The pageant began a bit earlier than Nemgas expected, and so he was not too surprised when he couldn’t find either of the boys within the crowd. Nor could he see the crowd very well at first, because he was hiding back behind one of the wagons, waiting for the cue form Taboras to begin the attack upon the ‘Metamorians’ waiting in the clearing amidst the fires. This vantage provided him only a narrow view of the crowd. By moving about he could scan the entire length, but they sat beyond the fires, and so their faces were cast in deep gloom.
He was normally not so nervous before a performance, but the unexpected visit from Pelaeth, and the tale of the boy’s father taking the balls away and keeping Pelurji in his room upset him greatly. And it was clear also that the father had struck Pelaeth upon the cheek quite hard. In another hour that bruise would likely purple. And it was all because Nemgas had shown them how to juggle and lent them a few of his balls. It was one thing for a father to discipline a child, but to do so on Nemgas’s account riled him in a way he could not describe.
And so Nemgas paced back and forth, ever trying to plumb the dark mass of the crowd to find their eager faces. If they were there though, he could not find them. He truly hoped that both boys would be able to see the pageant though. It was the highlight of any visit by the Magyars, showing them all at their best. There was little in their pageant that would not delight after all, and it required the greatest of skill and attention to work properly. But as long as he worried over the fate of those two boys, he knew he would not be able to concentrate properly.
Even so, Nemgas attempted to force himself listen to the words of Taboras the storyteller. The older man was standing nearest to the crowd, regaling them all with the lives of the people in the city of Metamor, speaking of the time before the curses had struck them. It was rare for them to come across a people who had not heard something of Metamor, though most could only say that there were supposed to be demons there. By the end of a pageant, they all would know that such was not true. The simple theme of defending one’s home no matter what was one that all could understand.
The prelude was not terribly long however, for soon Taboras would introduce Nasoj and speak of the evil wizard from the far North who wished to crush the people of Metamor. But during this, none of those who fought on the side of Nasoj were actually brought out to the clearing. Instead, Taboras wove a terrible picture with his words, and when he was finished all would know the vile wizard and his minions by sight. Thus it was that Nemgas was allowed to pace for several minutes more.
“Nemgas,” a voice called to him from nearby. He recognized the flamboyant thief with a slight smile, turning his attention away from the field for a moment.
“Aye, Gamran, what dost thee want?” Nemgas asked in hushed tones. It was not likely that any of the townsfolk would hear them speak over Taboras’s booming words, but they were still cautious.
“Look who it is,” Gamran crowed, gesturing to two smaller forms that approached along the rear of the wagons. Nemgas blinked for a moment, and then smiled as he saw the two boys move into view. It was dark behind the wagons, but he could make out their forms easily enough.
“Ah, you made it! But why art thee back here?” Nemgas asked, stepping closer to them. Both boys looked up at the monstrous ogre that towered over them, their eyes growing wide in horror. In the deep shadows of the night, it was hard not to tell that what he wore was only a costume. But it had been Nemgas’s voice, so they managed to stand still. Grunting, Nemgas removed the mask much to their relief. “Why art thee back here?” he reiterated.
“Our father’s watching,” Pelurji said, his face seemingly contemptuous. “He shalt see us if we sit with the others. Can we watch from here with thee?”
Nemgas nodded, smiling more broadly. “Aye. If thou wouldst climb upon one of the wagons, the fires shouldst keep thee hidden. Lay flat as well to be sure. Let me help thee.” Nemgas felt a surge of delight, all the nervous tension in his body evaporating as he held out his gloved hands, nd hoisted each boy up onto the nearest wagon. They both laid down chins resting on crossed arms as they watched the pageant from the rear. It was not the best view to be had, but it was the one that all the Magyars ever saw of it.
Gamran gave Nemgas’s shoulder a playful shove. When Nemgas looked to him, the thief pointed at the wagon top and simply grinned widely. Nemgas gave a short laugh then, and slipped his mask back on. It was going to be a very good show that night.
