Arcana: A recollection Read online



  Arcana: A recollection

  Liberty

  Copyright 2013 Liberty

  s

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1 – Humble Beginnings

  Chapter 2 – Moving Forward

  Chapter 3 – A forest of thorns

  Chapter 4 – Bitter Snow

  Chapter 5 – A rough fall

  Chapter 6 –A wizard’s advice

  Chapter 7 – The monster rises

  Chapter 8 – Out of time

  Chapter 1 – Humble Beginnings

  THIS TALE BEGINS IN AN INN, just on the borders of the kingdom known as Harkon. Despite the merriness of the customers who are enjoying a drink at the King’s Rest tavern, there is a disgruntled individual who, much to his regret is serving on the local bar during the busiest days of the year for his trade. Festivals are few and far between in his village, but when there is a reason to celebrate on, everyone comes to the King’s Rest tavern. Many people from all over travel there too, meaning whoever is serving on the bar ends up with the nightmarishly large crowd to keep fed and with alcohol. Isaac, the embittered barkeep, silently curses his father for getting him into this mess. Apart from the cook who is roasting legs and hunks of meat, Isaac is alone in keeping up with the orders. Isaac is more inclined to scholarly studies, but his father has kept him here to do unfair amounts of labour for the pay he gets. His only relief comes when he is left with his books for a day or two. His venomous thoughts keep bubbling and brewing in his head. He considers just leaving, but he knows his father would probably hound him to the very ends of the kingdom if he did. While these venomous thoughts swirl in his head, he notices the crowd grows silent. Isaac, confused, sees every pair of eyes in the building staring at the front door. He too turns to look, and sees a tall figure looming at the entrance. It was a man, definitely, but Isaac has never seen anyone like him. His appearance is ghastly, as though he is barely alive. His head is completely void of a single hair, his skin is parched and wrinkly, like old leather, and worst of all is his eyes, which hold a weariness in them that makes Isaac flinch slightly. But what Isaac doesn’t understand, despite the shocking appearance of this stranger, is why everyone suddenly went silent. Upon closer inspection, he notices a rather large crest on the worn, purple garb that the pseudo-wraith is wearing. It is a simple crescent above a sphere, as though it is an eye with one eyelid. While wondering what the symbol could mean, Isaac suddenly hears an angry voice rising from the back of the inn, shouting one word.

  ‘Arcanian!’

  Before Isaac can react, the entire inn is in an uproar, throwing anything they can grab at the figure. The figure doesn’t react at all, despite all the rage, mugs and wooden eating utensils pelting him. He surveys the inn, scanning with a cold, mechanical precision. The patrons, not content to just bombard the figure with small items and insults anymore, begin grabbing chairs, stools, whatever they could get their hands on, and begin charging at the Arcanian. Just as it seems they would beat him to death, a blade flashes through the air, stopping a chair as it is coming down towards the head of the “Arcanian”, as the crowd referred to him.

  ‘Who’s siding with this Arcanian filth?!’ The would-be attacker roars with disgust. His ferocity quickly dissipates though, as a Harkonian soldier, clad in the finely crafted armour of the Kingdom, glares at him from behind the gleaming blade. More soldiers begin to surround the Arcanian, keeping a tight formation in order to hold back the angry patrons of the Inn. Completely dumbstruck at what is happening, Isaac simply stares as the situation unfolds, holding a half-cleaned mug in his hands. With the soldiers guarding the Arcanian, the patrons quickly withdraw. Just as it seems the situation cannot become any stranger, a new figure enters the Inn. Everyone, even the drunkest of the customers, is completely dumbfounded as the figure enters the gloomy light of the inn. His engraved armour and white tabard indicated his was one of the Councilmen of the Kingdom. He seems as though he’s a perfect contrast to the Arcanian, his face is fleshy and full, filled with the vigour of youth. Despite his youthful appearance, he radiates an aura of a commander. He clears his voice, and speaks clearly and directly.

