Becoming P.T. Lyfantod - 2
A serial fantasy novel
What follows is Part 2 of Becoming P.T. Lyfantod
If you missed Part 1, start there:
There was a small village on a great lake. The village was called Wrath, the lake Glass. No one knew why the village had that name, but the lake was called Glass because glass was what it looked like. A slowly rippling mirror, reflecting the sky and the clouds in the day and the moon at night. On nights with no moon, the stars shone on the water like a galaxy at your feet. And on nights with no stars, the water was black as pitch and might have turned to nothing altogether.
On those nights, the villagers of Wrath stayed in their houses and locked their doors. They whispered prayers to Allanis, the benevolent Goddess of Light and Strength in Battle, to protect and keep them. For on those nights you could see the island.
The island was called Mynydd, which means mountain, and Pwll, which means pit, and the villagers feared it, for it was said monsters lived there, wicked men who'd been ruled by a wicked king, cursed by the Gods to live forever as fiends.
We’d come to Wrath in search of a very old friend, the Seer Sorceress Clara, whose counsel we wanted desperately. Recently, a dark portent had appeared in the night sky, a Bad Moon.
Bad Moons are dim, and faraway, and provide no light at all. Everyone knows they’re a sign of awful things to come. Without knowing what, we’d no way to prepare. If anyone knew, it would be Clara. Though we had not seen her for several years, we’d heard rumors she’d last been seen here, in the village called Wrath, on the banks of the lake called Glass, in the middle of which sat the island called Mynydd Pwll that could only be seen on nights with no moon.
It turned out Bad Moons worked too.
It was dusk when we arrived in the village, and the streets had already emptied. The doors of the small homes were barred, the windows shuttered in anticipation of the night to come. The only building yet to shut its doors was the local inn at the end of the main thoroughfare. It was called Hasten’s, and it was there we went.
The locals eyed us distrustfully as we stepped inside, but we paid them little mind. The lot of the adventurer is to be misunderstood. Besides, we were an odd bunch. Though my natural inclination was to blend in, I knew it was impossible in present company. Argon, leather-faced with silver in his wings, sharp cheeks and sharper bristles, resplendent in his white tabard. Hurlin, craggy as a low hill, in glinting plate and chain. Dona, child-sized but absent the smiling innocence of her people. And I, a two-legged snake in dun colors, bristling with knives…
We took seats around an empty table, while Dona called for ale. I claimed the seat facing the door and nearest the wall, as long habit and good sense demanded. Argon sat to my right, Dona to my left, and Hurlin, oblivious to danger as ever, directly across from me.
“You’ll be wanting rooms for the night,” said the innkeeper matter-of-factly as he lay our pints in front of us. It was not a question.
“No,” replied Argon with equal detachment.
The innkeeper, a small, white-haired fellow, raised a wrinkled brow. “You’ll want to reconsider that, stranger,” he said. “This is no time to be out after nightfall, even for ones as formidable as yourselves. The island will be out tonight.”
“Precisely.” Argon nodded. “The island is our destination.”
The innkeeper’s face went slack. The look in his eyes was fear. “If you’ve business there, you’ve none here. It’s two gold coins for the ale. You may finish your pints, but then I want you gone.”
Argon drained his flagon in a single draught. His wide, pointed moustaches were flecked with foam, which he wiped away on the sleeve of his linen undershirt. Standing, he set two gold coins deliberately down on the tabletop.
“I don’t suppose you’ll forgive me the use of your facilities before we go.”
The innkeeper eyed him unfavorably. “Round back,” he said, then turned and hurried away.
“Right.” A belch burbled up from Argon’s belly and through his lips. He slid his thumbs inside his belt to adjust the angle. “It won’t be long till nightfall. I’ve arranged for a skiff… Excuse me.”
“He’s usually more discreet,” Hurlin murmured at Argon’s retreating back.
“It’s the Bad Moon,” said Dona, who’d downed her ale just as quickly. “He’s been on edge ever since it appeared. He knows something. Something he’s not telling us.”
“She’s right.” I nursed my drink, determined to enjoy it. “It’s plain as day he’s frightened.”
“He’s concerned,” countered Hurlin. “There’s no need to—”
A clatter rose outside, followed by a bellow of pain and anger. We were on our feet in an instant. Dona’s sword was out. I had my daggers.
“That was Argon.”
We bustled out, Dona in the lead. None of the locals moved to follow. Most, in fact, were eyeing the veritable tree trunk leaning against the doorframe, ready to bar the door from within.
We emerged onto a street devoid of people. The sun was out of sight, the world cast in purple and orange.
