Fires of Justice
Part 5: Penitent – Acts of Contrition
Naliara had been on the road for a month, before she was forced to fight.
She had traveled south from Jerasenn, bearing far west, to avoid her home town of Dalenvar, living simply, camping out, dining on whatever she could gather, and the animals she could trap in snares. The Guardians of the Songs were trained to live off of the land, and she used those skills as she traveled.
And, along the way, she earned some small sum of money by repairing musical instruments. She had clever, nimble fingers, and had known something of repairing instruments when she arrived at the Master Temple of Bragala. Her time there had taught her more, and now she used those skills to keep her in things the land could not supply. She charged only a little for her work, enough to keep her in soap, salt and other spices, and the occasional odd thing that she needed in her travels. Her clothes, the tunic and trousers of the Guardians of the Songs, needed repairs, occasionally, or even replacing. And, as there were no rules as to the colors of her clothing, she had everything she owned dyed purple, of various shades, as soon as she could afford it.
And then, one day, she was attacked by bandits – and her perception of her curse altered, just a bit.
She was walking, late in the afternoon, down a road between two towns. The area was wooded, heavily, and she was just beginning to think about finding a likely camping spot, when six men appeared out of the woods, and barred her way.
Naliara stopped, and regarded the men calmly. They were obviously bandits, but she was not afraid of them, as none of them had any sort of ranged weapon – and she had learned the Violent Dance well, well enough to be confident of her ability to take them.
The one in the lead, a large man, though skinny, said, “All right, girl – hand over your purse, and you won’t be hurt.”
“What I’m going to do to her won’t hurt her at all!” another man said. “She’ll love it, thinks I!”
That was when Naliara began to move. They were thinking to rape her – so she was going to hurt them.
She began a simple dance step, bending to a slight crouch, arms out slightly to her sides, feet moving forward and back, side to side, weight always on her forward foot. The bandits laughed, then, and the big one, who had spoken first, stepped forward, and raised the club he carried, to strike her.
Naliara shifted her step, making him reach into a space where she no longer was, and, as he began to overbalance, pivoted backwards, right foot coming up and out in a deadly arc, her heel cracking into the back of the bandit’s head. As he fell, nearly unconscious, his friends began to close on her.
Naliara finished her spin, and moved straight into a cartwheel, her leading foot coming down to kick the one who had spoken of raping her squarely in the face, knocking him to the road screaming.
She finished her cartwheel, danced a single step, and turned the step into a spin, her torso coming down towards the ground, as her foot came up, to crack the next in line across the jaw.
In only seconds, after that, all six were laying on the ground, and Naliara turned to continue down the road.
That was when the net fell on her, from the trees that arched over the road. It was followed swiftly by three more men, who tackled her, and tried to roll her further into the net.
Four years of silence could not stand to the panic she felt at that moment. Naliara opened her mouth, and cried, “No!”
The man facing her was flung up and away by the sheer destructive power of her voice, and Naliara heard the sound of his bones breaking, even as he flew.
“Get away!” Naliara cried, as a second man loomed over her, brandishing a sword.
As she said get, the sword shattered, and as she cried away, the man screamed, and clutched his face, blood pouring from his nose and eyes.
The third man of the men from the trees turned and ran, as though the very hounds of Jaranaset were chasing him. Naliara let him go.
She untangled herself, and stood. Four of the six men who had first accosted her were stirring, and Naliara started to flee – then stopped, as she was struck with a single thought.
My voice is a curse – but it is also a weapon!
She did not flee. Instead, she waited, until the four who were stirring were alert, and starting towards her – then she smiled a little, and said, “No.”
All four were blown backwards, tumbling head over heels, with minor broken bones.
Then, as they lay crying and pleading with her not to hurt them, Naliara turned, and walked away, seeming casual, but listening carefully for approaching footsteps. They never came.
She walked until it was almost too dark to see, before she found a good spot to camp. As soon as she had set up her small tent, and started a fire, Naliara set about finding out how to use her voice as a weapon.
