Of the Eye, the Hand and the Heart

The minstrel’s voice boomed in my head, making me feel my heartbeat and the blood coursing through my veins.

He sang of the kings of the Isles, beginning, as promised, with Aro—how he slew the great wyrms of Funa, Pellvaria, Whindirst and Rithmoss, how the aspiring warlord conquered Logria, how he was crowned king at Erlenlight and advanced as far as Widwalgh, where he fell victim to poisonous betrayal and the curses of the witchfolk of Ambrale.

The otherworldly performer chanted himself into a frenzy, continuing the play with the story of Helomar the Seer, Helomar the Wise, Helomar One-Eye, brother of Aro and second king of the Fahallians , recounting how he outwitted an Ettin and exchanged his right eye for one of the man-eating giant’s, to peer beyond the veils that cloud the world of mortals—toward elves, trolls, and the witchcraft wielded by the natives of the islands—and how he turned those very powers with the utmost cruelty against the slayers of his kin. But Helomar, too, was destined for a sudden end when he crossed over from Widwalgh to Albland and was consumed by the chilling cold of the far north, never to be seen again.

The second verse was followed by a brief melodic interlude that bridged the stories of several lesser kings, such as Fennir the Fair, Ordram the Quarrelsome and Aro the Younger.

Even though I had known these stories since childhood, the strange notes and lyrics kept me chained in place like iron.

Once again, the minstrel began to sing in his booming voice, this time of Sindebor the Hunter, Sindebor the Northman, Sindebor Iron-Hand, who finally tamed Albland, leaving no land to the north beyond the kings of the isles’ dominion, he sung about how the sixth king sacrificed his left hand to gain one of elfin iron, with which he bested the great troll boar of the clans of the Fortrish, culminating in the total devouring of the beast's soul. But in the end, a tragic fate befell Sindebor as well, when the stolen might of the boar took hold of him during a quarrel with his eldest son, leading to the killing of the king's heir in a fit of rage; whereupon he handed the crown over to his second son, Findebor, and vanished into the west.

Time seemed to stand still in the eye of a storm that was raging around me and had swept away the middle world of the living.

One last time—for some reason, I seemed to know—the minstrel continued his hymn and lament. He spoke of the ninth king, Lainlith of the West, Lainlith the Returner, Lainlith the Heartless, how he subjugated Tenn Ailn, the last unconquered land of the Apallian Isles, how he fell in battle against the overwhelming hordes of the Dryborn, but continued on without his heart, whose sound and shape he had simply forgotten, and returned to the world of the living again and again to reign unchallenged in the end, and to fade away like ashes in the wind while seated on his throne, when there were no more foes to be slain, and the memory of the beating, the thumping, the pounding of his heart came back to him.

A deep sadness came over me at the thought of forgetting something as close to me as my own heart—a sadness at the thought that, with each passing day, the closeness of my wife and son to that heart was slipping further away.

By the time I had regained my composure, the minstrel’s performance was over. He was no longer there, gone, like the times he had sung about. Only the silent witnesses carved in stone remained.

The world below the hill was still there, as I discovered on my way down from the shrine. And so was Carver, whom I found crouched against the garden wall of a manor house, surrounded by three men. It seemed that the boy didn't have a knack for dealing with strangers.

Except for the group around the boy the square was still deserted.

I approached the group with quick steps and could now hear their voices. The apparent ringleader slurred his words and seemed unhinged, waving around a long knife.

All three men carried single-edged blades, so it seemed they were of low birth like my earlier opponents had been. Did the Underhanded had already caught up to me? They surely wouldn't be after Carver, would they?

I was crouching, my sword drawn. But my newest companion's hopeful look when he noticed my approach gave my presence away. The thugs spun around; the speaker's gaze darted indecisively between Carver and me, while the other two assumed a fighting stance.

“What you want, snobby prick? Ya don't need to meddle here—just go your way; better for ya pretty face, eh?”

“I'm afraid I cannot comply with your request, my couth fellows; that young man over acts as a guide in my employ, and I intend to make use of his services for a little while longer.”

“Guide, eh? Maybe his chopped of head can guide your rotting carcass the way to the nearest ditch. How about that?”

The two henchmen flanked me, hands trembling, eyes twitching.

“This doesn't have to turn into a fight, but rest assured that none of you will survive it if you choose to make it one.” I replied, twirling my sword playfully to further unsettle the approaching bladesmen.

“Daring, eh? Ya know who ya messing with, boy?! Golden Dozen! Fucking Golden Dozen, boy!”

„Should I know this bunch of bumpkins, Carver?” I called out to my guide, ignoring the three men, infuriating them further.

“I've had enough of you, pompous fool!” roared the thug to my right and lunged at me.

I jumped back and moved further to the right, so that the attacker—who had stumbled as a result of my evasive maneuver—blocked the path of the second man. The impatient hothead lunged forward again, while the one he hindered with his reckless charges, now tried to outflank me on my right side.

This time, I stepped far to the left, and while the once again misled thug tried to correct his course, I lunged forward almost like a diving fish and swung wide. My blade slid through his ankle and severed the limb almost cleanly from his leg.

The flanker broke off his maneuver around his wounded ally and stumbled back, while their idle leader opened his mouth again, this time to let out a snarling roar, just as a gleaming blade struck him in the back of the neck.

“What is…” yelled the third man, still unharmed, before turning around and trying to make a run for it.

With a flick of my left wrist, I threw my dagger, and it buried itself in the fugitive's left thigh. I took five wide strides, pulled my blade out of the man, who was now writhing on the ground, and struck him on the back of the head.

The other two attackers had already lost consciousness. Carver stood over the man who had taken a blade to the neck and pulled the sharp steel out, which—as I now noticed—was inscribed with a row of runes.

“You really deserve your nickname! That thing is enhanced at least three times over, isn’t it?”

The boy looked up at me and gave me a mischievous smile.

“We really should get out of here, Inomar. After two run-ins like that in one day, the ward knights will lock you up in the dungeon for the night, no matter your explanation.”

“Hmm, let’s split up for now. Do you know the Drowned Drow Inn?”

“Sure thing.”

“Be there tomorrow, Carver, at the stroke of Meln's bell. And have a few explanations ready which people I've already managed to turn against me, with all that spilled blood."

“Aye!”

And so we went our separate ways again, after a day that had gone on far too long. I yearned for a soft bed and a woman’s warmth, already knowing where I’d find both.