The Godfall- Chapter 1

The Godfall
By James Matthews
Chapter I- Charnel Row

The Swan was a tavern like any other, situated in the far southwest corner of Karjala at the heart of what haughty members of the clergy called Charnel Row. It was a stilted wood building populated by a sizeable colony of black termites and adorned only by an abysmal carving of its namesake that hung over the front entryway. It was composed of two floors, the bottom for drinking, the top for sleeping, and both often enough for bloodshed. Whether from a gambling dispute, an altercation over the affections of a woman, or a good old fashioned melee, the tavern’s floors were stained crimson nightly by the blood of all manner of rogues.

From thieves to mercenaries, prostitutes to smugglers, The Swan was called haven by an array of unscrupulous characters- the dregs of society. All the proper amenities were in place to draw such a crowd. In a thrice locked storage room guarded by a dreadlocked Glashtyn, the barkeep and owner, a cheerless man named Festus, kept palm wine by the barrel, tobacco by the pound, and a prized cask from distant Vaenon, the powdered contents of which eluded all but the wealthiest of his customers.

Tirian eyed the first of the locks from his table, an un-sanded affair with two wobbly legs that stood against The Swan’s eastern wall. The hulking, pug-faced Glashtyn gave him a dangerous look and took a half step forward through the din of the establishment, fingers curled around the handle of an iron club rusted over with blood. Despite the rumble in Tirian’s belly, the display was enough to turn him back to his cup, a quarter full with hazy white-gold liquid.

He grimaced at the taste of the palm wine, having never favored it since imbibing a full quart of at sixteen and spending the subsequent three hours on his knees in a privy, but it was inexpensive and stove off the hunger. The daintiness of his money purse was a keen reminder that food was not a luxury he could presently afford. Others in the tavern slavered upon great haunches of jungle venison and boar, whetting their palettes with Festus’ private stock of honeyed liqueur from the north. They flaunted their coppers a little too freely in a place like this, he thought. Such prosperity could get a man killed.

Conscious of the greedy stares coming from a half dozen sodden faces about the room, Tirian for once felt relieved to be counted among the poor. He certainly looked the part. His sinewy form was lean and hard, his skin bronzed by the dogged southern sun. He had drawn lips and narrow features, hallmarks of the Angharan people, and his raven black hair was pleated into a lone funnel braid tossed casually over one shoulder. Though youthful of countenance, he was possessed of striking green eyes more solemn and knowing than any youth had the right to display. They were a rarity for his kind, identical to his father‘s piercing orbs.

A ragged chestnut hued tunic covered his torso, complemented by frayed breeches and a hooded cloak, more tailored horse blanket than true garment. Only his boots were of any value. Composed of thick treated leather, they rode up his calves and were well oiled, a lesson learned from years of weathering tropical rainforests and humid swamps. During the Siphyr Crusades, Tirian had seen careless men debilitated to the point of uselessness by all manner of foot afflictions, most starting with no more than an unkempt pair of boots. Being one step slower resulted often enough in death.

Ironclad footsteps sounded coming Tirian’s way, hardly a good sign, so he pulled the hood tighter about his face, sliding one furtive hand beneath the table. His eyes rose from the swirl of spirits in his cups to behold a grim faced pair of men, both adorned with tarnished chain mail beneath matching viridian tunics and armed to the teeth. Each wore more than a dozen ornamental piercings, all glittering solid amethyst and dotting ears, lips, or noses. They were near identical in look- both had fair, hawkish features, prominent moustaches, and beady brown eyes- save that one had a particularly flamboyant amethystine crescent pierced through his right nostril, while the other had a similarly gaudy piece in his right ear lobe. The two crafted jewels were the sigil sign of their Goddess, Xanthe, freshly crowned regent of Karjala.

“Gentlemen, to what do I owe the pleasure?” asked Tirian, leaning his chair back onto the grimy wall. He kept his leg muscles taut, ready to spring into action at any moment, and pressed his knuckles white gripping the dagger beneath his cloak. If these two hoped to take him like before, he would not make it easy.