  ‘I am Councilman Brahm, and this man you have attempted to assault is my prisoner. He is serving my caravan as a way of atoning for his crimes. I can understand your anger, but I will not tolerate any harm towards him. If you do not agree with his presence, then you will have to discuss it with my guards. I would encourage you to return to your merrymaking. That is all.’ With that, the inn’s previously happy atmosphere returns, but there’s tension in the air. It is almost thick enough that it could be cut with a knife. The two men, surrounded by their guards, seem completely unfazed by the situation. They proceed to the bar and towards a dazed and confused Isaac. Any customers in their way quickly move to make room for them. With that, they both seat themselves.

  ‘I wish you would stop wearing that robe. Many people around these borderlands are quite aware of what it means.’ Jacques the Arcanian turns to Brahm, and simply gives a shrug.

  ‘You know that this robe has a lot of significance to me.’ Brahm puts his face into his palm.

  ‘You say the exact same thing every time. You Arcanians are certainly a strange people. Also, I do not understand why you insist on wearing that garb. Maybe we wouldn’t have to threaten people if they didn’t see that crest of yours. Anyway, barkeep!’ Brahm makes a show of pulling out a small dagger and banging its hilt on the bar, as is the tradition for visiting Harkonian noblemen.

  ‘We’ve come a long way and our throats are parched. Will you not provide us with the means of quenching ourselves?’

  With that, Isaac continues working hard through the entire night. He listens intently to the conversation between Jacques and Brahm, though he doesn’t really understand what they are discussing. Politics is a subject he can’t quite grasp just yet, and the Councilman and Arcanian seem to be discussing that at length. His curiosity slowly gets the better of him, and he attempts to pluck up the courage to join in their discussion. As he approaches the section of the bar where the two men are seated, Brahm notices him.

  ‘Ah, barkeep. I’ve noticed you’ve been listening in to our conversation. Do politics interest you that much?’ Isaac tries to speak, but nothing comes out. Disregarding his lack of an audible answer, Brahm continues on.

  “I see! Well, I know that it’s hard to follow! Even we Councilmen lose our heads in the storm of politics around the castle at times. Jacques here knows full well about how chaotic politics can be too!’ Jacques remains silent, just sipping from the tankard of ale he’s holding. ‘He’s not one to share his thoughts with strangers. I suppose you’re wondering what an Arcanian is doing in my company.’ Isaac, still unable to speak, just nods.

  ‘Well, my fine barkeep, to put it simply, he is a prisoner from Arcana, and he is serving out his sentence in service of my caravan.’ Isaac, despite spending so much time with his studies, had never found any records of the kingdom of Arcana before. There is an intense hatred between the two nations, as was clearly evident when Jacques stepped into the inn. Isaac is still in awe of being in the presence of a Councilman, and finds no words will come to him.

  ‘Why are you so nervous? It is not like I am going to execute you for speaking. Eh, no matter.’ Brahm pauses for a moment to drain what brew he had left in his tankard.

  ‘How much do you know about Arcana?’

  ‘N-not much.’

  ‘That’s not so unusual. What you should know is that Arcana is quite an unusual place. The politics there are even nastier than our own, and there are even stranger things which are thrown into the mix. If you want to hear about it, you’ll have to get Jacques to talk. We’ll be staying for a few days
to enjoy this festival, so you’ll get your chance to convince him soon enough. But, for the timing being, I’m pretty sure for the time being you have more important things to do.’ Brahm is right, of course. While Isaac was listening to Brahm, a group of disgruntled customers have lined up at the bar.

  ‘BARKEEP! Where are our drinks? We’ve waited long enough!’ Isaac immediately returns to calm them down. Brahm let out a hearty laugh, clearly finding the situation amusing.

  ‘It seems the barkeep will have his hands full tonight.’ Nodding in agreement, Jacques looks around the bar.

