The crowd was already packed tightly around the stage, so Alef, Niall, and Liv had to settle towards the back of the throng. Alef tried to sidle up to Liv and stand next to her, but Niall shouldered him out of the way roughly. Alef thought about protesting or pushing the older boy back, but he decided against it and settled for peering over Liv’s shoulder to get a look up at the dias. The crowd began to settle as Erik climbed the handful of steps to stand next to Furla. Alef hadn’t seen Erik in a season, and there was something different about him. It wasn’t that he had grown in stature, but he had grown in presence. The set of his narrow shoulders spoke of confidence and his eyes had a knowing look about them, like he had seen things and come away different. His lean jaw was dusted with the beginnings of a beard and he had a mysterious fang strung on a thin leather necklace. He wasn’t a boy anymore, he was a young man now.
Furla shuffled her way across the raised platform to stand beside Erik. She rested one of her gnarled hands on his shoulder as she addressed the crowd. Her reedy voice had grown weaker over the years, but she could still be heard clearly all the way in the back where Alef was standing. The people in the town square were so quiet Alef thought he could hear his own blinking. Of course, that was to be expected. The ceremony to ink a Legend was as hallowed an event as the people of Durmagos had.
“Citizenry of Ermont,” Furla intoned the words, and though Alef had heard the opening line at every inking he couldn’t help but hang on every syllable, “we are gathered to ink a Legend. To celebrate a deed of strength and honor. These deeds echo in the soul until they reach the Spring to warm the land. Without them the land will grow cold and our unworthy souls will be dragged below where they are frozen and shattered.” She cast her eyes over the crowd, her face stoic for a few long seconds until a kindly smile wrinkled her cheeks. “This is why we celebrate. Today is the start of young Erik il Hakon’s Legend. His deed will warm our land when his soul rejoins the Old. It is said he protected one of our own against a mistwalker that had come skulking out of the cold. Who bears witness to the deed?”
Alef saw a hand slowly raise above the heads of the crowd. “I do. Rolf il Bo.”
A witness was always brought forward in the inking ceremony. It was one of the safeguards that kept charlatans from perverting the sacred tradition of the Legend.
“Join us and give your testimony, Rolf il Bo,” Furla replied.
Rolf separated himself from the crows and climbed the few steps to join Erik and Furla on the dais. He had seen quite a few winters and was beginning to show it. His face was lean and deeply lined as if worn down by the elements he made a livelihood creeping through. He was a quiet man as well, probably because he spent most of his time alone in the woods. He was so quiet that Alef sometimes forgot that he must have a mouth hidden somewhere behind his thick tangle of beard.
Obviously uncomfortable, Rolf shuffled across stage to stand beside Erik. He pulled off his knit cap, exposing his bald head, and began to anxiously pluck at some of the loose threads. Even from where he was standing, Alef could see that Rolf had multiple, ragged, halfway healed cuts running across his scalp, with one reaching all the way down to the bridge of his nose. The hunter looked as if he would have much rather have been just about anywhere else. Alef had sympathy for the man, he wouldn’t have much liked to have to speak in front of the whole village either. Rolf took a breath and cleared his throat before at last speaking.
“The boy saved my life. The damn pale-eye came at me from behind and it was trying to rip my throat out when the boy stuck it. I swear this by the Spring and the land.”
Alef had been hoping for more detail, a vivid description of Rolf’s desperate fight to survive against a twisted enemy that had crept out of the mysterious frosty expanses off the edge of the map. He had had his hopes a bit too high it seemed. Although, Alef realized, for Rolf what he had said was quite a bit of detail.
After stating his piece Rolf turned to Erik and clapped him on the shoulder, and even from where he stood Alef could see the pride Rolf had in his pupil plain in his face mixed in with a heap of gratitude. He stood there for a moment, as if he was debating saying something more. Then, as if he was realizing that if every eye in town was still fixed on him, he turned his eyes to Furla. Recognizing Rolf’s discomfort, a small smirk creased Furla’s leathery face. She nodded, answering Rolf’s silent question of whether he could leave the dais, then continued talking as the hunter slunk off.