There was much damage to the surrounding trees, and no small number of rocks, in the two hours after sunset, but Naliara learned what she felt she had to know. With various sounds, she could cause various kinds of destruction. Her memory, and her perfect pitch, gave her quite an arsenal of sounds to play with.
She could create simple concussive force, cause things to explode, start fires, and even cut things, very smoothly.
This may well save my life – again – at some point! Naliara thought, as she cleaned up the destruction around her camp. I know this is meant to be a curse, and that to use it as a tool may be wrong – but I may be able to do more to earn freedom from the curse, if I use it so.
That night, as every night, she prayed to Bragala, before laying down to sleep. This night, she prayed a bit differently, though.
Lord Bragala, she
prayed. Master of Song . . . I know that I did something horribly
wrong, and that I must earn freedom from this curse, that I may not be given
freedom – but I ask one thing of you, my Lord, this night.
If using the destruction of my voice to accomplish good, or at least as a weapon against the base and evil, is a thing that I may do without increasing your wrath, show me a sign, that I may know I am not risking further damnation.
She received no answer, before falling asleep.
But she got an answer in the morning.
Naliara woke to the sound of birdsong – but not ordinary birdsong.
There were hundreds, maybe thousands, of birds in the trees around her camp, singing – and all were piping the same song.
It was a song she knew well, a song of the battle of good versus evil, in which Arteneh, the God of the Good, aided by Bragala and Alethanna, Goddess of Justice, banded together against Jaranaset, the God of the Evil, and his allies, Khartak, God of Chaos, and Sebek, God of Greed. The song, she remembered, as the birds played on, told of Bragala being cursed by the much more powerful Khartak, with a touch that broke or disarrayed everything he came in contact with – and of how Bragala had turned that gift against the Gods of Darkness, by talking his way into their halls, and touching the magic weapons that they had intended to use against the Gods of Light, and ruining those weapons.
There could be no mistaking the message. What she had thought of doing would be allowed.
She prayed again, thanking Bragala for his sign.
_________________________________________________
Over the course of the next two years, Naliara developed her fighting skills quite nicely – by sheer necessity. She became a wandering troubleshooter, constantly finding herself in places that had some sort of trouble going on. Dutifully, she did her level best, in every case, to ease the trouble, and end the problem. She only rarely accepted any reward, taking rewards only when she thought it would hurt the one who offered it more if she were to refuse.
One thing she did take gladly – a magical staff, given her by a grateful old wizard, whom she saved from the childish anger of a mob of villagers, who blamed him for their monster troubles. The staff was, the wizard assured her, unbreakable, though it could be separated into two parts, both some three feet long, for ease of carrying – or use as two weapons. The ends of the staff were capped in silver, and it was light, and well balanced. Naliara had learned to fight with a staff, in her training, and had gone through several, breaking them fairly often, before this one was given to her. It would be nice not to worry about her weapon breaking in combat . . . .
The staff, a short sword, and a small bow were her only weapons.
Naliara faced towns under siege by bandits, castles under siege by the undead, peasant girls under siege by corrupt nobles . . . and she faced them all bravely, determined to end her curse, to get back her voice . . . to sing.
But she did not learn the lesson her God wanted her to learn.
She did these things to end her curse – not for the sake of doing them. The only form of giving she really understood was singing, for she had always loved to sing, and had given away performances as often as she had charged for them, more often, even.
She did not understand giving of herself, of her efforts, for their own sake, for the simple sake of giving.
She prayed three times daily, trying to understand, trying to get some sign from Bragala, or even Arteneh, the God of Good, of what she was doing wrong. Neither God gave her the answer she sought.
Some things may not be given, only earned.
And some lessons must be learned the hard way.
Near the end of her second year of wandering, Naliara faced her greatest challenge yet. She came upon a town that was partly a smoking ruin, with maybe three hundred people standing around staring at the ruins, or sifting through them. Others moved among them, one obviously a cleric, healing them, or simply nudging them towards the undamaged section of town.