Naturally Nemgas was dragged off the field after being slain by Chamag the fox warrior and his vicious black axe. Once Pelgan and Gamran had him behind the wagons, he got to his feet and removed the mask. He thanked them as they complimented on another fine death, and looked to see where the two boys were watching the show from on top of the wagon. “Didst thee enjoy that?” he called up quietly.
Pelurji turned about and dangled his head over the wagon top as if he belonged there. “‘Twas marvellous! Didst it all really happen?”
Nemgas nodded, smiling brightly. “Aye, ‘tis a true story. I hath one of my own about Metamor that I shalt be telling soon. Stay there and listen. But if thee dost not wish to get in trouble with thy father, then thou shouldst leave after I am finished.”
The boy looked disappointed by that, but he scooted back around on the wagon top until he was facing forwards once more. Nemgas then turned to Pelgan and Gamran who were still standing close by. “Where art Thelia and Amile? I thought thee wouldst hath invited them to watch.”
Pelgan rolled his eyes slightly and shook his head. Gamran though sighed heavily. “They hath declined our offer tonight. And they didst giggle when they did so. The ways of women art fraught with a peril no man shouldst be forced to endure!”
Chuckling, Nemgas held out his arms. “Then wouldst thee assist me in removing this costume? I hath a story to tell soon.”
It only took the three of them a few minutes to extricate Nemgas form the ogre costume. He carefully folded it back up and left it in a small pile next to the door of his wagon where it would be safe until he could put it away properly later that night. With the sleeves of his patch-work tunic he wiped the charcoal ring from around his eyes. It would still be smudged, but he would no longer look like a racoon. Taboras was drawing the pageant to a close, as the ‘Metamorians’ discovered just how different they had become from the curses. But their shock and dismay turned to a celebratory victory cry as they knew that they had won their battle and their freedom, no matter how changed they had become.
And as the players began to file off the field, Taboras stepped to the centre once more and bowed low. The audience applauded eagerly and for several minutes. Taboras waited as he always did for their enthusiasm to subside. Nemgas smiled slightly as he realised that neither Pelurji nor Pelaeth were clapping. Had they done so, they might have been discovered. That both of them had been smart enough to understand this pleased the Magyar.
Once the clapping subsided, Taboras held out his hands. “I thank thee for thy kind approval of this pageant. ‘Tis not the only story of Metamor that we dost possess. Now another of our kind wilt tell thee of a tale of Metamor that he hath seen with his own eyes.” Nemgas blinked at that, and there was quite a bit of murmuring from the crowd as well. A Magyar who had been to Metamor, he knew they were wondering. He had not thought that Taboras would tell them that.
Nemgas knew though that the time had come for him to speak, and so stepped out from the protection of the wagons. He nodded once to Taboras, while the old man smiled kindly to him. The storyteller then disappeared back behind the wagons himself, leaving all eyes focussed upon Nemgas. With one hand he brushed back both white locks of hair form his face, taking a moment to scan over the crowd. There were several faces he recognised, but only in passing. If the boy’s father were here, he could not tell.
“Greetings to thee people of Cheskych, I hath a tale to tell thee. But first, I hath a request of mine own to make. I hath heard much in these last few days of a hero of Cheskych, the great Pelain. It wouldst please me greatly to hear a tale of Pelain, a great man, after I tell thee of another great man.”
There was a bit of surprised murmuring in the crowd, but one voice near the middle, an older man’s voice, still firm though, called out, “What tale of Pelain dost thee wish? For a tale of thy own is all that thee requires to hear it!”
Nemgas smiled then and turned to look at the man. He did not appear as old as Taboras, but there was something venerable in his features. And Nemgas thought he saw a bit of the chiselled lines that marked the statue in the centre of the square as well. Perhaps this man was a direct descendent of Pelain, and thus, the one who would naturally tell all the tales that there were to be told of him. He did seem a bit greater in stature than his brethren seated next to him, but perhaps that was merely the flashing and flickering of the firelight playing tricks on him.
“I wilt tell thee my tale, and then I wilt ask for thy tale of Pelain. Thou shalt know which tale it is that I seek,” Nemgas said. At that the man nodded, folding his hands before him over his knees. He’d been granted his tale, now it was a matter of making his own interesting enough to deserve it.