“You have heard. He swears by the Spring and the land. We’ll begin the inking now, unless there are any objections." The old scribe cast her eye over the crowd, as if she was daring someone to speak. The crowd remained as silent as a grave. After a moment she continued, declaring “Then let us be at it. Roll up your sleeve lad.”
As Furla spoke her final address to the people, Erik’s chest began to swell with pride and Alef’s stomach began to fester with envy in equal measure. He hated that it was happening but he just couldn’t help it. The jealousy was churning away in his gut like it was eating up his insides and gnawing ravenously at his ribs. He knew that what he was feeling was ugly and dishonorable, but he wanted what Erik had in that moment more than anything in the world.
Furla sat back down on her stool and began making the final checks and adjustments to her set of needles while Erik pulled a seat up next to her and began rolling his sleeve to the elbow. With her tools prepared Furla took a hold of Erik’s wrist and gently pulled his arm into her lap. She unstoppered the jar and began to slowly dip her needles, holding them up to her eye and letting the excess dribble back out into the container.
It seemed everything about the scribe had aged and withered, except for her hands. Sure, they were gnarled and withered like the roots of a sickly tree. More spotted with age than not, actually. However, her hands seemed to move as deftly as any Alef had ever seen. Skill and steadiness that had been developed from a lifetime of practice.
At long last Furla brought the needle to Erik’s arm, and as it made its first mark the crowd cheered. Even though Alef knew the swell of noise was coming, he jumped as Niall let out a whoop beside him. And even as the applause of the crowd grew, so did the boiling swirl of envy in Alef’s belly.
After the prolonged reverence of the opening ceremony, the town began to ramp back up into a full festival mood. Some folks stayed in the town square to watch Furla at her craft, while most dispersed out into the village's handful of haunts. It would take a spell for the scribe to finish her piece, but Alef would have stood watching the whole time, like a starving man drooling at the sight of a meal being prepared. That is if Liv hadn’t nudged him out of his avaricious stupor.
“Niall and I are going to go get a drink if you’d like to join us.” She thumbed over her shoulder at The Stump, the village’s only tavern. “My guess is things will get a little rowdy tonight. I’ve got no desire to be involved, but it’ll no doubt be fun to sit in the corner and watch it unfold.” She gave a small shrug and her face split with a mischievous grin that made Alef’s heart flutter. Alef managed to peel his eyes away from that smile long enough to glance in Niall’s direction. The older boy’s expression seemed sour. Alef guessed that Niall had hoped to get Liv all to himself after the Inking ceremony. All the more reason he should accept the invitation, he guessed. Alef returned Liv’s smile. “I’d love to tag along.”
Liv had been right, the sun had just started setting and the evening was already growing unruly as it wound onwards. The Stump was more crowded than Alef had ever seen. Not that he’d been in often. Garban didn’t ever go in, but on rare occasions Alef had gone in to get a warm drink after his lessons with Furla. That had been during the day and the place had been mostly empty. This night though, every seat was filled and the floor was full of people standing.
As soon as he walked through the door Alef was greeted by a few of his fellow woodsmen. They all clapped him on the back heartily, and a little drunkenly. It seemed some of the town had started celebrating early in the afternoon and were picking up where they had left off after the end of the ceremony. Fergus was among the men standing about and he elbowed Alef in the ribs playfully and winked at him when he saw that he had come in with Liv. She was in the process of wading her way through the throng of people so she could get a drink from the bar, so he didn't think she had noticed. Of course Alef was embarrassed, but it felt good to be known and welcomed. He could see through the milling groups of people that Niall was getting a similar treatment from Ivar, the village blacksmith who the older boy was apprenticing under.
By the time Alef finally worked his way to the bar and back to the corner table where Liv was sitting his back was sore from cheery slaps and his hand tired from doing his best at manfully clasping forearms with everyone whose path he crossed. He slid onto the bench next to her, but before he could come up with some witty remark that would make her laugh and love him, Niall plunked down on the other side of her. Alef could smell from across the table that Niall had gotten himself an ale, and could tell by the poorly hidden disgusted look on his face that he wasn’t much enjoying it.
