I haven't really done any fantasy stories in a while now---which is a shame, because its the genre that I feel "at home" writing in. This story is my return to fantasy. When I was planning it, I wanted to make it different from my usual work. No complex, convuluted plots, I decided. I also wanted to avoid the deep, morally skewed characters I usually drive my stories with.
Most of all, I wanted to write a story that was fun. So I came up with a "fun" plot, and decided, instead of trying to avoid a lot of the conventions of fantasy, I'd embrace them this time.
Of course, the story really didn't end up being all that simple (especially the second half, which, in my opinion, is awesome. The first part intros the characters, the second part has the awesome plot twists and action). The characters kind of took on a life of their own. I wanted them to be carefree and bold, your typical adventurer. Most of the time they were. But (in the second half, again, so you wont' see it yet) they grow more and more complex.
This story is actually going to be a tie in to a really big new project I'm starting work on again. And the three main characters--I'm certainly not done with them. I plan to write more stories about them.
So, read what I've got so far, tell me what you think. Not exactly typical, but not bad, all said and done.
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The badlands spread away in front of Adahm, a scorched golden pit that looked like it hadn’t seen rain in the better part of a decade. Cracked brown dirtcakes seemed to substitute for ground here, just as crumbling sandstone boulders replaced trees. Distant grey mountains hung on a far-off horizon; the light of the setting sun struggled out from behind their peaks, dirtied by the thick desert dust swirling through the air. The whole place stank of death.
Adahm heard Ryinn and Jhonthin crest the hill behind him, then draw abreast. “Servants steel me,” Ryinn muttered as he quickly took in the view. “So this is why nobody ever goes near the Borderlands.”
“Nobody but us,” Jhonthin corrected despondently. “Three fools without a purpose, following a mad man’s whim to the ends of the earth all for…” he motioned his head towards the lifeless valley. “For this.”
Ryinn grimaced. “Not that we don’t love you, Adahm,” he added, “but for all his exhausting melancholy, Jhonthin has a fairly strong case this time. I’ve pictured underworlds with better scenery.”
Adahm started his horse forward and wheeled it around so he could face both of his companions. They met his gaze coolly. Ryinn Laklier, heir to some small duchy or another---as he loved to remind his companions---sat his horse to the right. His dirty brown hair, wild and tangled as a rule, had suffered the worst of nearly 10 days without a bed or bath, and looked rather like some sort of filthy exotic rodent. Ryinn’s face, long, fair, and broad, but inexplicably handsome an alarming amount of women, was twisted into the best look of skepticism he could muster.
To the other side was Jhonthin Erecres, a scholar who’d abandoned the endless annals of Ilyana to experience the world first hand. While Ryinn sat straight in the saddle, Jhonthin slumped. Where Ryinn was thick and muscled, Jhonthin was slight and wispy. Ryinn’s facial hair raged wildly across his chin like the weeds of an indolent gardener, while Jhonthin’s face was as smooth as a boy’s. He wore a dark hood that hung just over his eyes, masking most of his flowing coal-black hair. His smooth, narrow face---so pallid that he was oft mistaken for an invalid---was affixed with a rather typical air of despondency.
Joshua sighed in exasperation at the two of them. “Friends, friends,” he began, “you wound me. Because I value you as my two closest friends in the world, I invite you to join me on my heroic quests for glory and riches. And now---now, after so long---now you doubt me?” He forced a laugh.
His friends’ expressions remained the same. For Adahm, that was a fairly typical preamble.
“Ryinn, look at you,” Adahm scoffed. “Always bragging about how you’re some great duke’s son, and here you are sulking like a schoolboy told to recite the names of the Thirty Kings, all because you don’t like the scenery. And now, of all times, when we’re so close to the treasure.” Ryinn rolled his eyes.
“And Jhonthin.” Adahm paused, and worked his voice into a more somber tone. “Oh, Jhonthin. You look like a man on being led to the gallows, not treasure. Come now, we’re only just at the Borderlands---and you’re ready to give up.”
“Look at Molder.” Adahm jabbed a finger at their donkey, lingering placidly behind them. “Do you see him complaining? Do you see him giving up? Wanting to go home? No. Not Molder. Gentleman, you’re being out done by a mule.”
“Perhaps,” Jhonthin said after a pause, “that’s because the last mule died on your last hair-brained scheme, and Molder has no idea just often your schemes end with us penniless, half-dead,or hated by a new somebody or other.”
“Or the fact he’s a mule,” Ryinn offered. “They don’t do a lot of speaking, mules , you know.”
There was a long silence. A long dry silence, Adahm thought, as he tried to swallow but failed. Water was scarce the closer you got to the Borderlands, and they’d had to ration it the past 2 days. Probably why they’re being so sullen¸he reasoned. They aren’t as fit for hardship as me. Ryinn may not be as pale as Jhonthin, but neither of them was as dark as Adahm. Which could be deadly in the red-sunned Borderlands.
Ryinn wasn’t quite so tall, and Jhonthin just a bit taller, but Adahm, as Ryinn loved to mockingly say, was “just right”. A true warrior’s build. It was his mother---a Borderland folk---who’d given him that blood, his old nurse had always told him. If any outsider had been born to survive the infamous ravages of the Borderlands, it was Adahm.
