[Mkguild] The Last Tale of Yajakali - Chapter LII

[C. Matthias]

And another chapter for your reading pleasure!

Metamor Keep: The Last Tale of Yajakali
By Charles Matthias

Chapter LII

The Sons of Pelain

         “We shalt stop here for the night,” 
Nemgas declared, eyes ever focussed on the crags 
of Vysehrad.  Only a couple mile north along the 
base of the mountains roared a waterfall.  In the 
cleft just north of the falls nestled the ancient 
city of Cheskych.  With their wagon huddled in 
the hills, none of the townsfolk would ever know they were there.
         That is, assuming Nemgas wasn’t discovered.
         “Dost thee still intend to venture into 
that place?” Pelgan asked, pointing at the 
waterfall with a dagger.  With his other hand he 
pulled the reins and brought the horses to a stop.
         “Aye. ‘Tis my choice, but ‘tis also a 
duty of joy.” The younger Magyar frowned and 
sheathed his dagger.  Nemgas sighed and added, 
“If it ‘twill sooth thy heart, I assure thee that 
I wilt not leave until after sunset.  I hath no 
desire to be seen by any but the boy.”
         “He shouldst hath come with us,” Pelgan 
said, words laced with the same ice that dotted 
the blades of grass at dawn. “Then he wouldst be 
a Magyar and thou wouldst not make this foolhardy trek.”
         Nemgas felt the bite of the words, and 
stiffened.  His temper rose, but then died.  He 
had dragged Pelgan and the others on his quest 
for months now, and it had even cost good Berkon 
his life.  They had been forced to shed all that 
they knew as Magyars and embrace a world that 
hated them.  How could he blame them if all this 
wandering — and without dramatic conclusion as 
they had not even succeeded in stopping Jothay 
despite killing him — had wearied them?  He too 
felt a weariness in his soul that couldn’t be 
expressed in words.  This journey into Cheskych, 
he hoped, would heal some of that wound.
         “‘Twas his choice, and not mine.  And it 
shouldst be his choice.  Not all are meant to be 
Magyars, Pelgan.  Kashin and Sir Petriz are best 
where they are, dost thou not think so?”
         Pelgan shrugged, jumped from the bench, 
and began undoing the hitch. “I canst make thee 
do anything, Nemgas.  I trust thee to do what art 
best, though I dost not understand.”
         The wagon door opened and the other 
slowly filed out.  Kaspel took his place on top 
of the wagon to watch the horizon for danger, 
while Chamag carried the cooking pot for 
Amile.  Gamran and Gelel continued to juggle as 
they climbed down, neither of them missing a catch.
         After setting the pot down, Chamag 
glanced at the black crags of the Vysehrad and 
narrowed his eyes. “‘Tis Cheskych?”
         Nemgas nodded, and then snapped at the 
two jugglers. “Bring wood for the fire.” As 
Gamran and Gelel hurried back into the wagon, 
Nemgas glanced at the burly Magyar and nodded. 
“Aye, ‘tis Cheskych there.  Perhaps two miles 
north.  Once the sun sets, I shalt walk there.”
         “And if thou art found and 
captured?  What wouldst thee hath for us?  A 
rescue?  ‘Tis folly to e’en think of it.”
         Nemgas turned and tapped the stump of 
his right arm. “Though I hath but one arm, dost 
thou think I wouldst be so easily captured?”
         Chamag frowned and crossed his arms. 
“Thou knowest I wouldst ne’er think ill of thee, 
Nemgas.  But I think we shouldst pass Cheskych 
by.  When we reunite with the others, then thou 
shouldst make thy journey.  We shalt be stronger, 
and they wouldst dare do nothing to thee.”
         He knew there was wisdom in Chamag’s 
suggestion.  But his heart ached in a way that 
did not listen to wisdom. “Thou mayest speak 
true, but I wilt still go to Cheskych tonight.  I 
wilt return ere the sun has risen, and then we canst be away from this place.”
         “ I shalt keep watch for thy return,” 
Kaspel said from the top of the wagon.  Nemgas 
turned to him and smiled.  The archer waved back 
before returning his gaze to the Steppe.

