The Man - Chapter 0

The Man

Sunlight broke through the forest canopy, illuminating streams of pollen and dust above the man's face.  His breath sent the particles whirling upward and the odor of sap and freshly cut wood stung his nostrils.  He lay on his back, flesh tingling with an icy chill.

Who am I? The simple question floated above the fog in the man's mind, but the answer did not rise as it should have.  He stared at the boughs of great oaks, waiting for the dizziness to pass.  Birds chirped in the distance and the warmth of the morning seeped into him, returning his strength.  The question remained.

The man sat up.  He pulled his long hair before his eyes, learning it was brown.  He ran a hand across his chin and discovered a thick beard.  No clothing covered his pale flesh and his athletic frame was as unfamiliar as the trees.  Blood trickled from a small wound in his left hip, but he didn't concern himself with it.  He knew he had suffered far worse, though he could not remember when or how.  He knew he had watched many men bleed worse.

Moist soil buried the man's lower legs and feet.  Though it appeared the topsoil had been scraped away in a circle an arm's length across, the ground was firm, as if his feet had been buried for months or years.  Worms and insects struggled across the fresh surface as if they had just been uncovered.  That was certainly a strange thing.

The man pulled his legs free of the crumbling soil and rubbed warmth back into his toes.  The earth was cool, yet his flesh was cold, almost icy.

The man stood and a stream of blood slithered down his leg.  He spared a hand to cover the wound and wetness warmed his fingers.  He resisted looking down, forcing his eyes to study his surroundings.

A metal wedge attached to a wooden handle laid on the soil next to him; a woodcutter's axe.  A common tool among men.  Had someone struck him with it? The length of the axe head was easily as long as the wound in his hip.

Five paces away, woodchips and discarded branches surrounded a stump.  Three piles of split wood had been stacked next to a wagon hitched to a sturdy, brown horse.  No woodcutter stood among the trees, only mosses and shadows.

The man picked up the axe and walked to the wagon, crunching dried leaves and twigs beneath his bare feet.  The horse whinnied, turning its head at his approach, leather harness creaking.

The man was alone.

A bundle of brown cloth rested on the seat of the wagon.  The man unwrapped it, revealing a slice of bread and a chunk of smoked meat.  The aroma stirred his appetite.  He felt as if he hadn't eaten in days, though he had no idea how long it might have truly been.  Dropping the axe, he took the bread and meat in each hand, devouring the food with large mouthfuls.

He grabbed a water skin hanging from the side of the wagon by a leather strap, pulled the cork stopper, and drank the water in painfully large gulps.  The skin emptied too quickly.

An image splashed across the man's mind.  Three men in gray robes had stood over him beneath a black sky.  Was it a memory? Or had it been a dream? He lowered the empty water skin from his lips.  Was it his name? No, one of the men had been called Kajal.  It made him shudder.  That name was powerful.  Why?

Finishing the water, the man tossed the skin into the seat of the wagon.  Dark fingerprints stained the side of the container, causing him to study the red stains on his left hand.  He had forgotten his wound.  It wasn't deep, but blood had trickled along his leg to the knee before slowing.  He should make a bandage.

A voice whispered from within the forest; beyond the sound of the man's breathing; beyond the song of the birds; beyond the soft rustle of the leaves in the breeze.  It was the delicate voice of a woman.  He knew it called to him, though he could not comprehend the words.  It was a familiar sound, so soothing, but he couldn't guess when he might have heard it before.  He cocked his head in an attempt to determine its direction.

A bird called out nearby, drowning the voice in high pitched notes.  When the piercing call ceased, the voice was gone, replaced by the distant response of a like bird.

The man knew he hadn't imagined the sound.  Someone had called to him; someone who had called to him before.  He teetered on the edge of the black pit of his mind, certain that there should have been many things there, though he couldn't remember even one.

Taking the cloth which had wrapped the food, the man held it against his hip to cover the wound.  Staring at the small wad of fabric stirred another memory.  He had rushed through underbrush, clutching a larger bundle of dark cloth to his chest.  Someone had pursued him.  No, there had been more than one.  It had been Kajal and the other two men in gray.  Yes, they had been after the bundle, but what had been in it?