  ‘Is there someone else to help him? Eh, it’s of no concern to us. What were we discussing before?’ With that, he and Jacques immediately return to their previous conversation, and talk the night away in that dimly lit tavern. In the kingdom of Harkon, stories are considered to be among the greatest treasures that can be acquired, and grand tales from adventures considered to be the most worthy prize to seek as a member of the Kingdom. Deeds and legends are sung about for many a decade long after they’re first told, echoing through taverns and the halls of great fortresses. Isaac was only a few days away from recording one of Harkon’s greatest legends.

  Having gotten no sleep that night, Isaac rests well into the afternoon. When he wakes up, he remembers that Brahm had told him they were staying a couple of days to enjoy the festival. The scholarly side of Isaac begins to get the better of him. He finds himself being deeply interested in the story of Jacques, that wanderer from a mysterious and largely undocumented land. Isaac has no more shifts for the rest of the week, so he decides to get his paper and quill. After rummaging around in his tiny, dusty cottage, it takes him roughly half an hour before he finds his writing tools. With that, he quickly dresses and heads straight out the door. Though he doesn’t remember being told where they were staying, he is certain that he will see them. Brahm, being a Councilman, is bound to attract a lot of attention, as well as his mysterious companion.

  Brahm and Jacques stroll through the festival stands, seeing the sort of activities the peasantries have prepared. People look at the two of them in awe, but respectfully keep their distance. Many of the angry patrons from last night are revelling in the festivities, but they have no memory of anything that transpired, especially not Jacques being an Arcanian. Both of the men find the festival mildly interesting.

  ‘This isn’t the most exciting festival I’ve seen.’ Jacques notes as he passes by the stalls and looks with mild curiosity over whatever wares the locals are peddling.

  ‘Well, they are a small town. They do what they can with what they have.’

  ‘That’s true enough. I wonder if we’ll see that barkeep here?’

  ‘It’s possible.’ Brahm says with a shrug. He wanders over to a stall offering knives and other concealable weapons.

  ‘Why was there only one person serving at the bar? He did a fine job with the crowd he had, though.’ Brahm also noticed it during the night. Only one man was serving that entire crowd which had built up in the King’s Rest Inn.

  ‘We might have to ask him about it if he follows up on my offer.’

  ‘I have many bitter memories, Brahm. I am not sure that it would be wise of me to share them.’ Brahm nods his head, also returning his empty mug to the stall.

  ‘I know that you’ve suffered, Jacques. But, this chronicle could turn out to be a lasting legend.’ Just as Brahm finishes, a flustered young man, panting and wheezing, hurries up to them. He is carrying bundles of scrolls along with a large bag with writing utensils spilling out. Jacques immediately recognises him as the Barkeep from last night. While Jacques looks on curiously, Brahm steps in to speak to Isaac.

  ‘Ah, it’s you! We never got your name, did we?’ Isaac, red in the face, takes a moment to catch his breath.

  ‘Isaac. I ran all over this fair looking for you two. I would like to know more about Jacques’ story.’ Inspecting the various items Isaac has in his arms. Jacques, previously apathetic towards Isaac, realises that Isaac is completely serious about this.

  ‘Brahm, I might walk with our Barkeep here. I’ll get back to our camp at sunset.’ Brahm seems reluctant to let Jacques wander off.

  ‘Just make sure you talk about your life somewhere private. If these peasants catch wind of your origin, it’ll get ugly. And I doubt we can rely on alcohol to make them forget this time...’ With that, Brahm heads off in the other direction, while Jacques strides next to Isaac.

  ‘Do you have somewhere private we can talk?’ Isaac nods quickly.

  ‘Yes, my cottage should do finely. It’s on the village’s outskirts.’

 

  Upon a wooden stool, Jacques rests in Isaac’s cottage, calmly sipping from a cup filled with water. Isaac is ready to start writing, gazing at him expectantly.