----------

         Though the night of the full moon was 
only four days past, Nemgas had no fear of its 
silver radiance.  This close to the Vysehrad’s 
western flank, the moon wouldn’t rise for three 
to four hours.  The great mirrors were likely to 
catch its rays sooner, but that wouldn’t hinder him until he entered the city.
         After eating a quick meal he’d left 
their wagon bearing on his left hip the jewelled 
Sathmoran blade and Caur-Merripen on his 
right.  The Magyars objections exhausted, he 
nevertheless wished he could have left them with 
more confidence in the wisdom of his 
journey.  Any confidence would have been enough 
to assuage the guilt he felt.  But it was done and he would see it through.
         The Steppe gave way to rolling hills as 
it neared Vysehrad.  Nemgas watched the stars 
emerge from the twilight as he kept the jugged 
spires before him as he walked.  His ears heard 
only the wind sighing through the grasses, and 
the distant crashing of the waterfall.  Along 
hilltops he spotted the occasional animal 
emerging to forage.  Nemgas passed them by unnoticed.
         Before him, as the last of the twilight 
failed, darkness loomed, unlit by the stars’ 
meagre light.  The mountains of Vysehrad sunk 
into a shadow so complete that Nemgas saw them 
only as a mar in the night sky.  He walked 
towards that emptiness, eyes scanning for any 
relief or feature to show him where the next rise 
came.  Several times his feet found stones before 
his eyes, and he had to bite his tongue to keep from grunting in pain.
         After at least a half-hour’s walk, the 
stars shone brightly enough that a faint glow 
blanketed the land.  Vysehrad jutted from the 
ground, barren but for scrub and a few brave 
bushes clinging to the lower slopes.  Nemgas 
stared upwards, neck bending backwards until it 
hurt before he could see the stars again.
         Somewhere behind him, a pair of stones 
clattered together.  Nemgas whirled, 
Caur-Merripen in his hand.  The hills clustered 
together empty but for grass and scrub like 
children who’d huddled together for warmth before 
the cold claimed them.  He listened, but all was 
silent.  Nemgas held his breath, wondering if one 
of his fellow Magyars had followed him.  He 
doubted it though; had they done so, he was 
certain he would have heard them before now.  If 
he had made as much noise clattering against 
stones, surely they could do no better.
         Suddenly, an animal shrieked and then 
just as soon fell quiet again.  Nemgas sighed in 
relief, though his arm still pricked with every 
hair standing on end.  He listened for a minute 
more, and heard something grunting in the 
distance.  Surely just a beast feeding on 
vermin.  Nemgas turned north and followed the Vysehrad.
         After a few minutes, the only sound he 
heard was the roar of the waterfall ahead.  He 
kept the sword in hand a few minutes more, 
unnerved by that short piercing scream.  But once 
he saw the first of the trees, he sheathed it 
again.  Once in the woods he made his way 
westward until he found the road 
through.  Several months ago, along that road, 
Pelurji and Pelaeth had been waiting for them.  A 
faint smile crossed his lips at the memory.
         The road had once been paved; over the 
centuries vegetation had scattered the stones 
until the road was nothing more that a wide track 
in the woods.  The men of Cheskych freqeuntly 
kept the road clear of brush, but no attempt had 
been made to restore the stones.  With only his 
feet and the pallid light from the stars overhead 
to guide him, Nemgas sought the ruts where their 
wagon wheels had ground, but he still stubbed his 
toes on loose stones or nearly slipped on piles of leaves.
         Around him he heard the normal sounds of 
animals.  Rodents dived beneath fallen leaves at 
his approach, and he heard at least two owls 
hooting back and forth.  The familiarity of their 
speech set him at ease, despite the throbbing in his toes.
         The trees thinned as he neared the 
river.  Nemgas saw the rippling waters like a 
skein of light buffeted by strong wings.  The 
bridge clutched either bank with heavy stone 
foundations, but the span had been replaced with 
wood.  Nemgas waited a few minutes, observing the 
other side before he crossed the bridge.  The 
guards of Cheskych must not keep watch so far south.
         Once across, he discovered that the road 
was kept in better shape.  He no longer stubbed 
his toes, and despite the darkness, made good 
time beneath the skeletal boughs.  With each 
brush of wind, the barren branches clattered 
together, a sound that reminded him of the dry 
rustle of bones.  The impression left him tense, 
and his hand stayed close to Caur-Merripen’s hilt as he neared the city.
