Sons Of The Father - Chapter One

         Slowly drawn like the final breath of a dying god, the dim winter sun made its descent behind the jagged, primeval silhouette of the Whitewolf Mountains in the distance. A chilling dusk crept upon the small rustic farming village and the breath of men and horses hung thick in the damp, foggy air. As it had in so many years before, the village of Maneva braced itself against the harsh northern winter and coiled into a warm, silent slumber.

         Taking cover behind a stack of weathered ale-barrels flanking the old tavern, two young men – and a very rotund pig – crouched with marked anticipation. Gregor's burly, calloused hand muzzled the over-eager swine's snout while his left arm encircled the beast, keeping its body in check. Taking his time and due care to avoid being seen, Vaughan cautiously peered over the top of the barrel, squinting for a a clearer view in the sparse lamp-light of the evening.

         “This is going to be the best prank ever!” Circumstance and the pressing need for subterfuge notwithstanding, Vaughan could barely contain his enthusiasm. Though it had taken a week of planning and a lot of patience to wait for the pieces to fall into place, Vaughan's elaborate scheme would soon come to bear fruit. If everything went according to plan, the townsfolk would be talking about this one for years to come. Vaughan couldn't believe how clever he was.

         “Shut up!” Gregor hissed, nervously restraining the squirming pig as quietly as he could. “If you're not quiet, they will hear us!” Although Vaughan would never consider the possibility of failure, his friend still had his misgivings. Moreover, a very real fear of another excruciating dressing-down and a week's worth of the cruelest chores his father could think of, were he to discover his son's nocturnal exploits.

         “If they don't smell you first!” Vaughan retorted. “You smell like a pig's ring-piece!”

         “If you want a pig, sometimes you have to wallow through pig-shit.” Gregor explained. Long hours of back-breaking physical labour and a lackadaisical approach to hygiene had done no favours for his aroma, his pig-wrangling exploits aside. Whenever somebody in Maneva died, somebody had to dig the grave. Today it was the widow Erikson and Gregor had drawn the short straw. The stench of grave earth and pig excrement saturated his clothes, but he barely gave it a second thought. “You had just better keep your end up.”

         “Wow, Gregor... that's profound!” Vaughan laid the sarcasm on thick as cold maple sap. “I shall have to write that little gem in my...” he paused mid-thought. Slowly he raised his head again over the horizon of the barrel, cupping his cold hands over his eyes as they struggled for a clearer view of the tavern door.

         “Nine to the hour! Closing time, you raggedy bastards!” The gravelly voice of Matthais the innkeeper bellowed in the distance. His voice carried loud and long, lest anybody forget that he was indeed shutting up shop.

         Snippets of the patron's abortive pleas mingled with the faint clanking of cups and the heavily-leaden footsteps upon the rough dirt road. One by one the dreary, drunken silhouettes of the townsfolk staggered and stumbled out the tavern door, slowly going their separate ways to cold hearths and colder wives. Another day of back-breaking toil awaited the next morning as an interlude to the next evening of brief revelry and respite.

         With a heavy oaken thud, the distant shadowy visage of Matthais pulled the door shut. For what seemed like an eternity – to Gregor, Vaughan and of course, Stumpy the pig – Matthais fiddled and fumbled with the cumbersome iron lock as the odd faint click of the heavy mechanism broke the silence. Under his breath, he faintly cursed in his native Aquilian tongue.

         “Are you sure you can unlock that thing?” Gregor whispered his doubts.

         “Fairly certain.” Vaughan was loath to commit entirely. “You know,  I have picked a few locks here and there. As far as I can tell, a lock is a lock is a lock. At least the ones that have come through my Mother's store... probably where Matthais bought this one. Just you wait until I pick the lock on Elsie's chastity belt!”

         “You wish.” Ever the pessimist, Gregor was skeptical of many things that came out of his best friend's mouth, chief among them his exaggerated claims and bare-arsed boasts of prowess with the fairer sex.

         “He's gone!” Vaughan took another glance over the barrels as he saw Matthais trudge off under the waning evening light toward his home. “I'm ready when you are, Gregor. You wait here with Stumpy while I work my magic on the lock. When I give you the nod, bring him to the door... but mind you stay in the shadows.” The two friends nodded in conspiratorial agreement.

         This was going to be the best prank ever.



         “I can't believe I let you talk me into that!” Gregor spat, half-gargling a mouthful of lukewarm apple cider. The two friends reclined against the gentle, grassy slope beneath a mighty cedar tree on the outskirts by the highway. Stumpy the pig, however, had been left in a rather inebriated state in the tavern. The subtle irony of leaving a drunken swine in an inn was not lost on either of the boys. Staring listlessly at the stars in the winter sky, Gregor passed the bladder back to Vaughan who took a less than man-sized sip. Vaughan was talented at many things, but holding his liquor was not one of them.

