Brendan Peveril . net

Forgotten

By Brendan Peveril

It all started some time ago. That night I dreamed of horses; their crashing hooves and the hot pressure of their breath. There was no escaping them. Their barrel chests crushed every barrier and obstacle I could put between myself and what they carried.

The horses brought War.

Why is it that some men value reality over dreams? Observations are memories of a moment just passed, and memories, like dreams, are only images in the mind. That one image should be given credence over another makes no sense to me. I have only dreams and memories now, and they bleed together in this hell I have wrought.

I woke up screaming, my wife was shaking me.

“Alvin,” she said, “you were crying out.”

Gentle, dear creature that she was, while she lived, I could not bring myself to burden her with the horrors I had seen. “I must go today.” I wiped the sweat from my brow and chest onto the rough woolen blanket. “No more sleep for me, dear. Stay in bed for a bit, I’ll get the boys up.”

Before I woke up the help I stepped outside into the grey morning. The sky was cloudy, obscuring the optimistic glow of the sun at the horizon. It complimented my mood nicely as I reviewed my dream; I could not forget a single detail, I knew the King would want to hear it all. I had brought my razor and the old bronze mirror, so I shaved quickly in the river and checked the wheel. Some branches had gotten caught; they risked stopping the wheel and the machinery inside from turning.

That seen to, I went into the kitchen. “Wake up, boys!” I bellowed. I kicked at them where they lay on their straw pallets in front of the cooking fire. “Long day ahead, I have to go.”

“Into Clowesdale?” Wulf, the younger of the two, asked as he sat up blinking.

“No, lad, to Aardhome.” I pushed a few more sticks into the fire. “I’ll be gone for a few days, so you and Gill will be in charge. I’ll leave a bit of money with Faun, if a peddler should pass by, and here’s half a silver bit for each of you, since you’ll have more to do while I’m gone.” I set the two roughly cut half coins on the table.

At the talk of money Gill began to perk up. He was sixteen, three years older than Wulf, and lazy, but he was clever about money. Though my wife and I never had any children of our own, I had taken these boys under my wing and fancied I would leave the mill to them when I became too old to run it myself.

“There’s the man.” I bustled over to the cupboards and took out a small loaf of bread, hard from a few days on the shelf. “Get your ass out of bed, there’s a pile of trash stuck in the wheel. By the time you’ve fished it out, Faun should have your breakfast ready, then you’ll have not much work to do until I get back.”

“All right, Al, I’m going.” Lazy Gill wiped the sleep from his eyes and pulled on his tunic like he did every day. When the boys were out of the room I put the bread into a little bag with a piece of the salted fish I had bought from Rodney. I tied the little bag and my purse to my belt and turned to go.

Faun blocked the doorway. She had let her hair down to brush it and it framed her small figure in the grey light from the morning sky. Though her face had wrinkles and her auburn hair was flecked with grey, I still saw the farm girl with the smiling eyes I had married. I hugged her close to me and kissed her cheek tenderly.

“I wish you didn’t have to go.”

“Don’t worry, Faun. I’ll be back before you know it.” I patted her shoulders and made for the door. Quick as a whip, she was again blocking my way, holding my warm winter cape.

“Take this,” she ordered, “the nights are getting colder and it’s a long way to Aardhome.” I pulled the hood up over my bald crown , bent down to receive a last kiss, and was on my way.

It wasn’t until I was up on the hill that overlooks the sleepy hamlet of Clowesdale that I wondered how she knew I was bound for Aardhome. Dismissing it, I pulled my cowl tighter against the chill and bade my beloved, mist enshrouded mill a quick farewell. If I was fast enough, I could make it past the dark trunks of the Umbris Forest by nightfall, spend the night in one of the wayside inns, and be into Aardhome by noon the next day. That was the best I could hope for.