  ‘Are you ready, Jacques? I would like to start.’ Slightly annoyed, Jacques dismisses him with a wave of his hand and finishes his drink.

  ‘Do not rush me.’ Carefully, he lays the earthenware container down on the aged table. Jacques folds his arms and stares at the wooden floor for a minute or two. Isaac’s curiosity gnaws at him and makes him impatient as he awaits Jacques’ story.

  ‘So, what do you want to know?’ After a small pause, Isaac speaks one simple word.

  ‘Everything.’ Jacques looks surprised.

  ‘Everything? I am not sure if we will have enough time to discuss everything.’ Despite Jacques’ dismissal of the idea, Isaac insists.

  ‘Please. You’re an interesting looking man, and legends are valued around Harkon.'

  ‘Well, I guess we should start from the very beginning...’ With that, Jacques begins what will become known as the Arcanian Recollections in the libraries of Harkon.

  As you already know, I’m from the land known as Arcana, the kingdom which has long opposed Harkon. I believe some degree of explanation will be required. There are quite a lot of myths I have heard while wandering this kingdom. A lot of what you may hear about Arcana and its people is untrue. We don’t roast children and eat them as a tribute to our gods, we aren’t immortal, and most importantly of all, people from Arcana aren’t monsters. It’s unfortunate that every trace or record of Arcana has long been destroyed throughout your kingdom. Even the wisest of scholars don’t know how our two kingdoms first came into conflict with one another, since it happened so long ago. We do not even know why we’re fighting anymore. In our long wars with Harkon, the legends of our land were formed. It was an attempt by the current king of Harkon to encourage his peoples’ fury. Nothing motivates people like hatred and anger. You can still plainly see it to this day, as I wandered through this land with Brahm. Anyway, I haven’t actually told you much about my origins, have I? I was born there fifty odd years ago, into a simple family of farmers. My early childhood consisted of studying and writing. It is mandatory for all children in Arcana to learn how to read and write, so that we may expand our knowledge and better ourselves with it. My father was a man of the earth, and my mother a lady of the sky. He was hard, thick with muscle and vigour. He tilled soil endlessly, worked his hands to the bone, and chose only to learn things which were practical or useful to him. My mother was light and graceful, seemingly as delicate as the Wrens which sang in the trees. She chased ideals and whimsical thoughts during her spare moments. She avidly wrote poetry, and constantly sent out letters to various lords, beseeching them to attempt to create lasting peace between Harkon and Arcana, to no effect. We’re more understanding of Harkon than you are of Arcana, but that doesn’t mean that we don’t have our own prejudices against your people. It’s not as violent as what you witnessed in the inn, but it’s still there. My mother tried her best in order to chase peace, but one person alone can’t change a nation. My father dreamed of wealth and earthly prosperity, while my mother dreamed of peace and serenity. Both of them, despite opposing each other on every thought, formed a whole which I have yet to understand. Love is a strange thing, I suppose. Where exactly did I fall into this picture? I had no b
rothers or sisters, thus I was put straight down the middle of my parents’ opposing ideals. Whenever I was pulled in one direction by one of them, the other would pull me back in the other direction just as swiftly. My family lived in relative peace, but I’ve learned in my many years that peace can be fleeting, especially if you live in Arcana. Conflict is just as likely to come from within as it is to come from a hostile nation.