Adahm nodded slowly. “I understand, friends. It’s not that you’ve grown tired of my company. I could understand that. And it’s not that you’ve lost the lust for riches. That, too, I could understand.” He paused. “Well, no, I couldn’t, but for negotiations sake let’s assume I could. Anyway. I’ve figured it out. It’s that you simply aren’t hardy enough to survive such a perilous quest.”
Ryinn snorted. “Adahm, you already come up with crazy ideas. Don’t start with stupid ones. We all know that me and Jhonthin have saved your life more times than you could count. Even assuming you could count past your fingers and toes. And you know we aren’t going to abandon you.”
“It’s almost obligatory. The whining. And complaining. And you trying to stick pretty words together to woo us on. “ Jhothin added. “We just thought we’d get the griping out of the way. Before we got too far, you know.”
Adahm grinned broadly. He, of course, hadn’t taken their complaints one bit seriously, but it still always give him a tiny feeling of triumph when they admitted as much. “Well I’m glad that’s out of the way, then,” he said. “Because as far as I judge, it’s still a day’s ride until we get to that village.”
His friends groaned.
“On the bright side, we do have three skins of water left,” Adahm chuckled. “If we’re lucky, the horses won’t drink it all.”
“Because then, we can give the rest to the bloody mule. Adahm, if you ever talk us into a fool thing like this again, at least have the common sense to bring more water.” Jhonthin coughed. “All this dust makes me feel dryer than a summer Battercake.”
Ryinn nodded. “Pointless allusions to fried bread aside, I hope this village is only a day’s ride away. Thing’s will start to get rough for all of us after that.”
Adahm rapped his knuckles on his head. “Just trust me. I’m sure.” Mind like a Desertman, people always said, some in disgust, some in admiration. It was true, though; it wasn’t just his looks he’d gotten from his mother. He’d been blessed with the Borderfolk’s uncanny sense of direction as well.
“Of all the things you’re bound to brag about, that’s the one thing I’ll trust you on,” Ryinn agreed. “More likely to trust then tales of some imaginary ghost and it’s carefully guarded treasure, at any rate.”
“Well, you apparently trusted him on that, too, “ Jhonthin pointed out “Seeing as we’re all here, a day’s ride from this ghost.”
“And it’s not really the ghost that’s imaginary,” Adahm chipped in, “it’s the treasure. Though I wouldn’t use the word imaginary. Just assumed. There’s glory to be found, in the least.”
Ryinn muttered something about “buggering glory”, and where to do it. Jhonthin just smiled. Of all the people Adahm knew, Jhonthin was the only person who smiled when he found things sad or upsetting. When Adahm asked him about it, Jhonthin had simply passed it off as being “ironic.”
Too many books. He could learn from Ryinn, learn a bit about being a warrior. Just at a glance, Adahm could see a sword, a handaxe, and a bow and quiver on Ryinn’s horse, and he knew from experience there was more. Or maybe it’s Ryinn who should read a few books.
A thought occured to him. “Jhonthin—do you have much Life pooled?”
The hooded man shrugged. “A bit. I’d rather save it though.” He tilted his head at the wastelands. “It’ll take quite some time and a good bit of effort to tap any Life once we’re out there, and not just because there’s nothing but sand and stone for miles around. Desert’s are stubborn.”
Adahm’s own knowledge of tapping other Life was vague, but it seemed logical enough. “Fine. Save it, then. We just might need it.”
Jhonthin nodded his concurrence.
“Well, best not waste any time,” Adahm declared. “I want to reach this village as much as you do.”
Ryinn and Jhonthin nodded their concurrence. There was probably near an hour left of sunlight; no time to waste indeed. Gold, Adahm reconciled himself as they started their dry, dusty descent into the arid lowlands. Gold and glory. In truth, Adahm was hardly more eager than his companions to enter the Borderlands; he’d never been to his mother’s land, and had no idea how they’d take to somebody had their looks but not their ways.
That, Adahm, thought grumpily, And this Servant damned dust. Already, the wind had helped it to find its way into boots, under his cloak, in his throat, his ear, his nose, his eyes. Ryinn and Jhonthinn coughed behind him. At least it doesn’t bother Molder. The mule was marching along as stolidly as ever.
By the time they reached the valley, Adahm hated the dust, the cracked dirt cakes, the sandstone, the entire yellow and brown world they’d just entered. And this was barely even the cusp of the true desert. It was all he could do not to turn around and announce it a fool’s errand.
But the merchant’s story came back to him. About the ancient Borderland city, Meyabor, hounded by a vengeful spirit from the nearby ruins. Men from far and wide had tried their hand, but all lost their lives trying to vanquish this spirit. So the merchant had said. Surely, Adahm had decided, surely this ghost was guarding something, some ancient riches hidden in its ruins.
And here he was, best friends at his back, so close to this ancient Meyabord and its unconquerable ghost. This time, Adahm told himself, this time the glory is real. At the very least, he’d be hailed as the slayer of a ghost---a creature that he’d always thought only lived in children’s tails.
Ryinn swore loudly as a malicious blast of wind pummeled the group with a painful blast of sand. Adahm gritted his teeth, or rather gritted sand. The damned wind had deposited what seemed like a fistful of it in his mouth. Adahm cleared his throat and spit angrily---just as another blast of wind came along, forcing in twice as much sand as he’d spit out.
