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"The Speaking Head of Malberon"
Nov. 21st, 2022 04:23 pm"The Speaking Head of Malberon"
4/11/1218 DR
I.
The great central peak of Kylmor, white with snow that seldom left it entirely, could be seen thrusting up above the horizon. The rest of Androval could not be seen from this island, Nothing stirred on the Cold Sea but the shadows of seagulls wheeling overhead.
Down by the chill water, a shaggy black-haired head broke the surface. The sullen eyes, blue with strange amber specks, watched suspiciously for a moment. Then, heaving up from the Sea, Romal the Mongrel squeezed water from his tunic and pants before moving forward. Behind some boulders, he unrolled the travel cloak he had tied up behind his neck and took the heavy boots from where he had laced him to his belt. The straight sword, two feet long in its wooden scabbard, had been strapped across his back and he returned it again to its customary place at his right hip. It was a Signarm weapon with a blade one inch across, honed sharp on both edges.
Romal stood listening for another minute before starting to move up the slope from the rocky shore. With his wet hair tucked back, the strange pointed ears could be clearly seen. No Races other than the Darthim and Eldanarin had ears like that, except Romal who was unique unto himself. On either side of his neck, three parallel gill slits had closed up so tightly that only close examination under good light could have perceived them. Romal had needed no boat. He had swum the miles from Androval underwater.
Stealthily as any stalking beast, the Mongrel made his way up toward the level area of this island. The dark tower of stone blocks, eighty feet high, was surrounded by smaller wooden sheds containing workshops or used for storage. Head high pyramids of coal still stood at intervals. The pounding of hammers on metal and the low voices of craftsmen laboring together had ceased. From the tower itself, no black smoke rose to be dissipated by the salty winds from the sea. The fires had been allowed to die down.
Watching from his concealment, the Mongrel grew more unsettled than before. Had Malberon died? Had he stopped his crafting of the legendary weapons and talismans at last? Would there be no more Element Gems or Seven Swords or Brightbolts? Or had the greatest artisan of the Melgarin merely moved on to carry on his work somewhere else?
Surprised there had not been a single sentry watching from the shore facing Androval itself, Romal realized he had not seen anyone on this island. It was not at all what he had been expecting. He had to find out what this meant. Boldly as if invited, he stood up in plain sight and marched across the stained and chipped stone flagging of the courtyard to the open door of the tower.
Carved in the stone block over that door was a life-sized relief of a rearing horse.. the White Horse which the Melgarin revered and which they used to blazon everything from royal banners to war shields to infant's cradles. Clasping one hand on his sword hilt, Romal peered inside the opening and saw nothing but unused wooden tables and counters which had been stripped off all tools and scraps.
With an unexpected melancholy, Romal moved into the room. This abandoned tower, dark and silent where it recently had been filled with heat and activity, seemed like a dead thing to him. Where was Malberon? Was Romal too late?
The faintest scrape of a slipper on stone alerted him. Still gripping the hilt of his sword, the Mongrel swung over behind one of the pillars which supported the ceiling and readied for any attack. But it was a youth, unarmed, who had entered through the inner door. The la had not seen more than eleven years. He was both short and thin, his stick-like arms and legs exposed by the plain linen smock he wore. Thick untended black hair hair stuck out wildly over a narrow face.
"A thief will find little here that is worth his time," the boy said.
"I do not come to steal but to give warning. The most vile warlocks of this Age are on their way in their serpent-boats. Torture and anguish are the cargo they bring."
The youth did not react to the news. He faced an unknown intruder with as little interest as if he had found a mouse searching for crumbs. "They had better hurry then, if they hope to torment my master. Come this way."
Following the boy, Romal passed through a narrow corridor to a room little more than a nook large enough to hold a low platform piled with wool blankets. A single candle stub guttered on a shelf to show the wreckage of what had once been a mighty man. The blanket pulled up to his chin outlined a shrunken body still of more than average height but now reduced to little more than bones covered with skin and sinews. The exposed head was surrounded by a wild mane of white hair, the clean-shaven face so wrinkled that the features were hard to distinguish. But deep blue eyes opened as Romal entered.
"Ah. Good day," said the ancient one. "Please excuse me for not rising and offering you food or drink. I am not at my best."
"Master," the boy said, dropping to one knee. "I found him in the common room seconds ago."
"Thank you, Sirion. I was not expecting company. You must be Romal, called by some the Mongrel. Your features are so distinctive. The creation of Tollinor, are you not? A Human body with gifts from each of the Seven Races?"
Moving closer, Romal gazed down with a pity he seldom felt. His life had left him hardened and uncaring for the most part. "It is so."
"The strength of a Troll, the speed of a Snake man. Wiser than an Eldanar, crueler than a Dartha. I believe that is how the campfire songs go?" asked the withered face.
"It is so," repeated the Mongrel. "And I am addressing the great Malberon?"
"Heh, what is left of me. Human flesh and blood was never meant to live twelve hundred years. We are not the Eldanarin. I am a tree which will bring forth no more leaves, a stream which has gone dry. At least my greatest creation has been realized in these end days."
Surprising himself, Romal sank to one knee beside the swaddled old man. "More than all your ensorcelled weapons and talismans? What could this final product of your skill be?"