         As he began to emerge from the woods, a 
dark shape flashed before him.  Nemgas jumped 
back, the sword free a moment later.  Something 
chittered angrily at him from the underbrush, and 
then with only a faint jostling of leaves, 
disappeared into the autumnal thrush.  The Magyar 
sighed and put the sword back, and stood still 
until his heart had slowed.  That one animal 
dying out on the Steppe had ruined the solemnity 
of his walk, and had him leaping at phantoms.  If 
he wanted to enter Cheskych, he’d need to control his faculties.
         With the forest and river behind him, 
Nemgas could finally see the gates of 
Cheskych.  Across a wide plain with farms left 
fallow for the winter and numerous pens for 
sheep, a crack had rent a cleft in 
Vysehrad.  Between that cleft nestled the city of 
Cheskych.  The city wall stood tall and unmarred, 
torches burning at the gatehouse and along its 
length.  Beyond the fortifications, homes and 
tradesmen clustered together, some of them 
climbing up the steep escarpment walls like 
ivy.  And hanging from those towering walls were 
the mirrors of Pelain.  Already a sliver of the 
moon appeared in one set.  Before the hour was 
out, all of Cheskych would be bathed in its soft light.
         Nemgas took a moment to ponder his 
route.  He saw no easy way to make his approach, 
but so long as the moon did not shine on the 
pastures, he might not be seen by the guards on 
the wall.  He started out, keeping close to the 
wooden fences.  Within sheep and cattle milled, 
some bleating and lowing, but most sleeping.
         He crossed the pastures without 
incident, reaching the base of the cleft.  The 
towering mountains of Vysehrad rose up on either 
side, and only the silver of the moon and the few 
guttering torches brought any light.  The western 
wall dwelt in shadow, and within it Nemgas crept 
towards the fortifications.  Once there, he 
realized his entry into Cheskych would not be 
accomplished with the ease he’d expected.
         When he’d entered Cheskych over the wall 
the first time many months ago, he’d had two 
arms.  How could he ascend and keep his balance with just one?
         Nemgas braced his back against the rock 
of the escarpment, its cool regard spreading 
through his tunic and linens to chill his 
skin.  With his left hand, he pulled himself up, 
one foot against the masonry, the other pressing 
into any tiny crevice he could find in the 
mountain.  His eyes watched the top of the wall, 
noting the way the torches limned the rocky paths 
at the wall’s base.  Faint shadows passed through 
the dim light, and he knew them to be the guards walking back and forth.
         Nemgas took a deep breath as he step by 
step pulled himself higher.  The cold in his back 
agonized him, but he put the pain from his 
mind.  His fingers numbed as they felt along the 
masonry for any grip. Thin rivulets of ice 
encrusted the blocks of stone, and several times 
he nearly lost his grip.  If the tumble to the 
rocks beneath him didn’t kill him, the guards surely would.
         But his sense of balance, and his fine 
control over every part of his body saved 
him.  Nemgas ascended inch by inch, until at last 
he could reach the wall’s crenellations.  Nemgas 
waited until the shadows moved away from him 
before he wrapped his hand over the edge and 
pulled himself up.  He leaned his chest into the 
rock, and peered down the top of the wall.  The 
nearest guards walked away from him, all of them armed with spears and bows.
         Nemgas pushed down and slid his stump 
through the crenellation.  Together, he squeezed 
onto the top of the wall.  He wasted no time 
climbing over the other side, taking only a 
moment to find a foothold on the escarpment’s 
face before letting go.  A rock slide free, 
clattering beneath him.  Nemgas flattened himself 
against the wall, pulling as close as he 
could.  And then beneath him a cat yowled.
         He said a quick prayer of thanks to all 
the gods, even as the guards grunted and 
continued their patrol.  Gingerly, Nemgas 
crouched and reached his feet down for another grip.
         It took him another minute to reach the 
base of the wall.  The first homes didn’t begin 
for another fifty paces beyond the wall.  He 
passed by pens filled with sheep and cows, far 
more than had been out in the pastures.