Gold and glory, Adahm told himself, and rode on.
* * *
If the world made sense, Adahm thought vacantly, I’d be the happiest man alive.
For the first time in recent memory, Adahm’s infallible sense of direction had been wrong. Nearly two days had gone by since they’d descended into the nameless valley, parched, sore, but still hopeful.
A lot had changed in two days.
Adahm supposed he really couldn’t be blamed for misjudging the distance. He’d assumed it would be a breezy, lighthearted romp, cutting straight through the Borderlands to Meyabor. If that had been the case, perhaps a day would have been a feasible length for their journey.
First of all, Adahm had foolishly miscalculated how fast they’d be able to ride once they entered the desert proper. He’d assumed it would be much like riding across the badlands; maybe a little slower. The sad truth was that they ended up leading their horses more often than they rode them. Around enormous humped sanddunes, through treacherous faded ruins from the Old World. The first day of travel had been miserable---staggering, fighting their slow, gradual way through the stinging, sand-drenched perpetual wind. The curses that had bellowed forth from the three that day would have easily had them banned from any establishment with the slightest shreds of decency.
Curses aside, Ryinn and Jhonthin had been mostly quiet the first day, which was bad. If they were too mollified even to jest about their discomforts, then their spirits were low indeed. I’ve led them to nowhere, Adahm had thought vacantly that night, camped under the stars in the rotted foundations of some ancient fortress. I’ve failed them, led us all to our death. They’d fallen asleep to the howling of the sand, the eroded fortress walls too pitifully ravaged to offer them any decent sanctuary.
Still, all three had been in better spirits the next morning. Sunlight had revealed an ancient well on one side of the ruins, and though the water tasted stale and was full of dark sand, it was certainly better than perishing of thirst. And Adahm’s guess had been only an hour off that point—attributable to the spells where they’d been forced to lead the horses---which logically indicated that Meyabor wasn’t too far off. The winds had slowed somewhat, almost to inactivity, and even the pulsing red sun didn’t seem quite so hot as the day before. Ryinn had managed to keep up a steady stream of quips for the first half hour; Adahm thought Jhonthin might have laughed at one of them.
That had been before the sandstorm.
Adahm had vaguely read of the things in books before, and he knew that if he’d read about them, Johnthin certainly had. Strong, prolonged swirling winds, the books had said, usually found in deserts, and customarily carrying a sizeable amount of sand. On the page, it had sounded quaint, a discomfort you’d probably be better off avoiding.
He doubted even Joshua had read anywhere near enough to prepare him for the reality. Strong winds turned out to be forceful enough to nearly blow Adahm off of his horse. They’d seen it from a distance; a furious brown and yellow wall screaming across the desert towards them. It had been howling towards them so rapidly that they’d barely even had time to realize that trying to flee was futile before it was upon them. Instantly they were engulfed; prisoners inside a horrendous swirling wrathful cage.
Usually carrying a sizeable amount of sand. When---if ---they got back to Rygaurd, Adahm had resolved to look up the scholar who’d penned that book, and throw a fistful of sand in his eyes simply out of spite. There had been enough sand to bury an army in; enough sand to bury a city. It ripped and tore at Adahm’s clothes, gnashed at his skin, pummeled him till he was bruised. There had been little else to do but curl into a ball and prey for his friends.
It was nearly an hour before the sandstorm moved on. A hellcursed, excruciating hour. Sand had lodged itself in pores Adahm hadn’t known he’d had. His skin, beneath its ground-in shell of sand, felt as red and raw as a slab on a butcher’s block. And his mouth---it was if some sort of sand-shaped ant had infested Adahm all the way down his throat. It hurt to swallow; it almost hurt to breathe. You could have set a pitcher of the foulest, most repugnant water in the world in front of Adahm and he would have gulped it down without a second thought.
At first it had hurt even to move. To think. There was no sign of any of the others; for all he knew they’d been buried alive by the sandstorm. Every part of his body that had the capacity to be sore had obliged fervently; every little movement all the down to blinking had become a trial.
Eventually Adahm had battled against the pain and forced himself to walk around. The Servants had been with them; he’d found Jhonthin, then Ryinn, looking for the entire world like they were corpses that had just dug their way out from sandy tombs. They were coated almost beyond recognition, and neither had managed to will themselves to move. But for all that, they were alive.
They hadn’t said a word. After a time they silently forced themselves up and brushed themselves off as best they could. The horses, of course, were gone. Where, Adahm couldn’t begin to fathom, though he doubted they were alive. Molder, miraculously, they found nearby; seemingly unfazed by the sandstorm. He had the waterskins, and a good portion of their food---most of it ruined by sand----but everything else was gone. Ryinn’s weapons. Jhonthin’s book. Everything of Adahm’s besides the clothes on his back. Gone, swallowed up by the desert.
For a while they stood like that, silent, crusted in sand, staring at the ground miserably, taking sips from the water skin to try and remember what moisture felt like. Finally, Adahm had nodded, tilted his head towards the direction they should take---even after the storm he was sure of that---and they’d started off, betting their lives on the hope that Meyabor was close.