“The tale I tell dost take place at Metamor Keep. But ‘tis not a tale of Metamor itself. ‘Tis a tale of a great man that didst travel to Metamor, a man of tremendous power. His name be Akabaieth, and he wast a priest for nearly all his life.” Just then, somebody in the audience sneezed. Nemgas paused for a moment, glancing at all the faces in the crowd, making sure that everyone had heard it. They all of course knew what that meant. The tale that they were about to hear would be a true one.
Strangely enough, despite Nemgas’s unfamiliarity with telling tales, and his often disjointed way in which he presented them, he managed to relate the tale of Patriarch Akabaieth’s ill-fated trip to Metamor Keep, all the while not revealing his own part in the proceedings. He spoke little about those around the Patriarch, except for when it was absolutely necessary. Akabaieth’s arrival and greeting of the Metamorians took him several long minutes to relate. And he spent nearly ten full minutes discussing the banquet when Akabaieth had revealed his love of sailing. All that he managed to tell, and he was fairly certain he did a good job of conveying the notion of sailing, despite the fact that the most water anyone in Cheskych had ever seen was the river flowing from their city out into the Steppe.
Nemgas found it strange to speak of the Patriarch, a man that the person who’d lived those other memories swore to avenge. Nevertheless, he managed decently, treating each episode as separately as he could, and in the proper order. Though it was not nearly as cleverly woven as Taboras or any other storyteller might arrange, he managed to highlight any scene he thought would make Akabaieth a more heroic character. And he knew, as he told of the bright day when Akabaieth began to leave Metamor, that he had succeeded.
There was a gasp of horror from the crowd when he spoke of the plot being discovered by mages at Metamor against Akabaieth’s life. Yet it brought him no joy. Even as he brought back the memories of that other person to tell his tale, he felt the anguish at the loss of such a great man. It struck him as tragic that his other half had died before being able to avenge the Patriarch. Nevertheless, he continued with his tale, speaking of the wild flights to get to Akabaieth’s aide in time.
And then, with a sick morbidity, he described the killer, how he felled the bodyguards one by one with ruthless efficacy, and then drove a sword through the heart of Akabaieth himself. There were several cries of anger from the crowd, and some of the women were crying in sorrow as they heard what had happened to that good man. Nemgas let his head hang, feeling the sorrow himself deep in his heart. It was not his concern anymore, he reminded himself but he could not shake the regret.
“And then, he wast given to the grave by fire like an officer of Whales, just as he hath always dreamed of his whole life,” Nemgas finished. It was the last he had heard of Akabaieth, or at least, the last bit the other part of him could remember. He lifted his head high to the rest of them and to the night sky. “But his memory liveth on. And he shalt ne’er be forgotten. Stories of Akabaieth shalt endure through time. Thee art but the first to hear of it, but many others wilt know it soon too.”
Taking a step back, Nemgas spread his hands wide. “‘Tis the sad tale of the death of Akabaieth of Whales. Dost thee have thy story for me now?”
Nobody said anything for several long moments. Nemgas wondered at first, and then began to fear, that he’d said something to offend the people of Cheskych. If so, they had certainly not shown it while he’d told his story. Perhaps he should not have asked for their own, or at least, not one of Pelain’s death. But he could not be certain until they acted.
But at last, he felt relief wash over him as the older man rose to his feet, stepping a few ells from the benches and amongst the fires. “Thou didst wish a tale of Pelain, one comparable to thy tale of Akabaieth. Thou shalt then hear the tale of Pelain’s death, oh Magyar.” As he stepped further into the firelit, Nemgas grew convinced that this man was of Pelain’s blood, for the familiar features were all present. Were his skin to change to marble, he would have been nearly identical to the statue on top of the fountain in the centre of the town.
The storyteller stared for a moment at Nemgas, and the Magyar felt an uncontrollable urge to fall to his knees before this man. There was something utterly undescribably powerful about him that it took all his energy to simply back away slowly, head lowered respectfully. Whatever blood was in the veins of Pelain that had made him such a legend had flown into this man as well. Were there tales of this storyteller that deserved to be heard as well?
