Sibren ‘Solemn’ Maats

The Road Diaries

Part II

-The Historian & a King’s sword-

Sid hated long journeys and him being in his third decade would make one justify the old destrier, but he’d been like that for twenty years and some of its personality had rubbed off on Sibren as well. So they made one stop the first day, then a couple the next three and settled on three per day after that.

Older people and animals don’t like hurrying.

A week later found them traveling up the slopes towards the Howling Pass, after they resupplied themselves in Anorum. The Legion’s City bustling with activity despite technically not housing a Legion anymore. The First Legion was stationed near the city of Alden for a while now and whilst at venerable Lord Holt’s insistence, the Fourth training Cohort had stayed put in Anorum, -as apparently he didn’t agree with the Council’s decision to elevate King Jeremy to the throne of Regia- one Cohort does not a Legion make.

Another conundrum this, Sibren thought of the affairs in Regia.

Sibren knew that no King, accepted or not, liked his subjects objecting his decisions publicly. So Sibren expected trouble to come Asturia’s way sooner rather than later, probably after the weather cleared.

Unless the young King has no balls, or is weaker than the Lords backing him proclaim. A strange notion with him being married to a Crow and all, he mused.

Sid snorted, jets of stream shooting out of his nostrils and Sibren agreed to pull near a flattened area of the cobblestone road for their final stop of the day. The horse protested, as there was nothing to eat at the near but black mud and rocks, the tree barks stiff and hardened by the cold temperatures of the approaching winter not whetting the difficult animal’s appetite.

“Much colder here than back in Anorum,” Sibren commented looking about them for firewood. He chopped some broken branches into smaller pieces, his back protesting and clenched his jaw dragging everything to their camp. Looked in his bags for fodder, Sid almost biting his fingers off in protest at the small rations. “Ain’t my fault you can’t carry more,” Sibren justified himself pulling away. “Had I thought of getting a mule, then you’d have to share so don’t go blaming this on me mister.”

His horse neighed his version of expletive and let out a stream of hot piss that splashed on Sibren’s boots. The adventurer grunted, but it was his fault for not putting more distance between them and walked around the steaming pool of urine to find his bronze pot.

The sky crackled above their heads, the clouds darkening and for a moment it looked as if it might rain, so Sibren hassled to have a fire started under a couple of hugging old Pines. It took him a while to get a good spark, the flintstone breaking against the blade of his small axe –the smaller part unusable-, but the tinder caught that fat spark and he succeeded with a holler of triumph.

Sid neighed tauntingly not impressed, looking over his shoulder at his handiwork and then it started snowing.

Sibren got a couple of hours of rest at most, but then he had to get back on his feet and feed the dying fire, whilst limping about with the right part of his leg from knee to hip turning numb. The snow had stopped, after managing to whiten the road and bring a thin mist over the treeline the moons highlighted ominously.

“Fuckin’ cold came early,” he griped, water running down the mountains creating black veins that cut through the white patches of ground amidst the trees. Sibren walked to the road and for a moment he thought he heard someone coming up behind him, but it was only the wind. His mind and the dark playing tricks on him. With a grunt he made to return to their camp, but saw a gloomy yellow light a couple of kilometers from their position, further up the path.

Grimacing, he stayed and watched the light of the distant fire for a while, his heavy leather coat damp and his feet cold in their boots bothering him.

He’d asked around the guards at Anorum about the small group he was following and they told him two caravans had passed afore him, along with them. The caravans had ventured for Picker’s River to get over it before the weather caught them in the open. The idea was to head towards Brownfort and Eaglesnest after that via the Nor Maze Heights Legion road, but the smaller party had opted to travel east towards the Howling Pass instead, to reach Kas quicker. Now whether they made it there sooner, Sibren wasn’t sure, but he would bet good coin that even if they did, the tourist might not live to see it.