  My earliest memory was when my father first put a hoe in my tiny hands. Life was tough, and we couldn’t afford to have anyone not contribute to the work around the farm. We produced a lot of food, but most of it was taken in taxes for warring with Harkon. We only had a small amount left to feed ourselves. We had to take to exploring the surrounding woodlands in attempts to find supplements to our meager food supplies. We were lucky if we found truffles, which could be traded for a fair price at the market. The woods have their hazards though. Arcanian scrubland is filled with many different kinds of dangers. Beasts you couldn’t have even dreamed of in these green and lush lands of Harkon roam freely beneath the lunatic moon of Arcana, dangerous beasts. I am getting off track again, aren’t I? So, I had been trying my best to hoe the soil, mimicking my father’s movements as he skilfully turned and prepared it for planting. He laughed heartily as I got frustrated with the hard soil refusing to budge. It was similar to trying to chip granite with a spoon. I tried and tried to break the ground that day, and ultimately it only resulted in failure. My father brushed away my tears of frustration. Though he was an earthly man, he had a wisdom which I have never been able to achieve in my life. It was an understanding of patience and knowing that every little bit of work you do adds up eventually.

  ‘There will be times like that in your life, Jacques, where you have only a lousy tool at your disposal, and a seemingly impossible task to do. But, you should know that even the weakest of tools can eventually yield results. Look at where you were digging.’ With that, he took me to see my handiwork. Much of the hardened soil, though still fairly intact, had developed cracks and visible weaknesses. I realised that my anger had blinded me from seeing the results of my work. Father knew this too. Embarrassed, I looked away from it, but my father stood there until I looked at him. What I could see in his eyes was pride. Pride in his son for learning an important lesson in overcoming follies. The very next day, I took up my hoe again, and the hard soil finally gave way beneath its strikes. Overjoyed with my success, I quickly dragged my mother to see my work.

  ‘Look mother, look!’ I had so keenly told her over and over again. She had a look with disinterest, gave me some light praise, and then went back to her own works. While she knew that toiling with such things are required, though she took no pleasure in the task. Poetry was where she found her joy.

  The very next day, my mother came to me and placed a writing quill in my hand. Before I knew what was happening, she pulled me inside the house and sat me in front of her desk. Books were stacked high on her stool so I might be able to look at her desk without being picked up. She then gazed at me expectantly. ‘We are going to practice writing today, Jacques.’ She commanded. Not wanting to do any writing today, I opened my mouth to tell her that I wanted to work with my hoe. But, beneath her gaze, my disobedience crumbled into dust. While she was a fleeting dreamer, she was stern. She made me read out various poems and short passages from a large collection of books she possesses, and made me write down thoughts about what was happening on the farm and our situation. She made me memorise a variety of poems and rewrite them onto fresh paper. Arcana has many different poets, you know. Their subject matter was often grim, but my mother managed to find what poets she could that had more whimsical and brighter themes. These were the poems that I had to recite, rewrite and recall. This exercise continued all day, and by that time I was nearly capable of reciting each passage off by heart. Pleased with her work, she stopped to give me some advice.

  ‘While doing earthly things is important, there is so much more wondrous things to the world, Jacques. I dream of seeing this entire kingdom, one day. When you come of age, I want you to travel. See this wondrous world, and take in every experience you can. Your father and I have spent our whole lives stuck on this farm, but I think you’re destined for greater things than tilling soil.’ I didn’t believe her at the time, and wanted nothing more than to expand our farmlands and work hard to accumulate wealth, just as my father dreamed of while he was working those fields and harvesting wild herbs and foodstuffs in the wilderness. But, fate chose another path for me, hence I ended up here. It works strange ways, doesn’t it?

  We lived near the Arcanian border, just next to Harkonian lands. There were some disputes between Arcanian and Harkonian peasantry, but it never really resulted in any serious skirmishes. Groups of raiders were fairly rare as well. There had been no attacks for years, but that day... I was tilling the soil to plant this year’s harvest. My parents were out exploring the woodlands around our home for truffles. Just as I finished my chore, I heard the sound of many hooves in the distance. As I looked over the fields, I saw a group of mounted Harkonian soldiers riding towards me. They came with hatred in their hearts and fire in their hands, trampling the soil I had just so carefully tilled. Like maniacs, they lit anything that would burn with their torches. They were already up to our little cottage and had seen me. Before I could react, the raiders had already trampled pass me. One of them took a wild swing at my head while riding pass. He had been using a club made from green wood, but it was more than enough to cause me to black out.