My plan, though, was interrupted. In the forest, I came to a wide ford across the main path. Though I didn’t look forward to soaking my clothes, I knew I had to cross it. I sat down and removed my belt, boots and breeches. I wrapped everything in my cloak and, holding the bundle over my head, waded into the water. The water was mind-rendingly cold, and after a few steps I could scarcely feel my nether parts and my muscles grew tight. Before I was halfway across I heard the rumble of hoof beats on forest sod. Two riders thundered down the path and across the ford.

One of them pulled up at the other side and called out to me, “Hurry up, father, more are coming. Clear the path for the King’s knights!” I said nothing, put my head down and strained against the vampiric waters toward the safety of the bank. As the waters were beginning to seem shallower two score mounted men splashed into the river, showering me with their wake. I cowered there half naked and frozen until one of the horses brushed against me and I pitched headlong into the drink, wrenching my knee painfully. In spite of my best efforts, I lost hold of my bundle and it floated out of reach. I floundered there until the knights were gone, save the outrider who had stopped to warn me.

Though he was scarcely older than Gill, he carried himself like a fighter and was very much a gentleman. He dismounted and pulled my frozen bulk from the water. After he had wrapped me in his warm horse blanket he recovered my possessions which had, thankfully, gotten snagged on a branch downstream.

“Good you didn’t bang your head, father.”

“Yes, sir. Where are you off to in such a hurry, anyhow?”

“To Aardhome, back from the frontier provinces.”

“Really? Is there something so important that it needs all of the King’s horses and all of his men?” I smiled up at him harmlessly from the folds of his blanket, which, I might add, smelled like a sweaty, tired horse.

His countenance grew dark, though. When he put my cloak down on the ground he leaned in close to me, his face a picture of distress. “I can’t tell you much father; there are those who would hide all news of concern. I can tell you this, though: there’s trouble in the north.” He looked about him, as though the heavy branches and dark boles themselves might contain hidden ears and spying eyes. “Dark things are afoot, terrible things. Anyhow, I had best get you on your feet and get back to my party.”

We then sorted through my belongings, finding that nothing had escaped into the drink, though only my bread was unsalvagable. After making a heroic effort to wring the river from my cloak he found me a sturdy stick to use as a crutch for my knee and was on his way.

I hobbled on down the road, and though I felt I was making good progress, night found me alone in the forest. having no other option, I built myself a miserable little fire and spent a cold damp night on the ground.

That night, though, sleep did not come easily. When my eyes were closed I was plagued with visions of destruction and death, and when I opened them I was treated to the eerie play of shadows on the skeletal black branches around me. My clothes were wet still, and though I crowded close to the flame, the heat offered no reprieve from either the damp in my clothes or the chill in my bones.

When the sun began to show I ate the last of my piece of fish and stamped out what remained of my fire. That day my knee bothered me less, and I made it to the walled city of Aardhome before sunset with only a brief stop at a wayside inn for lunch. I secured lodgings and paid the cook to hang my still damp clothes in the heat of the kitchen while I slept.

My sleep was troubled, that second night since I left my life. Not so troubled that I didn’t sleep through the night; my restless night in the forest made sure of that. My dreams were troublesome, though; they left me cold and shaking when I finally awoke as the sun crested the horizon. There was knocking at the door, and I could hear keys jingling in the hallway. Before I could even rise the door opened and admitted the innkeeper and a man I recognized from the common room the night before. The burly guest carried a knife and the innkeeper stood behind him with a candle and my clothes under his arm.

“Mr. Miller, are you alright? We heard screaming.” The inn-keep cast his candle from side to side so the light fell about the room and glittered on the stranger’s blade. They both peered into the shadows, looking for intruders.

“I’m fine, Mr. Finn; it was a dream. I’m sorry if I woke anyone.”

The innkeeper sighed his relief and laid my clothes on the tousled bed. “It’s alright, then. Come down to the kitchen for a cup of tea; just the thing to chase away the night terrors.”