Even a starving indigent had his pride to consider.

The first man, called Ackley, slightly taller of the two or so he claimed, emitted a broad, glossy smile from beneath his flowing moustache. He thumbed the amethyst in his nose and slurred, “My brother Antor and I, we’re having a disagreement. You see, he’s deep into his cups, and claims that the three of us- we two and yourself- are not friends. All we’ve been through, and he has the nerve to label you an acquaintance, a bloody acquaintance. I didn’t even realize he knew that word. I’m the most educated of Clan Darragh, you know.”

Tirian hoped the relief did not show on his face as he replaced the dagger in its belt sheath and answered with a measured smile, “Come now, Antor. As the man said, we’ve been through a lot. You two tried to kill me, remember? As I understand it, one doesn‘t attempt to murder a mere acquaintance. That would just be cruel.”

Antor took a long swill of palm wine without wincing, a near impossible feat, and aimed his calloused stump of an index finger toward Tirian. His smile rivaled that of his brother, but his eyes were sober as he exclaimed, “True enough, my good Angharan. True enough. But let me make one small amendment.”

“Another word he’s just discovered!” interjected Ackley with a chortle, eyes tracing something on the grimy wall only he could seem to see.

Plucking at his moustache, Antor continued, “I only want to remind you that we were not trying to kill you per se, so much as capture you, and with good reason. Work was hard to find when the war ended, and that stentorian old hag you robbed offered us one hundred quid and a pinch of Somnus for bringing you in on bounty. Damnable fight that was. You bit poor Ackley on the eyebrow.”

“That he did,” grumbled Ackley, thrusting his pinky finger to a series of raised markings above his right eye. On a face like his, it was hard to tell one scar from the other, but Tirian did not intend to argue.

“That I did,” ceded Tirian with a chuckle, now at ease. In his estimation, the brothers Darragh were the most dangerous sorts of men, persistent, dispassionate, and loyal only when it struck them as profitable. They were the types to befriend or kill a man without ever letting on as to why. “I did apologize for that, didn’t I, Ackley? I certainly should have. Please sit- I could use the company.”

Tirian smiled to himself at the truth of that last statement, checking that his face was still well hidden under the hood. It had been ages since last he shared a kind word with friends, or acquaintances as it were. Besides, none better to deflect prying eyes than a heavily armed pair of Godorii Collectors, he thought, sipping at the palm wine with obvious distaste.

“Antor and I yet have work to do tonight,” Ackley warned as he pulled up a rickety stool to sit. “So don’t get any daft ideas about merrymaking on into the night. And yes, you should have apologized, my friend, you truly should have.”

“Right, farebeat from me to interfere with the ’Godqueen’s’ wishes” answered Tirian, stifling a laugh. He met eyes with Antor, who shook his head in amused consternation and sat, frowning at his brother. “Whenever you wish it, I’ll be happy to plead for your forgiveness,” Tirian added.

“Wonderful,” sputtered Ackley, head flat on the table. He added in a hoarse tone, “Bloody thing isn’t even! Festus!”

Antor ignored him, eyes now fixed on Tirian and mused, “A lucky thing for you, Angharan, that the old hag couldn’t pay. With marks like yours there’s scarce a man willing to speak to you in this city, much less hide you from Collectors. Bad enough that our gold decked vicars want you dead, but that your own Templar should seek your blood? Bah. If it were me, I‘d have left this place long ago.”

At mention of his marks, Tirian pulled the hood tight about his face once more. The tender piece of flesh beneath his right eye was marred by a diminutive yet unmistakable black glyph, a symbol in Old Angharan. The very same spot beneath his other eye held a twin tattoo, this one the exact same image in reverse. Together, the two marks had produced more scars for Tirian than the war could have ever hoped to. He had learned the hard way that they were irremovable, shedding blood and coppers with more than a dozen eager tattoo parlors before finally resigning himself to his grim situation.

