Previous Chapter: Josun of the Roslagen
Many a housewife has told a tale of a missing ladle or a sack of flour and blamed it on faeries. Unlike hobgoblins or poltergeists, faeries were once a real race, not so different from men! Of course, they had elongated ears that somewhat resembled those of a rabbit, and there is some evidence that they had tails as well; but in general appearance, they looked like fair men and women, though taller and slenderer. They lived before the Dominion of Man, perhaps soon after the Age of the Gods met its end. The ruins of their civilization are still found towards the East of the Continent, though many archeologists ascribe their elegant architecture to the Emperor's Revival, despite their construction being beyond even the skill of Pallas's best. The Lung of Rankar is thought to have been their totem. They were the first to create music, and it is said that you can still hear traces of their songs in the forgotten dells and haunted groves of the Mawlden Forest. What happened to them is unknown, but the Corruption is blamed, for it is the bogeyman that is always cited when something is inexplicable. More likely, they suffered some sort of plague or environmental catastrophe. We will likely never know for sure.
Simeon Peter, Apocrypha: Faeries: A People of Legend
The Aiv and the Thief
Fergal Dunn moved through the woods with a bag full of mushrooms and a large knotted stick that he'd christened Francesca after his dearly departed grandmother, who had been fond of large sticks and their frequent implementation. Francesca was used mainly for warding off ravenous beasts and finding one's way in the dark, though Dunn's eyes, which were proportionally large even for his rather enormous head, could see very well during nighttime, especially during nights when the moon was full. He had spent the evening foraging, and when darkness settled in, he had continued to do so, utilizing his keen sense of smell. Though there were wolves in the Mawlden Forest, he was not particularly afraid of them, for they were noisy and smelly and couldn't climb trees, thankfully. He was more concerned with accidentally stumbling upon the humans that had made their village nearby, close to the profaned oak. Fergal's species, which had never been given a name in the scientific nomenclature, was very long lived, so long lived, in fact, that most of them (including Fergal) couldn't tell you how old they were, exactly. That oak, however, had existed when he was just a boy, and it was already ancient in those ancient times, and it had always had a poor reputation and cast an air of foreboding. So it was not surprising that the violent men would choose to live in its shadow. Though they did not possess his finely-tuned senses, they were still capable of surprising him, due to their numbers and propensity for stumbling into the woods while drunk. Usually he could hear them from a mile off, but occasionally, he'd encounter one passed out on a tree stump, barely-breathing and staring blindly into the darkness. Nights like this one, with the moonlight pouring white through the canopy, were risky. Still, one had to get home and one had to eat. So he took his time moving through the woods, stopping every now and then to look and listen.
Something was moving through the woods towards the west, its pace rapid but not reckless. It was a human, most likely, someone who had left the trail that the men had carved through the heart of the Mawlden Forest. That meant that he or she was eager to avoid meeting anyone, which piqued Fergal's curiosity. This person must also be unfamiliar with the area, for they were moving away from the relative safety of the forest near the village and towards the denser, wilder part of the woods. A vagabond or ruffian he thought. Such people were interesting to watch. He'd followed a bandit one time who'd escaped from the village, and after tailing him for some time, witnessed his unfortunate demise at the jaws of an enormous wylfen. Though Fergal wasn't one to take pleasure from the misery of another, his natural curiosity often got the better of him. The bag of mushrooms on his shoulder was rather light. Let us just take a peek he thought, heading towards the footsteps. Perhaps the wylfen was in the area.
Fergal estimated the wanderer's direction and aimed to head him off some distance ahead, on the edge of a glen. There was an old elm tree that was growing out of the side of the valley, and its weight, as well as the precariousness of its rooting, had almost caused it to topple across the two hillsides. Its boughs would make an excellent observation point for a diminutive creature such as himself. The wanderer was likely wading in and out of the stream that flowed out of the glen, so he or she would most certainly pass through. Fergal, being a native, knew that such a route was highly dangerous, since the large predatory creatures of the Mawlden Forest often cornered their prey in the area. Of course, the wanderer didn't know that, otherwise he would be sticking to the trail. Not that the trail was without its dangers—besides the barbarians, wolves often ambushed lone travelers in the deeper sections—but the more dangerous creatures dwelt in other areas, the barbarians having learned this long ago through trial and error when they established the rough road.