         And then he came to the city 
streets.  Already the moon reflected in the 
mirrors above, casting weird shadows and pale 
light everywhere.  Nemgas nestled behind a stone 
wall, and studied the roads leading from the 
gatehouse and into the city.  The road split in 
two, leaving three sections of the 
city.  Summoning his memory, he thought back to 
the day he’d crept into Pelurji’s house to ask 
him and Pelaeth to reclaim the juggling balls from their father.
         Satisfied that he knew the house, Nemgas 
climbed the ladder next to the wall, crossed over 
the roof and by the door of another house, and 
quickly disappeared in the winding rooftops and 
alcoves of the western flank of the city.  The 
city slumbered peacefully, quiet and unaware of 
his intrusion.  Through shuttered windows he 
heard snoring, and occasionally a sombre voice, 
but never once a hint that they knew he was there.
         By the time he found their house, the 
mirrors reflected almost all of the moon’s 
face.  The light made it easy to step around the 
many bowls and tools left near the door.  With 
exquisite gentleness, Nemgas lifted the latch and 
swung the door inwards.  The air inside was cool, 
but warmer than outside.  He smelled no smoke or other sign of fire.
         Nemgas glanced around the room first 
before closing the door.  Apart from the stove 
against one wall and a small table surrounded by 
three-legged stool, animal hides covered nearly 
every inch of the stone floor.  A wash basin 
leaned against the wall behind the table, a small 
pool of water collecting beneath it.  Two 
doorways led into other rooms, both hung with 
cow-hide to trap heat.  After a moment’s 
reflection, Nemgas recalled that Pelaeth slept in 
the room closer to the escarpment.
         Gently, he drew aside the cow-hide and 
peered inside.  His memory had not failed 
him.  Through a gap in the shutters light from 
the mirrors illuminated a boy’s sleeping 
pallet.  Within, Nemgas saw the dark-haired youth 
bundled in a heaping mountain of woolen 
quilts.  He smiled and slipped inside.  Being 
careful not to make any noise, he crossed the 
mostly empty room and knelt by Pelaeth’s side.
         The boy slept, and for a moment all he 
could remember was the way his boy Pelurji slept 
and had slept for so many months now.  Nemgas 
rubbed his eyes, determined not to cry.  How 
could he tell Pelaeth that his younger brother 
lay comatose because Nemgas had wanted to explore 
a forbidden city haunted by dead spirits?
         He slipped Caur-Merripen from his belt 
and reverently set it beside the boy’s 
pallet.  In the moonlight, the band of silver in 
the blade’s centre shined.  Nemgs leaned in close 
and whispered in the boy’s ear, “Pelaeth.  I hath 
brought thee a part of thy birthright.  The sword of thy namesake.  Pelaeth...”
         The boy stirred, and after a sullen 
groan, his eyes opened.  He blinked several 
times, fright filling them. Nemgas leaned back 
and let the moonlight strike his face.  Pelaeth 
stared, confused for a moment.  Then, like a pup 
leaving the den for the first time, he reached 
out one hand and touched the single lock of white 
hair on Nemgas’s brow.  Finally a smile blossomed 
on his face. “Nemgas!  Thou hast come back.”
         He held one finger to his lips, 
cautioning the boy to keep quiet. “Only for the 
night.  I canst not stay long.” He patted the 
boy’s arm and felt strength in his flesh, as well 
as scars. “What hath become of thee?”
         “Father hath blamed me for Pelurji.  I 
hath spent my days since working with him in the mines.”
         “The mines!” Nemgas paled.  Had the 
lineage of Pelain fallen so far that his descendants were but common miners?
         “‘Tis honourable labour,” Pelaeth 
replied, and from the tone of his whisper, Nemgas 
could almost think that the boy believed it.
         “Thou art destined for greater things 
than mines.  I hath brought thee a part of thy 
birthright.” He gestured to the sword when he 
heard the cow-hide door pulled aside.
         “Who art thee?” A tall man with gruff 
voice demanded.  He held a dagger in one hand, but his grip appeared uncertain.
         Nemgas recognized the voice as the man 
who’d told the story of Pelain’s death so many 
months ago.  Nemgas had named him Peloken, kin of 
the great Pelain.  And then Pelaeth and Pelurji 
told him that this was their father.  Nemgas 
tensed, slowly shifting on his feet to turn and face the man.