“‘Twas late in the life of Pelain. His city wast built, his empire defended, his family prosperous. Word of a threat from the South came, word of a terrible corrupted evil that was besieging the mountains themselves. All the townsfolk thought it rumour at first, e’en Pelain was wont to dismiss it as such. But they continued, and one night, the horrible cries began.
“Yes, cries the likes of which left grown men bawling their eyes upon the ground, shivering like newborn babes tossed within the Cheswent. They pierced the night, shattering one of the great mirrors when sun’s light struck it that next day. ‘Tis why for years afterward ere the mirror was repaired we hath an hour of night after noon. And ‘twas on this first night of noon that Pelain himself did saddle both his horses and made ready to confront this evil.
“Upon his horses he hath arrayed his most resplendent barding, silver and gold beaten over an armour of bronze, with ivory handles buried deep in the metal. His helm wast fashioned in the shape of a howling wolf, fangs made from polished silver, ears lined with precious gold, standing upright. The eyes set within his helm were made from amber taken from the very woods of Cheskych. His armour was covered in overlapping gold and silver lines, each chiselled to appear the thick fur of the wolf he’d taken for his own. Across his shoulders he bore a tabard of a great dire wolf that he hath slain in his youth. His gauntlets and boots each bore claws of malachite and steel to resemble the wolf’s claws. For Pelain wast a great hunter as wast the wolf.”
The storyteller paused, his face set in a cold frown. “For two weeks Pelain didst ride Southwards along the Vysehrad. He would hath continued but for that cry at daybreak, sundering the mountains themselves. The ground buckled and shook beneath Pelain, and he fell to his bul as he watched the rock slide and stain the Earth. Where once a mountain stood now a defile lay, showing a way into the mountains.
“Pelain climbed this path, ever wary. To protect himself from the cries he stuffed cotton in his ears, doing the same for his horses. There wast no way for him to know what awaited him up those slopes, for he didst discover the ancient city once known as Carethedor, but now called Hanlo o Bavol-engro. There amidst its ruins, the evil beast he found, laying curled about its foundations, searching and searching.
“‘Twas a dragon that Pelain found. But one twisted by a terrible evil, blackened and corrupted by some lost forgotten power out of the far West. Through the city it raged, its cries deafening through the cotton. Pelain didst ne’er feel fear though, nor did his horses, and with great valour they didst charge the beast, circling and attacking so fast that the foul creature swung at both sides, seeing two where there wast but one.
“The battle was long, Pelain cutting with his sword Caur-Merripen, forged from the very mineral of the Vysehrad itself., the dragon biting and slashing with horrid claws. ‘Twas the madness of the beast and the speed of Pelain that won him that battle. The dragon, raged so great that it could do aught but attack wherever it thought it saw him, landed nary but two blows. With one final thrust, Pelain drove his sword so deep within the dragon that it pierced the black abomination twice.”
Nemgas breathed deeply then, somehow seeing the battle as it unfolded. There was a man looking slightly younger than the storyteller, dressed in the wolf-shaped armour, bearing a sword of silver and black, moving so fast that Nemgas felt his head spin. There seemed to be two of them moving about that dragon, stabbing and slashing. The dragon itself was black, a hole actually that had been torn from the world. It lashed with malicious vile at every image of the great commander, striking only at the moment of its own death.
And then the images vanished as the storyteller’s voice resumed. “What the dragon wast doing in Hanlo o Bavol-engro we shalt ne’er know. Pelain found many artifacts there that he didst collect and bring back with him down the defile. There he sold them to a passing merchant train, before returning to the city. The wounds that hath been landed upon him were mortal, and with each moment he felt their poison killing him. At the end, when he’d dug his own grave and erected his own tombstone, his wailing was as great as the dragon’s before.