         Although in many was Gregor and Vaughan were polar opposites, the two best friends complemented each other in an intangible way, like brothers separated at birth. All of which bore out in the exploits of the night. For a man of Gregor's muscular physique and tenacity, pig-rustling was an easy feat. Had it been the other way around with Vaughan to tend to the pig and Gregor the lock, it would have ended badly for all. And what better pig to rustle than Stumpy – Old Man Agrigord's prize sow?

         As far back as they could remember, Anders Agrigord despised the two of them – moreso than his usual level of contempt for the other villagers of Maneva. Nobody was particularly fond of the bitter old man, nor he of them, but the two boys in particular had drawn his ire. They in turn made him the butt of almost every trick, scam or prank they pulled over the years. Fortunately for the two of them, very few in the village paid any mind to the vile, vitriolic, gin-soaked ramblings of Anders Agrigord and his wild claims of two boys who set fire to his scarecrow, spooked his cows, rigged his porch with trip-wire and defecated on his doorstep.

         “Fun, wasn't it? I can barely believe everything came together so... so... magnificently!” Vaughan enthused. Like a painter taking the final step away from his masterpiece, Vaughan couldn't help but delight in the brilliance of their latest undertaking. Once the pig had been herded into the tavern, tricking him into partaking of a spirituous beverage proved as difficult as convincing a duck to eat bread crumbs.

         The beast drank deep from the bottle with deathly abandon and in another life, he could have given Gregor a run for his guilders in a drinking contest. Having had his fill of liquor, Stumpy proceeded downstairs for the larder and – for all Gregor and Vaughan knew – an empty whiskey barrel to fornicate with. The two exited the tavern as stealthily as they had entered, but not before leaving an item of value in plain sight.

         “Too right it was!” Gregor took another heady pull, his pale blue eyes gazing towards the heavens. “But remind me again. What was all this in aid of?”

         “You don't remember?” Vaughan jumped up with alacrity.

         “Remind me.” Gregor took another yet swig, sinking his body deeper and deeper into the grassy slope.

         “Well, Gregor,” Vaughan took back the bladder and imbibed a dainty sip. “If you can't remember, I'm certainly not going to tell you!”

         “Fine. Then don't.” Vaughan's fun may have been over, but Gregor was determined to get a rise from his touchy friend.

         “Okay. I'll tell you,” Vaughan spat petulantly, “seeing as you were probably too drunk to remember anyway.” Of all the beasts and men in Valin, Vaughan thought to himself, I have to be stuck with this boorish Oaf! Still, I suppose he is my friend. And he does keep the bigger boys away!

         “I'm listening.” This was of course a lie on Gregor's part, but it would do. It would allow Vaughan to play out his melodrama of being the cultured, high-minded artistic visionary,  surrounded on all sides by filthy, gap-toothed, barely literate backwoods rubes who could never hope to understand his genius.

         “Eight days ago.” Vaughan began. “You don't remember? How could you not? I was on the stage with my lute. That caravan of traders was passing through, so the tavern was a full house. You must have been sitting toward the back, close to the bar.” For Vaughan, there were few things in life that compared to the joy of his music. While he might not have been the a gifted lutist or the most proficient singer, there was little else in the way of entertainment for the villagers of Maneva. As long as proceedings were not too rowdy in the old tavern, Matthais was usually happy to let him get up and play for the listless drunkards. Matthais was also happy to pocket any coin the audience may have tipped Vaughan, but who could he complain to? As long as there was an audience, Vaughan was content.

         “Doesn't ring a bell.” Of course he remembered, but he was curious to hear his friend's account of the evening's happenings.

         “Anyway, so I warmed the crowd up with a few easy numbers... The Ballad Of Skoel, Rats In The Cellar and Pearl For My Swine... they were loving it! The roar of their singing was deafening and there was nary an empty mug in the tavern. I tell you Gregor, I was on fire! It was as if Saint Ostar himself had reached down and touched me from on high!”

         “Is this going somewhere?” Gregor yawned. “Because if I'm not back soon, my father will...” His father probably wouldn't, but Vaughan was given to ramble at times like these.

         “Elsie!” Vaughan exclaimed. “The important part of the story is Elsie. After I'd finished the fourth song, the crowd was absolutely ravenous for more. I tell you, Gregor, they were gagging for it! I looked over and out of the corner of my eye, there she was. Our eyes met and she gave the look... that look! The one that says 'my loins are aflame with desire for you!', as if to say 'Vaughan, when you put down the lute and leave the stage, I will pin you against a wall, mount you and grind your manhood into a bloody, quivering nub!'” Gregor suppressed a chuckle.

