Umatelsa: Chapter One

Chapter 1

The Village of Shadun



All was quiet and peaceful, but for the cry of the gulls, and the furious roaring of the sea. The sun was sleepily climbing into the sky, lighting it up in deep red, and revealing a small village. It was a simple congregation of ramshackle dwellings, built upon the honest labor of the fisherfolk who lived in them. The crude cabins were made of sturdy logs and sometimes mud or bricks. Fencing in the back held clucking chickens, and occasionally a goat or two that signified the family’s wealth. Geese honked in the narrow streets, wading haughtily into what tasty source of food they could find. The village boasted a single inn, where robust men filled their mugs and brawled and drank into the night. At times, luck may bring a traveling minstrel who needed a place to spend the evening, and they would have rowdy songs and romantic lays to enjoy.

Boats docked along the shore, the tough, hardy boats that the Shadun fisherfolk depended on. They were their livelihoods, for like all those who lived by the sea, fishing was essential to survival. Without fish, there would be no food, no trade, no coin. Merchants sometimes came to barter, and in exchange for the catches of cod and catfish they offered either money or other necessities of daily life. The fisherfolk were a hard working people; they rose early and returned late. But though life was not luxurious, it was peaceful and hearty, and that was all they desired.

Soon, people stirred, preparing their nets for another day of toil at sea. From a wooden cabin, a man stepped out, still struggling to pull on his rough-spun clothes that seemed too tight for him. He was well-built and tall, and the muscles bulged as the disobedient clothes slipped over his back and settled into place. Black, tangled locks fell below his cheek, nearly concealing the pink scar that grazed his right cheek. It was the marking of a blade. His eyes were a serious dark brown, peering about.

“Well, well. And I thought I’ve seen enough in my life. Here’s a full-grown man who can’t dress himself!” came a teasing voice.

Startled, the man looked down with his serious, dark brown eyes, and seeing who it was, grinned wolfishly. A ferret was perched comfortably on a rock, peering up at him with black, intelligent eyes. His fur was a soft, cloudy gray, and his muzzle dipped in white. From the way the sunlight glinted off his coat, he had been feeding well. A few bones under his paws suggested the success of last night’s hunting, and he had obviously been gorging on some unfortunate rodent.

“And what about a full-grown ferret without clothes?” he asked, and then boomed with laughter, while the ferret curled his lips in a scowl.

“Don’t be so loud Gary, or you’ll wake the child!” it hissed.

“All right Furs, I must get to my boat now,” Gary said, turning to leave.

“You better bring back enough fish for dinner tonight!” Furs called after him, and started mumbling to itself. “He’s a warrior after all. Doesn’t know a thing about fishing.”

“Don’t even start. We had this conversation before,” warned Gary, and he left without a backward glance. Furs snorted and went back to nosing his delicate bones.

Years ago, Gary had been a warrior. He had gone far and seen much, learning as well as fighting. His was the fame and the glory of the court and the battlefield. His was the styled name the Red Dragon, muttered in awe by the folk of Tonor. He was one of the few who could boast of serving King Leon of Tonor, and even knowing him. But it went deeper than that. Others knew Leon as their monarch; Gary knew him as a man. But all that was a long time ago. He had a wife now, and a son, and it was all he needed.

After a few exhausting attempts, Gary sat down heavily in his boat, with the empty fishing net dangling loosely in his hand. He wondered, fleetingly, if he missed the king and the old days. Had he chosen right for his family, when he gave up the comforts of the court for the safety of this small fishing village. When he gave up duty to his sovereign for duty to his family. These doubts should long have been smoothed and put aside. On the day that his son was born, he knew that it was for the best. Here, his son would grow up free from the scheming, dangerous court and the slaughter of the army. Perhaps, he would never have to feel the weight of duty and sacrifice of being a king’s man. Sighing, he kicked the thoughts off and resumed his grueling task, and the sun began to warm his stiff limbs. Eventually, he allowed his mind to be carried away by the rhythm of the waves and the song of the fishermen.

That evening, Gary only caught a few tiny maktoch, a blue fish that lived only in the Tonorian Sea. He allowed them to swim away, since the poor creatures would hardly make a mouthful. He stopped on his way home to buy some smoked fish from his neighbors, and they laughed at him. But they were kindly enough and did not charge a high price for anything. Dana, his wife, brought out some salt pork she bought from the market in the morning. Gary had saved sufficient coin in his years of service to the king, though he took only what he could carry. Without a doubt the king would provide for him if ever he fell into hardship. But they hadn’t been in contact for more than seven years. And seven years was a long time. Furs hopped onto the table nimbly, and sniffing the salt pork, grimaced in disgust.