“You know we could make up the time,” he explained to a scowling Sid, the horse’s black eyes glaring at him. “If we sort of trot up the path right away. I know how it sounds, but hear me out,” Sibren insisted. He’d taken the habit of talking to Sid some years back, as it reminded him of bubbling about stuff with Milton over a fire. At every rest they took, many a cold, or warmer nights. It was usually a waste of time, but usually every other member of the team would get involved and some pretty wild ideas, or even theories had been discussed in the middle of the night.

Mostly involving women and treasure. Others of Wyverns and mythical beasts of prey, or even mermaids. Which was sort of like talking about wenches, Sibren supposed, but wit a bit of more danger involved.

A couple of good plans were hatched as well. Probably a few horrible ones somewhere in there, if ye want to keep it real, but time tends to mellow one’s memories.

Past journeys recollections having a romantic appeal to them, coated in nostalgia’s garbs. Every danger and hardship seen under a different light, especially over a warm fire.

Sibren called these memories, the road diaries.

All fortune hunters had their own stories to tell, or remember.

Nothing was written down, all the details bunched up in his brain and probably fated to die with him.

Sid wasn’t convinced and protested, but the large warhorse came after him up the cold path just the same as this is what horses habitually do. The moons lighting it up some coming through gaps in the clouds, making the smarting to the eyes white appear bluish at spots and the soft snow allowing the hard road to absorb the sound hoofs and boots made, as they went after that flashing glow in the darkness.

Hmm, can’t make anything out from here, Sibren mused a couple of hours later, too cold to put it into words. The thrill of adventure had waned and left only tired cold legs and a smarting back behind. He wiped some of the frost off his face, the weather turning colder after the snowfall, his eyes on the campsite now visible by the side of the road. A spot much like theirs, but bigger and flatter amidst the rocks. A number of broken trees leaving tall stubs back where that big boulder had ripped through them with the floods and their rotten trunks and branches used to keep some of the snow away. Three horses and a couple of mules with supplies occupying one side of the opening, the large fire burning between them and the men they were following.

Probably.

Sibren sighed and walked to his own horse, careful not to make too much noise, as the night had turned rather quiet after the snowfall, on top of colder. Sid snorted, when he rubbed his long snout with a hand.

“Ye know we could be wrong,” Sibren whispered to his horse. He got out of his heavy coat, the cold biting and looked inside his saddlebags for that mail shirt to wear over his leather brigandine, a fancy piece of armour he’d made in Cediorum a decade back for a pretty penny. The hardened pieces of boiled leather had straps at the sides and had aged poorly, but it still had a bit of life left in it. The chainmail was an older piece belonging to Vernon, but he had it repaired time and time again, so in a sense it was probably newer than his brigandine. The newer rings making bright patches next to the darker older ones.

Eh. It was why he kept it in the bags.

He could have bought a new one, but Sibren didn’t since it was his way of convincing himself he’d left the life behind. Plus it was serviceable armour and only younger adventurers think about fashion.

It took him a long minute to put it over his head, the hole escaping him the first couple of times and the metal appearing shrunk for some reason around the belly. Sibren strapped his sword sheath on its hook, after he wore his harness. Slotted his good dagger on the other side and after some thought left his mace behind. Carrying too much in the dark would tire him even more, afore he reached the campsite and was noisy as all hells. He cursed himself for not bringing a helm along, but the one he had back in Asturia needed its innards replaced, the leather brittle and hard on his scalp and Sibren had never gotten around on fixing it. The fact he’d the Guild’s blacksmith available nagging at him all of a sudden.

Them little details, Jester Grin used to say that big sad face looking at the flames.

“Now you stay here,” Sibren told his horse, keeping his voice low. “If I don’t come around, you turn back and follow the road to Anorum. You do whatever ye like after that, but give me a couple of hours. Right. There it is then. Not much reason to freeze our balls in the plaguing dark longer. Better to get to it. See if we are right, or wrong.”