Struggling to hide the sullen sheen in his eyes, Tirian answered, “Where is there to go for men like me? This is my home, whether I’m wanted or not. Better an outcast in a place you love than a respected member of society in some far off, alien land ripe with beasts and sorcerers. It takes more than a few overzealous religious fanatics to undo me.”

At the mention of religious fanatics, Antor’s dark eyes narrowed, but his smile remained as he answered, “Plenty of those right here, Angharan. Beasts I mean. You know there are rumors of Vhorguls in our very city? I rather expect a commission from her highness to hunt them all down if it’s true.”

“Nonsense!” grumbled Ackley, still inspecting the table and beckoning to Festus. “If we had bloody cannibals here, someone would notice, namely the families of the devoured. Your capitol is a great city, but not so great that it cannot be policed. Between the city guard and your lingering Templar, I expect there’s naught to fear.”

Tirian chuckled and met Ackley’s gaze as he said, “The city guard are controlled by your Vicars, and the Templar would sooner kill them one and all than police the city. Though I doubt the veracity of the rumors, one never knows. With so many outside contractors arriving to help with the city’s rebuilding, all sorts of men might slip in unnoticed.”

“Even sorcerers!?” howled Ackley, positively chortling himself to death and slapping his banded belly with one colossal hand. Noting the undue attention of several surrounding patrons, Antor placed a restraining hand upon his brother’s arm. Talk of sorcerers was not taken lightly in Anghara’s capitol, not even in a place like this. While talk of thievery, lewd sexual acts, and murder might be welcome in The Swan, any hint of sorcery was not. It was that sort of idle conversation that led to witch and warlock hunts, of which there had been many.

Antor turned from his brother to Tirian, eyes suddenly not at all friendly, and placed one great arm upon the table, saying, “May I see them?”

“See what?” asked Tirian, still half chuckling at Ackley’s antics. His wary nature began to take over and he overtly moved one hand beneath the table, clutching once more his rusted excuse for a dagger.

“Your marks,” replied Antor, looking intently at Tirian’s concealed hand. Ackley too had begun to stare at Tirian, the gleam of drunkenness conspicuously absent from his steely gaze. The two brothers seemed suddenly quite dangerous, not friends but Godorii Collectors, men without any qualms whatsoever.

Tirian eased his share back to the filthy wall and leaned on his haunches. He eyed all of the swan’s exits and decided his best bet was the nearby window. Broken glass was preferable to a sword in the belly. Still, he wondered at the brothers’ behavior, and as such did not take flight, instead saying, “But you’ve seen them before. There’s a reason I wear this cloak indoors, you know and it certainly isn’t because I’m cold. No sense reminding all those who want to kill me how very badly they want to kill me. Even in a place like this there are loyalties to one God or another.”

“True,” said Antor, voice calm and quiet, “but I must insist.”

“Oh?” replied Tirian, suddenly impetuous. He could deal with being a loveless, friendless bum, but being deceived under the pretense of friendship was another matter entirely. “Well forgive me if I hesitate to reveal my malady to all these fine people upon a whim, even upon the whim of a Godthrall.”

Ackley now spoke in a sober tone jus as Festus finally approached, saying, “This is not a friendly visit, and my brother wasn’t asking. Do as he says.”

The wary proprietor’s frown turned into a familiar look of worry, though not over the spilt blood that was sure to come. These were three able bodied men, and if the killing happened inside, he would have to pay damages. He began to back away with quick, jagged strides, pudgy hands wringing together upon his soiled apron.

“Not friends then?” asked Tirian, making eye contact first with Ackley and then Antor. It was a small betrayal, nothing in the scheme of things, but whether from loneliness or an innate sense of kinship with these two men, Tirian felt wronged, wronged and confused. He hoped to learn of their intent sooner rather than later.

“Of course we’re friends,” said Antor, actually smiling. “But we still have a job to do for Lucinor. Seems our mutual employer feels that you’ve stolen from him.”

“He wants you to deliver a message, I take it?” asked Tirian, once more removing his hand from the knife. “What sort of message? No broken bones I hope.”