Three hours. Three hours they’d walked, not saying a word, trudging through the desert, the sun blistering down on them. By some cruel jape of nature, the sun had become significantly hotter since the sandstorm had passed---almost as if it had been saving all its fury for when it would be most potently felt.
Now, finally, they had reached civilization. Other people. Food, water. Life. By all rights, the three of them should have been dancing, crying, screaming, shouting with joy. Doing something suitably insane, after surviving all that misery.
But all Adahm could do was gape.
Ryinn looked like an amateurish sculptor had chiseled his face out of stone. Crestfallen, disbelieving stone. And Jhonthin, denying plausibility, looked even more pale than usual; he seemed too crushed to even manage one of his ironic smiles.
Servants help me, Adahm thought, This can’t be Meyabor.
It certainly wasn’t a city. Adahm probably wouldn’t have even called it a town. A gathering of several hundred goats, with a few dozen huts and half that many people intermingled within was hardly even a village. Everything about it looked like it had simply grown out of the desert; the goats were stained a permanent, filthy light brown, the buildings looked to be built out of the bricks fashioned from sand.
And the man standing in front of Adahm, squinting up at him toothlessly, looked as at home in the desert as an oak in the middle of a forest. His face glistened a leathery chestnut-tan in the sun; his crudely spun clothes were a drab, faded, desert gold. The sun seemed to have even managed to burn his brittle straw-colored the same shade as the desert.
I’ve forgotten how to talk. Somewhere out there in the sandstorm. Adahm found himself only able to gawk at the man emptily. It seemed there were no words for what he wanted to say. Meyabor is an ancient city. Of legend. From the Old World. Full of mysterious Border Folk and untapped treasures. Or so the merchant had said. Adahm felt his last remaining shreds of optimism shrivel and die. This goat-pasture can’t be Meyabor.
The man---who, now that Adahm thought about it, looked as much like a part of the goat herd as he did the desert---smacked his gums together loudly, and hacked a ball of spit at his feet. Sand colored, of course, Adahm thought disgustedly as the glob melted into the ground.
“Long time.” the man grated out, apparently deciding that Adahm wasn’t going to speak first. “Long time since folk came all the way out here. Specially,” he eyed Ryinn and Jhonthin hardly “folks from the soft world,”
He thinks I’m border folk, Adahm realized. Whatever ancestors this old rustic claimed, they certainly weren’t Borderfolk. He was too stooped, too gnarled. Too simple. The Borderfolk were nomads, besides.
A goat bleated and started past the man. He brought his fist down on top of it head violently. It blinked its almond-shaped eyes, bleated again, more loudly, and retreated back into the herd. “Now,” the man continued, taking his eyes off the goat once it had left, “you tell me. Who, why. We get merchants, once, twice a year maybe. And only in passing.” He looked pointedly at Molder, swishing his tail mindlessly at invisible flies. “You are no merchants.”
“No,” Adahm agreed. His voice came out rasped and faint. I don’t sound a thing like myself. “No. We are travelers. Adventurers, if you like. We...we seek a city.”
The old goatherd cocked his head quizzically, looking disconcertingly caprine. Adahm half expected him to start bleating. “City,” he muttered, trying to run his fingers through a beard that no longer existed. “Old Garli knows of no cities. Only this village---Dobbor.”
Adahm had not thought his heart could sink lower; it proved him wrong by becoming heavier then lead and plummeting through his body to the ground. All their griping...their jests. Had Ryinn and Jhonthin been right? Was he really a fool, only putting them all in harm’s way? Adahm glanced at his friends.
He was surprised. They looked tired, yes. Exhausted, more like. And they looked as though they’d spent the last week rolling through sand. But, beneath all the sand, all the lines, they both looked...determined. Resolved. At the very least, a lot more stalwart that Adahm himself felt.
After all this, they’re still following me. They still trust me. The realization jolted off more of his fatigue and hopelessness than Adahm would have thought possible.
“Odd. Last I looked at a map, I was sure it was somewhere nearby.” His voice came out as scraped and warbled as ever, but this time, Adahm managed a bit of his characteristic flair. Out of the corner of his eyes, Adahm saw his friends’ heads perk up ever so slightly in response. ‘That’s the Adahm we know, the fiery one’, is what they’re thinking, he told himself smugly.
He harrumphed—which tore at his ravaged throat so roughly it was all he could do not to wince—and returned his attention to the goatherd---Old Garli.
“Garli, my man,” he rasped out. “Perhaps you can help me. The city I’m looking for is called Meyabor.”
For such a seemingly simple man, it was quite a gamut of emotions that flashed through Garli’s eyes. Fear, Adahm, thought. Shock. Worry. All of which pointed to one thing.
For better or for worse, this man knew about Meyabor.
For the first time since he’d entered the valley, Adahm almost grinned. Not a fool’s errand after all, maybe. “Well, Garli? Do you know of Meyabor? Tell us what you know.”
The old man shook his head, paused, opened his mouth, then went back to shaking his head. “It is not a thing we speak about,” he managed after a moment. “It is best not to. To come here...you should leave.”