         “Hold where thee be,” Peloken snapped. “Thy sword, remove it.”
         Nemgas shook his head. “I hath not come to bring harm to thy son.”
         The dagger faltered for a moment, and 
then the man hissed with unmistakable fury. 
“Magyar!  Thou hast stolen my son!” With his 
other hand, he threw something at the ground, 
which flashed so brightly that Nemgas stumbled 
back into the far wall, one arm covering his 
eyes.  They stung with the iridescence of a 
million stars swarming and exploding.
         Peloken had the dagger at his neck a 
moment later. “I know thee, Magyar.  Thou wert 
the one who didst steal my child from me.  Hast 
thou come to take the other as well, thief?”
         “Nae!” Nemgas stammered, blinking, but 
he could see nothing at all in the darkened room.
         “Father, nae!” Pelaeth shouted.
         “Silence!” Peloken snapped, and Pelaeth 
huddled in his blankets.  In tones of ice, he 
continued, pressing the edge of the blade ever 
closer to Nemgas’s vulnerable neck. “Tell me, 
Magyar, what hast thou done with my other son?”
         “I hath been a father to him, as he 
wished,” Nemgas replied.  He held his left hand 
out where the man could see it, fingers 
open.  This man would kill him in a heartbeat, 
but Nemgas could never kill him.  He was 
Pelaeth’s father, and no boy should be deprived of their father.
         “I be his father, not thee!” Peloken 
snapped, and then spit in his face. “Thou art a thief!”
         “Pelurji didst become a Magyar of his 
own choice,” Nemgas replied as evenly as he could.
         “Pelurji?” Peloken asked, at first 
confused, and then he cut into Nemgas’s skin. 
“Thou hast stolen his name too!  Where be 
he?  Thy wagons hath not been seen since thee 
didst steal my boy.  How came thee here?”
         “I wilt tell thee if thou wilt not kill me.”
         “I wilt not kill thee if thou dost tell me where my boy be!”
         Pelaeth climbed out of his covers and 
grabbed his father’s arm, tugging back. “Nae, 
Father!  Please dost not kill, Nemgas!  He hath brought something for me!”
         Without taking any pressure off the 
knife, Peloken dislodged his son and snapped, 
“Stay down!  This man hath poisoned thy mind!”
         “I didst not steal thy boy,” Nemgas 
repeated. “He chose to be a Magyar.”
         “Because thou didst fill his head with 
thy lies!  I saw thee teach my boys to juggle, 
tempting them with a life of frivolity and nonsense!”
         “To be a Magyar is not to be frivolous, 
or to practice nonsense!” Nemgas shot back, anger 
flashing in him.  His eyes were beginning to 
clear now, and he could make out the outline of 
the man’s head.  It tilted to one side, and the 
knife blade pressed further into his 
neck.  Nemgas stiffened, pushing himself against 
the wall. “Thy son didst make this choice.  Thy 
other son wast there, and had I wanted to, I 
couldst hath taken him as well.  But I let him 
return to thee as he wished.  And thou hast 
worked him in the mines until he art scarred!”
         Peloken smacked him in the cheek. “Thou 
hast no place to speak of such things.  Where be my son?”
         Nemgas swallowed, the blood trickling 
down his chest beginning to dampen his tunic. “He 
be safe, far from both of us.  I hath come here 
in a single wagon.  We hath no room for any 
other, and I wouldst ne’er take thy Pelaeth from thee.”
         “Then why come here?”
         “To give thy son his birthright, a 
birthright Pelurji and I didst discover in Hanlo o Bavol-engro.”
         Peloken stopped and said nothing for 
several long seconds.  The knife even relaxed, 
but still the man kept it next to Nemgas’s 
neck.  When he did speak, the voice was curious, 
but no less angry. “Hanlo o Bavol-engro?  Thou 
and my son didst journey there?  What birthright dost thee speak of?”
         “It lays by thy son’s bed.  The sword of Pelain, Caur-Merripen.”
         “Caur-Merripen!” Peloken’s voice filled 
with awe, but he caught himself and said in tight 
tones. “Thou art a trickster, Magyar.  A 
trickster and a thief.  Why shouldst I believe thee?”
