One
As was common in the days after a storm, the air was clear and the Azure sun shone bright and hot overhead. Insects, those that had escaped drowning in the downpour, chirped and droned in the fields of battered and wind-whipped crops. The road was strewn with fallen trees, uprooted crops and as he neared the village, smashed tiles which had been torn from roofs. Even now days later farmers still roamed the fields assessing the damage and doing what they could to salvage their livelihoods. He spotted one couple erecting a humanoid effigy of braided straw and propping it against a tree in one of their fields before bowing their heads toward it in entreaty.
The guard hut was empty but he could see villagers moving about, doing their best to repair the damage dealt by the storm. The cadence of carpenters` hammers and saws accompanied him as he made his way up the road to peer up at the tavern sign, the hood of his habit shading his eyes against the bright sunlight. The heavy oak door creaked as he pulled it open and stepped inside, the cool shadows of the interior pushed back by the scented candle burning atop his staff. The bar itself was deserted; the locals too busy for drinking. Making his way across the sawdust-strewn wooden floorboards he perched himself atop a stool at the bar and leaned across it, looked past the rack of large barrels against the back wall, to a doorway that lead into the back and presumably the tavern-keeper`s home. No one was in sight. In fact, but for the now subdued sound of carpentry outside in the street, the only sound was the trickle of water into a simple yet functional clay clepsydra on the mantelpiece. He took in the room, the oaken bar-top polished by decades of elbows resting upon it, the rustic wooden furniture no doubt made by one of the carpenters now working outside or one of their sires. Upon the wall above the fireplace and the water-clock was an age-browned tapestry of a pearly-skinned maiden with a head of silky hair and penetrating red eyes, a silver anklet her sole adornment. His own deep violet eyes settled upon it and he left the stool to appraise it closer, his candle illuminating the fine threads, not noticing when the stocky Kore bartender entered the room.
“An original Hythoret, that is,” he said, thick forearms crossed over his stained apron and a proud smile upon his face.
The other jumped somewhat, having become lost in his study of the needlework and turned to face the enkidukai with raised eyebrows. His pale skin and light purple hair denoted him as lemur, his candle-topped staff and his garb of a habit embroidered with a snaking pattern on his back indicated both his faith and his occupation.
The enkidukai nodded, “the master weaver himself stayed here when my pa was but a cub, on his way up to the Dome. A pilgrimage. Stopped to give worship at our temple and decided to stay the night.” He nodded his head toward the far corner, “Didn`t have a single tria on him but sat there all night weaving and stitching and gave my grandpa that there tapestry in payment.”
The lemur smiled at the story. He was somewhat of a student of folklore and loved to hear such tales. As he made his way back to the bar, sparing the humble work of art one more glance, he withdrew a pipe and a bag of smoking-weed from his satchel.
“Actually, it is similar circumstances which bring me here now,” he said as he packed the long-stemmed pipe, accepting a lit taper from the barkeep with a grateful smile.
“Oh? We get a lot passing through here, little stopover on the way up to the Dome. I`m guessing you`re bound for the Iron Temple too then?”
The young lemur let smoke curl from his mouth and shook his head a fraction. “Actually I`m in search of one who was. A ylian male by the name of Lybethi, about your height, just into manhood. Always wears a wide-brimmed hat. He should have passed through the Jillian swamp, came this way and arrived at Nalvys and the Winch yestreen but didn`t.”
The enkidukai frowned, “Then he`d`ve been here about two days ago?”
The lemur nodded and asked, “When did the storm hit?” but he could guess from the enkidukai`s expression.
“Don`t know that we had any visitors that day,” the menki admitted with a shrug, “had the doors and windows locked, shutters down almost two days straight while the sky tore itself apart. I can`t say as you`ll find anyone, but you can always ask the other townspeople. P`raps he got lucky and some kind soul let him in.”
“Could he have stayed at the temple?”
The menki looked down, “Ain`t no shelter to be had there.”
The lemur nodded sensing he would get little more, left a hexa upon the bar-top and bowing once to the tapestry above the fireplace he headed back out into the bright sunlight and heat.
Most of the locals ignored him as he passed, too engrossed in their work to pay attention to travelers and he made his way up the road toward the center of the village, the path underfoot still sticky with mud in the gutters and dusty where the sun had already dried out the filth washed into the streets. He could see the temple`s tower, rising high above the other buildings of the village, but the bright light prevented him from seeing its peak clearly.
A commotion surrounded the small stone bridge before the village square, peasants in muck-splattered clothing struggling with ropes and leaning over the side of the structure while others labored in the brown waist-high water. Approaching them he received brief glances but was quickly dismissed as `an outsider` and the villagers continued their work until he too peered over the stonework to find those in the mire struggling to free something from the mud and debris blocking the waterway. He was about to continue on his way toward the temple when he noticed what it was they were trying to extract. One of them held a long, pale object one end of which vanished into the mass under the bridge, the other end of which terminated in five wrinkled fingers.