Niall took a pull from his mug and did his best to keep a grimace off his face. Alef couldn’t help but smile a little at the obvious fake manly act Niall was putting on for Liv’s benefit. Alef couldn’t wipe it off his face before Niall took notice.
“What’re you smirking at?” The older boy spat across the table.
Alef’s smirk blossomed into a nervous grin as he answered. “Just doesn’t seem like you’re enjoying choking down that ale is all.” Niall didn’t return Alef’s smile, and try as he might Alef couldn’t stop an awkward little chuckle escaping his lips as Niall glowered at him.
Niall’s frown deepened as he replied icily, “Don’t know what you’re talking about.” To make his point he took a big swig of ale, but he wasn’t fooling anyone.
Liv burst out laughing and Alef couldn’t help but join in. Liv had the type of laugh that was contagious. It swept up bystanders like a flood. It warmed a room quicker than any fireplace and was a sweeter sound than any song Alef had heard. She gave Niall a playful punch on the shoulder, but he just kept glaring at Alef.
“Oh come on Niall,” Liv said, her eyes twinkling with barely contained laughter, “there’s no one to impress here. You want a sip from one of our ciders?”
Of course, Alef knew, what she said was totally untrue. The only person in the whole village he and Niall truly wanted to impress was sitting in between them.
“Ale,” Niall spluttered, embarrassment and anger mixing in his voice, “is a man’s drink, so neither of you would understand. Also, my pa says the taste grows on you once you’ve had it a few times.” He lifted up his mug again, but couldn’t help taking a hesitant pause before he took another small drink.
Alef knew the barb was meant to sting him, but he didn’t really care. Garban didn’t touch anything stronger than milk and he was the most man out of anyone in the village. At least in Alef’s opinion. In fact, Alef’s pa never even went to The Stump since he wasn’t exactly one to grab a drink with the lads after work. Fergus referred to him as ‘a hermit,’ and after Alef learned what that meant he had to agree. So even though he was just seated in the corner sipping on a mulled cider Alef couldn’t help but feel a little elicit thrill at being in The Stump, surrounded by people swilling spirits.
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Alef smiled back at Niall as the blacksmith’s apprentice arduously swallowed down his latest mouthful. “Seems to be slow growing, lad.” Alef knew calling Niall lad would most likely push him over the edge, but he was growing a little tired of tip-toeing around Niall’s fragile ego. In Alef’s opinion, if you were going to end up stepping on someone’s toes, you might as well just get it over with. Plus Niall probably wouldn’t flatten him here in The Stump, with what seemed to be the whole village packed in.
Just as Niall opened his mouth to let Alef have it, The Stump erupted in cheers. Erik had just walked in, his sleeve rolled up to show his newly inked Legend. If Alef had been worn out and battered from having his forearm clasped and back slapped he could only imagine how Erik felt. He entirely lost sight of Erik the way everyone in the tavern swarmed around the young man. Erik was swept along on a wave of villagers as they picked him up on their shoulders and paraded him around the tavern before depositing him atop a table close to the center of the room.
Erik’s face was split in an embarrassed grin. He wasn’t near so quiet as his mentor, Rolf, but Alef had never known the lanky young man to try to be the center of attention. Someone pressed a drink into Erik’s hand as the crowd began to cry out “Tell us the tale, lad! Tell us the tale!” Everyone in The Stump took up the chant, pounding fists and mugs on tables and stamping their feet. “The tale! The tale! The tale!” Alef could see hints of pride begin to leech out into Erik’s look of embarrassment. He knocked back his mug of ale, taking big mighty gulps that must have made Niall jealous and the patrons of The Stump cheered. After finishing the drought, Erik scrunched up his face and shook his head, disgust radiating off of him, and the room filled with laughter. Erik held up his hands to quiet the crowd as he shouted over the noise of the gathering “Alright you lot, I’ll tell you the tale. I’ll do anything if it’ll make you quiet down.”