         “Thou dost know what Caur-Merripen looks 
like,” Nemgas replied, feeling a small measure of 
hope blossom. “Thou art of Pelain’s blood.  Thy son can describe it for thee.”
         “And what would thee have for this gift?”
         “Nothing,” Nemgas replied. “I hath 
returned the sword to its rightful owner.  I expect no recompense for it.”
         “Not e’en thy life?”
         Nemgas allowed himself a small smile. “I 
hope to receive that anyway, but I do not bargain 
with Caur-Merripen.  Not e’en for my life.”
         Peloken pondered that for a 
moment.  Finally, in a commanding tone, he said, 
“Son, tell me what this Magyar hast brought.”
         The boy lifted the sword with surprising 
ease, and the moonlight shone brightly on the 
silver and black blade.  Pelaeth whispered, his 
voice almost lost in wonder, “‘Tis a blade of two 
metals, one silver, the other black.”
         “Aye, go on.”
         “The black hath been forged around the 
silver.  The pommel hast been made for two hands, 
and there be a wolf’s head on either side.”
         Peloken asked, “How heavy be it?”
         “Nae, ‘tis light as a feather, 
father!  I hath held rocks in my palm heavier than this!”
         The man let out breathless gasp. 
“Caur-Merripen!  ‘Tis true then.  Only a 
descendent of Pelain couldst grasp that blade so.  How didst thee find it?”
         “I didst not find it.  Thy son found it, 
in Hanlo o Bavol-engro.  And there, he didst slay 
a dragon with it, the same dragon that they ancestor Pelain died to kill.”
         “What?” Peloken snapped, anger returning. “Talk sense!”
         “I speak the truth,” Nemgas replied. 
“Dost thou wish to see thy son again?”
         “Aye!  And I wish him to return to Cheskych, his home!”
         “The first I canst promise, the second, 
nae, that be for Pelurji to decide.” Nemgas 
licked his lips. “If thou wishest to see him 
again, thou must let me live.  When we didst 
enter the city of Hanlo o Bavol-engro, we didst 
discover the bones of the dragon, and upon them 
an armoured figure; there wast also a grave — 
Pelain’s grave.  Within the grave we found a man bearing the same armour.”
         “What didst the armour look like?” Peloken demanded.
         “It hath been shaped to appear a 
snarling silver wolf.  And I dost know why there 
wast two of them, and why there wert two sons of 
thine.” Nemgas narrowed his eyes, “Dost thee a brother?”
         “He died ere he wast two,” Peloken 
replied. “Every male pair in my family hath 
shared that fate; one of them dost die a child.”
         “Until thine.”
         “Aye.”
         Nemgas pursed his lips. “Then thy rage 
at me hath more to do than with Pelurji choosing 
me over thee.  Thy children wert to become the true heirs of Pelain.”
         Peloken took a deep breath, and then 
pushed te knife deeper into Nemgas’s throat. 
“Thou mayest hath brought a great gift in 
Caur-Merripen, but thou art still a trickster and 
a thief.  A Magyar can be no less.  What hath become of my son?”
         “I wilt tell thee.  I desire to tell 
thee!  We found Pelain’s grave, his bones, his 
armour, his sword, and the dragon whose life he 
gave his to kill.  We wert then attacked by 
foreign knights.  I donned Pelain’s armour and 
wielded his sword, e’en though they wert meant for thy sons.”
         Peloken snarled. “Thou didst wield 
them?  How?  They shouldst not yield to thee!”
         “A moment more and I wilt tell 
thee.  The dragon woke from whate’er eldritch 
slumber it didst enjoy.  It destroyed the 
knights, and they fled.  But Pelurji, thy son, he 
lifted Pelain’s sword Caur-Merripen, and 
challenged the dragon to battle.  The dragon 
attacked, but Pelurji smote it with the blade, 
and its bones scattered to dust.  Thy boy, the 
child of Pelain, didst complete what thy ancestor didst begin.”