“I had wished for free meal,” he snorted.

“You have one right here. I’ll give you a piece when I’m done,” said Dana.

“A piece of that?” Furs slid away in disdain. “I decline.” In a second he was out the door and nowhere to be seen, probably on one of his hunting sprees. Gary grinned after him.

“Well, how is my boy?” he asked Rhond, his son, who had just passed his first birthday. The baby made an incoherent, gurgling reply and groped for Gary’s nose with pudgy, pink hands.

“Go get us some milk,” ordered Dana, without even looking up from her stewing pot. “You were supposed to remember that yesterday.”

So Gary gathered a handful of copper coins for milk, and a few extras for butter.

The Crawling Lobster was the only inn to be found in the village of Shadun. And it also had the only cow. Therefore, the innkeeper Old Rick profited greatly by selling milk and butter. From afar, all could see the huge, dusty sign with shabby lobster pincers fading. Gary soon realized he had come at a bad time, for in the evening, the inn was always crowded with drunkards, and the air was thick with the smell of beer. He squeezed his way through clusters of fishermen, singing silly tunes in their gruff, intoxicated voices.

“Well, Master Gary, what can I do for ye?” Old Rick peered over the counter.

“Two bottles of milk, and a stick of butter would be welcome,” replied Gary.

“Yer mos’ lucky. We only got two bottles o’ milk left. Old cow’s actin’ a bit queer lately. Won’t give ‘nough milk.” Rick slammed the two bottles down on the counter, along with a generous chunk of butter, and Gary paid three coins. He began to wedge himself through the crowd as quickly as possible, for the stink of the cramped place was getting to him.

A swarthy man wearing a tattered cloak stalked in, brushing past the retreating Gary. There was an air of a seasoned traveler about him, and something else. Something that made Gary halt and peer back at him. The man glanced about the room and seated himself casually on a stool beside the fire, calling for a mug of beer.

The innkeeper eyed his ragged attire dubiously. “Drink costs, master. No offense.”

The man scowled. “Be assured. I have enough honor to pay for what I want.” His accent drew a few curious eyes.

“Ye don’t have the look o’ someone from these parts,” said Old Rick. It was not often that a poor and remote village like this attracted any outsiders.

“That, is none of your business. Just hand me a full mug, if you please,” the man said sharply.

“You have news of the outside world, perhaps?” Rick continued to pester him. Some fishermen, eager for a bawdy foreign tale or two, crowded around.

“Nothing much, but something at least. I would tell them if I had my beer,” said the man. A mug was immediately shoved into his hands, and he took a deep gulp. “Bad news came from Mayae last week.” He looked into each pair of eager eyes. More people were being drawn into his circle. Even Gary, who was turning to go, paused to listen intently.

The man lowered his voice. “Civil war might erupt any second there. We are allied with Mayae, so Tonorian officials are being sent right now to prevent such tragedy from happening. But it is useless, I would say. I’m afraid trade will be disrupted. They’ve already split in half, Eastern and Western Mayae. There’s more trouble than what’s being reported.” The fishermen murmured with excitement, not that they cared much for foreign dealings. It was all a entertaining, exotic tale to them.

Mayae was Tonor’s neighboring country, occupied by the fair Elven race. It was strange that the Elves should erupt in civil war, for peace was treasured most among them. None may harm beast or bird as long as they remain in their land. Yet their armies were also strong and well trained, with the most skilled warriors existing.

“The Senate and the Defense have been at odds for many years. Hundreds, actually. Elves live a long time, you know. They let their problems fester a long time, and their process of eradicating them takes even longer. That’s why most of their power-shifts seem so long and tedious and bloodless. Anyway, something happened not long ago, something so sudden and unlike the elves. Overnight, the Senate has taken over all power, and it is rumored that their king is mad. Supposedly, someone failed in a conspiracy, and half the army now rises with him to revolt. Very strong, this someone. He leads Western Mayae now. But the full story is not known, for the elves have clamped their mouths shut on this subject.”

“The Red Dragon could solve their problems,” someone mumbled.

“He left the King, may he live forever, eight years ago, as all of you know. And I doubt he could do anything even if he reappeared right this moment. Things are getting stiffer and stiffer.” The man drank another mouthful, and turned for a brief second to glance at the door. For a moment his gaze seemed to flick to Gary, but he turned back to the fire. A chill ran down Gary’s spine, though there was no clear cause for it. “At a time like this, the king could use a loyal companion such as the Red Dragon.”