The voice came from somewhere in front and to his right. Gruff and full of frustration. Sibren had his mind on the animals, a mule snorting and moving about sensing him approach in the dark and kind of gotten surprised hearing it, as he came around the woods side of the opening to avoid the road.

A North accent speaking in common.

“Fucked the edge gods darnit,” the man griped, working at something metallic.

“Ye shouldn’t have hit him so hard,” another voice replied a little judgmental, this one sounding like it belonged to a man from Lesia.

“He swallowed the fuckin’ key,” the first man protested irate. “Didn’t see another way of opening it and got plaguin’ frustrated!”

“All I’m sayin’,” the second man said. “That second blow was unnecessary. Look at him.”

“He’s a bleeder, it was wasn’t that hard a knock. Wasn’t expecting him to just stand there and take it like a fuckin’ idiot. Most people duck,” his friend explained before guffawing. “Hahaha!”

“What?”

“Coin. Big fuckin’ purse and a couple of smaller ones.”

“What kind?” The second man asked, letting the matter of the injured silent man aside.

“Gold, haha! I knew it.”

“What else? It a big darn box this,” the man from Lesia asked. A Lorian wearing a heavy hide coat, with a chainmail hauberk underneath it. He’d a sword strapped on his back, the wide belt a little loose to go over the coat. Sibren could see him, as he’d stepped in to the light of the big campfire. The Northman who was facing his way, made to reply standing up from an open quality oblong box, but saw Sibren appear and gasped.

“Fuck.”

“What is it?” The Lorian queried a bit spooked and turned around, almost stepping into the fire.

“Greetings,” Sibren told them evenly, blinking to get his eyes used to the light. There was a third man present wearing an expensive leather coat, with his back against a broken tree stub. Half sitting there on his arse, bleeding down his face, left cheek cut and eye swollen grotesquely from taking a heavy blow. He appeared out for the count, or dead. “Saw yer light,” he added leaving it at that.

The Northman looked at his axe, he’d dropped it next to the open box, a large broken padlock next to it and then returned his eyes on him nervously.

“It’s a fucking campsite,” the Lorian spat, hostility mixed with fear in his voice, as Sibren was an ugly motherfucker to have snuck up on you in the middle of a cold night.

It was probably the same in a warm night come to think of it.

“That’s what I thought,” Sibren replied and took a step forward to shorten the distance between them.

“Listen… old man,” the Lorian warned him. “I don’t know where the fuck ye came from, but—”

“Name’s Sibren Maats,” he cut him off. “Came up the road.”

“Right, well I don’t know you,” the Lorian said. “And this is our god darn business here!”

“Tell him Levi,” the Northman grunted aggressively, sneakily backtracking to get at his discarded axe.

“Sure,” Sibren agreed, sucking at his right cheek. He’d a chipped tooth there that needed fixing as well, but he wasn’t brave enough to face the dentist’s pliers. “What’s wrong wit him?”

Levi grimaced and glanced at the now slowly coming about beaten up younger Lorian. The man was sniffling, Sibren noticed. What in Uher’s name?

“He owes us money,” Levi finally said with a smirk, probably having an idea formed in his head. “Matter of fact, if you’re troubled yerself then ye can have a cut.”

“Aye, you can have his horse,” the Northman agreed, long beard the color of blood.

“Wex, is right. Walking about without one in this kind of weather—”

“I know the name,” the young man said, spitting what looked like a bloody tooth between his legs.

“See? He’s fine,” Wex grunted and touched his axe with the edge of his boot.

“Saw it in the Guild,” the young man continued and tried to get back on his feet. “I never forget a name.”

Mmm.

“What Guild?” Levi asked and frowned seeing that Sibren had taken another step forward. He needed to as this was never going to end whilst talking around the fire about wenches and good beer.

Not that kind of story this.

“Written over the counter. Lord Maats Spot, hah,” the young fool guffawed, blood running down his neck, adding intrigued. “That is rather extraordinary.”