The weary eyes turned toward the small boy who stood in the doorway. "Sirion."
( the rest of the story )
4/11/1218 DR
I.
The great central peak of Kylmor, white with snow that seldom left it entirely, could be seen thrusting up above the horizon. The rest of Androval could not be seen from this island, Nothing stirred on the Cold Sea but the shadows of seagulls wheeling overhead.
Down by the chill water, a shaggy black-haired head broke the surface. The sullen eyes, blue with strange amber specks, watched suspiciously for a moment. Then, heaving up from the Sea, Romal the Mongrel squeezed water from his tunic and pants before moving forward. Behind some boulders, he unrolled the travel cloak he had tied up behind his neck and took the heavy boots from where he had laced him to his belt. The straight sword, two feet long in its wooden scabbard, had been strapped across his back and he returned it again to its customary place at his right hip. It was a Signarm weapon with a blade one inch across, honed sharp on both edges.
Romal stood listening for another minute before starting to move up the slope from the rocky shore. With his wet hair tucked back, the strange pointed ears could be clearly seen. No Races other than the Darthim and Eldanarin had ears like that, except Romal who was unique unto himself. On either side of his neck, three parallel gill slits had closed up so tightly that only close examination under good light could have perceived them. Romal had needed no boat. He had swum the miles from Androval underwater.
Stealthily as any stalking beast, the Mongrel made his way up toward the level area of this island. The dark tower of stone blocks, eighty feet high, was surrounded by smaller wooden sheds containing workshops or used for storage. Head high pyramids of coal still stood at intervals. The pounding of hammers on metal and the low voices of craftsmen laboring together had ceased. From the tower itself, no black smoke rose to be dissipated by the salty winds from the sea. The fires had been allowed to die down.
Watching from his concealment, the Mongrel grew more unsettled than before. Had Malberon died? Had he stopped his crafting of the legendary weapons and talismans at last? Would there be no more Element Gems or Seven Swords or Brightbolts? Or had the greatest artisan of the Melgarin merely moved on to carry on his work somewhere else?
Surprised there had not been a single sentry watching from the shore facing Androval itself, Romal realized he had not seen anyone on this island. It was not at all what he had been expecting. He had to find out what this meant. Boldly as if invited, he stood up in plain sight and marched across the stained and chipped stone flagging of the courtyard to the open door of the tower.
Carved in the stone block over that door was a life-sized relief of a rearing horse.. the White Horse which the Melgarin revered and which they used to blazon everything from royal banners to war shields to infant's cradles. Clasping one hand on his sword hilt, Romal peered inside the opening and saw nothing but unused wooden tables and counters which had been stripped off all tools and scraps.
With an unexpected melancholy, Romal moved into the room. This abandoned tower, dark and silent where it recently had been filled with heat and activity, seemed like a dead thing to him. Where was Malberon? Was Romal too late?
The faintest scrape of a slipper on stone alerted him. Still gripping the hilt of his sword, the Mongrel swung over behind one of the pillars which supported the ceiling and readied for any attack. But it was a youth, unarmed, who had entered through the inner door. The la had not seen more than eleven years. He was both short and thin, his stick-like arms and legs exposed by the plain linen smock he wore. Thick untended black hair hair stuck out wildly over a narrow face.
"A thief will find little here that is worth his time," the boy said.
"I do not come to steal but to give warning. The most vile warlocks of this Age are on their way in their serpent-boats. Torture and anguish are the cargo they bring."
The youth did not react to the news. He faced an unknown intruder with as little interest as if he had found a mouse searching for crumbs. "They had better hurry then, if they hope to torment my master. Come this way."
Following the boy, Romal passed through a narrow corridor to a room little more than a nook large enough to hold a low platform piled with wool blankets. A single candle stub guttered on a shelf to show the wreckage of what had once been a mighty man. The blanket pulled up to his chin outlined a shrunken body still of more than average height but now reduced to little more than bones covered with skin and sinews. The exposed head was surrounded by a wild mane of white hair, the clean-shaven face so wrinkled that the features were hard to distinguish. But deep blue eyes opened as Romal entered.
"Ah. Good day," said the ancient one. "Please excuse me for not rising and offering you food or drink. I am not at my best."
"Master," the boy said, dropping to one knee. "I found him in the common room seconds ago."
"Thank you, Sirion. I was not expecting company. You must be Romal, called by some the Mongrel. Your features are so distinctive. The creation of Tollinor, are you not? A Human body with gifts from each of the Seven Races?"
Moving closer, Romal gazed down with a pity he seldom felt. His life had left him hardened and uncaring for the most part. "It is so."
"The strength of a Troll, the speed of a Snake man. Wiser than an Eldanar, crueler than a Dartha. I believe that is how the campfire songs go?" asked the withered face.
"It is so," repeated the Mongrel. "And I am addressing the great Malberon?"
"Heh, what is left of me. Human flesh and blood was never meant to live twelve hundred years. We are not the Eldanarin. I am a tree which will bring forth no more leaves, a stream which has gone dry. At least my greatest creation has been realized in these end days."
Surprising himself, Romal sank to one knee beside the swaddled old man. "More than all your ensorcelled weapons and talismans? What could this final product of your skill be?"
The weary eyes turned toward the small boy who stood in the doorway. "Sirion."
( the rest of the story )
