Mystery of the Deep Fog, page 3
As Toby raised his hands in surrender, Krys turned her attention back to Mac, who jumped up and managed to grab the pole. The two struggled briefly, with Krys throwing him off balance, but Mac held on. Finally, he let go and punched her in the face. She stumbled back, shocked. The pain briefly blurred her vision, and tears welled in her eyes. She felt across her nose, but there was no blood. She no longer cared to be defensive; she wanted to hurt Mac and Toby and make them understand she was not to be messed with. She stepped toward Mac and pointed the rod at him.
Mac then grabbed the rod again and pulled on it causing Krys to lose her grip. He broke it over his knee and tossed one end to Toby. With the jagged end pointed at her, he moved closer. Krys blocked the first swing but lost her footing and fell. As Mac raised the broken pole, Krys cried out and threw her arms up in defense, bracing for the worst. As much as she wanted to show them she was stronger, she realized she lost this fight.
“ENOUGH!” Thargeron’s voice boomed through the alley, causing Krys to sit up and slide away from Mac. “You need to leave,” he said, offering his hand to Krys to help her.
“You didn’t say she was a fighter,” Mac complained, tossing the broken pole aside. “I want more coin!”
“Not happening,” Thargeron replied firmly, focusing on Krys. “Are you hurt?”She shook her head.
Krys stepped back as she noticed Mac starting toward her, but before he could reach her, Thargeron produced a flame in his hand and tossed it at the feet of Mac. Mac got the message, stepped back, and then turned to help Toby up, and the two of them retreated down the alley.
“What was that all about?” Krys asked, rechecking her face for blood. The sting of pain was still fresh on her face.
“Don’t worry about it, and you’re not bleeding,” Thargeron replied.
“You paid them to attack me?” Krys was sure she heard Mac ask for more coin.
“Yes, I did. And you failed,” Thargeron said bluntly.
“I was outnumbered,” Krys argued, pointing at Mac and Toby. “And one of them tried to stab me.”
“With a stick, you brought into the fight! I don’t want to listen to this,” Thargeron picked up the basket of fruit and bread he had just bought and started down the alley. “All I've heard since you arrived is how you want to fight instead of reading. You said you’ve read all your life; fighting is more fun.” He stopped and turned to face her. “I gave you a fight, and you complain. That’s all you do; complain. All you do.” He turned around and headed for the road at the end of the alley.
“I meant training,” she shot back. Not once had she had any weapons training since she arrived. Although she was sure she knew almost everything, there was to know about sword fighting.
“That was training!”
“No, I mean, like, real training. I mean…” She stopped, deciding it was not worth arguing. She watched Thargeron reach the road, and then he called his horse. It appeared out of nowhere, and he attached the supplies to the saddle.
“Are you riding or walking?” he asked without looking at her. She did not answer.
“Walk it is.” He mounted the horse and rode off.
She regretted not answering but wanted him to know she was not happy. Now he knows. She sighed, realizing she would have to walk for the next hour up the side of the mountain. Well, at least he knew she was unhappy.
4
Secret Message
SHE RETURNED THE BROOM to the closet, made her way out of the front door, and sat on the porch bench. The shade offered some relief, but the oppressive heat was unlike anything she had experienced before. Although summers were typically hot here, this year's heat was all-encompassing. Despite this, Megan's thoughts were preoccupied with the imminent arrival of her father in just a few short hours. It had been almost two years since they last saw each other, and Megan's mother was still alive at the time. Although she attended her mother's burial, Gregog did not appear, and Megan figured it was due to his overwhelming grief.
Megan's mother taught her the virtues of patience and perseverance. She taught Megan how to survive without her father's presence, not because he left them by choice but because he was a supernatural warrior who could live for hundreds of years. They were known as Nrothgare, which translated to "righteous warrior" in the ancient tongue. He fell in love with Megan's mother, defying the rules of his order and the gods to marry her. Megan's mother, a woman of color, made the marriage against societal norms. Not long after, Megan was born.
Megan fondly remembered her mother's tales of their deep love for each other and how he would visit her between missions. After Megan was born, his frequent visits caught the gods' attention, but he managed to keep his marriage and child a secret. However, he has not returned since her mother's passing, not out of abandonment, but rather the unbearable pain of losing his beloved wife. Megan understood this and held onto the faith that he would come to visit again one day. Her prayers were answered when she received a letter from him stating that he would spend an entire year with her.
Megan returned to the house built by her father before her birth. The ground floor was a spacious single room with all the necessary amenities. In the far corner sat her mother's bed. Across from it was a staircase leading down to the basement where Megan slept. Although smaller than the ground floor, the basement was considerably cooler. A table stood in another corner of the room, serving as a versatile space for various activities and dining.
A door on one side of the house opened to reveal the outside world, granting access to the covered cooking area. The roof's shelter encompassed the cooking area and showed a well nearby. Close to the well, a separate room housed the latrine, featuring a pump that provided fresh water for washing. Inside the latrine, a stool provided a seat, and beneath it, a pipe ensured proper drainage, leading to a deep drop-off far from the house. Extending beyond the covered area lay the vast expanse of fertile farmland.