Sibren dropped his hand to the pommel of his sword and raised it to unsheathe the long blade with his left hand, tip pointing downwards, the right going for his dagger to confuse his opponent.

Never let a fight drag on unnecessarily.

Things have a way of getting complicated.

Sibren had almost forgotten that.

Levi saw him draw his sword and ogled his eyes. He stepped back reaching for the blade strapped on his back, but that extravagant leather belt had a lot of give in it and he missed the sword’s handle the first time. Sibren took another step forward flipping the sword in his left hand, almost dropping it as his fingers were stiff from the cold, despite the gloves he had on.

Gods darnit.

“Watch the fire,” the veteran adventurer cautioned his opponent who had his eyes on the fancy and completely unnecessary swordsmanship, whilst trying to get his own blade out. Levi grunted, stepping into the fire and Sibren punched his dagger into his solar plexus, where the coat hang open. The blade cut through the rings and went in at least three fingers, blood gushing out steaming hot between them.

Levi gasped and recoiled away from the blade, almost going down. He raised his left arm and put a hand on the dagger Sibren had let go, the other still trying to get his blade out.

For a man criticizing the young Lorian, Levi had done a piss poor job to get out of the way himself.

“Eh,” Sibren grunted and placing the sharp end of his long blade on his panicked opponent’s face, dragged it down casually cutting him across it.

Levi went down with a yelp, his face a ruined mess and Sibren stepped aside switching hands, his eyes on the onrushing Wex. The Northman swung brutally with his axe not wasting any time and Sibren had to turn hard to avoid it. Immediately the adventurer realized he wasn’t fast enough, darn boots sticking in soft mud pooling near the fire slowing him down even more, so he lashed with his blade mid-turn to parry the axe away.

The blade caught the axe’s edge with the flat and snapped in two, the shorter part of it still in Sibren’s hands.

By the fucking dead! He cursed inwardly, quickly jumping away from a return swing. It’s one thing to fight a man wielding a war-axe with a longsword, another to fight him with a shorter one. While the first is difficult and always dangerous, the second was near suicide.

“Ye wrinkled piece of shite!” Wex growled seeing Sibren slipping away and rushed after him.

Sibren hurled the broken sword, but Wex swatted it away, the blade bouncing off his shoulder guard and barely missing his face. The Northman paused a little spooked at the near miss, giving a bit of time to a distressed Sibren to twist around trying to find another weapon, the missing mace worth its darn weight in gold right about now and the campsite offering little choice other than Levi’s own blade. The Lorian seemed worse for wear, but just as Sibren went at him circling around the fire, Wex charged him again going through it.

Oh, for crying out loud!

Sibren spun left, embers and pieces of burning branches flying everywhere, as Wex reached him. A scorching cinder caught him on the forehead, but he managed to put a hand on the axe’s shaft just above the blade on pure instinct. Wex, who had gotten himself half-blinded, whilst half-burning his long beard charging through the fire, found his bearings quickly, but couldn’t stop his momentum. He crashed on the adventurer and they both went down.

They rolled in the mud and the smoking embers, Sibren putting a hand on Wex’s snarling face and the Northman trying to bite his fingers off. Sibren pulled his hand away losing a glove, the other wrestling with his opponent for the axe and got punched at the ribs repeatedly by the younger man. He cursed and spat in his face, but almost lost the grip on the axe. Wex pushed it towards his neck grunting irate, the steel butt opening Sibren’s chin and managed to get above him.

Sibren grunted, his eyes blurring and at a disadvantage, but saw the ‘tourist’ stumbling their way, face swollen, his cheek a bloody mess and sporting a comically determined expression. The young man reached them, feverish searching his coat pockets for something, whilst Sibren managed to put his other hand on the axe to get a precious breath in. He got punished with another blow at the ribs by Wex and felt his strength waning, just as the ‘tourist’ found what he was looking for and got it out.

He stepped forward, Sibren gawking his way desperate, holding what appeared to be a thin nail.

What in all hells!