Soon the ancient elm rose before him, and he took to climbing it, effortlessly ascending to the top branches with his long arms and large hands. His people were made to climb and scurry, and they had no trouble delving into the earth, either, for they considered all of nature and its environs to be their home. They had never become civilized, not even in their distance past, though they would contend otherwise, associating the word with culture and refinement instead of urban living and technological progress. Indeed, they had their own culture—much of Fergal's memory was filled with elaborate greeting rituals and salutary poems—but they so seldom saw one another, being solitary creatures, that all of it seemed something of a waste. For instance, it had nearly been a century since Fergal encountered one of his own kind, though he did not particularly consider a century to be a large passage of time. Time was a dimension that was considered unimportant to his species—they did not keep track of it, lacking both time pieces and dating systems. A decade flowed into a century, and a century passed into two centuries, and so forth, and so on. From Fergal's point of view, the sheer quantity of experiences and happenings rendered them indistinguishable from one another, to the point where if he remembered something, he was unable to pinpoint if it had happened twenty years ago or two centuries before. The past was a jumble, misremembered and unintelligible. This was one reason why his people stayed away from each other. There really was nothing to talk about.
He hadn't waited long before the wanderer appeared. At first, he almost missed him—the sound of his footsteps all but disappeared as he approached the glen—but then Fergal's keen sight caught the hint of his outline plastered against a tree in the moonlight, the rise and fall of his breast almost imperceptible. The figure was shrouded in darkness; his face a void even for Fergal's eyes. He was likely a man by his build and from the city judging from his ragged attire. A prisoner escaped from the barbarians thought Fergal. He watched as the shadow crept towards the opening of the valley and passed beneath the elm, his feet soundlessly gliding through the water of the stream. As he walked his image became more difficult to discern; Fergal had to squint to see him, and no matter how much he strained his ear, he could not hear his passage. He knows I am watching he concluded, realizing that some sort of enchantment was at work. Though the practice of magic was an ancient memory to him, he knew, as did all his people, how to recognize the art. This man was not a wizard; that was plain, for wizards did not slink about in the woods. Yet an air of magic clung about him, painting his steps and moving his form into darkness, obscuring whatever secrets lay beneath that shroud. Fergal jumped down from his observation point almost as soon as the man had vanished. Even though he could not see or hear him any longer, he could still find his prints and follow the trail of bent branches and disturbed stones. And there was, of course, his smell—a heavy odor of musty leather, sea brine, and fear—which lingered in his wake. This man was too interesting to forget, despite the late hour and the growing hunger in Fergal's belly. So he followed.
It was some time before he spotted the man huddled beneath a rock ledge. He had started a small fire just outside the tiny cave, relying on the narrow gully to hide the light from any pursuers. It had become a bit chilly in the woods—the temperature often dropped several degrees at nighttime during the late summer—and the dense canopy as well as the uneven terrain created cold pockets of air. Still, it was an unnecessary risk in his opinion to create a fire, especially if the Roslagen were after you. A small fire would also attract predators rather than warding them off. If something comes, I'm in a vulnerable position he thought, watching from behind a giant stone. There was no higher ground, the gully's sides being too steep and smooth to climb. He was about to reconnoiter another position when the stranger clutched his chest as though he were having a heart attack. Suddenly Fergal could see it through the man’s breast, a glistening, beating heart that glowed brilliantly like a miniature sun. It was a catalyst, propelling his memory back eons, ticking through the ages until it finally stopped on an image of a tall, slender creature, crowned in sapphires and little else, dipping down beneath an alabaster tree and removing a lung from its hollow center. It has almost breathed its last she said softly, her eyes turning down to stare at the earth, the wheezing organ sputtering in her arms. Soon after, the people had lost their divinity and vanished to the woods, their grace forgotten, the only remnant of their glory a vast yet fading memory and an unnatural propensity to cling to life.
Fergal found himself doing something very un-Fergal-like. He stood up from his hiding spot and walked across the thin stream, stepping softly on the wide, cold rocks of the creek, all the while keeping his eyes focused on the man’s heart. The stranger didn't notice him even after he had sat down at the fire with a sack of mushrooms at his side. Alas, Fergal had to get his attention by dusting off his Capetian and introducing himself.
“That's a nice thing in your chest you have there, sir. By the way, my name is...” was how he started. As soon as the words came out of his mouth, the stranger's head fixed an icy stare at the speaker. He was a dark-skinned man with a scarred face and fierce eyes and quick hands; in the few seconds that it took Fergal to speak, he had removed a rather savage-looking knife from his rags and seemed prepared to use it.