  I woke bound and gagged, like some sort of wild animal ready to be slaughtered and roasted over a savage’s fire. That soldier had gotten a fair hit, and I could feel a massive bruise swelling on my forehead. I couldn’t see much at first, due to the darkness and the dizziness induced by the savage blow to my heads, though I heard plenty of whimpers and muffled crying. Flames flickered from a cheerless fire created a dreary scene painted in harsh crimson against the purple night sky of Arcana. Once my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I began to see much more. I had been unfortunate enough to be laid watching the camp of the Harkonian soldiers. They were a grim looking group, their armour worn and flecked with dents and chips. They looked more like a group of random mercenaries thrown together than a group of well-trained and disciplined soldiers, the likes of which marched by our house every now and then. I watched as they walked among the people they had captured, occasionally picking out someone and sending them to an isolated spot on the other side of the camp. I did not understand the concept of slavery at the time, but it was clear to me whatever they were doing, it wasn’t pleasant. They eventually came to me, and gave me a light kick with a steel boot. Much to my surprise, I found that our languages are identical. I completely understood everything they had said that night. I would have preferred it if I hadn’t been able to understand/

  ‘This one wouldn’t be much good as a slave. Think we should cull him as well?’ A taller man, who seemed to draw the attention of the others, inspected me closely. He gives me a couple of pokes here and there, noting how I squirm and writhe. He pulled out a sword, and began inching it towards me. I tried to wriggle away from its tip as best as I could. Just as I thought he would put it in my eye, he pulled it away and returned it to its sheath.

  ‘He’s too small for physical work, and not a girl either, so we can’t sell him off to some fat aristocrat. He’s a livewire though, filled with life and youth. There will definitely be some buyer for him in the market. Put him with the rest of the decent ones.’ I had grown deeply afraid at his words, but no matter how much I struggled, my bindings remained firm. One of them grabbed me and threw me over his shoulder, dumping me with the other captured men, women and children on the other side of the camp. The commander, or captain, or whoever he was, continued his inspections. Prisoner by prisoner, he delivered a verdict of whether to keep them or not. Paper in hand, a soldier quickly writes down the verdicts into a list.

  ‘We’ll begin executions at dawn. For now, we will w
ait. You may do whatever you please with the condemned.’ With that, the Harkonian soldiers threw away what little discipline they had and depravity ran wild across the camp. Women raped and abused, men forced to do horrid acts for their twisted amusement, and even the children didn’t escape unscathed in their depraved games. Only a few of the soldiers didn’t participate, much to the disapproval of their peers.

  ‘They’re going to die anyway, they won’t remember any of this when they’re rotting in the ground. So what’s the problem?’ Just as the Harkonian soldiers began to pull out a chopping block for beheading prisoners, a sudden shout comes from the edges of the camp. Chaos breaks out as Arcanian soldiers clash with the raiding party. Now, this is where the perception of our supposed demonic nature comes from. While Harkon advanced in earthly weaponry and are brilliant engineers, we Arcanians chose a different path. I believe the common term for it is “magic”. We Arcanians have learned to use this force to our favour, and every part of our society revolves around magic in some way, shape or form. Each person in these lands has potential to make use of it, though very few master it. Unfortunately, the Arcanian soldiers in this battle were unable to use it effectively. Their lack of control caused all sorts of chaos as bizarre things began occurring. The roaring fire began flaring and exploded violently, setting the tents alight and showering sparks all over the battleground. Harkonian soldiers rallied around their leader, creating a tight formation to hold back the Arcanians. Each force had about equal numbers, and the lack of proper training with magic caused both sides to fight on fairly even grounds. This battle was extremely bloody and prolonged, and we hostages could only watch as our fate was decided between the two clashing forces. Every time it looked like one side had gained an advantage, they just as quickly lost their ground and fell back into defensive formations. While I was horrified at the situation I was trapped it, it was interesting to witness the difference in battle tactics used by the two different sides. Some Arcanian soldiers had managed to reach the hostages, attempting to cut people free. I only managed to have my feet removed of their binds before a Harkonian soldier thrush his blade right through the back of my would-be rescuer. With no other options available to me, I ran from the battlefield with my hands still bound. In the bloody chaos, no one paid any heed to one fleeing hostage, especially not a small boy. I imagine the others were far less fortunate than I was.