Wex got wind that something was up and looked to the side, the weird ‘tourist’ missing his neck and stabbing him in the right eye.

The soft ovule exploded with a puffing sound, the Northman letting out a heart-wrenching squeal, watery bloody fluids splashing Sibren in his face and snarling mouth. He coughed up disgusted and shoved the injured screaming Wex away. Sibren rolled to the side next, covered in mud, blood and ashes, trying desperately to find a weapon.

He stumbled on his feet, an injured but still in the fight Wex doing the same a couple of meters away and spotted the ‘tourist’ still standing with a surprised look on his swollen face, where they’d been a moment before.

“The fuck are you doing?” Sibren snapped at him and he stared his way with an idiotic half-smile.

“The quill is mightier than the sword,” the young man declared hauntingly and showed him what apparently was a bloody writing tool that he still held in his hand.

“Are ye an imbecile?” Sibren growled and Wex let out an even bigger roar, holding his ruined eye in the palm of his left hand. He showed Sibren his bloody teeth and started marching slowly but determined, intending to chop them both in many pieces, axe in hand.

“Oh, shit,” the young man said, offering a manic Sibren little help and Levi still shuddering three meters away on the wrong side of the plaguing fire, even less.

They had seconds to live and that because the maimed Wex appeared disoriented from blood loss and extra careful.

“Ye don’t happen to have a real blade around?” Sibren asked him, his eyes on the approaching Wex, not really expecting the young man’s answer.

“In the box.”

Wex tried to chop the young man’s head off, but he did the smart thing this time and run away giving Sibren the chance to dive for the open box. He tossed the heavy coin bags away, one of them bursting and spilling its contents on the ground, hands digging deep under scrolls and even a couple of books for that blade.

Sibren heard the Northman coming back just as he found it. It was wrapped in soft leather at the bottom of the box. The adventurer grabbed the long weapon and jerked away from Wex’s axe reach.

“Old turd,” the Northman grunted, the hole where his eye had been grotesque. “What you got there?”

Sibren kept retreating while he unwrapped the weapon. First the handle came to view, a strange elongated design, arched inwards, made of black wood and engraved with intricate silver designs, the pommel curved outwards in a spike. The single edged, over a meter long blade, straight for one third of the way, but then arching upwards dissimilar to the handle. The steel a silvery color and covered in dark scribblings in a strange language.

A humming was heard when Sibren freed the blade fully and the exotic sword gleamed catching the light of the scattered fire. The adventurer felt his frozen fingers warming up, the hurting joints loosening, as if healed from wear and tear.

This ain’t a sword human hands made, Sibren thought awed.

Wex frowned and stopped his attack seeing Sibren wielding a strange weapon all of a sudden.

“That’s mine Issir,” the Northman said after a contemplating moment and sneakily kicked a burning piece of wood his way. Sibren jerked his head away, hot cinders dousing him and heard Wex charging right behind the debris with a mighty bellow.

No it’s fuckin’ not!

The adventurer gasped, his hair and brows singed and lashed out blindly with the sword to keep him at bay, the blade hitting something afore continuing its journey in a wide arch.

Buzzing all the time alike the cords of a giant lute, the vibrations reaching his bones.

Sibren heard a heavy thud, followed by a smaller one, the clanging of metal and the ‘tourist’ who had come back in the meantime gasped loudly, before puking his guts out.

The veteran glanced at the shivering young man moaning pathetically holding his face, vomit mixed with mud covering his expensive boots and then returned his eyes on the many pieces of the late Northman named Wex. Everything under the sternum was still in one piece, the devastating cut starting right above it. The blade had gone through the axe’s shaft, severed his right arm at the shoulder and angled inwards going through mail, flesh, chest bone –spine included- and out below the left shoulder chopping his other arm off as well.

Effectively he’d cut the Northman in two, a tad crudely.