Satisfied that I was safe, the two men excused themselves and left me to my business. I shaved and dressed and, after a generous breakfast, felt much better. Before going to the castle to seek audience with King Ohamn I needed new clothes, so I set out to find a tailor recommended by Finn. By noontime, I was ready to seek my audience, having replaced my rough tunic and woolen breaches with a fine linen shirt and a matching set of pants and jacket in a dark twill. I bought a smart new pair of leather boots and covered the whole ensemble with the thick cloak.

After a bit of lunch, I strolled up to the gates of the castle in my new finery. I had no idea what to expect, but I sincerely hoped that I could be taken to see the King today, or even tomorrow. I was to be disappointed.

Two men, dressed in flowing tabards with polished metal helmets stood, one to each side of the opening in the wall of dark stone. Assuming that they were purely ornamental, and pleased to see that there weren’t many people also trying to get through the gates, I threw my shoulders back and walked forward with great purpose. When I came to the other side of the bridge across the moat one of the guards wordlessly blocked my passage with the butt of his spear.

When I looked a little confused, the other man spoke; “What is you business in castle Aardhome?”

“I have an important message for the King!” I spoke with gravity, hoping that they would see the earnest nature of my mission. I could not be stopped, my news had to be heard.

The first guard drew his spear away as the speaker approached. “Let me see your seal, then.” I stood still, silent and afraid. “The seal for the one you carry a message for.”

“But, I carry my own missive, and I have no seal.”

The speaker looked disappointed at this, and the other spoke harshly, “Your kind lines up around the side and waits until the King has time for peasants.”

As I crossed back over the bridge in disgrace, I heard raucous laughter from the two men at arms. I followed their directions to a line over a narrow bridge crossing the gully to a small door. There were more than fifty people lined up there; most of them were disheveled and dirty, appearing after a few minutes of proximity to be barking mad as well.

Knowing the importance of my message took precedence over my physical comfort for a short time, I took my place at the end of the line. After a time, I asked the man before me, a shirt-less mousey creature with a shockingly hairy torso, how long he had been waiting.

“Two days, I been here.”

“Two days? What do you have to tell the King that’s so important?”

He leaned over then, as though what he had to say was to be imparted only in the strictest confidence, “Gold, my good man. In a cave in the mountains lies the lost fortune of Col Duman. Enough gold for the King to pave the streets of Aardhome in it and still be the richest man since Col Duman himself. How do I know, do ask? The ghost of Col Duman came to me in a dream and told me that I alone can open the door to this secret tomb.”

The gregarious lunatic continued to elaborate upon his tale as a pit of illness grew in my stomach. I could see obvious similarities between his tale and the one I hoped to impart, and they actually brought tears to my eyes. I waited for a while longer before leaving the waiting area in a dark mood when it started to rain.

The day before, I had hoped to experience the bustling metropolis of Aardhome, but abstained in favor of rest and good food. I considered it today, but after my troubled night and futile day, I just wanted to sleep. I returned to my little room at the inn and laid on the bed for a few hours, waiting for sleep to come, trying to resign myself to going home. After a time I gave up on even that and descended to the taproom for my evening meal. The common room of the inn was bustling, but not so much that I couldn’t find a a quiet table in the corner where I could sit and enjoy my meal in relative peace. I had a large plate of stew and was nearly finished with it when a rowdy gang of the King’s soldiers burst through the door. I took no notice of them, and so was pleasantly surprised when one approached me.

“What’s the matter, father? You look as though you’ve lost something.” The young knight who had helped me separated from his group and planted himself opposite me.

“My purpose for coming to Aardhome in the first place has proven to be in vain, young sir.”

“And what purpose is that? Perhaps I can help.”

“I’ve a message for the King, but no noble authority to deliver it.”

At this explanation, he looked a little uncomfortable but, like a gentleman, he pushed forward with his offer.

“I can’t promise anything, father, but, give me your message and I’ll do what I can to see that the right ears hear it.”

“That’s more than I could even ask of you, sir. Thank you.” I sighed deeply and signaled the bartender that we would need two more pots of beer.