The rabble quieted down and settled into seats as Erik began to speak. “About half a moon ago Rolf and I were out hunting. We had split up to have a look over the ground quickly, and I had been walking for a spell when I heard a shout off from where Rolf had been walking.” Erik couldn’t quite spin a yarn like Fergus, but he still had the crowd’s rapt attention. No one else in the room dared make a sound besides the creak and groan of old stools as they leaned forwards in their seats.
Erik seemed to take their attentiveness as encouragement, and he began to get a bit more animated as he spoke. “I took off running through the trees and the whole time I could hear Rolf yelling. The closer I got though I could hear something else. A strange growling broken up by shrieks that chilled me to my bones. I ran for all I was worth until I finally stumbled upon them. Rolf and the mistwalker.”
Alef realized that he had been holding his breath and felt foolish. It wasn’t like there was any real suspense. He’d seen Rolf earlier that same day. But he couldn’t help it, he hung on Erik’s every word. Part of him was desperately hoping that one day this would be him. One day he'd have the respect and admiration of everyone in Ermont. One day they’d all gather round to hear him tell his tales and they’d all be enchanted by his every utterance. One day.
“The pale-eye had Rolf around the neck,” Erik continued his voice rising close to a shout, “It was trying to pull Rolf in so that it could get its fangs in him, but the old man was pushing its snapping jaws away and gouging at its eyes.”
“What’d it look like?” Someone called from the back of the tavern. Whoever it was quickly shushed and smacked into silence, but it made Erik pause in his barrage of words. He stood there for a second, gazing out over everyone’s heads like he could see the creature there, skulking in the back of the room.
“It looked something like a man. Except twisted.” Erik paused again, as if carefully picking his words before he spoke again, “It was terribly thin. Thinner than me by a good long ways. I could’ve counted its every bone if I wanted. Its skin was milky pale shot through with light blue veins. Its hands were all twisted and clawed. Closer to an animal’s talon than a man’s hands. It had a mouth full of razor teeth.” He anxiously rubbed the fang strung on his necklace at the memory. “But worst of all were its eyes.” Erik stretched his eyes open with his fingers and spun in a slow circle, taking in the crowd. “They were huge. Much too big for its crooked shriveled head. All the same color, greyish white like the mists themselves. Unblinking and constantly twitching about like they were looking for something they couldn’t ever find.”
Erik let his eyes relax and let out a long breath, and a semblance of the good natured smile he’d had before describing the mistwalker crept onto his face. He straightened up and announced, “But look as it might, it didn’t see me coming until it was too late. As I ran up through the brush it turned loose of Rolf and tried to spin to face me, but I was already on top of it. I ran it through here.” He poked his thumb into his back between two of his lowest ribs. It seemed to Alef that he was warming into his role as a story teller.
“If I thought it was shrieking before, now it was howling. I pushed on the spear until it poked through its chest and it clawed at the point until it snapped off the head. It tried to spin and wrench the spear from my hands, but I held on and forced it to the ground. Even that twisted bastard couldn’t hold on too long with a spear in his guts. After it was done twitching and bleeding I cut my trophy from it.” He held the fang on his necklace up for everyone to see. “But, now I have one much better,” he said, sticking out his arm so everyone could see Furla’s handiwork. The image was drawn onto his forearm, up by the elbow. It was about the size of Alef’s palm and depicted Erik pinning a mistwalker to the ground with his spear. The detail the old scribe was able to get with her bone needles always impressed Alef. You could see the creature’s huge eyes depicted in the work. You could, Alef thought snidely to himself, also tell she had taken some artistic liberties with the width of Erik’s shoulders.
“However,” Erik said, locking eyes with a few patrons around the tavern, “I swear as we were hauling ourselves back to town I heard more of them shrieking from where I had left their dead kin. There’s more out there, waiting for us.”
The Stump was quiet for a moment, like everyone was stewing over Erik’s ominous ending to his story. Finally Fergus decided to break the uncomfortable tension. He stood up and called out, “Maybe, lad. Maybe. But I don’t think we have anything to worry about with you around, eh?”
Just like that it was as if someone had given the rest permission to breathe again, and everyone cheered for Erik, and slapped him on the back again, and brought him more drinks.