Indignation scaled its way past the fatigue in Adahm’s chest. “Leave? Leave? Garli, we’ve spent weeks to get here. Yes, most of those weeks were crossing the soft lands, as you call them, but what would an old goat herd know about that? These past two days, we’ve lost our horses, gotten nearly killed by a sandstorm, and marched for hours across this scorched barren wasteland you inexplicably call home, and you tell me to leave?” Adahm folded his arms in what he hoped was an intimidating gesture. “Old man, you’re speaking to Adahm Merglade. And Adahm Merglade does not simply leave on a goatherd’s whim.”
“There he goes,” Ryinn croaked out. It sounded like some enchantress had sorcelled out his throat and replaced it with bundle of dried reeds. “Putting on airs. When he calls himself by name, you know you’ve pushed him too far. Best tell him what he wants, Garli.” He wheezed fitfully; Adahm supposed it was meant to be a chuckle.
Garli, whose facial features had progressively devolved towards terror as Adahm spoke, now looked decidedly petrified. Like a goat with a dog nipping at its flanks. Very much like a goat with a dog nipping at its flanks.
“If, I mean,” he coughed, “if you’re so resolved, trav....Lord Merglade...eh...maybe I should,”
“Out with it, old man,” Jhonthin grated out crossly. “We’re not in a particularly patient mood.” Adahm had heard breezes whisper with more of a voice than Jhonthin.
Having three disheveled, menacing stranger all demanding him to speak proved to be too much for Garli. “Please, travellers,” he squeaked breathlessly, “I...It is not my place. The mayor. You should speak to the mayor.” He sounded exceedingly relieved that he’d stumbled across that solution.
Adahm eyed the shifting mass of goat behind the man dubiously. “And I suppose we have to walk through those beasts to get to the mayor.” It was rhetorical question; every single one Dobbor’s few buildings was at least sparsely encircled by the dirty, bleating animals.
“The Yamine?” Sand goats, Adahm translated, unsure how he knew that. “They are harmless, gentle, they....” Garli trailed off under Adahm’s withering gaze. “They will not prove much trouble.” He finished lamely.
Adahm waved his hand disgustedly, motioning Garli to lead on. Speak to the mayor, he thought acidly. He hadn’t noticed it at first, but the goats stank. Of sour-sweet goat sweat, of piss, of shit. Mostly of shit. It littered the ground as fruit might an untended orchard; in some places it even gave the desert village the illusion of having brown earth. Vile, foul, brown earth, Adahm amended furiously as he accidentally planted his sandaled foot smack in the middle of a massive steaming pile. What is this man the mayor of? People? Or goats?
“Seems like even here, the women are quite taken with me,” Ryinn rasped conversationally. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”
Adahm looked to see who he was talking about. A few leathery crones who looked more like slightly feminine versions of Garli than true women stood in front of their sandstone huts, eyeing the 3 tall strangers forcing their way through the goats with suspicious curiosity.
“You won’t hear me ever say this again, but you’re welcome to them.” Jhonthin stepped gingerly over a mound of goat scat. “Adahm, Servants only know where you’ve led us. And I doubt even they know why we followed you.”
“The treasure.” Adahm answered froggily, feeling a bit smug. “Did you see the way Garli reacted to the name Meyabor? There’s treasure there, all right. Treasure they don’t want any outsiders to know about.”
A goat bleated indignantly as Ryinn kicked it testily “Bloody bleating animals,” he growled voicelessly. “Adahm, if this Meyabor really does have treasure, that’s all well and good. Save for one problem.”
“Which is?”
Another thunk, another indignant bleat. “That we aren’t even sure where the bleeding city is.”
“Or if it even exists,” Jhonthin added thoughtfully.
Adahm opened his mouth to reply, and suddenly found himself try so hard to think of something to say that it was all he could do not to trip over a goat that had shuffled across his path. For once, he had nothing to say.
“True,” he said simply. “We’ll see, I suppose.”
Both Ryinn and Jhonthin missed a step. I can agree, when it suits me, Adahm thought crossly. You don’t have to be so suprised.
Old Garli---several goats ahead of them now, thank to their dawdling---turned back and waved them on. “Not far,” he told them. “This one up here.”
The sandstone hut he indicated looked as pitiful and barren as any of the others; if a bit bigger. A large stone well made it just slightly boosted its prestige. The cluster of goats around it seemed to be a little thicker than usual---and so were accordingly, the piles of shit.
Who needs a castle with a moat, when you have shit-encircled huts? Trying to sigh---but only managing to send a ripple of pain through his cracked throat---Adahm pushed on through the goats.
* * *
The mayor of Dobbor turned out to be a short, pinched man, his gaunt face hiding itself behind a meticulously combed golden beard. His shack seemed more like a storage room than a house---boxes piled on one side, sacks of grain in another, rectangular boxes stacked by the door. And the floor appeared to be nothing more than firmly tamped down dirt. Adahm wondered with faint disgust if it was goat manure. It seemed depressingly likely.
Garli had entered first after his knock had earned them the request to come in, and now he was whispering furiously to the mayor, gesturing at Adahm from time to time. The mayor, for his part, tried to make it seem like he was intent on Garli’s words, but Adahm could see him scrutinizing the three out of the corners of his narrow eyes. As Garli’s flustered speech unfolded, the mayor’s mouth devolved from simply unreadable into a pronounced frown. Once---Adahm caught the muttered word “Meyabor”---he forgot his guise of disinterest and turned to glare at Adahm with open suspicion.