  I do not know how long I spent limping towards home. I had to know if my parents had survived the raid, if there was anything left to come home to. Arcanian beasts were roaming beneath the moonlight, and it was only out of sheer luck I avoided an untimely death beneath their strange and twisted claws. One of the beasts had caught my scent. I knew it was after me, I could hear it rustling through the undergrowth, stealthily observing its prey before going in for the kill. Exhaustion slowed me down considerably, and my injuries were only getting worse as I continued to limp along on my wounded leg. The beast was upon me. A similar creature in your kingdom would be described as a “snake”, and it was covered with the most wondrous and colourful shimmering scales. The main difference, however, is that this creature had claws in addition to that horrid and thin body, and was keen to tear me apart with them. Being in the state I was in, I wasn’t able to move quickly enough to escape its coiling grasp, though I managed to reach the gigantic face of a cliff before it got to me, hissing and tasting the air with its wildly flailing tongue. Just as I resigned myself to a fate as a meal for a wild creature, I heard the tumbling of stones, crashing along the cliff and down below to where the creature had me trapped in its grip. Before I knew it, a sharp shard of stone had fallen down the cliff face, and violently imbedded itself into the skull of the serpent. Frenzied by the sudden injury, it writhed with me in its grip, and then it died quickly and relatively painlessly. My wounds were too painful for me to move at this point, and I blacked out again. This isn’t the only moment where I have been saved by extremely unusual circumstances. Some people I’ve met have claimed that something is protecting me. Whether or not that is true is another thing, but I will not deny that there have been some strange happenings which have turned the odds in my favour when I needed it the most. Where it was luck or divine favour, I am not sure.

  When I came to, the snake had begun settling into rigor mortis. It was difficult, but I managed to crawl out of its death grip. My pain had dulled a bit since nearly being killed by that horrid beast. Fortunately, I had been around the surrounding woodlands to this cliff face a fair bit, so I knew my way around. I was exhausted at this point, but I managed to find my way home. Or rather, what remained of home. Nothing but a pile of smouldering ashes was left of our beloved cottage. My parents were nowhere to be seen. I had presumed that the soldiers must’ve waited and captured them as well. It doesn’t take a genius to know that a child wouldn’t be able to live alone in the Arcanian wilderness, tending to crops and as such. I do not know how long I waited, sheltered underneath a blackened sapling. An entire day had passed and my parents had yet to return. I had no other options left. I hobbled away from home in the hopes of reaching the road. I had managed to make it there, but I fell flat on the ground, unable to further exert myself. Travellers of Arcana frequented those roads constantly, and it was only some time later until someone came along. It was a travelling merchant’s caravan, headed by a beautifully carved wooden carriage. After noticing my battered and torn body lying on the road, a woman stepped out of the carriage. Her name, which I learned later, was Nadine, a wealthy merchant of the Traders’ Guild. She was youthful and full of life, keen to explore Arcana and make a profit along the way. ‘What is the hold up?’ She inquires. Then she noticed me, lying broken and seemingly lifeless on the dusty ground. ‘Quickly, check to see if he’s alive!’ She commanded her servants. Sure enough, I was still breathing, though far too weak to move. I was scooped up from the ground, and place inside her carriage. She produced a small knife and released the bindings around my hands.

