The Coastal Kingdoms of Olvion: Book Two of The Chronicles of Olvion (3 page)

So Mattus and his family had become farmers and Olvioni farmers at that.  The still-present threat posed by the Grey Ones was accepted by the clan.  Mattus, pushing his fortieth summer was still a strong and vigorous man and Seeja, though only twenty-five, was a veteran of several battles with the Greys.  Under Mattus’ tutelage his two sons had developed skills with weapons that few, more seasoned warriors possessed.

Even Toria was capable with “tooth and claw”, a particularly deadly combination of weapons consisting of a small knife, the claw, held in one hand and used in concert with a longer, more deadly blade, the tooth.  In combat a skilled practitioner of the art would flick the claw rapidly out and back inflicting numerous wounds until the victim started paying too much attention to the weapon.  Then a feint with the claw was replaced by a killing thrust with the tooth.  Someone with natural speed, such as Toria, was especially lethal with the skill.

So Mattus’ family was better prepared than most to withstand an attack from Grey Ones should one occur. 

Mattus swatted at an insect that buzzed around his head.  “There’s something else,” he said.

Seeja cut his eyes over at his brother from where he still leaned.

“You mean the hair?”

“You noticed.”  Mattus kicked the stable wall.  “I’ve been in all of the four kingdoms.  Never have I seen anyone with yellow hair and beard.”

Seeja nodded.  “And of course you know what that might indicate, Brother?”

Before Mattus could answer they heard Toria calling them.  They walked back over to the house.  Toria stood in the shade of the building, leaning half outside.

“Mother wants you,” she said as they walked up.

All three went inside and back into Toria’s room where the stranger had been taken.  Entering, Mattus saw that the man had been cleaned and was now covered to the chest with a light blanket.  Summ sat on a wooden chair at bedside while Lonn was busy cleaning up the mess.  She had a pan of water on her lap, and she wrung out a cloth and patted the man’s forehead with it.  He looked like he was simply sleeping. 

Summ spoke:  “He hasn’t moved or made a sound.  I can’t find any injuries, and he couldn’t have been out there long or he’d be burned by the sun.”  She paused to pat the man’s head with a freshly rinsed cloth.  “I assume you’ve noticed the color of his hair?”

Mattus sighed and nodded.  “It would be difficult to ignore.  I’ve seen others, especially the female members of parliament and other people of means who have used chemicals to change the color of their hair to blue or red.”  Mattus stepped closer.  “But, Stars help me, this doesn’t look to be dyed.”

Seeja leaned against the far wall and crossed his arms.  “Why don’t we say what we are thinking?  Is he The Legend?”

Toria who had been lingering in the doorway suddenly stopped her fidgeting, and her eyes went wide.

“Oh, Father, is he?” she asked.  “Could he be?”

Mattus knelt closer to the stranger.  He examined the hair on his head and his beard.  He stood again and took in the size of the man.  The cot sagged under his weight, and his feet and lower legs stuck out beyond the end of the blankets.  Mattus looked as if a thought had struck him.  He looked around the room then went to the barred window and peered outside.  The others waited patiently, but Toria could stand it no longer.

“What do you search for, Father?”

Mattus turned back to his family.

“Have any of you seen a small animal, probably white?  Or perhaps a glimpse of white fur in the brush or out by the tree line?”

The adults all frowned in confusion, but Toria bounced up and down while clapping her hands in unrestrained glee.

“You seek the white Mountain Child!  The Legend always had her by his side.”  She ran to look out of the same window that Mattus had vacated.

Mattus and Summ smiled at their daughter’s enthusiasm.

Then a moan came from the cot.

Dwan

The young warrior grimaced as the novice healer wrapped the stump of his amputated leg with boiled linen bandages.  Dwan watched the patient’s face as she supervised the ministrations of her apprentice.  The pain must have been horrible yet he made no sound and even seemed embarrassed at the small expression that he had not been able to control.

The warrior of barely nineteen summers had been wounded in the Great War, and the healers had been trying to save his leg for two seasons.  It had nearly been severed by a sword slash from a Grey.  Dwan and her people had fought valiantly to save the limb and were successful at getting the broken bone to knit.  Alas, the nerves and blood vessels had been too damaged and the lower leg finally began to die.  It started to rot from the mid-shin area down, and the decision was made to amputate. 

They had brought the young man all the way from Olvion to Aspell because it was the warrior’s home.  He had insisted on being treated there, and that insistence had probably been the reason he would be forever maimed.  The trip had been difficult, and the dust, insects and grime of the trek had not been helpful.  The fact that Dwan and her colleagues had kept it from going into gangrene until now was a testament to their skills.

The novice finished and stood up, looking back at Dwan with raised brows.  Dwan smiled and nodded.  The warrior thanked the future healer then winked at her.  The younger woman blushed, gathered her instruments and left, avoiding further eye contact with him.

Dwan took a quick second look at the bandage and then left.  The young warrior was her last patient of the day and she was tired.  She left the clinic and walked alone through the streets of Aspell avoiding the stares.  The story of her relationship with the Legend had followed her here even though that attention was exactly what she had hoped to escape. 