So this happened, Sibren thought seeing no point in dwelling more on something he couldn’t change, much less understand it. Cockatrices mate for life for instance, but no one puts that in them books. He turned around, cleaning his unshaven face with a gloveless hand. Sibren realized he was missing his left eyebrow completely and he’d a blister in the middle of his forehead smarting something fierce. Grunting the veteran adventurer approached the still groaning Levi and casually shoved his half-inserted dagger fully in his chest. The man gasped unable to fight him, then fouled himself with a shudder, just before his heart gave.

Ye shited yerself afore turning to mud, he thought and spat down with a grimace.

That’s what this scheme got ye lad.

No gold, or cunt.

“I think I’m going to die,” the ‘tourist’ whimpered in a haunted voice. “I’m hurt really bad mister Maats.”

Sibren grunted and got up, a jolt of pain running down his protesting back. Rolling about in the cold mud and getting your ribs pounded ain’t for a man your age.

“Are ye a plaguing dottore perchance?”

“Actually,” the young man said sobering up. “I’m an aspiring historian and novelist.”

Well, he has the courage to joke about stuff still, Sibren thought not believing him.

“Let me look at it.”

“I’ve lost the eye, didn’t I? No need to sugarcoat it mister Maats.”

“Nah, it’s still there and I wasn’t goin’ to,” Sibren reassured him. “Put a clean cloth on it, then some stitches for yer cheek and you’ll be fine.”

“What about infections?”

“Son, nothing lasts long up here. Much bigger chance to die from blade, cold, or beast,” Sibren told him and smacked his leg. “Get up. Where’s Gand ‘One Ear’?”

“Ahm, he went up the path with Callum the other mix-breed,” The young ‘historian’ replied thoughtfully and Sibren all but jumped out of his skin furious.

“Fuck’s sake, ye should’ve told me sooner!” he grunted and turned around spooked upon hearing someone coming out of the half-frozen wilds.

Sid clopped his way near the fire, staring at the other horses and stood there to warm himself up. Sensing a wild-eyed and tensed Sibren was glaring at him, the horse snorted and put his front leg forward in his version of the middle finger.

“Haha, it’s a horse,” the historian guffawed, his mood changing alike a teenage girl’s in the summer and Sibren grunted, grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him towards the other animals.

“Saddle a horse up lad,” he told him. “We got to move camp. Don’t wan’t to hear a word! You got one minute, or yer riding raw.”

Sibren used a branch to mess up the campsite and his footprints. Kicked the fire out, so one wouldn’t spot the smoke from afar and moved the slain bodies out of sight and behind trees. Slotted the exotic sword on his saddle and put the coin purses with Sid’s fodder. He thought about gathering some of those that had spilt and sunk near the fire, but he’d no need for it and digging up the gore-covered ground in the dark wasn’t appealing to him.

“Where are we going?” the Historian asked him half an hour later, less than two hours of night remaining. Sibren was properly tired and in a worse mood than his horse, now that the adrenalin had run out of his pores leaving old flesh behind.

“Anorum.”

“No, I need to get to Kas.”

“I ain’t stopping you.”

“Which way is it?”

“Up the slopes, towards sunrise,” Sibren said and stared at his gloveless hand with a frown.

You’ve forgotten to retrieve that darn glove fuck’s sake, he admonished himself.

Went about the whole thing alike an amateur, leaving the mace behind and blocking wit the blade’s flat.

“I won’t make it on my own,” the young Lorian murmured with a pout and Sibren spared a glance his way.

“Where did ye get the sword?” he asked him hoarsely and watched him sobering up immediately. Only genuine thing about him was the fact his face was hurt and he was a bleeder.

City-raised sly motherfucker with whore’s manners.

“A historical dig.”

“Cut the crap son.”

“Right, ahm… mister Sibren I’m not sure I can trust you with all the details.”

“Listen… fool,” Sibren started, hint of razz in his voice. “Not talking about it with Levi would have gotten ye killed just the same and swallowing a key didn’t prevent them from opening the box. Nobody here cares about details. You got to think these matters through more lad.”