  ‘Does anyone have my herbal kit? I need to treat these wounds.’ She urged her servants and they quickly produced it. She began binding my wounds with Arcanian leaves and herbs. She often had to treat the wounds of her servants in the Arcanian wilderness, and she had extensive knowledge of herbal medicine. I heard a sniffle from her every now and then as she treated my wounds. She was from the city, you see, and had never really been exposed to violence. She wasn’t prepared for seeing me in that state, and it was even worse that I wasn’t even ten years of age.

  ‘Who did this to you?’ She quietly whispered to herself. I had no idea who had attacked us at the time, Arcanians seldom educate about Harkon until a child reaches their later years, when they can understand the concept of war. All I could offer as a reply were bitter tears.

  It was a long ride in the carriage. Stragglers from the Harkonian raiding party were ambushing anyone coming along on the roads, including our caravan. Nadine’s guards were enough to deal with them, however, and the trip was rather uneventful. Though she had managed to treat my injuries, the worst trauma was done to my psyche. There’s no medicine or cure for scars of the mind. She provided me small sips of water every now and then, regarding me with her pitiful brown eyes. Nadine, despite never having children of her own, was very much a motherly kind of woman. She had money on her mind, but her heart was as warm as the sun.

  ‘I suppose we should talk now. What happened?’ I turned away, attempting to hold back my tears as best as I can.

  ‘Men came, wielding fire. They burned everything and I don’t know what happened to my parents. My old home is nothing but a pile of ash now.’ With that, I spoke no more. Nadine was silent as well, embracing me as I wept bitterly. After a while, she broke her silence.

  ‘You can stay with me for now. We’ll try to find your parents someday, but for now, this isn’t a safe place to stay, okay?’ Her compassion is something that still inspires me to this day, but I wasn’t ready to abandon searching for my parents.

  ‘But my parents…
’ She cut me off before I can continue.

  ‘Not now. We can’t go searching for them right now. But, we’ll come back soon.’

  I never came back to my old home. The fate of my parents is something that is still a mystery to me.

  Isaac puts down his writing tools for a moment. Jacques sits completely still, gazing at the dusty floorboards.

  ‘I have seen many things, Isaac. The horrors of war are but one of those things. Arcana is a land filled with many mysteries, and despite my long travels over it, I’ve only scratched at the very surface of them.’ Isaac nods, and then quickly glances out the window. The sun is starting to dip beneath the horizon, painting the sky with a deep crimson.

  ‘It’s late, Jacques. I believe we should give it a rest for today. I will have to ask my father for some time off from working in the inn.’ Jacques’ interest picks up.

  ‘Oh, so your father owns that inn? Why were you the only person working there on that night then?’ Isaac’s mood turns rotten and a deep scowl crawls across his face. Obviously a sensitive subject for him. Jacques notes to himself.

  ‘My father arranged for it, so I might learn about “working with people”. I don’t get paid at all. Apparently you don’t charge for rendering services for your father.’

  ‘I’d render my parents plenty of services, if they still lived. You should be happy that you still have your father.’

  ‘I’m happy to have him, I’m just not happy to have him make me work for nothing during the busiest night of the year for the inn.’ Seeing that this father might interfere with their new arrangement, Jacques hatches a plan.

  ‘Don’t worry. I can talk to Brahm about getting your father off your back. Who’s going to deny the authority of a Councilman?’ Isaac, mildly shocked, shakes his head.

  ‘No no, don’t worry about it. I can sort it out myself.’ Jacques raises an eyebrow.

  ‘Oh really? Considering what you said earlier, your father doesn’t sound like a reasonable man. I’ve dealt with men like him before, and I know that they’ll only listen to authority.’

  ‘Please, just leave it to me, okay? I appreciate the thought, but I need to sort it out myself. My father is a rumourmonger, and he would spread word of you in a heartbeat. We both know that the last thing you need is angry villagers after you.’

  ‘Suit yourself. I shall return to camp. Good night.’ A couple of strides later, Jacques disappears underneath the dark cloak of dusk.