"Hostile"

Along the old, crumbling walls near Sergen, there grows a vital and much beloved ivy that is called imor. No one is perfectly sure the origin of the word, though a few linguistic amateurs are convinced that it is more than coincidence that the Serr nomads have a word, imrite, which means, "truce concluded by an arrow". Perhaps I should explain why.

For many years, the Serr were in constant warfare with the plains-running Kun. The bloodshed was torrential on both sides, and many farmlands and villages were laid waste by fire, churning chariot-wheel and spear. Townspeople and farmers that survived were forced to flee the ever more chaotic skirmishes, traveling to the foot of the Pell mountains or into the safety of the well-guarded, neutral city of Azphir. But it would be outside the broad-pillared gates of Azphir when the most terrible massacre occurred, which in turn turned the course of the war.

Both sides of the war had chosen, reasonably enough, not to impede the passage of the refugees from the lands they had ravaged. Indeed, both sides were too preoccupied with the ongoing battle to waste resources chasing down refugees. But one night the Serr, during what they term a "triumphal", a post-battle ritual of proclamation and mourning, were disturbed by a prophecy spoken to them by their young caller-for-the-dead, Lyrne.

(Which in turn means I should tell you something about the callers, whom the Serr also called the kyllir, which means "birds of winter" -- and, now that I think of it, sounds a bit like "caller". Serr warbands always travel with at least one caller, whose sacred duty it is to witness the bloodshed and thereby be a living account of the death, both of the Serr and their enemies. The chaos of war, to the Serr, means that there is the danger that some may die bravely but be forgotten, so often are corpses lost in mud and fire, torn apart by dog and birds. The caller is not held to know all the names of the dead; it is enough to know that a caller was on the battlefield.

(Callers, incidentally, are usually chosen among young men who otherwise would not be in any way fit for battle. As such they are usually sickly, or ill-limbed. They are trained, however, to witness and accept the terrible violence of war, and in so doing are often credited with being able to see beyond what normal people do. So if a caller were to, say, proclaim a prophecy, the warriors would assuredly listen.

(Oh, and the reason callers are named kyllir is thought to relate to the cloud starling, a small, frail bird that stays in north during the winter, and whose song is often the only one heard in the otherwise silent, snow-laden landscape.)

Lyrne, the caller, stepped forward during the ritual and stunned the assembled warriors with this statement: "An arrow will fly from the gates of Azphir and the Serr will yield to the dead." A shivering, small man, the fierce flash in his eyes and the quiet certainty he held as he spoke left no doubt this was a prophecy to heed. The warriors attempted to question him further, but he could speak no more of it. As far as those gathered were concerned, the message was clear: some dangerous figure was among the refugees in the shadow of that city, and they had to go there and root out him, or her.

A full war-wing of Serr set out the very next morning for Azphir. What they didn't realize was that the Kun sent out a party to Azphir as well. They did so, however, for less supernatural reasons. The Kun scouts are unparalleled in their ability to cross lands quickly and quietly, to spy on opposing armies, and they had quick knowledge of the Serr war party and decided they had to be met, as many of the refugees at Azphir were villagers from what was, once, Kun-protected lands.

The results at Azphir were horrific. The people of Azphir, while sympathetic, had provided for camps outside their gates rather than letting anyone through and into the city and the lands beyond. (Azphir protected one of the few passes through Gabladeen, The Mountains of the Heralds.) As such, the many refugees, while helped with food and temporary shelter, were unprotected from soldiers. The Serr swept in first, with such speed and force that the Azphir soldiers could hardly intervene; in fact, the Azphir watch bolted their gates, assuming the Serr through to lay siege. By the time the Kun had arrived, a massacre had already begun, and the Kun waded in, eventually doing as much harm to innocents as the Serr, in the uncertainty and chaos. By the time the Azphir had mustered an army that would brave the opening of the gates, the slaughter had all but ended, but the Azphir made good a terrible revenge, and systematically routed and killed the Serr and Kun that remained and did not have the sense to flee.

When the Serr and Kun returned to their camps, they had reason for shame and for fear. Those that returned would ultimately admit that what had transpired outside that city was an inexcusable crime. Moreover, it was clear that the mighty armies that supported Azphir were roused and filled with a terrible fury, and neither the Serr nor the Kun could expect to stand against their wrath. So when messengers arrived at both the Serr and Kun camps from Azphir with a tersely worded demand that they meet to negotiate an end to their war -- and to negotiate appropriate reparations -- there was only some small, almost token resistance, before messages went back of compliance.

It was decided that the negotiations would take place along the old walls near Sergen. These ancient walls were, in fact, first built by the ancestors of the people that now inhabited Azphir. Moreover, the ruins lay in disputed, central territory. The Azphir delegation, well supported by nearly a full regiment of Oliph cavalry, arrived first and constructed the main meeting tent. The Serr arrived next, fur-armoured and black-cloaked, in a mood of terrible solemnity. The Kun arrived last, a dozen chariots but one single, green banner depicting their sacred Ash.