“… Fergal Dunn, and I hope that you'll excuse my intrusion, for I see that you are a private man, with private matters to attend to, but I could not help but being intrigued by that object radiating from your torso…”
“What are you?” interrupted the man (quite rudely, in Fergal's opinion).
“I beg your pardon?” asked Fergal.
“You're not human,” stated the man.
“That is certainly correct. I am of the Huldufolk, who have limited their doings with the race of man, and have consequently, I suspect, fallen out of recent memory. You're not from around here, I gather? May I ask from whence you came?”
“You've been following me. Are you a spy?” asked the man, rising from his seat. Fergal, confident in his ability to defuse the situation as well as his speed if things got out of hand, remained where he was and held out his palms to show their lack of weapons.
“I am no spy. I am simply a… busybody, if you will. This is my home, friend, and I wish to know what any passersby are doing. I was on my way back to my dwelling after having spent the night foraging for mushrooms—that's my sack, right there—when I heard your crashing through the undergrowth. Curiosity got the better of me, so I trailed you to this gully, and I was just about to leave you to your business when you doubled over, clutching your breast. Where did you get a heart like that? I knew of something like it, once before. Do you know what it is you carry?”
The man looked at him long and hard before finally deciding that Fergal was telling the truth. He sat back down and made a dismissive gesture, a rather crude sign that needed no explanation, and then curled up against the back of the cave wall.
“If I may give you some advice, good sir, seeing how you are unfamiliar with these parts, I would recommend against sleeping here tonight,” said Fergal, sensing that his time was limited. “This gully is the hunting ground of a wylfen, a particularly fearsome beast. Have you ever encountered a wylfen? It is as tall as a man and as broad as two, with long limbs that end in curved claws. Despite its great size, it is as nimble as mouse, capable removing an arm or performing a decapitation in an instant. However, sometimes a wylfen is not hungry enough to eat its prey in one sitting, in which case it will drag you back to its lair, where it will consume you piece by piece, often just nibbling off a small chunk or two, usually from your buttocks. Provided you do not die from terror, pain, or blood-loss, it is possible for one to survive many days. I cannot imagine a more terrible way to die.”
“Hanged from an oak tree to be devoured by spirits isn’t so pleasant, either,” said the man, mumbling.
“I don't quite know what you mean,” said Fergal.
“Does conversation attract wylfen? Because I know it attracts barbarians,” said the man. “Listen, I don't know what you want, but you need to sneak on home to your hole or burrow or whatever it is you live in and leave me be. Understand?”
“Sir, are you suggesting that I am some sort of subterrestrial creature akin to a mole or mouse?” said Fergal, terribly offended. “If so, you are mistaken. My people are arboreal by nature; I myself possess a magnificent tree house the likes of which I am certain you have never seen. It's an expansive, sophisticated dwelling, designed by the finest architect of the ancient era, Theophile Horrendous, whose reputation, I'm afraid, did in fact live up to his name. You won't find many historic homes in this woods anymore. Why, other than old Ariosto, who lives twenty miles or so from here, I possess the only dwelling of note.”
“Is it more comfortable than a cave?” asked the man.
“Why, mostly certainly! We rustic country folk can't offer the same level of luxury found in your human cities, but we know how to relax, you can be assured.”
“Is it out of sight?” asked the man.
“Yes, it is very thoroughly disguised. Wouldn't want unwelcome guests, right?”
“Well then, let's go there,” said the man. “It's plain that you won't give me any rest, and you have me worrying about giant monsters.”
“Sir, I...” began Fergal.
“Which way is it?” asked the man. “Will there be anything to eat?”
“I did not mean to have given you the impression that… uh… my home was available to a stranger such as yourself,” said Fergal.
“Why? What's wrong with strangers?”
“Nothing in general. It's just that I don't know you…”
“And I could be someone dangerous. A ruffian, perhaps. Someone who could rob you, steal the rug right out from under your feet,” finished the man.
“Well, you must admit that you seem to have had some sort of conflict with the Roslagen,” said Fergal.
“The Roslagen have conflicts with everyone they come across,” replied the man.
“True,” said Fergal. “You are an armed man, however. Is it wise to let an armed man into your home?”
“What is a knife? Some men kill with sticks, others with stones, still others with their bare hands. There is nothing suspicious about an armed man out in Pannotia. Tell me, Fergal, are you a good cook? What are you planning on fixing with those mushrooms?”