“Let me explain first that I have dreams that often reflect future events in some way. I can offer no proof but my word on this, alas. I foresaw the death of my parents in a fire at the mill, my own near death a few times, and I believe I once saved a shepherd and his entire flock from a sudden snow storm.

“But the things I’ve been seeing lately are far graver and would concern the King.”

The young knight still didn’t seem firmly convinced, but he was at least interested, in the way the young may take polite interest in the unfounded raving of an old man. “What concerns the King, father?” He prodded with questions while I paused to light my pipe.

“I see a war that crushes the Kingdom every time I close my eyes. Towns are divided and neighbors kill neighbors so that the real enemy is obscured. What are men driven to blood lust over? I don’t see that. Sometimes I see Castle Aardhome overrun and sacked, sometimes burning like a hearth, sometimes in ruins; her great walls covered in moss, her black gates twisted and red on the ground. There are only one or two of her graceful towers still standing, and the walls and keep are reduced to jagged splinters that stick grotesquely out of the mist like a pauper’s shattered teeth.”

“Still, neighbors kill each other; wars waging between towns, each feeling that the next hamlet is the greatest threat to their safety. They’re wrong, though. I can see who threatens them all. He is a great man, as big as a tree, his beard and hair are big and black as pitch. His eyes are cold and loveless. He crushes mens skulls beneath his boots, throws children to his hounds so they learn a taste for human flesh.”

“In battle he carries a great sword, notched with years of use and engraved with the sigils of his dread gods. He cannot be killed, and cannot be stopped when he begins his slaughter, cutting apart even his own men at arms who stray too close, like a butcher gone mad.”

“I see towns burned for no reason but sport, temples sacked and toppled to the ground with the priests still inside. I see a field of spears, some carried by men, some rammed into the ground, each with a severed head on the end. One spear is longer than the rest, a flag man’s pole, really, with King Ohamn’s head at the top, his long hair flying like a standard, and spittle still dripping down is beard.”

The young knight’s face had gone quite white; he signaled for more beer and lit his own pipe. We sat quietly for quite some time until, after some color had returned to his face, he could speak again; “I’ve seen this man, father, seen him cut a man in half for speaking out of turn, and instruct his mean at arms to lay waste to a peaceful hamlet that they might learn not to fear death. This man’s cruelty has no bottom. Though I doubted you at first, and would still had you described him so vividly, I should take my leave now, to be sure that no more time is wasted.”

With that, he rose, threw a great deal of money on the table, and left, his shoulders heavy and his face grim.

To relate my fears abated them somewhat, and I lingered in the common room for some time, drinking in the jovial atmosphere. Someone had brought out an instrument and was playing a plucky drinking tune. The soldiers who had come in with my young friend, oblivious to his absence, were singing bawdily and lurching drunkenly through a parody of a folk dance. The world of my visions seemed so far removed that for a the first time in days I felt that I might sleep.

The dreams were still there, though. I slept soundly for an hour or two, trapped in a silent dream of running. I was able to elude my pursuer for a time, but then he caught me, pinned me to the ground so that I could see his face. It was the man from before, his eyes flashing cruelly and blood dipping out of his beard. He slashed my sides with his dreadful blade and my own blood spilled out, dark on the ground and his boots. I threw up my arms vainly to protect myself and closed my eyes when he raised his foot over my head.

The blow never came, though. I woke up, in my usual fashion, screaming and drenched with sweat. All of the covers had been dashed to the floor, and the straw mattress had been crammed up against the wall by my unconscious thrashing. There was loud knocking at the door, so, after I had regained my senses I opened the door, naked and soaked in perspiration. Finn was there with another man, tall and thin with a plain, forgettable face.

“Mr. Miller, you were crying out again.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s nothing. I’d not even have noticed for hours, the taproom is still open and very loud, but this man needed to see you. He said it’s urgent.”