Then the predictable thing happened. Men from around the tavern began telling the stories of their Legends. They took turns hopping upon the center table where Erik had spoken like wandering bards taking the stage. Ermont was a small town on the frosty edge of the land of Durmagos, so there were no heroes of legend who lived among them. However, that did not stop each man from looking to outdo the last, and as the night ran on and drink continued to flow the tales they told grew larger and wilder.
Ivar, Niall’s mentor, showed his tattoo that marked him as a master smith. He had earned it when he lived in a larger town closer to Ulbrigant. According to him he had forged the finest sword ever made at the behest of a high ranking warrior in King Alrik’s service to earn the distinction.
Fergus showed the inking of a fist he had from when he won the pit fighting tournament at the Trials when he was young. He told the story of how he had won his final bout. He got so engrossed in his own story he began punching the air and bouncing around on his toes until the table tipped over and spilled him onto the floor. The patrons of The Stump roared with laughter and Fergus popped back up to his feet, his toothy grin not shrinking one bit at an embarrassment that would have made Alef flee into the mists, never to return.
As the laughter died down the door into The Stump swung open and Gunar strode into the tavern. He had a few of his fellow warriors with him, and by the looks of them they weren’t about to join in on the merry-making. Gunar still had a bruise on one cheek from where he had caught the back of Brok’s hand. It was mostly healed, but under his eye was an ugly purple, lightening out to a sickly green, the color of spoiled meat. The blow had also caused half the white of the eye to go red, giving his stare a wild look. He cast that wild look around the room, seeing all the townsfolk with their sleeves rolled up, proudly showing off their Legends. A vindictive smirk, closer to a snarl, spread across his face, highlighting his newly missing tooth. He strode to the bar, shouldering roughly through the gathered townsfolk. He snagged a drink from the bar where someone had set it and downed it in a few gulps. A few of the other warriors did the same. They all had the same look as Gunar now, half angry wolflike snarl, half ugly leer. It seemed evident to Alef now that they had come to cause mischief, to grind the townsfolk down even further under their boot.
After surveying the room, Gunar’s eyes fell upon Fergus, and even from across the room Alef could see rage ignite behind the warrior’s eyes like the fires of a forge. “Citizens of Ermont,” Gunar barked, “I see you’ve gathered to show your ink. You must all be proud of your Legends. But, from what I’m seeing all of your ‘great deeds,’” and as he said this his voice dripped with mocking scorn, “are nothing but a bunch of shite.” He said the last word with such venom that he sprayed spittle onto the floor.
The air was filled with barely withheld anger on all sides. It was like the air before lightning struck and thunder rolled, prickling up all the hairs on Alef’s head in the same manner. Alef could tell nothing good would happen, and he felt so dreadfully fearful that he thought he might just fold in on himself and disappear.
“This,” the bitter warrior continued, “is what a real Legend looks like.” Gunar rolled up the sleeve of his tunic to show an inking of a spear with three small runes drawn underneath. “When I first became a warrior, a village decided it wouldn’t pay the king’s tribute. A few of us were dispatched to see if we could persuade them to see reason. When we came to the town the rebels tried to ambush us. I killed three of the bastards and was the only one to escape.” He ran his finger under the three runes. “I earned this for defending the king’s honor and defeating his enemies, not whatever you peasants are bragging about.”
Alef could tell those remarks had not sat well with any of the gathered townsfolk. Scowls twisted every face in the room, but none were fiercer than Fergus’. He held Gunar’s gaze and even before the woodsmen opened his mouth Alef knew the next thing he said was sure to spin the angry tension into something ugly.
“Ah yes,” Fergus announced loud enough for everyone in The Stump to hear, “I knew there must be a good reason you consider yourself such a fearsome warrior, and here we have it. You skewered a few bairns before you went running back to Ulbrigant. Truly you must be a hero, straight out of one of the old tales.”
Before anyone could react, Gunar had crossed the distance between him and Fergus. He grabbed the woodsmen by the front of his woolen vest and pushed him so Fergus was bent backwards over the bar. Alef heard Liv pull in a sharp worried breath. People around the tavern were preparing for a row. They stood and grabbed a hold of stools, and some even reached for the knives on their belts. Alef could feel all the bottled up anger and resentment of the townsfolk rising to the surface like bubbles in a simmering pot.