After taking far longer than Adahm would have expected to simply introduce the three as travelers seeking Meyabor, Garli finished. The mayor nodded sharply towards the door, and the goat-like old man hobbled past Adahm. For a moment the hut was filled with the mindless bleating of goats as Garli opened the door, then fell silent as he closed it behind him.
The short man turned to face the travelers. “So,” he croaked crossly, “Garli says you’ve come to our village to cause trouble. He also says that he asked you to leave, and that you flatly refused, saying the requests of an old goatherd were far beneath you.”
Adahm frowned indignantly. That ‘old goatherd’ was almost more vexing than the sandstorm had been. “Sir mayor, I think you’ve been given a skewed perception of us. As far as us causing trouble, I promise you, Garli couldn’t be farther from the truth. We’ve come to do a great service. And yes, I refused to leave when he asked, but that’s only because I’d prefer to not wander the desert until I die of thirst.”
“Not that we don’t think he’s beneath us,” Ryinn interjected unhelpfully. Jhonthin started to add something off his own---Adahm wasn’t sure whether he was agreeing with Ryinn or telling him off, because his voice cracked and he broke off into a fit of pained coughing.
The mayor eyed them with a look somewhere between distaste and skepticism on his face. “I suppose we’ll get to the truth of your words soon enough.” He sounded as if he was confident that truth would be closer to Garli’s than Adahm’s. “First. You say you aren’t here to cause trouble. What, then, brings your kind so far into our corner of the desert? And why are these softlanders with you?”
Adahm could feel his friends’ bristling over being called softlanders. “You’re mistaken.” he said hastily, before Ryinn could say something insulting or Jhonthin could make a wry quip. “I’m not of the Border Folk. Well,” he hesitated at the disbelieving look on the mayor’s face. “I’m of their blood. But I grew up in the sof---in Rygaurd.”
The mayor regarded Adahm with a flat stare.
“I don’t think you’re doing the best job of winning his trust,” Jhonthin whispered. Or perhaps he was trying to say it out loud; Adahm doubted he could have talked any louder if he’d tried. Just as well, as the mayor’s gaze was becoming flatter, were that possible. Is there a single blasted person in the world who doesn’t distrust me the moment they meet me?
Adahm took the mayor’s silence as indication to continue. He hoped the mayor’s silence was indication to continue. “You see, back in the so---in Rygaurd, we heard tales. Of a city, out in the Borderlands. An ancient city, goes by the name of Meyabor.”
The mayor reacted to that. His eyebrows shot up, and his beard nearly quivered in---shock? Vindication? Fury? Adahm couldn’t be sure.
“In one breath you claim you don’t come to make trouble,” the mayor hissed out, “then in the next you mention Meyabor. Are all softlanders so foolish?”
Adahm suffered a moment of inarticulate confusion. What was he missing about Meyabor? “My good mayor,” he began soothingly, “you misjudge me. Like I said---we aren’t here to cause trouble. We come here to help Meyabor.”
Shock flashed across the mayor’s eyes. “Are you a fool as well as a lyar? Help Meyabor? Just how to you expect to help that cursed place?”
Cursed! So there is a ghost. Adahm tried to keep the satisfaction out of his voice. “Well, as far as we heard tell, the people of Meyabor have been troubled with some, eh, spiritual problems lately. Being the bold adventurers that we are, me and my friends decided---“ Ryinn shot him a withering gaze, “er, I decided, and convinced my friends, that we should ride for Meyabor, to rid them of this annoying ghost. Maybe claim a bit of glory for ourselves, win the people’s respect.”
For the first time since they’d arrived in Dobbor, Adahm saw a reaction to his words that was decisively not hostile. Pity darkened the mayor’s features. “Is that why you’ve ridden here? To aid the people of Meyabor? Traveller, it seems all softlanders are fools. Meyabor is not a simple city, recently haunted by a nagging spirit. Meyabor was once the greatest city in the land---a thriving capital of knowledge, trade, commerce---a legend it its time.”
A tingling ran down Adahm’s spine as the mayors pity changed to sadness and he continued. “That, travellers, was nearly five hundred years ago. Meyabor fell with the old world. Fell before the binding of the servants.” The mayor took a deep breath, and looked into Adahm’s eyes. “Traveller, the entire city of Meyabor was destroyed—every man, woman and child killed—half a millenium ago by a wrathful, ancient force. A vengeful power from another world.” An empty smile fleeted across his face. “Or, as you’d have it, an ‘annoying ghost’”.
Adahm sucked in his breath. An ancient power from the Old World. That was something. And strong enough to destroy an entire city. It seemed he hadn’t come all this way for a simple ghost.
Instead, he got something much, much better.
Adahm’s excitement must have shown itself on his face.
“Did you hear me?” The mayor sounded troubled. “An ancient evil. Destroyed an entire city. An entire city—from the Old World, no less.”
“I heard you,” Adahm murmered. “Oh, I heard you.” His mind was racing like a carriage wheel. Banishing some small, troublesome spirit might have garnered him some local prestige, at best. And, of course, a preferably significant amount of gold. But an ancient spirit that had laid an entire Old World city to waste.
“It’s perfect. Incredible.” Adahm could feel passion rising up inside him, passion that he hadn’t felt in far too long. The adventurer’s calling, he liked to think of it as. That driving, inexorable force that had changed the course of his life so many times.