“No,” answered Ackley this time, downing the rest of his palm-wine. “No broken bones. Just a beating and, oddly enough, a job offer. He’s a peculiar sort of man, that Lucinor- rubs me the wrong way.”

“And what piece of his property is it Lucinor claims I’ve stolen?” asked Tirian. “I’ve done half a dozen jobs for that man, and he came out of them each sunny side up. If he thinks I held back something from the crypt, he’s wrong. There were three jewels not five. He was misinformed.”

“By you,” said Antor, shaking his head. “Talking will not solve this. Lucinor wants you beaten and your marks revealed to everyone present. He called it a more lasting gift.”

Tirian blanched at the thought of being revealed. The Swan was the only place he could still enjoy a quite drink, enjoy anything really, and the revelation of his marks would end that forever. The whole city hated him, he just rather preferred they not know about it.

“So what should we attend to first?” he asked. “The job offer or the beating? I’d rather skip the first part entirely but it seems you two are dead set on acting like common barbars. You could have just walked up and smashed my face in, you know.”

“We know,” said Ackley.

“But we like you,” finished Antor. “This is just business. If it didn’t come from Lucinor himself, servant to our Goddess, we would have turned it down.”

“Very well then,” said Tirian, “but I will not make this easy. Let’s get the beating out of the way first. No weapons I hope? If not I think I’ll try to run.”

“No weapons and no biting,” amended Ackley as he began to remove his many implements of war. Antor did the same, a process taking several seconds. By the end of things, the table was covered over with two broadswords, a dirk, a flanged mace, several hollow darts, some acrid Khayt Powder, several small daggers, and a miniature crossbow that Ackley produced from a loose fold of cloth around his groin. Tirian, stone faced but nonetheless aware of the humor in the situation, plucked the lone dagger from his cloak and dug it into the rotting wood of the table. He then smiled at the two brothers, flipped the table with a great crash, and bolted for the nearby window.

He almost made it on the strength of sheer surprise. Antor and Ackley both stumbled backwards, the latter colliding with a drunken merchant, the former a table full of singing mercenaries. They were both greeted with howls and yells of aggression, but none of the offended made a move to attack, knowing better than to offend Collectors.

Ackley reached his feet just as Tirian hit the window. He was too late, or should have been, but as Tirian landed outside in the humid air, ignoring the sting of broken glass, his cloak hung on a loose nail at the edge of the sill. Ackley’s gargantuan arm groped out into the darkness, clamped onto the cloak before Tirian could react, and dragged him screaming back inside. He managed to turn upon his side as he went through, but what before had been scratches became deep, gouged wounds across his ribs and shoulder.

Ackley grabbed him by the braid struck him across the chin with an open palm, and hurled him toward Antor, now free of the mercenaries. The second of the big men waited with a wolfish smile, kissing his knuckle and pressing it to the crescent in his earlobe. Somehow Tirian doubted the big man would be needing his goddess’ protection. There was a time when Tirian might have handled these two, a time before the war when he believed in what he was doing, but not now. Now he was just a starving man fighting to survive, and what was there to survive for?

Tirian crashed into Antor’s open arms, a bear hug intended to crush the air out of him. It worked at first, and the much thinner man cried out, little more than a bag of wind being squashed. Antor’s grip loosed but did not falter when Tirian head butted him in the face, but broke when a second such blow caught him on the chin. He stumbled backward, once more into the mercenaries who had now endured more than enough. One, a spindly sprig of a Dathalian with patches of graying hair, lashed out with a knife hidden in his sleeve. Antor caught the man’s arm and snapped it backwards with one deft move, exposing a jagged, splintered bone. He then snatched the dagger from his floppy, noodle of an arm and plunged it into his throat with a wet smack. The others had seen enough, relocating to another table in short order but first searching their dead comrade’s money purse, greedy smiles flashing.