The leaders of all three met in the great tent. Yusht, first knight of the Azphir, spoke first. True to their decorum, he confessed the crimes of his own people: that they did not act faster and better to protect the refugees outside their gates; that their archers would not dare to fire arrows into a melee of innocents and soldiers; that they held opening the gates until their forces were massed, listening to the cries of the dying. At the end of the litany, Yusht took a dagger across his palm and bloodied the meeting table, then looked to the others. Urra, first of the Kun archers, spoke next. Not as practised at confession, she nevertheless did fair work in confessing their terrible haste and suspicion, their immediate launch into battle against the Serr before the Asphir gates, and their indiscriminate bloodshed. She did speak something to the mystery that spurred them on: what had the Serr suddenly made for the refugees as they had, amassed? She left that question alone in her words, like a stain on a whole cloth.

Arne of the Serr spoke last. A massive man who had known countless battles, and who was known affectionately among his people as the Mule of War for his sturdy and stubborn demeanour in war, rose and paused. He said their prophet, their caller, had said that among the refugees would be one that would bring them down, would bring the dead themselves up against them. He confessed they acted dishonorably, hatefully, but would not relent that they acted in their interest, having heard an oracle's truth.

He went to continue but a man rose suddenly to speak, a man amongst the Kun, a young man named Geth. He was white with fury. "And who guided you there, who guided your killing?" Many soldiers rose instinctively from all sides against this interruption, but before anything more could erupt Yusht called for weapons to stay, and asked the question be answered. Arne looked to his contingent and asked for Lerne to rise. "Our oracle, our caller, guided us."

The young man spat. "Your caller betrays you. He is a beast of lust and greed." More of the Serr rose, prepared to put the speaker to blade, and held back only by the poised spears of the Asphir cavalry. The young man continued. "He accompanied you when your people raided my village of Mota, did he not?"

Arne looked at his caller and back at the young man. "He did, but this is foolishness. Of all the bloodshed, why speak of Mota? We allowed your people to flee, we were merciful. In fact our caller himself demanded mercy when we might not have given it."

"He was merciful because he lusted for my Eyyi, the woman who would have been my wife." The young man looked about the room. "Eyyi made for the Asphir camps for protection, awaiting my return. But I remember how this caller, this Lerne, tried to convince her to come with him. "You captured me as a soldier and I escaped, but this Lerne could not abide that Eyyi would not have him. He took his sick regard and guided your soldiers to kill what he could not have. Did you not move to the centre of the camp, and did you not put torch to a red tent at its centre?"

Arne looked stunned. He turned on Lerne, red-faced and humming with anger. The caller was already retreating from the glances around him, as good as a confession. He was snatched up by both men of the Serr and the Kun, and taken from the tent to the ruined wall. There were no shouts for his death, but it was the sure intent of all there. He was bound and cast against the wall, his frail body cracking with the impact. He remained silent and did not even implore forgiveness, so cold was his aspect. The young man himself took the long, coppered bow of the Kun, pulled back an arrow, and shot it through the caller's throat, while all three peoples looked on. The blood sprayed and stained the ivy, but it was not the last of the spectacle. At the arrow's strike, Lerne screamed, and around him formed -- many there bore witness to it -- around him formed a whorl of ghosts and shades, like shadows of wine, and they screeched and tore into the weak man's flesh. Their hideous howling was like vengeance's perfect words, and many there were terrified to their bones. The dead did rise against the Serr, and they took the caller away to some torment in the elsewhere. And their screeches left three tribes of soldiers trembling.

The truce was concluded that night with few words. The Serr would return past the wall, and it would not be long before they themselves would look to their oracles with an eye to follow less blindly. The Kun, satisfied and humbled, rode their barbed wheels southward to the plains. The Asphir went back behind their gates, and gave sanctuary to any of the refugees that had survived the massacre.

And the ivy on the wall: it was turned wine red by the cries of the spirits of the dead. It is still red to this day, tinged with the terrible price of the truce.

"Bucket"

I have no doubt that you are thinking I will talk about that old, worn story about Obere, the fisher, who pulled the infant hero Sull from the river in his fish-bucket. I wouldn't blame you, it's a good story. And a funny story, when told well. I mean, the recurring joke where Obere goes to  such great lengths to protect this seemingly fragile baby from terrible enemies, even though he didn't really need to, given the divine nature of the hero-child. The more you hear the stories, in fact, the more silly Obere seems to be: getting all puffed up because he thinks he's managed to protect the child, becoming more and more over-confident.