Megan knew she was blessed as she went down the stairs, knelt beside her bed, her heart full of joy, and offered her thanks in prayer for her father's imminent arrival.
◆◆◆
Thargeron wiped the sweat off his brow as the day's heat slowly seeped into his private chambers in the lower halls of the Temple of the Absolute Gods. Despite the cooler temperature in the lower halls, Thargeron could not escape the oppressive heat. He continued to write in his journal, chronicling his most important thoughts and activities of the day. Reflecting on the many journals he had read over the past few hundred years, Thargeron knew the importance of documenting his thoughts for future generations to learn from. He lamented that none of the other current Nrothgare cared to put pen to paper. It was another reason he thought less of them more and more.
He hoped that in a few hundred years, another warrior would read his words and understand why he believed that many of the current members of the Nrothgare did not belong to the order. Gregog, one of the best warriors he had ever known, had broken one of the vows. Te’Kay, a fierce fighter, had confided in Thargeron that he did not worship the gods. Bren, one of the most loyal men he had ever known, could not resist the company of women in every town he visited. Metz, a true friend to Thargeron, harbored a deep hatred for the gods. Joada, a master in his powers with wind, struggled with his emotions. And then there was the girl who should have never been initiated into the order. The other warriors had never voted on her, and she had yet to meet the gods. In Thargeron's eyes, she was not a true Nrothgare and never should be. It was her brother the order wanted, not her. It was customary for the Nrothgare to decide who joined, not allow someone to choose themself. When she drank the potion intended for her brother, she decided over their desire for her brother.
Thargeron understood the need to restore the order with fresh recruits who possessed unwavering dedication and unwavering honor. In his eyes, he stood as the sole devout follower of the order, shouldering the responsibility of correcting its course. Fully aware of the potential controversy his words would incite, Thargeron decisively refused to withhold his beliefs, hoping that future generations would draw wisdom from his writings and continue the proud legacy of the Nrothgare. The thought of his name being associated with individuals who failed to uphold the sacred traditions of the Nrothgare troubled him deeply.
“Master,” Thargeron heard a knock at his door and turned to see one of the priests standing there. These priests were dedicated to the gods and lived in servitude, keeping the temples clean and delivering goods and letters when needed. They lived a life of solitude, taking no lovers, and some never spoke again, while others went out to preach. Unfortunately, those who preached were often mocked and tortured. At the moment, fewer than a dozen risked life preaching. The rest worked quietly in service to the gods, unnoticed by most.
“Come in, Caleb,” Thargeron said, setting down his quill.
“A letter arrived from Dorion, sir.” Thargeron took the letter and broke the wax seal, cutting open the envelope with a small letter opener. Caleb waited patiently in case Thargeron needed to send a response. The visible part of the letter mentioned rabbits not being seen lately due to the heat, but that was not the actual message. The Nrothgare had a way of keeping specific information secret, using a special ink developed centuries ago and given only to those who could be trusted. Thargeron could not remember considering Dorion one who could be trusted, but he knew any of the warriors could have given the special ink to him. Thargeron scanned the letter and saw the hidden message.
“Prepare some rations for a two-day journey,” he said, folding the parchment and placing it in his satchel on an adjacent desk. “I’ll be going alone.”
“Where are we going?” Thargeron sighed as he heard Krys's voice. Had it already been an hour since he left her in the town at the foot of the mountain?
“As you wish,” Caleb replied, bowing before leaving.
“I need to clean up before we leave,” Krys continued.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Thargeron stated firmly. Krys had already managed to anger him earlier today, and he was in no mood to entertain her whims. He had attempted to demonstrate to her the importance of combat readiness, even without proper weaponry, using hired men to simulate an attack. However, all he had received in return were complaints. “You need to stay here and study the scrolls,” he added, hoping to end the argument.
“That’s all I’ve done!” Krys protested.
“We’re not having this argument,” Thargeron retorted, grabbing his satchel and heading toward the stairs without a second glance.
Krys continued to grumble to herself but followed him nonetheless. “Exactly,” she muttered, “I just need to wash some of the sweat off, and I’ll meet you outside.”
Thargeron could not help but roll his eyes. He knew her all too well. She was always looking for ways to avoid the tasks assigned to her. He watched her head to the pool on the far end of the lower halls. The pool was fed by a natural spring. He half-hoped she would take too long so he could use it as an excuse to leave without her. However, within seconds, she had jumped in fully clothed and was heading back up the stairs, soaked to the bone. He was sure she was going to complain about being wet now.
“That was a mistake,” he muttered under his breath, feeling a headache coming on. "All of this is a mistake. A mistake I must fix."
“Where are we going?” Krys asked, reaching the top of the stairs. Thargeron sighed and pulled out the letter from his satchel, handing it to her.
Thargeron kept his distance from Krys, still dripping with water, as they stood in the wide hallway connecting the library to the sanctuary. He glanced at the nearby doorway leading to the temple's other rooms, including the kitchen and living quarters for the priests, before answering her question.