The memories were jumbled and difficult to understand, but there had been a feeling of satisfaction.  They had stood over him, but he had outsmarted them somehow.  Had there been a baby wrapped in that bundle? Yes, they had taken the baby, but the man had still outsmarted them, though he could not recall how or even why.

He remembered intense pain.  His head had felt as if it were going to burst into flame.  The three men in gray had hurt him, inflicting horrible tortures on him with their magic, but he hadn't revealed his secret.  Yes, he had kept a secret! There had been two babies!  He had left the other with someone he could trust, a farmer.  He recalled the leathery face of the farmer, but the name did not come to him immediately.

A bird with blue feathers landed in the broken soil where his feet had been buried.  It hopped forward twice, snatched a dangling worm in its tiny beak before leaping back into the safety of the trees.

Was it an omen? Or just a bird feeding on a worm? Did he even believe in such?

The man sighed in frustration and placed a hand on the side of the wagon to steady himself.  It was a warm morning, so why had he awakened feeling so cold? Why had his feet been buried? Where had the babies come from and why had Kajal wanted them? There were more questions, too many more, and the answers were lost in the blackness of his mind.  He was exhausted and only wanted to rest, but he knew that he could not.  He knew that there was something urgent that must be done.  Whatever it was.  He knew that he must do it.

The man didn't recognize the forest, but he knew that the farmer in his memory lived nearby.  He recalled the brown fields, the small cottage, and the yellow timbers of the newly-built barn.  The farmer had been called Lasen.  Yes, that was the name.

The man patted the coarse hair of the horse's head and considered taking the wagon.  He was weak, but he would leave it.  He wasn't certain he wasn't the woodcutter, since he couldn't remember much before awakening.  He would not be taking a road, and the wagon would not travel well through the thicker brush.  He did not have sufficient need for the wagon and so would leave it for the rightful owner.  That was the way of things.

The man walked northwest across the verdant floor of the forest, amid the ancient oaks.  He couldn't say how he knew, but Lasen's farm would be found in that direction.  He didn't recall any particular path, or even remember traveling from there.  It was a feeling stirred by the shred of a memory.  He could've been wrong.  He did not like to be guided by instincts alone - he remembered that, at least - but he had nowhere else to go.

The sun had risen high above the trees to peer straight down when the woman's voice reached the man again, as if the wind had drawn a whisper from the leaves rather than a rustle.  He could neither understand the words, nor put a direction to them.  The sound ceased soon after it began and he was left wondering about the source.  He remembered nothing more and his thoughts drifted to his surroundings.

The forest ended at a sea of green corn stalks.  The cerulean sky, heaped with mounds of cloud, stretched above flat farmlands.  Across the knee-high corn, smoke rose from the stone chimney of a thatch-roofed cottage and a weathered barn leaned nearby, threatening to collapse.

The man stepped into the field, careful to avoid damaging the crops.  A breeze pushed gentle waves across the corn stalks and insects rose into the air at his approach. He was faintly aware of the warm sunlight upon his bare flesh.  The farm held his gaze.  This place was familiar, yet so strange.

A grassy field stretched beyond the cottage.  A wooden fence separated the field and dwelling.  Two brown cows stood on the far side of the fence, biting grass and tearing it away with a motion of their heads.  Beneath a lone oak tree, a square stone slab rested silently; a grave marker.  That had not been a part of his torn memory.

The man stopped ten paces from the closed door of the stone cottage, unsure what to do next.  He should have found clothing and made himself presentable before approaching anyone, but he needed to retrieve the baby he had left with the farmer.  He could recall a sense of urgency.  He didn't know where he would take the child or why.  He would accomplish one task at a time.  Nothing would be gained by worrying prematurely over matters beyond his control.

The door swung open, grinding a wail from the rusty hinges before cracking against the stones of the front of the cottage.