He looked on in horror as the bloated corpse was dragged from the morass, skin the pale white of fish bellies and covered in livid purple bruises. The villagers struggled to get the slippery body up out of the water and onto the bank, the lemur pulling himself out of his shock to help lay the burden upon the muddy ground. The storm and flood had evidently swept the individual - a ylian male, he noted with concern - into the river and trapped them under the bridge, drowning them in slurry. Clothes, torn and coloured a uniform brown by the river, stuck to the body and its face was badly swollen. He brushed long, matted hair from the face for a better look, fearing it would reveal Lybethi`s honourable countenance only for a woman at his side to emit a piercing wail and collapse over the body in tears, relatives rushing to comfort her.
He rose from his knees, shaking his head at the needless loss to find the villagers nodding their thanks to him. One, a dwarven male thrust a tough, calloused hand into his and shook it. His thick black beard was flecked with crusting mud and his chest heaved with exertion.
“I thank you, stranger. Don`t know what brings you here but I`m sorry you find us in this state. Our town doesn`t exactly have the best of luck.”
The lemur introduced himself, receiving the villager`s name in return. Nimra Reddcairn.
“I am actually here looking for a companion of mine. A ylian man by the name of Lybethi. He should have passed through here two days ago...during the storm.” The Lemur`s eyes moved back to the drowned villager and those grieving around him.
Nimra shook his head, “Haven`t heard of anyone coming here during the storm, friend. If he didn`t find shelter at the tavern...well...I doubt anyone would`ve opened their doors. Ain`t safe at night, never mind the storm.”
The lemur frowned and asked the other to explain.
The dwarf took a moment to compose his thoughts, “There aren`t enough of us who know how to wield a blade, or not well enough to guard against the beasts that roam at night, you see?”
The lemur`s head bobbed in understanding. Yliakum was a land full of dangers and though the Octarchal council did it`s best to protect the levels with their guards, there were only so many soldiers and the threats were great. Remote or small settlements often had to fend for themselves. In some cases this meant civilian militias or brigades. In others it meant locking your doors and shutters tight when the darkness came.
“He must`ve pushed on, tried to make it to the Winch by daybreak,” the dwarf suggested but the lemur felt that there was something more to what he was being told. Almost as if it was being suggested that he too should move on in his search. That Lybethi would have crossed the Gillian swamp, the countryside outside the village during the storm and then pushed on through the town into the countryside beyond was all but unbelievable. His eyes were drawn to the sun-silhouetted temple spire again and the dwarf followed his gaze before shaking his head.
“Ain`t no one in there, of that you can be sure.”
“Oh, why is that?”
The dwarf sighed, “Used to be quite a congregation, I`m told. Lot of pilgrims too, on their way up to Hydlaa and Tarbius` Iron Temple. But there were rumours.” He said the word as if it had a bitter taste. “The priest died, a lovely old xacha she was, and the new one just wasn`t the same. You know how folks gossip and tales grow tall.” He waved his hand dismissively, “Well, numbers dwindled till almost no one was showing up, none of the good an` upstanding folks leastways. Parents told fairytales to their children. Said they`d leave them in the temple grounds if they didn`t behave.”
He stopped at the expression on the lemur`s face and seemingly for the first time noticed the stranger`s raiment. Nimra coughed uncomfortably, “I moved here no more than ten years ago and everyone just told me that the place was abandoned and that I should keep my doors locked at night. I do, and all`s well.”
The lemur thanked the dwarf for the information, offering his condolences to the family of the lost, and headed across the village square. He studied the high wall surrounding the temple as he made his way across the square. Never had he seen such a barrier surrounding a temple of Laanx. Aware that the villagers from the river bank might be watching him, and wanting to give them the impression that he had indeed decided to head on toward the Winch in his search for the missing courier, he walked briskly down the road alongside the wall glancing not once at the dark temple spire protruding over the stacked stones. The road turned a corner on its route toward the edge of the village and continued to follow the wall, bringing him to a small wooden door. It did not share the lemur architecture of the temple and was constructed of heavy wood, left unpainted and badly finished, hanging from large iron hinges imbedded in the granite rocks of the wall. He immediately noticed the large, heavy lock hanging on a thick chain on the outside of the door.
Glancing left and right he checked that no one was in sight and proceeded to snuff out the candle atop his staff and remove it. He then carefully braced the strong oaken pole between the ground and the wall, resting his feet upon it so that he could lift himself up onto the top of the wall. He then leaned down to retrieve his staff and lay flat atop the roughly hewn stones for a moment listening both for disturbances and, if he was honest with himself, to catch his breath. He spent much of his days hunched over tomes and sat in prayer. Such physical exertion was a rarity.
He then lowered himself down from the top of the wall to the grounds of the temple and turned to gaze upon the building itself fully for the first time.