“I am not a bad cook, though I don't know if I would go so far as to say that I am a good one,” replied Fergal. “These mushrooms are for a hearty stew featuring rabbit, potatoes, and onions. The smell carries for miles. I can't tell you how many times I've heard creatures wandering around below, sniffing the air. There is another variation using fish…”
“Let us taste it,” said the man. Fergal stared at him, wondering how he could escape this predicament. He could just up and run, leaving the man here to squint into the darkness. Yet he had engaged the man in conversation, establishing something of a rapport, so to abandon him in the gully would be considered very rude, and rudeness was anathema to his people, who thought it a primitive behavior. To lead the man into his home, however, was not an option—he had never let any man into his home, and it had been almost a century since the place had hosted a visitor of any sort. This fellow, interesting though he may be, was obviously a person of questionable character who could not be trusted. He would have contemplated this topic all night if possible, for he, like all his people, preferred to take their time deliberating a choice. Yet Fergal's keen ears picked up a distinctive sound: the ponderous steps of a heavy beast coming through the gully.
“There's a wylfen coming,” he said to the man, jumping to his feet. “I would suggest climbing the closest tree and holding your breath.”
“What an interesting way to uninvite a guest. Tell them that a monster is coming and to climb a tree,” said the man.
“I really would heed my advice. I'm afraid I must take it myself,” said Fergal, sprinting down the gully towards the ancient elm tree. It took him only about a minute, for he was very quick, and he had soon climbed to the top of the highest branch. The noise of the wylfen was growing louder, nearly deafening to one with ears as sharp as Fergal's, though a human would only hear a few snapping branches and intermittent snorting. Peering back towards the fire, he saw the man still sitting unmoved. Well I warned him, he thought. If the man ended up being dragged off to the monster's lair to experience a prolonged death of misery and terror, it was through no fault of Fergal's. Preferring not to witness the stranger's demise, he jumped down from the tree and made his way home. Halfway there he realized in horror that he had forgotten his mushrooms as well as his favorite stick. The prospect of mushroom soup without mushrooms nearly dejected him as much as the presumed fate of the ruffian and his magical heart.
He had finally pulled off his boats and sat down to a nice cup of warmed cider in his favorite chair when he heard the unmistakable sound of footprints on his front porch. This was most peculiar, of course, because Fergal's porch was forty feet above ground. Perturbed, but not yet panicked, he slowly got up from his chair and made his way over to his closet where he kept a thick hickory stick, the unnamed twin of Francesca. Brandishing this weapon, he blew out the candle on his coffee table and huddled in a corner to wait. The visitor tried the door and found it locked, so he moved to the window. He was finding it something of a tight fit when Fergal decided to act rather than let someone break into his home. The initial swing of old hickory connected with the top of the invader's head; the second blow also hit home, but rather than repelling the burglar, the momentum of the blow caused him to fall all the way through the window and into Fergal's house. This undesired action provoked a fury in the diminutive hominin, who pounced upon the downed man, wailing with abandon. This continued for nearly a full minute, until the stranger managed to crawl beneath Fergal's coffee table. Fergal, at this point, was exhausted from his exertions and the adrenaline rush, and though he'd ceased attacking to catch his breath, he still waved the stick around menacingly, ready to start with a fresh assault if the invader's movement demanded it.
“Who are you?” yelled Fergal. “What is the meaning of this intrusion? I'll have you know that I am more than capable of bashing your head in. Identify yourself, burglar!”
“I am the Thief,” said the man, still hiding under the coffee table.
“I'll be damned if you take anything from me!” said Fergal, poking his stick at him. The Thief grabbed a hold of the piece of hickory, and a short tugging contest ensued, which Fergal won, much to the surprise of both.
“I'm not here to rob you. I'm the man from the fire. Your uninvited guest.”
“How did you follow me?” asked Fergal, surprised.
“How did you hear my footsteps?” asked the Thief.
“How did you escape the wylfen?” asked Fergal.
“How did you get so good at wielding a stick?” asked the Thief. A brief silence followed before Fergal laid down arms and the Thief crawled out from under the coffee table. Each stared at the other in the darkness.
“To tell you the truth, this is the first time I've ever been caught since I became a professional,” said the Thief.
“No one has ever broken into my home,” said Fergal. “The men who pass this way seldom look upward.”
“A set of firsts for the both of us, then. Did you make that stew?”
“I forgot the mushrooms,” said Fergal.