Lungs burning, chest bleeding, and eyes glazy, Tirian felt glad that he was only to receive a beating. It these two meant to kill him, it would already have been over. He heard Ackley’s approach from behind, several pounding steps on the wooden floor, but before he could react, the Dathalian’s shoulder caught him in the small of the back. The two tumbled down, Darragh brother on top, pounding away with a closed, hammer like fist. Tirian struggled to no avail, sliding sideways across exposed nails and un-sanded wood, flailing his free arm against Ackley’s rippling neck. He caught a boot to the face from Antor, still standing, and resolved to break one of the rules in order to get free. Straining away from one of Ackley’s punches, he bit down with full force upon the man’s forearm.

Blood oozed from the wound and Ackley howled but would not let go. Tirian almost thought he saw amusement on the big man’s face for a moment, but it was replaced by realization. Ackley then put the vice jawed grip on his own arm to good use, bashing the back of Tirian’s head down again and again onto the floor.

The poor Angharan saw spots, heard voices that were not actually present, and felt nausea welling in his stomach. He finally released Ackley’s arm, the acrid taste of blood in his mouth, and was dragged to a wobbling, upright position. First Antor’s fist and then Ackley’s struck him on one cheek bone, likely cracking it. He ducked another of the blows and drove an ineffectual elbow into Antor’s stomach, but was rewarded with a knee being driven into his gut. He still did not yield, but was so bloodied and beaten that his only defense was a series of flailing yells.

When the punches finally stopped, he was being held upon his feet by Ackley’s bloody, tooth-marked arm and Antor was growling at the surrounding patrons. They paid no mind at first- boasts, especially after brawls, were common in the swan- but when only one man saw Tirian’s marks and began to howl, many others leapt to their feet, shouting, “Infidel!” or “Coward!”, all of them dripping with murderous intent.

Antor, standing on the other side of Tirian’s half-conscious form, raised a hand to halt the raucous crowd. The cheers and jeers continued, fueled by the fires of religion despite his motion, and he said, “This man, Tirian siph-Kumir amon-Grannus, is marked as a Templar Bloodsworn!” He paused, indicating the mark under Tirian’s right eye, and then continued, “He is also bears the Mark of the Coward, Mark of the Deserter!” Antor then indicated the tattoo beneath Tirian’s other eye before finally concluding, “By order of Lucinor BelXanthe, Arch-Vicar of the high temple to the Godorii, this man is revealed to you, the common people. Do with him as you will in the future, but any man who lays a finger upon him this night will pay with blood.”

The howls for murder abruptly ceased when the mob learned that Tirian was under the protection of Collectors, but one man, the Saari who had earlier ordered the hookah, took one graceful step forward and produced his gleaming tulwar. Both Antor and Ackley regarded him with agitation, the way a mother scorns her misbehaving child.

“Step aside, honored collectors,” spoke the man in a heavy accent. He indicated the ruby pendant about his neck and continued, “I am a believer in the Godorii like you, though my patron is Grannus, not Xanthe. We are of like religion and are thus equally offended by this man’s transgressions as a Bloodsworn! Step aside so that I might cleave his lying heart from his body!”

Ackley wrapped one arm about Tirian’s shoulders who groaned and bled, saying, “No one touches him tonight! This man is our friend, and we will treat him as such!”

The hawk nosed foreigner cursed in Saarian and swept his gleaming tulwar forward. Tirian, still barely conscious, sidestepped the blow and prepared for another, but it never came. In one swift move, Ackley had snatched the Khayt powder from the table and tossed it to the Saari. The man reflexively caught it, impact sending the grey-green powder puffing out in his face. He cursed once more and was about to strike at Ackley when a series of terrible and protracted convulsions overtook him, toppling him to the ground. Foam spewed from his mouth and he bit into his own tongue until blood began to flow, but he was dead before anyone else could speak.

Ackley raised his eyebrow to the others, who went about their business, but Tirian watched Festus through heavy, lidded eyes. The squat little man was staring at Tirian, marking his face for another time, just like all these others. He felt despair creep into his heart as the two brothers dragged him, as gently as they could, outside. What place if not here? Where would he be welcome?