The reason I don't like recounting the Obere and Sull stories, or at least those ones, is that there are better tellers of the tale, and also because not many people know how the story traditionally ended.

As we all know, the stories usually end off with Obere carrying Sull to safety to the walled city of Umberlough, where the infant's true pedigree is revealed, and where the Wolf Kings suitably reward Obere for his loyalty (if not, precisely, for his actual efficacy as a saviour). Obere, we're told, lives out his remaining days fishing in the sacred river that runs through that famed city, and happily recounting tales of his heroism to delighted passersby.

But here is how I know the tale to end. Obere did indeed stay in Umberlough for some twenty years, and in those years he was happy, which is not really a surprise. Many people would come to hear his stories, though eventually he came to realize they came to laugh at his presumption as much as to hear the adventures themselves. He could, indeed, pass many happy hours fishing the sacred river, but it was too easy, its bounty too easily given forth in mountains of rich, fatty fish. Eventually he went to the court and told Sull, now chief among the Wolf Kings, that he tired of this city life and wished to be excused to return to his small village. Sull, while always holding the old man in high affection, was preoccupied with the Aerie Wars and granted his request with little ceremony, dismissing him a little too quickly. Obere returned to his village saddened.

The years in the city had changed Obere more than he realized. Even before his adventures with the hero-child, he was of some advanced years. When he returned to his small hut (well kept by the villagers, it should be told), he found the life he once led hard to resume. His bones did not withstand the cold winds that came through the hut's walls as they once did. He built his fires more slowly, and found the wood harder to chop. And his fish-bucket suddenly seemed unbearably heavy, and he could pull in only a fraction of the yield he once did. Still, he had enough, he felt, to sustain himself, and the other villagers held him in such regard -- for they did not doubt he was a man who saved a godling -- that he never really wanted for any sustenance or comfort.

But he was lonely. It became clear to him that, in all those wild and now lightly-mocked adventures with Sull, he had developed a deep, fatherly love for the child, one that never waned. When Sull was taken in by the Umberlough court, Obere was revered, but kept at a distance, his work done. He saw Sull as he grew into a fierce boy and powerful young man, but only really met with him from time to time; the work and training of a prophesied hero, the boy who would lead the Wolf Kings, was much greater than the time to be given to a old man. Obere had sustained himself for a long while in that city, but in the end knew he had nothing there. But back in his village, he felt he had little to return to.

The old man's spirit fell; it thinned and tore like old cloth that had seen too many washings and too many winters. He became ill, again and again, and soon needed constant tending by his fellow villagers. He fell and broke his leg, and it never properly mended. His lungs filled with a grey sickness that he could never cough away, however many nights he spent doubled over. Fevers troubled him regularly. And even his eyes, once able to catch the subtle glints of fish beneath roaring river water, became white-blind with cataracts. Eventually, he would spend all his hours in his bed, tended from time to time by his good neighbours, muttering incoherently into the air, asking after the iron child, the infant hero he had the pleasure of once protecting, of carrying to a far off city, and helping place on a throne.

His mutterings did not fall on deaf ears. Unbeknownst to him, one of the Wolf Kings, a wise and kindly man named Egerd, had sent a small falcon to reside in Obere's village and keep watch over him. This falcon was a logekri, a spirit animal with fierce intelligence and loyalty. Obere's troubled ramblings were all heard by this falcon, and eventually it decided it had to fly back to Umberlough and report news that was all but certain: the old man, Sull's Saviour, was fast dying. And so it flew through the thick winter winds, over the titan-trees of the Kon Forest, and up to the summit where Umberlough's howling walls stood. It flew to the throne room, to the greatest throne, and perched by Sull the First King, and told him what was transpiring.

As if woken from a dream, Sull was struck with fierce sadness and shame. He had felt some regret he had not honoured the old man when he had left the city the few years previous, buthad been kept so busy by his work and projects and wars he had not ever remedied this. Against the wishes of the other Wolf Kings, he packed a horse and left immediately for the long ride back to the village where the old man first found him. As he rode, he was reminded of the many strange adventures the two had shared when the old man desperately tried to get him safely to the city. Suddenly the tales did not seem silly or farcical; they were noble, all the more noble since the old man had never known anything but the sense that his risk to his life was real, and the risk to the child unbearable.

Sull arrived in a thick storm at Obere's hut, and entered hurriedly. Inside, the villagers had made the hut as warm and as comfortable as they could, but even in his first breath he smelled the stale smell of the dying, as Obere's fading spirit infused the air and furs and even the smoke of the hearthfire.

Sull kneeled by the feverish old man and proclaimed his love for him and his shame that he had not come sooner. His voice was now the voice of an accomplished king and conqueror; it was the voice of a great wolf and battle horn. Obere's face twisted in pain. "Close the door," he said, "I am vexed by the sound of the storm winds."