“This way.” Dona made for the rear of the inn in the direction Argon had wandered. An anguished moan drifted to our ears. “He’s still alive, at least.”
We rounded the corner at a half-run, ready for battle, but found only Argon, flat on his back. He was clearly in agony, writhing back and forth, red-faced and sheathed in sweat. His right leg was bent at an unnatural angle.
Dona fell to a knee beside him. “What happened?” She eyed the nearby trees for danger.
Argon lifted a quavering finger and pointed. Several paces off, there was a hole in the dirt, likely made by a small, burrowing animal. Through gritted teeth, he hissed, “Tripped.”
Dona expelled a heavy breath. “Oh, for the sake of—”
“Let me see.” Hurlin pushed forward and knelt, leaning on his staff. “Eremin, give me that knife of yours.”
As Hurlin carefully ruined Argon’s trousers, I heard the sound of footsteps behind me. It was only the innkeeper, come to see what was the matter. His trembling hand gripped a lantern.
“What’s going on back here?”
“Bring that over here,” Hurlin beckoned, and to his credit, he did. We crowded over Argon, his mangled limb glistening red in the lamplight, wet with blood.
“That’s broken,” said the innkeeper.
“Clearly,” said Dona.
“Bonemender doesn’t come around for another week. He’ll be dead by then.”
“No,” said Hurlin, “he won’t.” The dwarf tucked his staff into the crook of his arm and extended his hands. “This will hurt,” he told Argon, too late, as he dug those fingers deep into the swollen flesh around the break and twisted. There was an audible scraping.
I winced, my stomach churning. Argon screamed. Dona’s face was a mask. Hurlin had begun to chant, a low, throaty murmur, meant for other ears than ours. A supplication. A plea. A call to be answered. His hands began to glow with a pure white light that turned his flesh ruby red and his bones black, and Argon’s knee rebuilt itself before our eyes.
Muscle and sinew snaked around his shattered shin, then the skin knit together till there was no sign of the wound but the quantity of blood that had already spilled from it. Argon’s breath came quick and shallow, and he was drenched in sweat. But he was whole.
“It’s a miracle!” the innkeeper gasped.
“Aye,” Hurlin stood, his voice hoarse. “It is that.”
“Oh…” Argon moaned, his eyes closed. “Thank you—Hurlin. Bless you.”
“Don’t thank me.” Hurlin turned toward the innkeeper. “He’ll be needing a bed after all.”
“No!” Argon protested, struggling futilely to rise. “By Allanis, I’m coming with you!”
Hurlin scowled. “That leg will not support you for a week. It’s bedrest for you, and there’s naught you or your Goddess can do to prevent it.”
The innkeeper sighed. “It’s four gold a night. I’ve stew and ale, so he’ll not starve. Pick him up and follow me.”
“I don’t see why you insist on binding a wound you’ve healed,” muttered Argon from his bed in a small room on the inn’s second floor. Hurlin was currently wrapping a long strip of linen tightly around his knee.
“It will keep the swelling down,” Hurlin said gruffly. “Let me remind you that you’re injured. Do not rise from this bed.” He punctuated the order by drawing the ends of the bandage sharply upward and cinching them into a knot, eliciting a grunt. “Master Hasten has kindly given you that bell. I suggest you use it.”
“Fine, fine,” Argon grumbled.
“The three of us will continue on to Mynydd Pwll,” said Dona. “We’ve no time to lose. Master Hasten promised he was going to bar that door upon the hour. In or out.”
“Aye…” Argon stared down at the bedsheets spread over his lower half. “Leave my sword on the bed here.”
“Expecting trouble?” I asked, laying the blade beside him.
“Not particularly,” he sighed, resting a hand on the crossguard, engraved with symbols of his holy order. “But it will make a passable crutch.”
None of us being much for farewells, Dona, Hurlin, and I stood in brief silence around the foot of Argon’s bed before turning to leave. He’d told us we’d find the boat tied to a tree, hidden among some bushes south of town. From there, we’d to cross the lake to the island. After that…we knew not what to expect.
My hand was on the door when Argon spoke. “The island will show you things,” he said. We turned to look at him. His eyes were dark and shining, and his face had an orange cast from the oil lamp beside his bed. “Do not shy from the truth. Embrace it. Lie to one another if you must. But do not lie to yourself. That way leads madness, and doom.”
We digested his warning, wondering how we’d fare without his leadership. We were on our own, feeling our way in the dark.
In more ways than one.
"On nights with no moon, the stars shone on the water like a galaxy at your feet." That line is brilliant.
I needed some help in getting from Chapter 1 to Chapter 2. They were locked inside a sealed space, and then here they're village inn. What did I miss?