         “So, just for her, I dedicate the next song to the 'fair, golden-haired lass in the back'. The whole tavern goes silent and I strum the opening chords to White Lily. You know, the minor one with the thingy on top?” Gregor knew the infamous tune well indeed. As a child, he'd overheard a few verses billowing from the tavern one evening. Upon repeating them aloud he received a sound paddling from his irate father. His buttocks clenched defensively as Vaughan continued his story.

         “I barely croak out the first few words and before I know it, Matthais rushes to the stage and grabs me by the scruff of my neck! I tell you, Gregor... he was crazy! Then he dragged me out in front of the stunned audience of caravan traders and hurled me out the door, face first onto the gravel outside! 'We'll have none of that filth in here, young man!!', he yelled at me! Fortunately I was able to grab my lute on the first bounce when he threw it after me, but... can you believe it, Gregor? White Lily?!”

         Spitting a mouthful of cider and slapping his knee, Gregor exploded with uproarious laughter. Try as he might – and how he tried - to contain himself, tears of laughter welled up in the corners of his eyes. “You... played... ha ha ha ha... White Lily... ha ha ha... to Elsie? Ha ha ha!” He managed to regain his composure for a brief second. “If front of... the whole... town?”

         “Oh, what?” Vaughan was indignant. “White Lily is a beautiful love song!”

         “Maybe so...” Gregor chuckled. “...if you're a sailor in a whore-house!” The composure was gone and Gregor doubled over in another fit of mirth. A scowl on his face, Vaughan waited patiently for his friend to finish. After what seem like an aeon, the laughter finally died and Gregor's shallow breath returned to normal. “But seriously, Vaughan, have you even heard the lyrics?”

         “Of course I have!” Vaughan protested. “It's poetry!” As far as he was concerned, White Lilly was poetry. If these dim-witted louts couldn't appreciate the sublime genius of the old Legalan folk song, that was their loss, not his. Perhaps something was lost in translation? He wondered.

         “I'm not as well-read as you are,” Gregor offered, “so I'll take your word for it. But you could see why Matthais would think it's filth. Kaedwyn preserve you, you're lucky all that happened was getting thrown out on your ear. You'd do well never to let Father Dominic hear you play those kinds of bawdy tunes. You'll never hear the end of it!”

         “In his years as a Military Chaplain, he probably heard much worse.” Vaughan shrugged.

         “Anyway,” Gregor tactfully changed subject, “the moral of the story is that while your 'throbbing manhood' withers from Elsie's neglect, Matthais is in for a rude awakening on the morrow. It'll take him hours to clean up the vomit and pig-shit!” Gregor paused, lost in contemplation. “But what if they blame us for it? Let's face it. We're not exactly altar boys around here, are we?”

         “That, my dear Gregor,” Vaughan was even more pleased with himself than usual, “is the best part! Remember that little punch-up you got into with Stefan earlier this week?” Stefan. Gregor scowled at the mention of his name. Because his father was a Royal Tax Collector, Stefan had grown up with a sense of privilege and entitlement, pushing the other young folk around with what little clout he could muster. As Gregor was the only one to stand up to him, Stefan had taken a special dislike to Gregor. He was never one to shy away from a raw nerve, whether it be Gregor's deceased mother or Vaughan's half-Rhi'man heritage. For these reasons and many others, Gregor despised Stefan with every fibre of his being. Rarely a week would pass without the two of them in some confrontation or other, even if it were nothing more serious than words or a few stray blows here and there.

         “How could I forget?” Gregor clenched his teeth as he rubbed his half-scabbed knuckles. “I swear to the Seven Saints, if Father Dominic hadn't stuck his nose in and pulled me off him...”

         “...then I might not have had the opportunity to pick his pocket!” Vaughan finished his friend's sentence. Gregor stared at his friend with a sense of awe. For once, his friend's kleptomania was going to get them out of trouble. “When Matthais opens his tavern tomorrow, what do you think he will find, conveniently lying on the bar?” Although it was barely a second of suspense, the anticipation was killing Gregor. “Stefan's fancy, engraved hunting knife!”

         “Vaughan, you magnificent bastard!” Gregor lept over, nearly crushing Vaughan's ribs with a hearty bear-hug. “Two rabbits with one stone! Vaughan, you are a genius!” Vaughan struggled to breathe in his friend's embrace and was relieved when Gregor uncoiled his arms and sat back down.

         “And on that note, my dear friend,” Vaughan stood up, making a graceful flourish with his hands, “I bid you good night.”