The mayor’s tanned face was balanced somewhere between apprehension and fear. “I tell you this spirit is an ancient evil, strong enough to destroy cities, and this pleases you? I tell you that it killed thousands of men, women and children without regard, and this doesn’t strike fear through your veins?” He shook his head worriedly. “Your mind works in ways I cannot understand, traveler.”
Ryinn sighed. “Sir mayor, I have to disagree with you. See, Adahm here’s mind is actually remarkably simple to understand once you get to know him. Now, look at him,” he jerked his head at Adahm. “Still too caught up in his thoughts to even tell us what’s got him as giddy as a child in a candy shop.”
Adahm didn’t bother to saying anything; the simple truth was the he was too caught up in his thoughts to bother replying. Something this significant—Why, they’d sing of his bravery from Keth to Ilyana. And not only that. No, not only that by a long shot. An Old World city, destroyed in its prime, with a malevolent spirit to keep intruders out for nearly 500 years?
Just trying to comprehend the riches, the treasures that must be there was enough to make Adahm’s head spin. Not just gold; relics from the old world had a value that could not be measured in metal.
Ryinn, meanwhile, was continuing his explanation of Adahm’s mind to the mayor. “Now, I can guarantee I know exactly what he’s thinking. As soon as told him about this spirit, did he think about the danger?” Ryinn shook his head mournfully. “Of course not. Rule number one when understanding Adahm’s mind: it doesn’t recognize danger. Or common sense.”
The mayor’s face was slowly replacing apprehension with confused dismay. He ran his hands through his beard, muttering incomprehensibly to himself.
“Now, I’ll tell you what his brain is thinking,” Ryinn said. “The first thing Adahm thought of was the glory. Think about it. A power that ancient? That strong, to kill every citizen of an entire Old World city? Put yourself in Adahm’s foolish shoes, mayor. Can’t you see it? The glory?”
From the mayor’s face, it was clear that he did not at all see; in fact it was plain that all he did see where three ragged, babbling travelers who were seeming increasingly dangerous.
“No?” Ryinn shook his head. “Can’t say I blame you. Takes a bit of time with Adahm to really get a grasp on that twisted logic he passes of as rationale. All he sees right now is the glory. It doesn’t matter how dangerous your ghost is; all that matters to Adahm is the fame it will bring him.”
“And the gold,” Jhonthin cut in dryly. “You really can’t forget the gold.”
Ryinn smacked himself. “Of course. The gold. See, mayor, that makes it even worse. An Old World city? If Adahm was able to dream up gold from a simple ghost, do you even realize how many treasures he’s seeing in his mind right now?”
Adahm, in fact, was imagining his glorious return to Rygaurd. Adahm, people would say, did you really kill a ghost from the Old World? Was there really too much treasure for you to carry back with even a dozen horses?
“A lot.” Jhonthin said simply. He tried to open one the rectangular boxes stacked next to him. “What’s in here? Dried goat meat, I’d assume?”
The mayor didn’t even seem to notice Jhonthin. The stout man simply stared, horror writing itself across his features. “I ask again—are all softlanders so foolish? You’re both as mad as he is!”
“Madder, actually,” Ryinn said. “I mean, we’re the ones who follow him around. Think about that.” He raised his eyebrows significantly.
Jhonthin was frowning and prying at one of the box’s nails. “And actually, even by Softlander standards, sir mayor, we’re all pretty foolish.” His voice was distant—Jhonthin had a problem to solve; he wouldn’t content until he did.
Adahm would be a hero. The next Lucklord. No. Greater than the Lucklord. The hero of children’s tales. A rich hero of childrens tales. All within his grasp. All he had to do was to—somehow—destroy Meyabor’s ghost.
“Mayor,” Adahm said sharply, finally forcing himself out his daydreams. “How far is Meyabor”
The mayor seemed too taken aback by his sudden snap back to reality to answer at first. “Not far,” he allowed, finally. He sounded as if he wished it were otherwise. “But I will not—can not—allow you to go.” He crossed his arms in what he probably hoped would be a commanding gesture. “I can’t have you stirring up some ghost, then running back here with your tail between your legs. I can’t have you leading that evil back here. This is no game, softlander.”
“You really think that’s going to convince him?” It hardly even sounded like a question the way Ryinn said it, more a statement of disbelief.
Adahm thought that Ryinn, for once, had a rather good point. “My good mayor, you misjudge me yet again. Adahm, run? Adahm, the next Lucklord, turn and flee at the first sign of danger, like some wet-behind-the-ears boy? Oh no, mayor. I go to destroy this ghost.”
“Next Lucklord, indeed,” Jhonthin muttered. He was still trying to pry open one of the crates. His damned curiosity was as insatiable as Adahm’s dreams of glory. Almost.
The mayor reached out an arm to steady himself against a tall stack of grainsacks. “Kill a force strong enough to kill an entire Old World city.” His voice sound distant, his body was shaking, and even his beard looked paler. “And walk away from it none the worse.”
Adahm shrugged. “Well, that’s the idea. I mean, consider---what danger is there in it for you? Worst comes to worst, we fail miserably, and this vengeful old spirit gets rid of a couple of mad softlanders for you.”