The tall man slipped the inn-keep some silver coins and motioned that he should leave. When the door was closed he spoke, “Mr. Miller, you need to come with me.” He began to help me into my clothes and continued to speak, “I am with King Ohamn’s Inquisition, a cabal formed by him in secret to assess and deal with threats against the strength of his rule. You are to come with me immediately.” I felt uneasy at the brusque chill of his manner, but I did as he said and we were out the door and into the black carriage he had brought in a very few minutes.

This time no one stopped me at the gates of the castle; they could not even see me, though I saw one of the guards crane his neck toward the dark chamber as the covered carriage clattered through the gates. Until the carriage stopped the thin man had sat, completely motionless, looking through me with his unremarkable eyes.

I was quickly moved by a few more men who joined us when we climbed down from the carriage. I say I was moved because I cannot truthfully say I moved of my own volition with the four men crowding close around me and moving quickly along dark corridors and down dark stairwells; even falling down was not a viable option. The room we stopped in was barren and cold. A bronze brazier burned in one corner, but it had been lit recently and the fire wasn’t very hot yet. One side of the chamber was dominated by a large table with a few candles sitting directly on its surface, burning softly. I was seated away from the table in a lonely chair to wait for my interrogation to begin. After a short wait some men in dark robes entered the room, followed by a young page burdened by heavy bundles of parchment and other writing supplies. One of the men set up the papers and inks on one end of the table, presumably to record what I said. The other two sat on the other side of the table from my position, facing me from across the room. The page fussed with the candles a bit but left quickly.

“We’re sorry to bother you so late at night, kind sir,” one of the inquisitors spoke to me in a slightly mocking tone, “But we are told that you have information concerning the security of our sovereign ruler, King Ohamn. As I’m sure you know, King Ohamn is a ruler of great wisdom and justice whose reign has been blessed by all of the gods, and that he is often spoken of, by scholar and common man alike, as the greatest king that this kingdom or any other had ever seen.”

“This said, it should be obvious that any real threat to the King would be an object of immediate attention and action. Now, you bring to us news of a threat, so please, state your experiences.” He drew back his hood and leaned towards me, dangling his dirty long hair dangerously close to the candles. The other man put his feet up on the table and the scribe leaned over his papers, quill moistened and poised to write.

I launched into my monologue for the second time, including every detail I could think of. The men listened intently for the duration and dashed from the room immediately when I finished, leaving the scribe, writing madly, and I alone in the room. After a short time, the scribe stopped writing and brought his papers to me to sign. I looked them over, finding them to be a scarcely embellished version of what I had just said, and left my mark where he indicated.

That was not to be the end, though. More men came into the room and I told my tale again, and again, and again. I honestly lost track of how many times I recounted my dreams and by whom each account was heard. By the end I was exhausted and hoarse from being interrogated by an army of cowled monks and signing a library of papers. After the first session, each telling was followed by a period of questioning, and each round of questions was more pressing, until, in the end, they seemed almost accusatory to my tired mind. The time came and passed that I felt I could take no more when, finally, when I felt I would fall to the floor and dash my brains out on the cold stone, I was escorted out and back to the inn.

Though it had been dark when I had left, it was dark still, or again. The common room was in full swing and the streets showed signs of the town’s night life. I tried to eat a small meal but found that I had no appetite. I thought of asking Mr. Finn how long I had been gone, but feared the darkly cowled men and decided that I didn’t want them to find that I’d been asking questions of any sort. It made little difference, really, whether I had been gone for three hours or three days.

After concealing my old knife under my soft feather pillow I found sleep easily. With sleep, though, I found no peace, for closing my eyes brought a new dream. I found myself at home. I’d have thought the valleys and trees of my childhood that I saw to be real, but the blue gray hue of the sky that pervades all of my dreams told me otherwise. I walked slowly along the path to my home, savoring the familiar peace of the hills. As I neared the stream that turns the wheel of my mill I smelled smoke in the air. I felt my soul freeze with terror and I dragged my leaden feet up to the crest of the last hill before I could see my home. When I had gotten there I could only scream.