When the three men were outside The Swan under the very carving of its namesake, in the warm quiet of the night, Ackley helped Tirian to sit. It was almost dawn, but here in Charnel Row, where the light pollution was minimal, there glittered thousands of luminescent lights up above, not the stars but plankton like creatures called Qaji that floated on the wind, feeding upon nutrients loose in the air.

Tirian stared up at the Qaji, wondering if that kind of mindless existence was preferable to his own, and slurred, “Well, you’ve smashed my face in, bludgeoned me, and generally kicked my arse. What now?”

Before either of the Darragh Clan could answer, he moaned and slouched to his back, spitting out a sizeable mouthful of blood. Antor patted him on the shoulder and said, “We won’t apologize for this- The will of Xanthe is hallowed. But we will help you.”

Ackley produced a piece of bread from his satchel along with a choice cut of salted pork, handing them both to Tirian. “Eat up,” he said. “You will need your strength for Lucinor’s job.”

The two brothers then sat next to Tirian, Antor puffing from a miniature hookah which he lit on the spot, and began to explain the job. As he lay there, glass still in his chest, face swollen almost beyond recognition, and every muscle electric with pain, he could not help but smile. These two were strange, strange men who, despite his part in the war, held him in good esteem.

Antor blew out a thin line of smoke and glared at a passerby, someone foolish enough to interrupt his telling of Lucinor’s job. He cracked both of his thumbs, an action that brought on the frowning ire of Ackley, and said, “By the Goddess Angharan, my gut will be sore for a week. You could have just let us work you over.”

“I did,” Tirian replied to chuckles from the two brothers. Despite his jovial façade, the throbbing at his temples was so intense he could hardly stay awake. He wondered for a moment if he was losing his touch at twenty-six, if the war had sapped him of not only will but physical strength as well, just as his mother had warned as the conflict began.

The returning ache in his stomach, as much from hunger as injury, reminded him of what sore shape he was in. Unable to buy food, he had resorted at times to catching Eucalyptus Rats, giant, scurrying vermin that frequented the dampest areas of the lower city. They were disgusting if nutritious creatures that made a decent meal when cooked to a crisp.

Tirian regarded the brothers Darragh with a blank, inquisitive face, hiding both physical pain as best he could and personal concern for the future. He asked, “What is it the old stilt wants me to do? Relieve another tomb of its mineral occupants? I suppose all of the immigrants are afraid of specters and the locals fear straying from the heavy hand of tradition. Who better to complete such a theft than a local who just doesn’t care?”

“Nothing like that,” replied Antor, motioning his brother to remove a drunk who had strayed within eavesdropping distance. “You’re in no shape for such a jaunt, especially with the uproar amongst the Templar. No, Lucinor simply wants you to collect a few select items from a trade caravan approaching the city.”

“And the guards will what, hand them over when I arrive?” scoffed Tirian. He knew there was something more to this so called opportunity, figuring that either it was a job fit only for a dullard or one too dangerous to risk anyone of value. “I need specifics.”

Ackley gave the drunk a brusque shove into the shadows of a nearby alley and waved to his brother that all was clear. Antor continued, saying, “Master Lucinor has acquired information that this particular caravan will be accosted by raiders.”

“Ah, so I assume the standard exchange applies,” mused Tirian, testing the muscles of his right forearm. “I bring Lucinor the leftover loot and keep ten percent, with his special requests being off limits of course.”

“No, actually,” countered Antor. Tirian grimaced, expecting to be haggled down to five percent, but instead balked when Antor said, “You keep all of the profit except what Master Lucinor desires, twenty-five iron pendants. Worthless by all accounts, but I do not question the hand of The Goddess.”

Aware that he was considered both stupid and expendable by Lucinor, Tirian again wondered which was to be put to use. He looked blankly at the two brothers, thoughts focused solely on the promise of food to come, and said, “I’ll do it.”

He brought himself to a wobbly standing position just as Ackley laughed, “By the way, you’ll be working with Grogos, the almighty flatulent pig himself.”

Tirian audibly groaned, but stopped short when he was nearly flattened by a good natured slap on the back from Ackley.

This might be an ever longer night than he had at first thought.