Without thinking through what he was going to do, Alef had gotten up from his seat and begun pushing his way towards Fergus. Alef’s pa had gotten in the middle of a situation turned sour, and even though Garban had told him afterwards that it was foolish, Alef couldn’t help but feel that it was the right thing to do. Gunar began to pull back his fist to punch Fergus. The woodsman was doing his best to catch Gunar’s wrist to keep him from delivering any blows and with his other hand he was fumbling blindly around the bar for a tankard or bottle to smash on the warrior’s head. Alef broke through the crowd and was within arms reach of the scuffle. One of the other warriors stepped in front of Alef and shoved him hard in the chest. Alef fell back and was caught under the arms by a member of the crowd that was pressing forwards towards Fergus and Gunar.
“Stay back, whelp!” The warrior yelled into Alef’s face, so close and so loudly that Alef could feel spit hitting his cheek.
Alef frantically tried to get his feet back under him. His heart was hammering like a bass drum, so loudly that he could barely hear the swarming throng shouting as they pushed inwards. Alef was stuck now at the front of the mob as they tried to get past the warriors holding them back. The warrior who had pushed Alef took a step backwards and grabbed for the knife at his belt. The only thought passing through Alef’s mind was that he was going to die. Without a Legend, without a legacy, without ever even getting to tell Liv how he felt. He braced himself to feel cold steel punched into his chest.
“Stop!”
Alef opened his eyes, which he hadn’t even realized he had clamped shut in his fear. The shout had been so loud that it had caused the brewing melee to freeze. Alef finally got his feet under him and stood. He could see now that Marin, the owner of The Stump, was the one who had brought everything to a halt. Marin was an old man, but anyone could easily tell that he would have been a powerfully built man in his youth. Even though time had shrunk and stooped him he was still one of the largest men in the village. He had an unruly mane of white hair, but his long beard was always kept in a neat plait. His eyebrows were so thick that you could barely see his eyes, which were sharp and watchful. He was a widely respected figure in the village. People said no one knew more of the goings-ons of Ermont than old Marin. While he was pouring drinks and washing mugs he was always listening to everything said in The Stump, and, upon occasion, he’d offer some wisdom to those in need.
Now, however, Marin’s quiet composure was gone. He had a panicked look in his eye as everyone in The Stump stared at him.
“Just stop.” Marin said voice shaking and chest heaving from having shouted at the top of his lungs, “This is a day of celebration. Don’t spoil it by fighting amongst each other.” His voice was commanding, but Alef could see that his eyes were pleading as he looked between Fergus and Gunar. “If you don’t value the day, at least take your squabble outside so you don’t destroy my tavern.”
It was as if Marin had shook both Fergus and Gunar out of some kind bestial frenzy they had both been plunged into. Gunar turned to take in the room behind him and saw the small army of townsfolk pushing in around him, a room full of bitter looks staring back at him. It could have been Alef’s imagination, but he thought for a moment the warrior’s smirk, which seemed permanently etched into his face, slipped away. It seemed he hadn’t realized the hostility the villagers had for him and how heated things had gotten once he had put his hands on Fergus. Alef sent a prayer to any strong souls that could hear him that Gunar would try to put the fire out, rather than stoke it any more. The smirk didn’t stay off of Gunar’s face for long. He sneered down at Fergus for a few moments that felt to Alef as if they stretched on for days. Then, just as Alef thought the mob would lose patience and swarm the warriors at the bar, Gunar let go of Fergus and stepped away.
“Watch yourself, old boy,” Gunar growled under his breath to Fergus, anger still lighting his eyes, “If you don’t learn to watch your mouth, one day your friends won’t be able to save your sorry hide.”
He shouldered past Fergus and headed towards the door. Fergus was still furious, and it was obvious that Gunar’s threats hadn’t done anything to cool his temper. The woodsmen took a step towards Gunar’s back, but Marin reached across the counter and put a hand on his shoulder, a quiet plea on his face. Fergus took a deep breath but held his tongue as the warriors made their exit.
