At the time we approached Faraton, it had been some months since I had last seen a proper wall. Fences? Plenty. Palisades? Sure, a few. One especially corrupt mayor had a barrier around his estate that he referred to as a wall, though I hesitate to classify a six-foot tall pile of sticks as such.
Faraton, on the other hand, provided no doubt. We craned our necks so I could shout at a man atop the battlements to allow us entry, and it took four men to push open the thick wooden gate. As we walked through the passage I saw several abyssal holes above me, hotholes that I hoped were not filled with boiling lard that day.
The town of Faraton is hard to place in terms of importance. It is, by far, the largest town in the north. That is not to say it is large, just that it dwarfs its competition. Norport and Leuther, the largest in Leuthernia by a large margin, are only the size of Faraton's market square. Beorne, the capital of Beornia, lies far enough south that no one considers it to be a "town in the north." Faraton is the central point through which northern merchants peddle their wares to the hundreds of tiny communities nearby, but its own market is nothing particularly notable. The economy is almost concerningly unspecialized, just a collection of services and goods that do little to distinguish itself from any other town. It is ordinary to such an extent that it becomes a selling point to a certain type of person.
It did represent one thing that we were sorely lacking in the time leading up to this, however: an urban environment.
Rural villages were fine for most things. We could get food and sleep, and just often enough I could replenish paper and ink and other more specialized supplies. Drifter had plenty of opportunities to have weapons repaired or cleaned up as needed. But they were so far removed from the rest of the world that I could not gain information. As one seeking to chronicle the Contest--and as one who decided he had a stake in the race--knowing the state of the other contestants was vital. Who had approached Brodyn's corpse? Who had been accepted and rejected? Who still sought the glory needed to be recognized? I knew nothing at all and I could hardly stand it.
The usual need for intel in any sort of competition was compounded by the fact that the previous Contest had long since faded into myth. Scattered tales of the Contest and the days before have been passed down in some capacity, but they were neither my speciality nor were they at all consistent. Stories of great heroes being rejected in favour of piddly farmers existed in many cultures, but why? And how?
We grabbed a lunch of vachon buns from a merchant stall and loitered in the town square for a while. I made a failed attempt to get Drifter to play a word game to pass the time, but thankfully the town crier climbed up on the fountain and cleared his throat for the small crowd settling in the area.
"Gatheround an' listen! I've news from the capi'al, and from Wystole, and from Pearia!" News from the capital was all that I had expected--if this crier had news from two other nations, not even neighbouring nations, something big must have happened.
Even Drifter seemed to perk up as the crier went on. "In Beorne, the Blood Bandit Varys the Vagabond has set a toll to enter the city. The guard mustered a group to run 'im out but got sent back to the city in bandages. Varys' bounty has been upped to seven thousand denars." Drifter had no reaction to the price, but I was astounded that a man this far from civilization could amass such a bounty. It could support a peasant family for generations. It also prompted the thought: does Drifter know how much a denar is? He was obviously not native to the area, and I suspected he was not native to the time, either.
Regardless, it seemed that the army action that Fennec and Darren had talked about had failed as they had expected. It was another point for Varys' reputation.
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A few less interesting announcements followed before he reached the international news: "From the crown of Wystole, a proclamation—" he took out a sheet of paper pressed with the information, "By the command of King Skaryn, Lord of Moline, seventh of his line, sixteenth king of kings, Alius Froud, the First Sword of Wystole will seek victory in the Contest of Mount Bromid and cement the kingdom of Wystole as the undisputed leader of all other nations in the new world." The crier rolled up the paper and stuffed it haphazardly in his pants. The proclamation sounded serious, but the lack of reaction on the faces of any of the townspeople around me implied it was not the first of these proclamations, nor would it be the last. The First Sword of Wystole was hardly noteworthy in his position, functioning as most do as a simple military adviser to the king. His prowess was beyond the average knight but not at the level of the most famed combatants of the era. I doubted that he would qualify.
"From Pearia, via Georg, I have news: the grandson of Dyalis, the demigod Fremen, has announced his intent to join the Contest. He has amassed a fortune to expand the size of the Free Mercenaries and intends to march an army to Mount Bromid. He departs on the day of the midsummer festival, when the sun gives him the most time to march."
In the opening days of the Contest many demigods declared their intent to compete, and many of them were killed by their competitors. Divine blood soaked the dirt in many regions until those with less blood, and less power, could no longer compete. The remnants are those with the power to win a bloody melee and those with the wits to avoid one.
Fremen was one of those rare godlings to be both. Dyalis, the god of greed, maintained a harem of humans for much of his reign. He had a vast number of children, most of which had minimal power. Fremen's parents were children of Dyalis born in 854 and 858 to different mothers, and both appeared to be powerless. His parents fell into a twisted sort of love, and in 870 gave birth to Fremen. Dyalis had both of his parents killed, their names stricken from his dynasty, and Fremen was thrown into the harsh winter to die.
But Fremen had the resilience of a demigod. He survived, crawling to a town three days away by foot only to be found and adopted by a local merchant. His business acumen was unmatched from a young age, and none of the other boys wanted to play with him as no one else could compare to his physical prowess. It took little time for Fremen to be known around the town, then the region, and by his teens the whole country knew of this prodigy finding success at every venture he pursued.
Dyalis passed when Fremen was in his thirties, and at that time he had amassed such a fortune that some wondered if it dwarfed even the riches of the Greed God. Some rumors even suggested that Dyalis passed on because someone else had taken on the mantle of his greed, surpassing his ability to collect all the things he wanted in the world. It was after Dyalis's passing that Fremen announced his heritage and claimed the title "God of Greed."
His decision to join the contest was no surprise. To make his title reality was a natural step. He was such a strong competitor that it already felt like there was one less open spot within the Septemvirate.
I had to wonder: how many contestants would fight for their spot quietly? How many spots were claimed without our knowledge?
The crier went on with some local news I cared less about, so I left with Drifter to find a place to sleep. We settled on the Boar's Hind Inn, based more on how cheap it was than anything else. The boar's hind stew was terrible, but the innkeeper seemed to have little business so he chatted with us over the food. It appeared that the crier's news that day was sparking worries in town, what with the blockade of their largest trading partner and a future potentially ruled by greed once more.
I looked at my companion scarfing down stew without a care in the world and saw an inscrutable countenance that betrayed no thought from his pinky toe to the crown of his head. He seemed like some sort of inhuman machine, moving through life as physics directed. He was godlike in his obscurity.
Then again, how many of us could that apply to? Even this innkeeper cleaned unused glasses as if compelled by fate. I know not why he runs this inn, but he does, and without being in his head I can't know every thought that drives his body to action.
"The job of historian is to recount the actions of men beyond your understanding and how they affect people you could never know." That was in my first lesson at Docet Barrington, and it felt more relevant than ever.
