Compiled Work by Vincent Groth. 3795 Age of Wonder.
References: Hanes Afon y Gogledd – Written by Ronnie Gillespie; Published 9125 AF, Archeological notes from Lord Haron; est 6025 AF, The Trials of the Slaine – Written by Iris Pearson; Published 6052 AF, The Translations of Norish Oral Histories – Written by Thistlethwaite Fopling; Published 3942 AF.
Estimated Time: 18th of Kein; 1024 Age of Fire.
On the lands of the new world, great rocky lands, seas of rich, soil-filled plains, thick forests, crystal-clear lakes, and tall noble mountains of the Norlands where the Nor River spilled rich silt and soil upon the banks when it flooded from natural dams of ice in the winter and landslides during the wet seasons. From across the great ocean, the Tribes of the Kerridan had settled here. They shed the name that had carried so much blood and betrayal in the old land and became the Norish for the great river that fed life into their lands.
One small branch of the Nor, fed mostly by mountain runoff, was a village along the mountainous border between the settled Norlands and Evar. The Village on the Green’s name was lost to time. But back then it was never quiet when the children were awake. Giddy screams, shouting, the sound of sticks cracking, far louder in kids’ imaginations than in reality.
The children gathered on one side of the small stone wall built around the village to keep out small predators and pests. The crowd was split between the girls and boys cheering the two figures fighting atop the wall. Balance, strength, and skill with the wooden sticks that, in their minds, rang with the song of bronze as the two danced atop the mossy stones. Slaine Gealach faced an older boy whose name was sadly lost to records. Note from Groth: I have asked Lady Slaine, and unfortunately even she has forgotten his name. He was older than her, the tallest of the boys, and the son of the smith had begun to gain the practical muscle of a smith.
The wall mattered; it kept them safe. Falling off the wall meant losing status and exposing weakness. The two best fighters, one girl and one boy, exchanged dancing blows. While most of the girls did not choose to compete with the boys in the more physical sports of the Nor; Slain was an exception a Demi-god child of Ondra Seir granted her greater strength, height, and durability than a normal human. Thus, she matched the older boy in physical ability. She fought hard and valiantly, but the Smith’s Boy had the experience of age and long-honed skill. He baited her into overextending by feigning retreat and, with a flourish, knocked her stick to the field and her before the crowd of children. He dropped down and helped her up, dusting her off. She glowered at him, switched to a faux pout, then leaned up slightly to peck him on the cheek.
“One day I’ll get you.”
“Not today, my sweet.” She took his hand, and the children started playing a game with a wicker ball and hoops. Throwing it about, the Riders of Night drove the Riders of Day from the sky, and a great curtain snuffed out most of the light of the great star Siger. They saw the dim distant figures of C-Horses nudging celestial bodies into place as Gods grew active.
The two young lovers sat among the mountain avens and fir clubmoss that grew along a small rocky stream fed by limestone runoff. With the last dregs of day shining as the Riders of Day held the horizon for every bitter, fought-for second, they knew it was time to return home. As the two filed towards the village, Slaine swore she saw the slight glint of light up the mountainous hunting trails. She distracted herself in the green of the boy’s eyes, and as the last of the children entered the city, she came to notice the lit towers where men watched the night for predators, monsters, and outlaws. As they moved through darkened streets, they saw figures slipping into houses. Slaine saw Norish warriors, but not of their clan. Slaine did not freeze in terror, but, hoping to alert her people, let forth a blood-curdling scream and shouted. “Raiders!” One invader came around, his torso covered in layers of cloth, a bronze helm on his head, and a bronze-headed club and wooden round shield in his hands. He came forward, trying to silence her cries of alarm. The boy had frozen, but as the warrior came upon them, he drew the knife at his belt for the many needs of life and threw himself forward for young love. He died, the metal-tipped club catching him in the temple as he slipped low and drove his knife up and under his shield and into his groin.
There was so much blood, and Slaine, caught in a nightmare, stumbled back weeping. She saw figures swarm from the circular homes of thatch, wattle and daub. The villagers fought… scattered and unorganized, as men in neat bronze armor, bearing tall rectangular shields and short bronze thrusting swords, marched down from the mountains in tight formation. The Evar came killing all that resisted. She saw her mother leap from their home naked, an axe in each hand, and slay men as any consort who earned the love of War might be expected. She caught several slung stones and javelins before the invading Norish warriors descended upon her.
She heard shouts to find the bastard of war. Cursing in foreign tongues at their aligned Norish. One warrior pointed her out. “The half-breed!”