         Peloken stood still for several long 
seconds.  Pelaeth fidgeted on his pallet, excited 
by the tale of his brother’s victory over the 
skeletal dragon.  Nemgas waited, the knife at his 
throat, though the wound no longer bled.  The man 
took a deep breath and drew the knife back 
perhaps half-an-inch. “Thou I too am a fool, I 
believe that though hast spoken the truth of my 
son.  Tell me, what hast become of him?”
         Nemgas sighed and nodded. “A bone struck 
him and he hast fallen into a deep sleep.  Only 
the death of the magic that corrupted the dragon 
can revive him.  We hath destroyed it in Yesulam, 
but its final dissolution art beyond our reach.”
         Peloken’s eyes flared. “What?  Thou hast thou done to him?”
         “Kept him safe.  He survives under the 
care of my betrothed, and be safe with the 
Magyars.  I hath done all that I couldst to 
destroy the evil.  Now I return to him to see if he hast awakened.”
         “And then?”
         Nemgas narrowed his eyes, “When the 
Magyars doth return this way, I shalt bring him 
to see thee, a promise few Magyars couldst e’er 
make.  A proper Magyar hath no life e’er becoming 
a Magyar.  But he be son of Pelain, and that must 
ne’er be forgotten.” He stretched his one arm and 
slowly began to lower it. “And there be one more gift to bring thee.”
         “And what might that be?”
         “The armour of Pelain.  One set belongs to Pelaeth here.”
         The man pondered his words for another 
moment before asking, “Why dost thou care whether 
or not Pelain’s sword and armour art returned to his descendents?”
         Nemgas pursed his lips, the confession 
never coming easy to them. “Because I hath walked 
in Pelain’s footsteps and seen a place only he hast seen.”
         “Where be that?”
         “I hath climbed Cenziga.”
         Peloken laughed, contemptuous. “Now I know that thou art lying!”
         “The power of Cenziga lies in that it 
makes two where there wast one.  When thou last 
saw me, Cenziga had done so with me, I had two 
arms, two locks of white hair.  Now I have but 
one.  An arm can be chopped off, but a lock of 
hair?  Thou mayest rinse it in water if thou wish it.  I hath used no dye.”
         “How dost thee know the power of Cenziga?”
         “I climbed Cenziga.  I beheld the spire 
at its summit, I saw the faces in the air.  I saw 
the world turned upon its side.  I saw all this 
and more, because I didst climb Cenziga.” Nemgas 
felt the knife draw back from his 
neck.  Peloken’s eyes had widened, and in the 
light of the moon, he could finally make them 
out.  The iris had expanded so much that his eyes 
appeared an orb of white with a black centre. 
“And the tale of Pelain climbing Cenziga and what 
he saw, ‘tis passed down in thy family?  Art thou the only one who knowest it?”
         Peloken nodded, and he lowered the 
knife. “Thou hast been there.  I hath not told 
the tale to my boys yet.  Thou hast not come to steal my son.”
         “Nae, I didst not come for him, only to bring the gift.”
         Peloken took several steps back.  He 
still held the knife, but the anger and rage had 
left him. “And thou wilt bring my other son back 
to me?  Thou mayest care for him, but I still be his father.”
         “I wilt, but if he shouldst choose to 
stay with me, wilt thou hate him and me?”
         “Thou art a fool if thou thinkest I wilt 
forgive thee,” Peloken replied, though the anger 
was gone from his voice. “But I wilt see thee 
from this city.  If thou shouldst return and my 
son be not with thee, I wilt kill thee and thou 
wilt put enmity between thy people and mine for generations.”
         “Father, he brought Caur-Merripen!” Pelaeth objected.
         “I wouldst rather my son be here than a 
sword, e’en one so great as Caur-Merripen.”
         “Thou wouldst not be a father if thou 
felt otherwise,” Nemgas replied. “Listen to him, 
Pelaeth.  I wilt see thee again.”
         “No, thou shalt ne’er step inside this 
house again,” Peloken said, gesturing to the 
cow-hide door with his knife. “I wilt kill thee 
next time, and I hath more to my arsenal than a dagger and fire stones.”
         “Then I shalt ne’er come here 
again.  And when I dost return to Cheskych, 
Pelurji shalt be with me, I assure thee of this.” 
Nemgas smiled once to the boy, who smiled back, 
and then walked out the doorway.  He felt the 
knife point at his back. “I shalt leave, thou hast no need to fear me.”