“I have to reach Kas,” the man insisted. “I’m on a sensitive mission.”

“You’ll be dead in less than a week on yer own. If I had to guess, I’ll put me coin on a wolf. They have a thing for idiots.”

The young man paled, but clenched his jaw for a moment, afore grimacing in pain. Sibren had never seen a man swell as much from a blow.

“Got a name?” He asked him through his teeth.

You search for thrill and you find it.

If thrill fails to kill you the first time, then it lures you in with something even more appetizing.

“Sirio Veturius,” the historian said and tended a shaking hand. It was left there hanging between them, until he retracted it chagrinned. “I work for Lord Bach,” Sirio added a bit flushed.

That’s a murderous cunt and a fuckin’ half.

“Not exactly a stellar individual lad,” Sibren told him crooking his mouth and stopped Sid pulling at the reins. His horse protested with a neigh fearing the worst.

“That’s the King’s sword,” Sirio blurted out anxiously. “Regia’s king that is.”

A bunch of stuff clicking together.

Endariel.

Knock me over wit a plaguin’ feather!

Now there’s a bag of poisonous snakes dropped in yer lap, if there ever was one, he thought worried.

It appeared his horse was right all along.

Eh, at least you found a couple of mules.

“That’s the road to the Howling Pass,” he grunted. “But we need to head north to Gudgurth Fort in a days’ time, afore the weather turns for the worse. The Screamin’ Road after that.”

“I’ll make it worth your time mister—”

“Shut yer mouth,” Sibren cut him off. “Never speak for no reason. The sound carries and direwolves have excellent hearing. We do this, them aggrieved lads will catch us either before the fort, or right after it in them narrows. Why?”

Sirio's swollen face looked at him wearing a blank stare.

“They are… bad people?” he chanced hopefully and Sibren let out a deep sigh afore replying.

“You told them where yer going lad.”

“Oh, holly crap!” Sirio exclaimed in horror realizing it. “You’re quite right mister Maats!”

Sid snorted in protest to get them moving and Sibren grimaced agreeing, his aged face covered in deep wrinkles and scars. He stood back on the saddle to stare at the snowed path ahead of them getting lost in the misty mountains for a moment and heard the sword’s soft humming mixed in with the wind.

Now that he had gotten the jitters out, it sounded to him like a girl’s song, which was very close to the truth as a matter of fact, as Endariel had been created twenty two centuries ago to honor a king’s lost infant daughter.

No one set ups to be a historian. Writing of other people’s glories and accomplishments isn’t exactly appetizing. People don’t grow up dreaming of doing that and I’m no different. I aspired to be a hero, before realizing that this was very difficult for people of my station and perhaps character. So I turned my sights to the equally exciting life of an adventurer.

Alas a man of action is born out of circumstances, or he’s not. I was fated not to walk in the footsteps of the past’s giants like Ebenezer Framtond, Dubrot Snowguard, Dominique Valwarin and their admirers, but I’ve seen and talked with heroes. Men and women of enormous statue. At some point much closer to the start of it all, I’ve ridden with famed adventurers as well and got a glimpse of their exciting, but harsh life. I frequently pride myself in standing on my two feet admirably next to them, before remembering why one shouldn’t write of his own fails and triumphs.

-

Lord Sirio Veturius

Circa 208 NC

The Fall of Heroes

Author’s second foreword inserted,

before the penultimate chapter of his forty three tomes, a hundred and twenty volumes life’s work,

Chapter titled simply,

The Road Diaries,

Sibren ‘Solemn Lord’ Maats,

-Bloody scrap at the Screaming Road-

Second month of Winter, 191 NC)

-

read it at Royalroad : https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/46739/touch-o-luck-the-old-realms

& https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/47919/lure-o-war-the-old-realms

Scribblehub https://www.scribblehub.com/series/542002/touch-o-luck-the-old-realms/

& https://www.scribblehub.com/series/547709/the-old-realms/