A gangly, old man stepped from the dark doorway, catching the door with one hand before it could bounce closed again.  He wore plain brown pants and shirt, and boots which were as worn and leathery as the rest of him.  His hair was a gray swirl of strands on his tan head, above a wrinkled face.  He squinted, wrinkling that face even more, raising a large crossbow before him.  The weapon seemed too large for the man, threatening to topple him forward.

"Well, I can die.  I've seen it all," the farmer said dryly.  "Say something witty before I shoot you.  My cousin visits next month, it'll make my story about 'the naked fellow buried around back' a fair piece more interesting."

The man held up a hand to show he meant no harm.  He had been wrong.  He had expected to find Lasen, not this old farmer.  Why had the cottage seemed so familiar?

"Theseus? By Lineas' First Bean!" The farmer shouted, lowering the crossbow.  "Is it possible? It can't be!"

The name tore through the fog in the man's mind like a stone tearing through a spider's web.  His name was Theseus.  How could he have forgotten it? He was a Draechai; a priest who worshipped no gods, but the natural way of things.  The men who had hurt him on that dark night had been Draechai, as well.  He was in danger.  Everyone was in danger.  How could he know that but not know how or why? What had happened?

"I seek Lasen," Theseus stated.  Lasen had been an agent sworn to serve him, and that was why he had left the child with him.

"I'm Lasen," the farmer confirmed.  "Did the years make you blind?"

Theseus didn't recognize the old farmer.  The man in his memory had not been so thin and had had gray hair, a full head of it.

"It's been awhile," the farmer added.

"How long?"

"Nineteen or twenty," shrugged the farmer.

"Nineteen or twenty what?" asked Theseus.

"You old goat," the farmer laughed. "It's been twenty years."

Was it possible? Had Theseus given the child to Lasen twenty years earlier? He recalled it as the previous night.  Yet, he recognized the farm, and the once newly-built barn was weathered and leaning from likely storm damage.  It seemed impossible, yet it had to be true.

"And you used to wear clothing.  I guess you nature priests are going completely natural these days," Lasen said, a smile playing across his wrinkled face.  "Took you long enough to come back, too."  He turned and walked through the doorway, motioning for Theseus to follow.  "Try not to bleed on anything.  I don't like cleaning."

Theseus glanced at the dried blood on his bare leg before he followed the farmer.  The aroma of roasting beef and vegetables filled the uncomfortably warm cottage.  A small table and two stools sat to the left of the doorway.  An iron pot hung from a hook over the mumbling fire in the hearth.  The door to the small bedroom was closed, but the green curtain covering the pantry was open, a few sacks and skins visible.

Theseus wanted to shake the man and demand to know what had happened to the child.  He hoped that the grave marker was not for the child.  He also needed to know why the child had been important, if Lasen knew.  He would be patient.  Twenty years had passed, so another few moments wouldn't hurt matters much.  Also, he didn't wish to reveal that he couldn't remember.  There were rules which had kept him alive.  Those rules dictated he reveal no more than required.  At least, he could remember that much.

Lasen pulled clothing from a chest next to the pantry, holding up garments, pausing to size up Theseus and shaking his head at most.

"You can wear these."  Lasen passed the clothing to Theseus.  "There is a bandage and robe, too.  You priests love those things."  Lasen sat on a stool at the table and loosed a long sigh, shoulders drooping.  "I feel like that barn out there.  Going before my time."

Theseus wrapped the bandage around his waist, covering the crusty blood over his hip.  He pulled up the sandy-brown pants and slipped the white shirt over his head.  The boots were too large, but wearable.  Lastly, he draped himself in the dark brown robe, hood down.  He remembered wearing another robe, a gray one like the men in his broken memory.

"My dear Leani left me some years back.  I stuck around, farming, whittling wood, and waiting for you to return.  You said you would.  I was going to give you another fifteen years and call it quits."  Lasen chuckled and stood, knees popping.  "Would you like some tea?"