Slaine stumbled to her feet and ran to the woods. She heard boots and sandals pounding behind her as she followed the trail by memory. She ducked beneath boughs, leaped over twisting roots, following the overgrown hunting trail that had once led to their lover’s retreat. She heard men strike branches, stumble, trip, the screams of breaking ankles in old ruts hidden in undergrowth. A few kept up with her; she felt her dress tear on branches and the bite of thistle and thorn tear, bite, and claw her flesh. Tears burned her eyes, and she ran past the stream and continued onto the old trade road. From the village, she saw men on horseback riding towards her and fled as fast as she could. A javelin caught her in the back, and she tumbled to the hard, compact earth. She crawled, seeing a lone figure walking towards the village. Its head bent and hands hidden in the sleeves of a simple white robe. She couldn’t catch her breath; she felt as if she’d suffocate from the pain, loss, and the pressure of the earth as she pulled herself forward over rough stones and compacted dirt. She found herself at the feet that had been so far away but only a breath ago. Dark skin bound in crisscrossing wicker of sandals. A cloak stained every color of the rainbow ran down the man’s back and carried no visible weapons.
“You will not harm this one anymore, I think.” The figure said as riders halted at a safe distance.
“This doesn’t concern you, traveler. Though we’ve been told to leave no witness.” Slaine heard more footsteps as men emerged from the woods. “Pity she ran; you might have been blessed enough to live.”
“No, my life or death would not change from the actions of one little girl. Though yours definitely will.”
“Traveler, only death proceeds you. Turn around and run and maybe we won’t have seen you.” One rider said, his voice restrained laughter.
“I must apologize, I think. Death follows me like an old friend.”
“You Spherium bastard, you don’t even carry a weapon.”
“A weapon is an equalizer of force. It focuses strength to a point. It lets the weak stand more reasonably against the strong. I do not need a weapon. Now. Leave the girl, go, or I will regrettably be forced to violence, I think.” He drew his hands apart, and Slaine could see they were clean with manicured nails. Rings covered every finger in many kinds of precious and common metals, most of which she could not identify. She, with the strength of adrenaline, twisted herself and crawled backward further. The riders threw their javelins, and the traveler caught one, spun around, deflected the second with its force, and caught one rider in the eye at thirty feet. A half dozen invaders charged the first two died in flashes of motion a finger pressing through the first’s temple, the second shredded by the shrapnel of his shield as the man put his fist through the thick leather covered and bronze bounded wood.
The Warriors stopped their charge and made room. She figured they would wait for more men to come and overwhelm him with numbers.
“My name is Carth. The Prismatic Rose, Enforcer of Zatolen, The Hope of the Sacred Knowledge of my Conquered People. Zatolen saved me and now I must save others to balance the scales I think.”
The men scrambled back. “You… you can’t kill us all.”
“True. I find violence unpleasant. I was never a good warrior, I think. But violence forever pursues those who avoid it. Carabella!” He called.
Light warped, and thunder blew off the loose leaves and needles of the forest canopy. Old, sick trees toppled as the centaur Goddess of Horses and Messages appeared, skidding down the dirt road in strange golden clothes with round disks. A strange piece of headwear rose to a peak. Leather bags stuffed with slabs and scrolls sat heavily on her back. “Yes, Mister Carth, sir?”
“Please deliver this child to master Zachary.”
“I don’t think you’re allowed to call my uncle that. She also is not a package. That’s a small child.”
“Cara, may I borrow a stamp, please?”
“Um… I guess… its also bleeding a lot.” She dug through one of her pouches and took out a small square of material a picture of Cara somehow burned onto it. “It’ll stain my shirt.”
Carth licked the stamp and stuck it upon Slaine’s brow. “Here, please ship this to his dark divinity, Zatolen.”
“Hmmm. Well… this feels illegal but… you do have the right postage.” She grumbled. “I guess I can add it to my route.”
“Express delivery, please, Cara.” He shifted to meet the men who had decided to strike while he was distracted. Men died as Cara picked up Slaine, considered shoving her into one of her mailbags, shrugged, and leaped through the Veil, charging up the great, near-endless mountain that Talcor called home and that served as the nexus to each God’s individual planes. She leaped the ruins of past cycles. Great war machines, flat-decked ships with strange hunks of metal and glass, and pillars of concrete that once touched the sky. She dodged past the corpse of a long-dead god and eventually reached the scarlet-and-black portal of the current chief of the Gods, Zatolen. Carabella barreled the poorly packaged and leaking delivery through the shimmer towards greatness and hopefully apples.
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