Gary did not wait to hear any more, but walked out the inn door, not caring if it slammed shut behind him. A light rain was falling, a luxury to the parched earth. He trudged through the muddy streets, winding his way toward home. There was a hole in the cheap leather of his left boot, with water and slosh leaking into it simultaneously. He made a mental note to mend it tomorrow. So absorbed was he in the misery of the wetness that he almost collided into the man before noticing. His warrior’s instinct warned him sharply, and he leapt backward, hand reaching for the hilt of his sword. Except that there was no hilt. Belatedly, he remembered that the only weapon he carried was a dull knife to gut fish. His sword was carefully wrapped and stored at the bottom of his chest of belongings.

The man, the exact one from the inn, watched him with amused interest. Gary stood warily and waited for him to speak. When he did not, and the silence began to stretch in an uncomfortable manner, Gary spoke, trying to keep his uneasiness under control. “Excuse me, sir. What is it that you want of me?”

“Want?” echoed the man, with feigned bemusement. “What can a man like me want from a man like you?”

“Well? What are you doing?” Gary crossed his arms on his chest.

“I do have a message, passed directly from the lips of my lord,” he said.

“Carry on.”

“But it is not for you, but someone known by a name other than Gary,” the man stated calmly, as if explaining to a half-wit.

“Fine, then, get out of the way! You’re blocking the path, man! By Ayas, folk need to get home!” He felt his temper rising, in apprehension as well as frustration.

“It is for the Red Dragon,” said the man, unflinching in the face of his anger. Each word was pronounced clear and smooth, yet whispered so that only they two could hear. Gary took a breath and schooled his face to neutrality.

“Indeed,” he mocked, pretending what he did not feel. “You expect me to believe that you run messages for the Red Dragon? Pah!”

“Well then, you are sure you don’t know him? I will just ask around. Tomorrow, perhaps. Goodnight, sir.” The man stepped away from the center of the street and walked past him. Gary knew he should let him go. But somehow, his lips moved without his mind’s assent. “Tell me. Tell me what the king said.”

“Ah, but I must tell the Red Dragon in person. Unless, of course, you are him?” Mischief gleamed in the man’s eye, as he turned to look back at him. Gary scowled furiously, but said nothing in denial. Sensing that this was as far as he could bend, the man nodded.

“I had to be sure, you know. Couldn’t risk getting to wrong man, or worse, the wrong ears,” he paused. “Listen carefully, for these were the king’s words. ‘Dragon wings’.”

Gary pondered the two words, but his face gave away nothing. “That was all there was to it. The king knows you are here,” shrugged the man.

“Thank you,” said Gary gravely, ignoring the man’s last comment. “We should not tarry now, in case a passerby notes us with suspicion. Indeed, we have been most indiscreet, to converse in middle of the road.” It was clearly a dismissal.

“Good night, then, sir.” The man gave him a knowing nod, and lifted the hood of his cloak, covered his face.

“Good night,” replied Gary, but the man had already vanished down the path and into the darkness. He too plodded on his way, suddenly weary and yearning for the warm, creaking bed of his home. It was long before he remembered that he had forgotten to pass on message back to the king. But what would he say? That he would return, and swiftly? That he refuses? For the summons the message conveyed was more than clear. In the time of instability, Leon needed him, or at least thought he did. In his own words, he needed the wings of the dragon.

The candles were still burning for him inside his cabin. He peeled off his soaked cloak and kicked off his mud-splattered boots, trying not to drip all over like a drowned dog.

Furs was curled on the tiny pallet beside the hearth, already dozing. Dana pounced on him, demanding to know what had taken him that long. Gary told her of all that had transpired during the evening. Dana busied herself with preparing dry cloths for him, but see the concern in her face.

He peered over the crib and stroked the soft curls of his son. The babe had a thumb in his mouth, and as he slept there was the peaceful, content sucking sound. Gary’s resolve doubled. No, he would not go back, bringing his family into the stress of that unfamiliar life. Neither could he leave them here. His son would grow up a man, not a lackey, or a tool for the Tonorian throne.

And so, six more months slipped by. There was no further word from the king, no dark messengers to shatter the evening serenity. Life continued as before, in the calm, leisurely pattern that folk set themselves to defy the merciless hand of time. For time was change, and change an unfamiliarity that had no respect for human patterns. In those days, Gary grew restless and he could smell some secret mischief which meaning eluded him. Often he would pause, whilst mending nets or gutting fish, and glance suspiciously at the clouds. But he knew not why.