“The wylfen must be enjoying them,” said the Thief, moving towards a chair. He fumbled around a bit, tripping over a pair of boots before Fergal lit a candle. Light having been restored, he looked the place over. It was a spacious room wrapped around the large trunk of a tree, its sides lined with shelves and bookcases. A narrow set of stairs led upward to another story. From the ground he had gathered that the house was built in sections stacked atop one another, with each floor becoming smaller as the supporting framework of the tree narrowed. This was the main floor and living area, judging from the general disorder and worn familiarity of the furniture.
“Sir,” said Fergal, staring at the Thief lounging in his favorite chair, “I must ask that you properly identify yourself if you'll be staying under my roof for the remainder of the night.”
“I am the Thief, as I said. Where I come from, my name is known in the alleyways as well as the Ducal palace. The heart that I carry in my breast is the fabled Heart of Rankar, treasured icon of the Priesthood as well as the cornerstone of Capetian sovereignty. Only I could have stolen such a relic. How you know of it, I cannot fathom.”
“So you are a career criminal, I take it?” asked Fergal.
“I am the Thief,” replied the Thief.
“Was that the name your parents gave you? I am unfamiliar with human customs,” admitted Fergal.
“You're making this too complicated,” said the Thief. “I am the Thief, as in there are no other thieves before me. None with my résumé; none with my skills. I have stolen priceless heirlooms from impenetrable vaults, raided palaces and monasteries of their treasures, and now I've taken the last living piece of the universe. Know you of anyone who can claim such feats as their own?”
“I do not associate with thieves in general, I'm afraid,” responded Fergal. “So I suppose I do not know of anyone with such a résumé.”
“Thief was a name that I earned. It wasn't given to me by anyone. Perhaps you can understand that.” The Thief looked around and spied a bottle sitting on a shelf. “Do you have any wine?” he asked.
“That is a bottle of sherry, though I don't know that I would drink it, for it's been sitting for time immemorial.”
The Thief grabbed the bottle, uncorked it, and took a swig, grimacing, though he took the bottle with him back to his chair and continued to drink from it.
“Well Mr. Thief, I suppose I must give you the shelter of my roof for the night. That chair will have to suffice, for I haven't cleared out the guest room in ages, and I don't think you'd find those quarters very comfortable in any case, considering your size in comparison to mine. In return for my hospitality, I must ask you to promise to leave tomorrow morning. I am a solitary person and my privacy is very important…”
Fergal droned on for another minute or two before he noticed that the Thief had fallen asleep. After picking up the bottle of wine from the floor (the discourtesy of the man!) he retreated to his own quarters and locked the door. He thought it unlikely that the so-called Thief would loot his valuables, for he’d have to haul any plunder for many miles through the wilderness, yet he could not relax with the strange man in his home. He was a ruffian, to be sure, but after several minutes of reflection, he concluded that the real reason he was disturbed was the presence of the Heart of Rankar. After a futile hour of searching his memory, he scoured his library, looking through the dusty tomes for answers. He chanced upon an ancient volume—he could not pronounce its title, the words simply would not come—and opened the dried, thin pages. The script was not in Huldu but in the elder tongue. Elmeric the humans called it, the language of magic, though mages and wizards did not understand the words, nor grasp their true power. Fergal’s ancestors had spoken Elmeric, though they had another name for it, and as a boy, he must have been able to speak it. But he could not recall much of his childhood, and the only connection he had to his sires was the book and image the Heart had recalled. Flipping through the pages, he came across a drawing of a lung entwined in the center of a white tree. It was a piece of God like the Heart he thought. It made us beautiful, immortal, and capable of conscious thought. Did one of the Huldufolk possess it still? How withered and dead it must be, for he and his kin bore faint resemblance to the slender, long-limbed creatures depicted in the book’s pages.
His eyes caught on a long knife laying upon his mantle. A mad notion seized him, and Fergal leapt to his feet and retrieved the knife. A piece of God needed a vessel to distribute its powers. If he had the Heart in his chest, perhaps he could read the words of the book and know what his forbearers had known. His stocky frame would elongate, and his bat-shaped ears would become thin and narrow like a rabbit’s. The forest would open its arms to him and call him master and be at his beck and call. The elder days would return, and there would be children again, and the air would lighten with the merry sound of their beautiful voices. The humans, with their smoke and cities built of dead wood, would flee and become a distance memory.
Fergal unlocked his door and went for the Thief.
Next Chapter: The Forming of a Company
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