Naliara’s approach was noted, and several men banded together, all producing weapons of one sort or another, to meet her at the edge of town.
“We want no trouble,” the man in front, a big, muscular fellow, called as she approached. “We’ve had enough of that, as you can see. We’ve nowhere for you to stay, and no food to offer you. We’d appreciate it if you moved on, young miss.”
Naliara stopped, and looked at the men, for a moment. There was no easy way for her to communicate her peaceful intentions, not now. So, she simply bowed, and turned to one side, to go around the town, into the woods.
Two hours later, she returned, and again, the men came out to meet her, stopping, and staring in surprise, at what she brought with her.
Naliara was dragging a simple sledge, made of branches, and secured to it with braided vines was a huge stag, with an arrow sticking out of it’s chest. She dropped the sledge, as the men approached, and moved around behind her gift.
“You . . . you brought this for us?” the big man in charge asked.
Naliara nodded, and stepped another step back.
After motioning for two of the men to drag the stag into town, the man stepped forward, and bowed very low, saying, “Forgive me, young miss, for my suspicious nature. We have been hurt – and the wounded are wary of another blow. You are welcome here, and may share what we have.
“My name is Iridan, and I welcome you to Green Trees – or, rather, to what is left of it.”
Naliara stepped forward, and offered a piece of parchment that she kept handy for occasions such as this one. Iridan read it aloud.
“ ‘My
name is Naliara,’ ” he read. “
‘I am forbidden to speak by my god, Bragala, as a punishment for acts I care
not to discuss. I am attempting to earn my freedom from his curse. How may I aid
you?’
“Well,
Naliara, your gift of food is certainly aid enough!”
Naliara
raised an eyebrow, and gestured at the destruction around them.
Then she cocked her head slightly to one side, as though to ask a
question.
Iridan chuckled, amused by her skilled pantomime, and said, “The town was destroyed by followers of Khodanra, Naliara. The God of Dark Magics. I doubt that you can be of much help, with the likes of them.”
Naliara’s eyes widened, at the name of Khodanra, and then her lips set, and she nodded emphatically.
“You can help?” Iridan asked.
Naliara nodded, then put on an expression of doubt.
“You think you can help?” Iridan asked again.
Naliara nodded, very firmly.
“Then come into town, Naliara, and I shall tell you what happened.”
Naliara followed Iridan to an inn that was intact, and sat in a corner with him, while he told her what had led to the destruction of approximately half of the town of Green Trees.
His tale was simple, really. A little less than two years ago, the Mage-Priests of Khodanra had moved to this area, erecting a temple some eight miles off, in the rocky hills that covered this part of Agatsin. The townspeople had been nervous, of course, with a temple of a Dark God nearby, but the Mage-Priests had left them alone, even keeping to themselves, neither harming nor even threatening anyone on the rare occasions that they came to town for supplies of some sort. They were, in fact, good customers, and always courteous.
Then, about six months ago, they had assaulted the town, one night, for no reason at all. Whatever spell they had used had been a powerful one. A fireball had fallen from the sky, late one night, and destroyed the business of a tanner, wrecking the building completely, even causing the ground to shake for a moment. The resultant fire had destroyed the tanner’s house, even, and killed his wife.
And since that time, the Mage-Priests of Khodanra had been attempting to drive the townspeople away. They attacked occasionally, for no apparent reason. Once, the High Wizard had come to the Mayor of Green Trees, and offered to pay everyone in town a very generous price for their lands. The Mayor had put it to a vote, and the people had refused. The town was home, and worth more to the townspeople than mere money.
Some had agreed, and sold, and moved, but not many – and not enough. The High Wizard had offered again, doubling his price. The town had refused.
And the bad things started happening.
Children went missing, and turned up dead, days later, their bodies marked in some horrible fashion. Animals were poisoned. People died, for no apparent reason.