For the first time since they’d entered his house, something that might have hinted at concurrence sputtered in back of the mayor’s eyes. That was almost depressing, Adahm reflected. The first time a person agreed with him was when he offered to off and get killed. Not quite the Lucklord yet.
If all went well, that would change.
“I suppose it’s your lives to waste.” The mayor said it grudgingly, as even granting these unstable wanderers that small concession was more than they deserved. “Very well. I’ll arrange for a guide to lead you to Meyabor. You’ll leave at dawn.”
Adahm was indignant. “What, not tonight?” At the least, they could camp in the ruins overnight, and deal with the ghost the next day. I’d take a spirit over these stinking goats any day.
“Softlander, I’m not saying you have any hope in this fool’s errand. But if there is any---you won’t find it at night.”
The old man had a point, in a way. Adahm suddenly recalled just how far they’d travelled, how exhausted they were. He smiled wanly. I couldn’t fight a puppy, let alone an evil spirit. He suddenly realized how exhausted he was.
“You’re right, old man.” Adahm found it mildly amusing that they hadn’t even bothered to learn the stubby mayor’s name. “Fine. At dawn.”
“At dawn.” For once he sounded confident. He stood straight, waiting.
Did he expect them to sleep on Dobbor’s streets, such as they were, with the goats? Adahm opened his mouth indignantly.
Jhonthin cut him off. “Servants grace,” he swore, “what are in these blasted boxes?” His fingers were red and raw from trying to pry them open, and the exasperation was written plane across his face.
The corner of the mayor’s rounded cheek quirked mirthfully at some hidden joke. “Funny you should ask. The grainsacks? Feed for the goats. The crates? Dried goat meat. And the boxes? Urns of water. In case the well goes dry,” he explained.
“Well, Jhonth, you were almost right,” Ryinn quipped.
“Funny we should mention it?” Jhonthin said, for once ignoring Ryinn. “Why?”
“Because the only reason they’re in my house is because it’s the biggest building in town, besides the storage building. Which is where you’ll be sleeping tonight.” Two more quirks of a smile. Adahm felt a surge of irritation towards the little man.
“And they aren’t in the storage building why?” Adahm demanded. He could certainly see nothing funny about the situation.
The mayor lifted an eyebrow. “Why? You’ll see, I suppose, softlander. Perhaps you can find some glory in this circumstance.”
How infuriatingly ambiguous. “You bloody old goat,” Adahm said heatedly, “I didn’t ride this far for riddles. Now answer me: why aren’t all these supplies in your storage house?”
This time the smile won the fight; it twitched once than stayed branded on the mayors face, the first one Adahm had seen from him. No more the pity. It was a disconcerting smile.
“You’ll see,” he said through the smile. “In fact, I’ll show you the way there now myself.”
* * *
“The stables were destroyed, and they haven’t had time to rebuild them,” Adahm said furiously, slamming his fist against the dark ground. He immediately regretted it—there was no doubt in his mind that it was nothing but stale manure. It almost made him miss the sand.
A goat lumbered over his outstretched legs, bleating frantically. Adahm violently kicked it away. It bucked in surprise, turned to face him, blinked, then returned to bleating. Adahm could have sworn it was bleating even more loudly now, just to spite him.
Ryinn’s face was a mask of disgust. “Who uses a storehouse as a stable, anyways?” He had to shout; he’d sequestered himself in a corner in a vain effort to stay out of the way of the dozens of goats, and it was near impossible to stay coherent over the cacophonous bleating. “And then doubles it as a guesthouse?”
Adahm scowled. “The damned mayor of Dobbor, that’s who.” The old man had barely been able to contain his mirth at showing them where they’d be sleeping. Adahm had had half a mind to spin on his heel and leave, save the only other places to sleep were on the streets—still with goats—or under the open skies outside the town. In the end, it had seemed slightly more reasonable to house with the goats than risk waking up to another sandstorm.
He was beginning to think that might have been a poor decision.
The building wasn’t particularly large, in the first place; it would have a small barn at best in Rygaurd. The ceiling was low and flat, and there were no windows. Goats filled the place like water poured into a glass. Their cries were almost unbearably loud in such close quarters, and the smell was near unbearable. The open doorway, drafting in warm desert air, might have provided some relief—if not for the steady stream of goats passing in and out of its arched height. The only way Adahm had found the room to sit comfortably was to sit on the direct opposite side of the piles of feed where most of the goats were concentrated.
Unfortunately, this was also near as far from the door as you could get, and the smell lingered here like a parasite. The building could have burned to the ground and Adahm would have expected it to still stink of goat. How the mayor had ever expected anybody to sleep there, Adahm would never know. Well, he thought, he probably didn’t intend for you to get any sleep. A wave of hatred for the stupid squat old man washed over Adahm.
“It’s outrageous!” he roared, scattering a few goats that had been pressing a bit too closely around him. “Is this how a hero sleeps? With goats?”
Jhonthin was pacing through the goats, uncomfortable with simply sitting down for them to walk all over him. “Well, it’s how we sleep,” he pointed out. “Not much we can do about it.” Of the three, he seemed the least upset with their caprine quarters.
“Listen to him,” Ryinn said, turning to Adahm. “It’s all well and good for Jhonthin.
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