Sull leaned closer and tried to whisper his fondness for the old man, to apologize again. The First King's voice was warm and sure, so used as it was to issuing command. Obere again did not know what it was. "Dim the fire," he said. "The drafts are too hot and they scald my old skin."

Sull was frantic; none of his words could be understood. He leaned forward and lay his kingly hand upon the old man's breast, to feel the trembling heart. Obere gasped and yelled, "Remove this hearthstone! I am warm enough, and its weight is too crushing upon me."

Sull could not bear this. He gently lifted the old man from his bed to embrace him as best he could in his fierce arms, arms tested by many battles and hardened by his godly origin. Obere sobbed aloud. "What is this? Am I fallen among stones? Am I to be buried before I die?"

Sull realized he could not be felt or heard by the old man. Obere was too frail and feverish, and Sull was too much a divine king, far removed, even in touch and voice, from a mortal. He rose and went back into the storm, and there he himself wept -- the great, First King of the Wolves, the Conqueror of the Aeries and the Mantled Mountains, wept for the first time in his life. He howled. He raged at himself and his selfishness.

Inside, the sounds of Sull's weeping were muffled a little by the walls and the storm. Obere opened his clouded eyes and said, "The storm has thunder in it now. It will be the more terrible, but will pass all the more quickly." He then smiled, sure of his appraisal, and died.

There are many who do not like to hear this tale told. Sull's reknown as a great king, an unrivalled conqueror and uniter of peoples, and a sovereign of generosity and wisdom -- all these do not easily brook another side of the king, one too preoccupied to remember the simple, albeit naive courage of an old man who wanted to protect a beautiful, lost infant. But to me, no story of kingship should ever lack some tale of humility, even of shame.  

"Fish"

The Kili'i are golden fish that swim in vast numbers upriver in the autumn, providing a rich delicacy for the Auni tribe. To understand the story behind them, it is important to remember that the Auni, like all the tribes of the island chain of Yahat's Trembling, once shared their land with gods.

The gods and goddesses of these islands once walked among the people as rulers would: they were, by their very nature, kings and queens, chieftains and sages, and they guided the mortals around them, lived among them, and, of course, would sometimes mingle with them in love, ideas, art, and grief. Some of these gods lived without revealing their nature; others were brazen in their power and command. Thankfully, with many gods, each god in their own way was kept in check.

Then, one quiet year when the summer seemed long and the autumn seemed warm, the gods started to change. They suddenly took on a more mortal edge: erratic, anxious, and even vulnerable to harm and pain. The first sign of the changes came when Oddu, a beloved and wily young god, was slain by a mortal upon a hill due to a tavern argument. The death of this god was the first sure sign that the god's reign, if not ending, was changing. Then, one by one, the gods started to withdraw from the mortal realm. Frightened mortals soon discovered the gods were not dying,  but retreating to sleep.

Some of these sleeps were wondrous and marked the land: Ysl, goddess of old songs, went to a field, lay on the ground, and was transformed into an evergreen tree, whose branches shape the wind into whispered memories for any who come close; Dog Mutu tried to flee the sleep by running out to the plains and became a storm of dust that still travels the same way every season. Not all of the god-sleeps were benign: the Sage Alaam fell asleep in the Library of the Collect and was transformed into four malignant words that, if spoken aloud, blackens the eyes and brittles bones. And of course, the Gray King Yahat retreated to a mountain and shivers in nightmares, such terrible nightmares that they take shape and haunt the forested hills around. (The worst of these manifest nightmares are the Yesh, thin, white-cloaked phantoms with long icy fingers and the faces of decaying lions.)

Some gods and goddess resisted their sleep as long as they could, and in their new, mortal airs, tried almost too desperately to live, live as they never thought they would have to. Kil, golden-haired Kil, was desperately in love with Jolya, the ring-maker. Jolya had rejected Kil's advances so often that they themselves became funny stories told and retold in the whole region, but when the sleep started to come upon the gods, Kil returned from a self-imposed pelegrination across the oceans to try one last time to see his Jolya and convince her to return his love. He had some hope; she'd sent a message to him on the seas by falcon: "Hurry!" But when he finally reached Jolya's quiet tower on the river Aun, and ran to its top, he found her already asleep, transformed into a silver bell.

Wracked with sadness, and feeling his own sleep coming upon him, Kil ran down the river as fast as he could, knowing, if he could run fast enough, he could reach the dusk-coloured cliffs of Wesnehee. And he did reach those cliffs; weeping for his end, he cast himself off them -- but not fast enough. He fell towards the rocks and waters and fell apart into a school of beautiful, golden fish, the colour of the sunset and of his fair complexion.

This dream the Auni see and reap every autumn, as the river becomes rich with golden Kili'i who still swim up from the ocean, against the river's raging waters, to the ruins of the Silverbell Tower.