And still they would not abandon their homes. They sent word to the Temple of Arteneh, and that worthy organization sent two clerics, a Master of the Light, and his apprentice, to minister to the town. For a time, that slowed down the assaults.
Then, last night, the Mage-Priests had attacked en masse. Half the town was burned, and slightly more than half the citizens dead – including the Master of the Light. His apprentice, Geoniss, was doing the best he could to help the wounded, but he was young, and inexperienced.
“And that brings us to here and now.” Iridan drank from the mug of ale he’d gotten for himself, and Naliara sipped her wine. “Do you now think you can help, young miss?”
Naliara smiled, and nodded, and Iridan’s eyes widened in surprise. She drew a piece of parchment from the pouch she wore at her side, and a stick of charcoal. Quickly, she scribbled a note, and shoved it to the big man.
“ ‘Was anything built where the tanner’s house and shop were?’ ” Iridan read. He answered immediately. “No, nothing was built there. It seemed like bad luck to even think of it.”
Naliara nodded, and scribbled again.
“ ‘ I will need help, to confirm my suspicions,’ ” Iridan read. “ ‘Several strong men, and tools for going through the wreckage of the tanner’s shop.’
“What do you think happened, Naliara?”
She wrote another note, and he read, “ ‘It would be hard to explain – unless there is a bard in town? Or a minstrel?’ ”
Iridan called a man over, then, and sent him to look for “the Bard.” The man left like a shot, and returned a few moments later, leading a man in his fifties, with a harp slung over his back. As soon as Naliara saw the man’s face, she leapt to her feet, almost forgetting herself, and crying out in her delight.
“I remember you, Naliara of Dalenvar,” Adric of Jerasenn, the most famous bard in the world, said, smiling. “And I am pleased to say I have heard of your fame – and your voice!” He hugged her, then, and held her at arms length. “And you’ve become quite the beauty, as well! I hope we may sing together, child!”
Naliara’s face fell, and she handed Adric the note explaining that she could not speak. He read it, and sighed.
“I am sorry, Naliara,” Adric said. “I had heard the songs of the Penitent – but I had no idea that they were about you.”
Naliara’s look of surprise was almost comical, and Adric smiled, faintly.
“One of the bards visiting the Master Temple of Bragala must have heard your story, child, and made a song of it.” Adric hesitated, then said, “If it’s any comfort, the song is very beautiful – and hopeful, that the Penitent will recover her voice, and join us in worship again.”
Naliara stared at the table, for a moment, trying not to cry, and the men left her alone, until she got herself under control. When she looked up, Adric asked, “Why did you have me summoned, Naliara? May I help?”
Naliara nodded, and scribbled a note, asking that Adric play the Ballad of Galadar. She didn’t need to ask if he knew it, she had heard him sing it, the first time she met him.
Without hesitation, Adric unshouldered his harp, and sang the song, in his rich, true baritone.
Galadar had been a hero some 600 years before, and the song told of his exploits – including the making of his magical blade, now the property of the Royal House of Belfaral, his homeland.
The sword, according to legend and song, had been made of a piece of metal that had fallen from the sky, destroying a grain storage bin, and setting the surrounding fields on fire, when it fell. And, as it came from the sky, and presumably the Gods, the metal had made the most fearsome weapon in all of the history of Agatsin.
Naliara stopped Adric after the verses about the creation of the sword, and motioned him to back up, and sing those verses again.
Iridan understood. “You think another piece of sky-metal fell to the ground, and hit the tanner’s shop! And that is why the Mage-Priests want the town?”
“It makes sense,” Adric said, as Naliara nodded. “There might be some effect on the ground around where the metal fell, that the Mage-Priests can take advantage of, in addition to using the metal. And if they were to make a weapon the likes of the Sword of Galadar . . . I think we must prevent this.”
Naliara nodded, and Iridan stood, calling for men to help.
Very soon, Naliara and a party of six strong men were excavating the tanner’s old shop, toiling mightily, hoping that they could complete the job before the Mage-Priests noticed what they were doing.