Thankfully, Dwan’s prowess as a healer had also become known, and many families owed her the lives of their loved ones.  More than once she’d been in an inn being pestered by the questions of the curious.  When the intrusions into her privacy reached a certain point there seemed to always be a helpful warrior or family member of a warrior around to protect her privacy.

Having now acquired a small living space in a building dedicated to serving healers and others who worked at the clinic, Dwan had a bit more solitude.  Tonight she really needed the seclusion that the apartment offered.  She put her medical smock on the single chair in the front room and went straight to her bath to take a shower.  The glow globe in the bathroom was dimming, so she took it from the sconce on the wall and shook it.  The glowing leaves responded to the action by increasing their brightness.  It would do for now, but she would need to replace them with fresher leaves soon.

Standing in her miniscule shower, leaning against the slick wall, Dwan fought her emotions for a moment or two before dissolving into sobs.  She was angry at herself for crying because she was determined to get beyond this part of her life.  It seemed she was still only capable of containing her tears until she was alone.  With nothing to distract her, the emotional pain would return, and she would lose control no matter how many times she told herself that she was now capable of fighting it off.

When her emotional reservoir was once again empty she toweled off, lay on her bed and pulled the covers under her chin.  She would stay there until awakening the next morning.

***

Dr. Marilyn Patel, wearing her “Hello Kitty” scrubs, walked quickly through the corridors of Clovis Municipal Hospital.  She was a second generation American and a third generation doctor.  A graduate of Harvard Medical School, Patel was one of the best in the field of emergency medicine.  She loved the practice of medicine and loved the excitement of not knowing what she might encounter every day on the job.  She and her husband, a Trauma Surgeon, had moved from Houston to the Fresno/Clovis area over four years ago and were enjoying the less hectic medical demands of a smaller city.

Patel was very popular at work and this required her to return many waves and smiles as she made her way from the cafeteria to the emergency room. Her long pony tail bounced with each step she took.  Her hospital-provided cell phone had delivered to her a text from the intake manager in emergency.  A young man had just been brought in by emergency med techs with a serious wound to his head.  Though it appeared to be a life-threatening injury Patel did not run.  She had long ago learned that it did no good to race through the halls, scaring patients and visitors only to arrive at the trauma room too tired to do anything but gulp air for five minutes.  A brisk walking pace got her to her destination almost as fast, and she was able to start her examination immediately.

She slapped the round stainless steel pad on the wall to trigger the automatic opening system to the double doors leading to the room set aside for major trauma treatment.  Entering, she accepted a clipboard from Juan, the Medical Assistant. 

“Trauma Room,” he said unnecessarily.

Patel never slowed, just nodded on her way to the indicated room.  She quickly read the notes and thought that the patient was in a major hurt locker.  She opened the door and saw…nothing.

The bed was disheveled like someone had been in it, there were traces of blood on the small pillow, and liquid dripped onto the floor from the exposed needle of a hanging fluid tube.

“Juan, stat!” she yelled into the hallway.

The M.A. came trotting over to her, eyebrows raised.

“The trauma patient…where did they take him?” she asked.

Juan appeared perplexed and looked around her at the empty bed.

“I’ll find out.”

Juan ran to the emergency nurse’s station and started asking questions, sending nurses to their telephones and clipboards.  Patel followed him over.  He saw her approaching and held up a finger as he spoke to someone on his own cell phone.  Patel looked around.  A general panic was beginning to descend upon the place.  Nurses shouted into phone receivers, uniformed security officers came rushing in and started peeking into every emergency treatment room.

Juan uttered a small curse and jammed his phone back into his pocket.  Patel gave him an inquiring look.  Juan shrugged.

“He’s gone.”

***

Toria beat Summ to the side of the cot.  The yellow-haired man groaned again and tossed his arms.  The frail cot creaked under his weight.  Toria leaned over the man and was looking directly into his face when he opened his eyes.

“Blue,” she announced before being pulled away by her mother.  “His eyes are blue.”

Mattus and Seeja looked at each other knowingly.

Summ made a hushing gesture and dipped the cloth back into the pail of water at the bedside, then cautiously dabbed at the man’s forehead.  His eyes darted around the room several times as if trying to determine where he was.  Mattus furtively felt for the hilt of the knife that was always stuck into the back of his waistband.

The man put both hands on the straw mattress and heaved himself into a sitting position.  Summ backed away from him, the rag still dripping.  The stranger looked around again, seeming to gather his wits.  Then, he did a most unexpected thing:  He smiled.  Broadly.

Mattus stepped forward with Seeja directly behind him and a little to the left.  They didn’t know it then, but Taggart recognized the maneuver as being military.  The man in front would be the more formidable of the two, so he would be the primary defender should such action be required.  The man behind him was off to the left so he would not interfere with the other defender who was undoubtedly right handed.

Taggart could not keep the smile off of his face.  He looked at all of the people in the room, saw their clothing, the uniform coloring of the hair, skin and eyes.  His eyes cut to the one window and could just make out a pinkish tint to the sky outside.  Taggart looked back at the largest man.