"That would be just the thing," Theseus smiled and sat on the opposite stool, the old wood creaking at the joints.  He made certain to sit so he had a clear view of the closed door to the bedroom.  He cared little for tea, but preparing it might help put Lasen at ease.  The grave marker belonged to Leani.  He was certain.  It was a relief that it did not belong to the child.

"They came asking about you."  Lasen filled a kettle from a bucket on the floor.  He pulled the pot from the fire and replaced it with the kettle.

"Who?" Theseus prodded when the farmer didn't continue soon enough.

"More of those crazy priests, I'd say."  Lasen's voice was full of anger.  He rummaged through the pantry, emerging with a large, leather pouch.  "Putting their noses in things and asking the same questions a hundred times."

"Did they take the child?" Theseus felt growing concern.  He may yet shake the old man if he didn't speak quickly enough.  He consciously rested his palms on his thighs, careful not to do anything with his hands to broadcast his growing impatience and worry.

"Oh, no.  They had no idea about that, I don't think.  They were looking for you.  Quite persistent and demanding fellows.  No sense of manners whatsoever.  They were lucky as the First Farm of Lineas that Leani was in a good mood that day."  Lasen chuckled, standing before the hearth.  "I knew they were in trouble when they didn't wipe their feet before they entered."  He chuckled again.  "It only got worse from there.  I didn't bother telling Leani that their feet didn't get dirty anyhow."

"What did you tell them?"  Theseus had no memory of Leani, but he smiled as if he saw the humor as well.  At this point, she was just one less loose end.

"Well, they said they knew I was one of your agents.  I didn't deny it after that.  I told them the truth.  You always said never lie to Draechai, so I told them.  You came, gathered some goods, and headed into the night.  All true.  They never asked about babies and I never offered.  This was a few days after, anyway."  Lasen sprinkled tea leaves in the kettle.  "This tea is quite good.  Well, if it is fresh, it is good.  I either bought it last month when I went to town," he paused, apparently in thought.  "Or nine years ago."

Other Draechai had searched for Theseus.  He knew he couldn't trust anyone.  He especially couldn't trust Draechai, not even from his own circle, not that he could remember who they were.  His rules told him such, even if his memories did not.

"Where is the child now?" Theseus pressed the issue finally.  If the child was lost or dead, he didn't know what he would do next. If she were dead, maybe he wouldn't need to do anything.  He wiped his palms on his robes before he realized what he had done.  The farmer didn't seem to take note of his anxiety.

"You told me to keep her safe and avoid Draechai like the corn blight.  Leani wanted to keep her, such a precious little thing."  The old man sighed and his eyes seemingly drifted from the present.  "Leani never forgave me, but the morning after you gave her to us, I woke early and took her to town.  I wanted to give her to someone who could protect her, so I gave her to the best swordsman that I knew.  Lastes Geraedes and his wife.  They could raise her and protect her far better than I.  And they couldn't be tied to me or you.  They didn't want a child, but I explained she was important, and she must be hidden from the Draechai.  I hope I didn't reveal too much, but it was necessary to at least say she was important."  He looked to Theseus, perhaps for some sign that his actions had been acceptable.

Theseus offered a reassuring nod.  Nothing would be gained by criticizing.

Lasen continued, "I was smart enough to keep my distance after that.  Your Draechai watched Leani and I for a number of years.  I know they were your friends, but they were annoying little field rats, at times."  His face turned towards the back of the cottage and Theseus wondered if the farmer looked at something in the room or somehow saw the grave marker outside.

"Lastes Geraedes," Theseus repeated the name.  "I cannot place him.  Somewhere in Lankhastaer?"  If Draechai still watched the cottage and had done nothing at Theseus' approach, they would probably continue to watch and pose no threat, at least until his business was completed.  Theseus knew that much, but he suspected Draechai would use other tools to watch someone for such a long time.  There may be other creatures that would need to be dealt with.

"Aye," Lasen nodded.  "I believe he was master of sword training at the magic academy.  Did some training for the King, as well.  Him and his son."  He paused.  "I recall you had another child which you took with you.  It would be a waste of breath for me to ask what you did with that one."