The great wheel had been torn from its axle and dropped into the water, the thatch and any wood in the mill itself had been burnt and the millstone, the source of my livelihood for years, had been thrown to the mud and split asunder by some gargantuan blow. The ground was trampled and marked with hoofprints, and all my belongings had been torn apart and strewn in the mud. There, hanging in the tree that I had sat under smoking my pipe a few days before on a warm afternoon, were three naked corpses, their limbs mangled from thrashing and their flesh grey from death. Beneath the tree, as though marking the site of a glorious victory, flew the pennant of Aardhome.

My screaming finally woke me. I lay shaking in my bed for hours after that, scarcely blinking lest I should fall asleep again by accident. On account of my agitated and dreadful state, I was ready when the door burst in; on my feet with my knife out immediately. I’m no warrior though, and I received a fist in my mouth and a boot in my stomach for my troubles. They bound and gagged me before they carried me outside to a black carriage.

When my senses fully returned I was at the castle, prone on the flagstones with the bindings still in place. A man stood next to me, sword drawn, and another stood away from me a bit. The second man was stout and rough, and I remember noting silently that he looked like a smith or a mason. After a short wait another joined us, dressed in the dark robes of an inquisitor and bent with age. His brass-shod walking stick reported against the stones like a tiny, muted bell. He drew a thin knife and slit my bonds. While I struggled to my feet he drew back his cowl, exposing a handsome face ruined with age and a pate left bare by time. His eyes burned like embers; I can see them piercing my heart, even now.

“Mr. Miller, I presume, ” his voice sounded even older than he looked, like gravel and crushed glass. “You may wonder why you are here, but in actuality you know.”

“You see, Alvin, if I may be so informal, you exemplify the greatest possible threat to the King’s rule. That threat is doubt. The King can only be as strong as the faith that people have in him; there must be no room to doubt that he will still be king in the morning. Enemies and rebels are no threat to that faith, they are subhumans and criminals, to be dealt with and forgotten.”

“You are not like the normal man who claims the King will die, either, Mr Miller. You are well spoken, charismatic, and credible. People will believe you, if we let you go free. The Inquisition cannot allow this.”

“But, I speak the truth!” I pleaded with the ancient wretch; “And, though I speak the truth, I will tell no one. All I need is to know that the King knows of my visions that, in his wisdom, he can avoid the terrible fate that awaits his Kingdom.”

“Well bless your kind and gentle heart! You want only what’s best for others, not for yourself.” The creature croaked his amusement. “Alas, it is not for you to decide what is best for the Kingdom, although it might offer you some comfort to know that the the King has heard your interesting tale and, even now, oversees the fate of a man who, under the guise of loyal service, would bring the safety of the Kingdom down around all of our ears.” He raised his stick to point to a window of the keep where I could see the unmistakable figure of King Ohamn framed in the light. He looked scarcely older than he had twenty years before, at his coronation, though I’m sure his red hair and beard must be flecked with grey by now, and his calm, wise eyes must be more tired and lined with age. The King met our gaze and nodded, overseeing his rule in even the smallest matter.

The inquisitor turned turned from the window and walked toward a hole in the brick work at the base of a tower where a pile of stones and a pot of mortar sat waiting. When I realized what was to happen to me I began to scream. The pommel of a sword hit my head and I lost consciousness.

I don’t know how long ago that was, as I cannot see or hear anything that would indicate the changing of days or seasons. There is water that collects in a small pool at one corner of my cell, and someone leaves food for me, or at least I pray that’s what I find, so I may live here indefinitely. The dreams haven’t stopped, though. I scream tales of my visions out loud so that someone might hear me and divert the disasters that are all I see.

Why is it that some men value reality over dreams? Observations are memories of a moment just passed, and memories, like dreams, are only images in the mind. That one image should be given credence over another makes no sense to me. I have only dreams and memories now, though, and they bleed together in this hell I have wrought.

Pretty dark…