“Is this Olvion?” he asked in perfect Olvioni.

Mattus relaxed slightly.  “We are four days from the city of Olvion, but, yes this farm is in the kingdom of Olvion.”

Taggart nodded and started to swing his legs over the side of the cot when he peeked under the light blanket and saw he was naked.  He looked up at the small knot of onlookers not knowing what to do next. Toria spoke up.

“You were naked when I found you,” she said, coloring slightly with embarrassment.  “And we don’t have anything large enough to fit you.”

Everyone gave a small laugh including Taggart.  He looked at the young girl.

“And what is your name?” he asked.

“I’m Toria.”  She turned to point to the others.  “They are my parents, that is my Aunt and Uncle and those are my brothers.”

Taggart nodded to all of them.  He noticed them waiting for him to furnish his name.  The room was suddenly very quiet.  Taggart sighed and rubbed his eyes.  He did not really know what to expect when he revealed himself, but he owed these people his honesty.

With as much dignity as one could muster while lying naked under a blanket in a roomful of strangers he smiled and shrugged.

“You would know me as Tag-Gar.”

***

Later that night Summ and Lonn brought him clothing that had been radically altered to fit his massive frame.  The shirt was a good fit, but the trousers were a little snug.  Taggart didn’t mind, he was just happy to be clothed again.  The family bade him to come to the main hall in the large farmhouse where meals were served.  Then they all sat to a dinner of stewed vegetables and something that tasted like pork.

After they had eaten the women shooed the men outside to a circle of rough wooden chairs that ringed a fire pit.  Taggart tried to help light the fire, but Mattus gave the task to his two sons.

Jost was the oldest, maybe sixteen by Taggart’s estimation.  He was a large kid, almost as tall as his father.  The younger one, Markh, was a year or so younger.  He was not going to be as tall as his brother, but his limbs were unusually thick for someone born in the thin gravity of Olvion.

The fire soon blazed away cheerily.  The sun had set and the temperature was comfortable.  Seeja came out of the farmhouse with a clay jug and a grin on his face.

As was polite in Olvion, the first drink of the after dinner spirit was offered to the guest.  Taggart accepted the jug and gave the spout an exploratory sniff. His face formed a grin and he pointed to the jug.

“Is this sween?” he asked.

Seeja nodded with a smile.

In his previous time in Olvion, Taggart had sampled many different liquors.  Most were either as strong as straight tequila or flavored with the black licorice taste that Olvionis loved and Taggart despised.  Sween, however, was a delicious brew that was made from honey.  Taggart loved the concoction and called it “mead” after the spirit that was so prized by the Vikings of earth.  Taggart’s family had been able to trace their own lineage back to those old world raiders. 

Taggart raised the jug in a quasi-toast and took a long, satisfying gulp.  Memories came flooding back to him as the liquid slid down his throat leaving a satisfying warmth in its path.  There was little conversation as the jug made several circuits of the fire pit.  Even the two boys took small sips under the eye of their father.  Markh was just about to take a third taste when the ladies came out of the house.  Mattus snatched the jug from his youngest son’s hands and quickly shoved it at Taggart.  The warrior’s face then assumed an innocent expression as he pretended to stretch.

Summ took a chair by the fire, pretending she didn’t notice that her youngest smelled of sween.  She straightened her clothing and put her hand on her husband’s arm.  As Lonn and Toria settled into their own chairs it was Toria, not surprisingly, who brought up the subject about which everyone was thinking.

“Are you The Legend?”

Mattus shot his daughter a warning glare, but Taggart found her honesty and lack of pretension to be endearing.  He poked a smoldering stick into the flames and looked at each of them as he spoke.

“That, my new friends, is a question without an answer.  The old stories and books tell of the Legend coming out of nowhere and helping King Ausloe to defeat the Grey Horde many years ago.  What happened to him after that is a mystery.  It was said that he would return when needed and he was needed two seasons past.”

Seeja had just finished a quick sip from the jug and offered it to Taggart.  He waved it past and Seeja handed it to Mattus.  Taggart resumed his musings.

“I fell asleep in another world and woke up here as the new invasion of Greys started descending from the mountains.  I have no explanation as to how that happened.  I know you have a thousand questions about it and so do I, but there are no answers.  One moment I was in that world, and then I was here.

Toria scooted her chair closer and leaned in as far as she could without straining the boundaries of good manners.

Taggart leaned back a bit.  The flames painted shadows on his face as he continued talking.  “When I awakened I was cold, naked, hungry and very much afraid.  An incredible animal found me and became my friend.”

“Tinker, the white Mountain Child!” Toria jumped up as she spoke the words, unable to contain her excitement.

Taggart nodded.  “Indeed.  She became my protector and my teacher.  Her wonderful abilities allowed me to speak to the people of Olvion and them to me.  I became friends with King Zander, Lord Ruguer and many wonderful and noble warriors of Olvion.  We fought against the Greys in the great valley outside of the city.”