"He worked at the magic academy?"  Theseus' heart jumped.  All of his memories hadn't been lost, after all.  Lankhastaer and its magical academies were in the kingdom of Denowith and the wizards of Raujorn had controlled those academies for centuries.  He remembered that those wizards had sought to take the child as well, but he couldn't connect that knowledge to any particular memory.  If true, the child had been placed before the keen eyes of one of the greater threats.  It was terrible news, perhaps worse than Draechai catching her.  He just couldn't recall how.3333

"Well, he was no wizard.  As I said, he was a swordsman."  Lasen explained, not understanding Theseus' fear.  "And Draechai seldom venture into such a large city.  I never heard of one going to the magic academy either."  He took the kettle from the fire and poured steaming tea into two mugs sitting before the hearth.  Moving to the table, he set a mug before each stool.

It was true.  The Draechai had no love for cities or wizards.  Lasen had done well, if the Raujornians hadn't taken the child.  Draechai would go nowhere near that academy without purpose.  And Raujornians were quite divided in their loyalties anyway and it was unlikely they all shared the same interest in the child.

"I almost forgot.  I have a beef stew brewing.  I was about to have it for lunch when you arrived, bleeding and showing your fanny."  Lasen raised a white brow.  "What did happen to your clothes? And you have not aged a day, since I saw you last.  I reckon it's none of my concern, if you don't want to tell me.  I know how such things work."

Theseus forced a smile.  How had twenty years passed? Kajal had taken one of the children and Lasen had given the other to a sword instructor.  There was much to be done.  Theseus shrugged and it seemed enough for the farmer.

Lasen rubbed his hands together, walking to the hearth once more.  He lifted a log and fed the starving fire, knocking gray ash from the coals and red cinders fled up the chimney.  "It's summer, and it's still chilly to me.  Sometimes it's like a tomb in here.  Must be my old bones.  I guess my stove is running out of coals."  He thumped his chest and smiled, turning around.

Theseus wiped sweat from his forehead and he could feel more on his back.  The cottage was hot.  Lasen may have just been old, but Theseus knew such a chill could mean something darker and he would investigate after he had completed his business.

"I know you might think this crazy, but once, last year, I was eating a roasted chicken and it froze solid in my mouth." Lasen sounded as if he did not believe his own story and chuckled before continuing.  "Enough of foolish old men and such.  Do you need some coin? Or a horse? I don't have one, but I have a neighbor who might lend one.  He uses my fields, so he owes me a favor or two.  I might even have enough coin stashed to buy it for you."

"Have you told anyone else about the child?" Theseus asked, remembering Lasen had mentioned visits from a cousin.

"Of course not," responded Lasen, returning to his stool.  "This is the first time I've brought it up."

"Had Leani ever told anyone?" Theseus pried further.  He was well-versed in the game of half-truths.

Lasen lifted the mug to his lips and blew the trail of steam away.  He lowered the mug without taking a drink, eyes focusing on the hot tea.  "Leani always did whatever she chose.  It's hard to say what she might have done."

Theseus nodded, wiping his palms across his thighs.  He knew what he must be done.  There were rules which must be followed.  He almost wished he had forgotten those along with everything else.

"I 'spose she might of told my cousin, Rejar," Lasen offered.  Looking up from his tea, he shrugged while adding, "He wouldn't of told no one.  No one who mattered anyways."

Theseus nodded.  Beneath the table, he opened and closed his fists several times, trying to work the stiffness from his fingers.  He would not concern himself with the cousin, unless he could not locate the child.  He swallowed hard.  He knew what the rules demanded of him.  He never liked the rules. Life itself was like that, though. You did what you had to, not what you wanted to.  The world survived and you survived with it.

"The secret is safe," Lasen confirmed.  "If you go to Lankhastaer, you'll find your young woman.  You can be sure of that."

Theseus took a deep breath.  He tried to force a smile and knew his face twisted strangely instead, unable to complete the unfelt expression.  He was thankful he hadn't eaten or he may have vomited.  He knew what he had to do.  And he had to do it to protect a secret that he could not even remember.