“And then, still dressed for battle in his armour, he cast himself upon that grave, and remains there to this very day, buried in that ancient city that once belonged to the fair folk. So too are the bones of the dragon visible, a reminder to all of that which evil can twist. Of the artifacts that he hath brought down, none know what they were. And of the city itself, none hath e’er gone back to this day. ‘Tis a land of shadow and whispers, clouded by that evil that befell it so many years before. ‘Tis said that the city goes dark for an hour after noon as our own once did. ‘Tis also said that Pelain didst wander that range within Vysehrad for many years ere casting himself to death upon the dragon’s bones. Many things art said, but this only is known: the dragon of Hanlo o Bavol-engro didst kill Pelain of Cheskych.”
This last was said with such certain finality that Nemgas’s knees grew even weaker. He stumbled back one more step, and bowed his head low and respectfully for the storyteller. “I thank thee,” Nemgas managed to say. “Thou hast given unto me and all my kin a great gift, oh storyteller. That thou art of the line of Pelain hast become clear to me. Though thou hast not said thy name, thou shalt be known amongst the Magyars as Peloken, a kin of Pelain.”
The storyteller appeared mildly surprised by this, and also bowed his head. “Thou dost honour me oh Magyar. I shalt accept the name that thou hast given unto me. ‘Tis empty whilst all that wast of Pelain remains at the feet of the dead dragon, but I shalt accept it.” He then bowed and stepped back from the fires, returning to his seat once more.
Unsure of what else he might say, Nemgas quietly walked from the field. Once he was behind the wagons, he rested against them, breathing heavily, resting one hand upon his forehead. None of the other Magyars said anything to him just then, all of them wide-eyed. Slowly, the people of Cheskych began to rise and leave for the night, seeing as nothing else was to be performed.
“Art thee well?” Pelgan managed to ask once more of the townsfolk had left.
Nemgas nodded. “‘Tis strange, but there wast a power in that man whom I hath called Peloken that I hath rarely felt. ‘Tis something passed by blood, and grown into with manhood. I canst not say what it might be.”
A shuffling about on the roof of the wagon caught his attention though. Glancing upwards, he saw that both Pelaeth and Pelurji were scrambling down, their faces set in hard lines. Pelurji’s was marked by a confused and nearly hurt expression. “Why didst thee say those things to our father like that?” he asked.
Nemgas blinked several times then, his knees nearly buckling once more. “That wast thy father?” he finally managed to ask, quite shaken by this sudden revelation.
“Aye,” Pelaeth said, rubbing at his cheek which had indeed begun to purple. “‘Twas our father.”
Nemgas continued to stare at them both, and sure enough, as he studied their faces in the firelight, he could see the resemblance. When they both grew into manhood it would become greater still. “I didst not know that. Thou shouldst still steal my balls back from that man. Though he may hath told a good tale, ‘tis no excuse. Canst thee do this for me.”
Pelurji nodded then, his expression becoming more defiant. “Aye! We shalt steal thee thy balls back!”
He managed to smile once more to the two boys, but it was short-lived. A frown crossed his features after a moment and he asked them reproachfully, “I thought I told thee to leave after I had finished my tale. Why didst thee stay?”
The two boys looked at each other, shuffling their feet a bit. “‘Twas a story about Pelain,” Pelaeth finally said. “‘Tis rare to hear our father speak of him so. He hast said that we look too much like our mother and not enough like Pelain.”
Grunting, though unsure why, Nemgas asked, “And what dost thy mother think of this?”
Pelurji shook his head. “She’s dead.”
The bluntness of the statement took him aback. “Well, thee ought to return ere thy father discovers that thee art missing. Ja!” Neither of the boys argued at that, and took off at a run around the backs of the wagons. Nemgas stood silently for a moment watching them go.
“Strange,” was all that Pelgan could manage to say.
“Stories within stories,” Gamran uttered softly, himself strangely subdued.
“Aye,” Nemgas said, nodding slowly. “Cheskych art filled with stories within stories. As too Vysehrad. Let us now to sleep, for I canst not think anymore.”
They both nodded, though Gamran managed a slight smile. “Aye, to sleep. But first thou must tell me why they need to steal thy balls.”
“I shalt, I shalt,” Nemgas assured him, climbing up on the wagon and retrieving his ogre costume. Strangely enough, it no longer seemed half as frightful.
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