, reminiscent of pale fire.
"I'd say the color of the eyes instead, dear captain," the prince replied, teasing.
"Ah…" Neremyn paused, inspecting the prince. "Both are on your head, so it confused me," he said with a loud laugh, and the prince placed a hand on his shoulder. "It's time for dinner, captains," Vesryn said lightly. "Please, take your seats. And, if you don't mind, try to behave a little like captains." He turned to leave, and the two exchanged glances, drained their tankards, donned their jackets, and proceeded toward seats near the king's table.
"You never know who might want to harm the king," Neremyn thought as he pulled out a chair.
"But that's why we're here," Caerwyn had a similar thought, sitting opposite him.
At the king's table sat King Ailred, his eldest son Aias to his right, two seats to his left was Prince Vesryn, and between the king and him sat a young woman—the same with whom Vesryn had spent the morning, now dressed and groomed. Her red, fiery hair, previously messy and scraggly, was now styled into a romantic updo with soft waves resembling flames. Previously she had worn only her skin, but this time she was in a dress of mixed dark and light greens, accented with copper and minimalist floral embroidery. This was the king's daughter, Merlara—a girl for whom many, in fact most, had come today, and some would remain tomorrow, and a few even the day after, hoping to win her hand and the right to challenge the rightful prince for the throne when the time came.
Also at the king's table were the kingdom's masters, such as the Master of Trade in his red suit, or the Master of Finance, a man in his fifties, whose shaved head and clean face belied his age. His black suit highlighted his dark eyes and serious, crooked-nosed expression.
At the other tables sat the most important lords with their ladies and sons who had come to try their luck in the tournament. Some had left after the first day due to early losses, but most came to establish themselves in the Spring Castle. The music now played softly, then stopped completely as everyone sat for dinner. The aromas that filled the hall were rich with saltiness, sweetness, sourness, a touch of spice—both foreign and domestic—and the fresh scent of roasted fruits and vegetables. The feast ranged from smoked ox with petal sauce, roasted turkey and duck in spicy beet and carrot sauces, to salmon with apple and ginger sauce, and various salads from cucumbers, peppers, spicy and bitter, to cabbage dressed with white wine and sweet vinegar, or sweeter ones with apricot and honey sauces, as well as cooked blackberries and blueberries, and possibly crushed raspberries with lemon.
"You should try the smoked ox, brother," Vesryn said, spearing a piece of dark brown meat with a faint chestnut hue. "They say it's excellent." He smiled.
"Thank you, Ves—" Aias began, but Vesryn interrupted.
"Just like me today," Vesryn said. Aias looked calmly at him, accustomed to his adopted brother's provocations.
"I believe you watched me kick all those
wannabe knights from the saddles," the young prince bragged.
"I watched you kill a man," Aias replied, taking a sip of wine, his tone calm. Vesryn glared, his voice hardening. "He knew what he was getting into; accidents happen. Besides, the boy had no tournament skill—probably one of those dreaming of writing another tale like the King of Leaves." Vesryn turned back to his meat, spinning it on his fork. Aias paused and lowered his goblet.
"In the end, he ended up where he started—on the ground,or rather, under the ground," added Vesryn coldly.
"The prince shouldn't speak of people he may one day rule over this way," Aias said calmly.
"But then again, you've never been someone people would call a king," Aias added in his calm, relaxed tone, which only further irritated Vesryn, who clicked his tongue and glared sharply at him. Aias, on the other hand, sipped wine and looked toward the empty stage.
"That's enough," Ailred commanded. "I don't want to hear another word of your quarrel for the rest of the celebration." Aias ignored him and continued sipping, while Vesryn started to rise from the table—but Merlara grabbed his hand.
"Please, sit," she said softly. He sat back down, placing his hands over hers, smiling, and then caressed her cheek, making her eyes sparkle. Aias observed all this with peripheral vision, the wine growing bitter on his tongue. The night was long, fine, and pleasant, full of joy, sorrow, exhilaration, and other emotions and interactions, yet despite this beautiful evening, tomorrow arrived very quickly.
Near the southern borders of Ganalor, morning perhaps came too quickly for Elstan, Gerde, Ervin, and Ujiyoshi, who walked along a sandy road, with the mountains growing closer in the distance. The sun rose slowly, the sky a beautiful lilac, streaked with light blue, pink, a hint of yellow, and orange—a palette weaving the wound called sky, with the sun as the painter.
"Looks like today will be as sunny as yesterday," Ervin commented. Ujiyoshi gave him a weary look, while the two captains remained focused only on the current events and their mission enough to not spare him a thought, so he could hardly blame them for not listening. They trudged slowly toward their destination, armed with swords—not the finest, but serviceable. They also carried round shields on their shoulders, which would cover their backs and later be used to protect each other. They received warm coats lined with some old yellow wool, which shed but still retained heat.
"We won't be able to move in these later," Ujiyoshi thought.
"I wonder," Ervin had time to ponder. "Where is Osgar right now?"
Osgar had eaten one bowl, then another. Rice and pieces of cooked chicken did him well.
"Thank you very much, Mistress Irg," he said to an old woman who smiled with her wrinkled, amusing face. He wore older, brownish clothes, but a complete set—from trousers and boots to a shirt and robe. There was even a tunic he had earlier found discarded near the trash. He wondered what it had been doing there—it was still serviceable despite some holes. The little house where he stayed had a kitchen and one other room. Wooden furniture included a table, chairs, and a small cupboard, with an outdoor storage for salted meat or drying sausages when available. Osgar didn't waste much time; he had spent the whole previous day here resting, barely stepping outside. Going out required courage, as he was in enemy territory.
"I've wasted enough time," he said, rising from the table and stepping outside. "Time to gather some information." Kelio Port would be the place for that.