Lasen opened his mouth to speak again, but didn't get the first word out.

Theseus jumped to his feet and reached across the table, hands closing around Lasen's neck.  The old farmer gasped, eyes widening in surprise, thin fingers clawing at the stronger hands.  Theseus tightened his grip, heart bludgeoning his chest as if it were trying to break free and help his victim.  A feeling stirred deep within his stomach, sickening and unclean.  The Dark take his rules! He wanted to stop, but it had to be done.

Lasen kicked the table, causing both mugs of tea to tumble and shatter upon the floor.  Pleading eyes bulged in the wrinkled face and weak fingers pried at Theseus' hands.  For a long moment, the two men locked gazes.  Theseus wanted to look away, but he would not make it any easier on himself.  He would look the farmer in the eye.  He owed him that much, at least.  He hoped that Lasen would see pity in his eyes, and perhaps understand.  There was something of great importance at stake; something bigger than either of them.

Lasen's eyes drifted to focus on nothing and his old body went limp.  Theseus loosened his grip and laid the farmer gently on the wooden floor.  He dropped to the floor next to him and sat, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.

The loyal man had deserved a better death.  The corpse lay staring upward with glassy eyes and open mouth.  Theseus should have gathered special herbs to make the passing painless, but there had not been time.  The rules dictated that he make haste.  His memories told him there was much at stake.  The anxiety was there, if not the facts.

The gray shards of the broken mugs glistened with tea, the liquid darkening the floorboards and soaking through the cracks.  The sound of the mugs breaking thundered in Theseus' memory, though he couldn't recall the sound when the mugs had broken.

Theseus stood, wiping his hands on his robe.  The rough fabric didn't grind away the feel of Lasen's flesh.  What must be done, must be done, he reminded himself.  The rules said there could be no regret.  Yet, there was something familiar about what he felt and he wondered if he had done this same act before.  Perhaps, he had done it many times.  If so, he was glad his memories were gone.

The unusual chill which Lasen had described likely meant he had been watched.  Freezing his meals before he could eat them? Theseus knew the Draechai could call upon creatures to spy, but none could create such a powerful effect.  He had to assume he had enemies which he couldn't remember, powerful enemies; more powerful than Draechai.

Stepping to the pantry, Theseus jerked the green curtain from the opening and walked to the hearth, flinging one end of the cloth into the fire.  The flames hungrily spread to the fabric, quickly climbing its length.  He opened the door to the bedroom, hurling the fiery curtain onto the blankets covering the bed.

A wooden trunk rested at the foot of the bed, and a table and stool stood against the wall.  A collection of oddly shaped metal tools and dozens of small wooden carvings rested on the table.  Many were shaped like deer or wolves, though some were men and women.  One figure drew Theseus' attention above the rest.  It was the dark brown figure of a bearded man in a robe holding a staff over his head with both hands.  It was as tall as his hand was wide.  He grabbed the figurine, shoving it into the pocket of his robe.  Other figurines clattered on the floorboards, swept away by his sleeve.

Theseus stepped outside into the sunlight.  He stood near the young corn stalks and watched the flames devour the thatch roof.  The growing heat against his face made his flesh tingle.  Black smoke billowed upward, thinning as it rose against the patches of white cloud.

The fire would remove the evidence surrounding Lasen's death and protect his corpse from defilement by dark magic, but it would alert any agents set to observe the old farmer.  Although twenty years had passed, Theseus was certain enemies were still watching and that he would be followed.

Yet, Theseus was unsure if he had set the fire to destroy the evidence or to alert the watchers.  If his enemies showed themselves, it would justify his dark deed, but he knew they would not reveal themselves.  He couldn't shake the dark feeling that filled him.  Somehow it was a familiar feeling.  How many others had he killed in such a manner? How many loyal men had been murdered to keep his secrets? Secrets he could no longer remember.

Turning away, Theseus walked across the sprawling field of green stalks.  His hand drifted to the pocket of his robe, clutching the wooden carving of the robed man.  There were many questions and much to be done.