“If you can understand that letter, then you can go.” Thargeron was sure she would not understand. How could she figure out the necessity of this journey when all she would see was a statement about rabbits?
“It is of utmost importance that you arrive, sir,” she began. Thargeron was astonished. “There has been an incident. I cannot say more. Come now, Dorion.” She handed Thargeron the parchment and headed toward the other hall to go outside. He stood there for a moment and then put the parchment away.
As he stepped outside the temple into the direct heat of the day, he saw Krys and Caleb waiting for him. It was clear Caleb had prepared for two for the journey. He smiled and nodded at Caleb, who returned the nod.
“KHA SHALON!” Thargeron bellowed. In that very instant, a horse appeared before them and walked up to Thargeron. Caleb walked over to Shalon and put the rations for the journey into the saddlebags as Thargeron placed his satchel with the horse. His staff and sword were already on the horse since Thargeron had not removed them when he arrived at the temple earlier. Thargeron mounted Shalon and watched as Caleb helped Krys. Yes, this was a mistake. She should have never been allowed to come to train. He sighed as he knew he needed to fix this.
◆◆◆
“Here’s a beauty,” Andis said, beaming with pride as he retrieved the sword from its placeholder on the wall. The weapons on display were a testament to his meticulous attention to detail, as he had personally cleaned and polished each blade in his shop. Andis was content as long as there was war, and his collection of swords was a source of great satisfaction for him.
Every year, Andis made a pilgrimage to the latest battle, eager to acquire swords from fallen soldiers. In the past, retrieving swords from the hands of the deceased was a challenge, but in recent years, he had hired a helper who could quickly and efficiently sever the hands of the dead soldiers and release the swords from their grasp. This allowed Andis to find rare and valuable weapons that would have otherwise been inaccessible.
“Aye, it is,” Gregog said, admiring the sword. He held his hand out, eagerly awaiting Andis to pass it over the counter. It had been nearly two years since he last saw Andis, and since then, the number of swords on display had grown. Gregog wondered whether Andis had accumulated more swords or whether he had experienced a decline in sales. Either way, he was pleased with the weapon in his hand. He gripped the sword and stepped back from the counter for a few lazy swings. “Aye, this’ll do just fine. She’ll love it.”
“Found that one over near Bernsville,” Andis informed him, his voice laced with pride. “Was in the hand of a child.”
Gregog's expression soured at the thought of a child being caught in the midst of battle. He placed the sword on the counter and looked at the other weapons on the wall, trying to distract himself. If Andis had not told him the sword had come from a dead child, he would have bought it. Now that he knew, there was no way he was going to take it home. He scanned the weapons once more and found one with an unusual design. “That one,” he pointed, hoping to change the subject.
Andis followed his finger to the short sword with an unusual design. The handle was fashioned like an angel, with the pommel serving as the head and the wings spreading out to form the handle. The guard was spread out like flat wings and looked more like a decorative piece than a practical weapon.
“What’s the story of it?” Gregog asked, hoping it had nothing to do with a child.
“It was donated by a monastery,” Andis said, a hint of deception in his voice. Gregog sensed it was a lie, but he let it slide.
“Wrap it up, I’ll take it,” he said, eager to leave the subject of the child behind.
Andis carefully wrapped the sword in a cloth, leaving the wings uncovered. Gregog dropped three gold coins on the counter, several times more than the blade was worth. Andis knew not to give back change and bowed before he picked the gold up. “May the gods bless you, friend,” Gregog said as he made his way out of the store.
His horse, Daisy, had patiently waited for him as he browsed Andis' collection. He approached the mare, took the wrapped sword, and secured it to the saddle with practiced ease. The name Daisy was not given randomly; it was a tribute to a beloved feline companion he had as a young boy. That cat was his only comfort during some of the darkest moments of his life. Decades ago, he used to have frequent nightmares, but now all that remained were the hollow memories of the faces of those who mistreated him. He could no longer remember what they looked like and did not care to recall. His sole purpose now was to ensure his child would never feel the fear and pain he experienced during his youth.
"Aye, Daisy, 'tis time to make way for the temple and seek me solace," Gregog declared, his voice laced with determination as he affectionately patted the mare. As he lowered the bar he used to mount the horse, designed to accommodate his diminutive stature, a twinge of discomfort shot through him when his lengthy beard snagged under his grip on the reins. Despite considering a trim, he could not bear to part with it, knowing how much his late wife adored it. Lost in a moment of reflection, he paused, his mind flooded with memories of his beloved spouse, who had departed this world. Their shared moments had been nothing short of extraordinary. Now, all that remained were the echoes of their time together, the house he had constructed as a tribute to her, and the child they had brought into the world.
For the past few years following his wife's passing, Gregog had deliberately stayed away, avoiding a return to his home. However, he now realized the need to reclaim lost time. His daughter would indeed be awaiting him, having received his heartfelt letter expressing his intention to spend the next year with her. Though he anticipated the awkwardness, he was prepared to make amends and embark on this long-overdue reconciliation. After a final self-assessment to ensure he was ready, he let out a resounding shout and urged Daisy into a spirited gallop, racing toward his destination with a sense of triumph in his heart.