         “Aye,” Peloken replied. “Now.”  He 
prodded Nemgas, and the Magyar kept walking, out 
the door and into the street.  The moon shone 
brightly in the mirrors of Cheskych.

----------

         Kaspel sat with knees to his chin, the 
bow gripped in one hand, the other around his 
legs.  The moon peered over the Vysehrad, casting 
the rolling plains of the Steppe in a silvery 
light.  Apart from the distant crash of the 
waterfall and the wind through the grass, the 
night was a quiet one.  His eyes drooped, but he prodded himself to stay awake.
         He’d volunteered to keep watch during te 
night, and spent his days sleeping in the 
wagon.  After the first two days when the 
constant bumping and the light kept him awake, he 
no longer had any trouble.  He liked the solitude 
the night gave him.  He needed it now that Berkon was dead.
         The wind blew steadily out of the north, 
following along the western slopes of the 
Vysehrad.  Cool, it made him shiver from time to 
time.  Winter would soon be upon them, and then 
all of the Steppe would sleep beneath a blanket 
of snow and ice.  But by then, they should have 
reunited with the other Magyars.
         It took Kaspel several minutes to 
realize that what he took for wind carried 
something else.  If he listened carefully, he 
could hear words, soft, almost sung, carried on 
the breeze.  He turned his head, bleary eyes 
opening wide.  Somewhere near, just beyond the hills.  What could it be?
         He knocked an arrow and as gently as 
possible, rose to his feet.  He brought the bow 
up, pointing the arrow into the hills.  The song 
continued, soft, unafraid.  Curious, Kaspel 
gingerly stepped to the front of the wagon and 
climbed down.  His feet hit the ground and 
crushed the grass.  Bits of ice that had lined 
the stalks cracked under his boots.
         The song grew stronger, and Kaspel, 
still holding the bow with arrow knocked, walked 
away from the carriage to investigate it.  The 
voice ached at his mind, so familiar, yet so 
strange.  The moonlight bent around the folds in 
the land, leading him towards the music.  Kaspel 
climbed up one rise, and then down the next, the 
carriage disappearing behind him.
         Within a bowl-shaped depression a figure 
sat with its back to him.  From his lips echoed 
that haunting melody.  Kaspel felt his body 
stiffen, for though the flesh had grown pale, he 
knew this man.  But the name would not come to 
his lips.  Nothing came to his lips.  Fingers 
suddenly limp, the bow slid from them and tumbled to the ground.
         Turning, he saw Berkon’s face, eyes cold 
as they fixed him.  His lips moved, the song 
slithering off his tongue and seeping into 
Kaspel’s ears.  Berkon stood, his left leg a 
grotesquerie of dusty fur and flesh.  Stiffly, 
what had been dead walked towards him, confidant and powerful.
         Kaspel trembled, yearning to grab the 
knife at his side, but his arms felt like 
jelly.  He could barely keep his feet.  Berkon 
neared him, still singing, until one arm reached 
forward and slid beneath Kaspel’s 
armpits.  Gently, the dead man eased him to the 
ground.  Kaspel moaned like a lost dog, scared beyond words.
         With precise motions, Berkon took the 
knife from Kaspel’s belt and set it 
aside.  Almost like a lover, the dead man curled 
next to him, vacant eyes never leaving his.  One 
cold hand drew back Kaspel’s collar, and the song 
began to ebb.  Berkon smiled, revealing a pair of 
long pointed teeth behind his lips. “My sweet 
Magyar.  Dost thou wish to be mine?”
         Kaspel trembled, wanted to push this 
thing away form him and run screaming back to the 
wagon.  But the song wrapped round his mind, 
confusing him, turning his insides to mush.  His 
lips quivered, and his tongue pushed past them, a 
single utterance gurgling up from his throat, “Aye.”
         “I thought thou wouldst.” Berkon leaned 
his head in close, lips kissing Kaspel, chill and 
fierce.  Kaspel closed his eyes, shivering and 
cold.  The dead man’s lips slid down his cheek, 
and then across his neck.  There Berkon’s tongue 
moistened the side.  Kaspel felt a tear stream down his cheek.
         And then there was pain.

----------

May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love,

Charles Matthias