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“What shall our toast be, hmm? To the long sun, the health of the Queen, or…”
rrrrrMMMMggghhhh intoned the giant lord, towering over the speaker, the bonfire’s light barely reaching his obscured face despite him lounging as low as possible.
“Indeed! A fine choice,” said Siegward. “To the unbroken ring of friendship!” He raised his bowl of steaming soup, and the giant followed, a stewpot the size of a bathtub looking like a delicate teacup in his hand.
The two drank and enjoyed a comfortable moment of silence. Siegward’s nose tingled as he smelled the hint of petrichor. There had been no storm, however.
KKKtttRRR?
“Yhorm, my friend, that is an understatement. This gives me pause, and I feel that such a stew requires a refreshing brew,” he said, chuckling at his own amusement before reaching into a worn pack that slumped there at his side. Siegward produced a brass-bound wooden stein as stout and round as his own armor. “Siegbrau, I call it. Even a modest man may christen his own creation, yes?”
The Giant Lord nodded slowly. BBBGGGBBB
“Of course! In that year a foul creature ravaged Astora, and the plague of the undead took root in Thorolund, while in dear Catarina we faced famine. Famine! Can you believe it?”
tttHHHHHHHHRRRf
“Rain soaked everything to the point of flooding, then a cruel heat took over. Crops and livestock died, the barley malted in the fields with no intervention by human hands. The hop crop was a pale, ashen blue, no more fragrant than the distant memory of pine. Did we continue making ale that year? Of course, and though there were doubts, rumblings, that we were cursed… well, bravery can be shown other places than the battlefield, dear Yhorm.”
VVVVvvvBBBBB
“Oh goodness, no! The ale was barely drinkable.” Siegward peered intently at the stein as if it were a snake instead of a product of the cooper’s art. “But it is said that paucity is the mother of ingenuity, and that is true, for it is how my siegbrau came to be.
“My undead brothers fill their goblets from the bonfire until it sloshes from the rim- they drink their heat straight, and while that may warm the bones, it does little for the soul. Then, I recalled a story I’d heard long ago about the Divine Blessings sold by those pardoners one sees following pilgrims upon the road.”
bbbMMMMbbbmmmmmRRRRRL, rumbled Yhorm, who pounded the ground in irritation, sending a column of sparks from the bonfire to the sky.
“Mountebanks one and all! A lesson in avarice, but perhaps another time. Did you know only a single Divine Blessing was ever given benediction? A curious loophole… done correctly a single drop of that blessed water in a bottle of brandy or bitter tonic transmutes them into a new bottle of the holy stuff! And a drop of that into a new draught, and so on… but that was my revelation. I put a scant spoonful of blazing estus into a keg of the jakes-water that was that year’s ale, and…” Siegward dug a thick, chipped thumbnail under the lid of the stein and popped it open, before taking a swig. He groaned in satisfaction, and Yhorm leaned closer for a good look.
RRRRtttGGGhhhhK
“Yes. Satisfactory, may I say. Or even better than satisfactory, I am told. Have I told you the story of how I shared a drink with the ghosts of Catarina?” Siegward wiped his damp brow and swigged again. “There I was, having a bit of think next to a bonfire much like this one, and feeling quite lonely. Before long, a stranger joined me at the fire- garbed in armor much like mine, though antiquated. He was translucent and glowing, like a specter from a less cheerful fireside tale. Soon he was joined by another in armor, in size and movement like a maiden. They sat next each other by the fire, and soon more ghostly countrymen joined us, none saying a word. At last a more substantial fellow arrived, clad in an ill-fitting suit of armor. He spoke, and I could tell by his accent and rude speech that he was no true son of Catarina. Called himself an onion, would you believe-”
NNNBNBBN interrupted the Giant Lord.
“Ohh, bosom comrade, my gravest apologies. You know how my people love to talk, and myself the worst of the lot.” His fallen expression reverted swiftly to a grin. “Please. Speak your tale and I shall listen with vigor.”
There was a deep, comfortable silence, deep enough that even a garrulous Catarinan could sink into. A spark here and there emerged from the bonfire with a muted pop, until at last the Giant Lord adjusted his crouched position with an audible creaking. With surprising agility Yhorm rose to his feet, noble head disappearing into the upper darkness of the night. A glint of eyes peered down to Siegward.
MRRRRRRRH. Yhorm gestured broadly, and after a moment the man below him stood as well.
“Hmmm, ah yes, just a moment my friend.” Siegward’s gaze followed the finger- as large as a man’s arm- back through the darkness to the view behind them.
The profaned Capital loomed large, its lights flickering with distance and the peculiar character of their fire. Siegward was fonder of Yhorm than of the giant’s citadel, but he could not deny the architectural beauty of the place. Tall campanile, their bells silent, connected to minarets and donjons of exquisite complexity by arcades high and stone bridges low. The menage of styles reflected the history of the nations that had come and gone along the valley with its great rocky cliffs and sandy foothills. A truly awesome site, and yet…
gbgbgbbmm, mumbled Yhorm, his frustration audible.
“Think nothing of it, friend. I am not so handy with the signs myself but I will follow.”
The Giant Lord nodded, and thrust two pinching fingers down into the clenched fist of his other hand, before pointing to where a chin would be beneath the darkness of his hood. The enormous digits rose to mime the shape of a crown. After a moment’s pause, he held both hands up with waggling fingers, then a flurry of signs.
“That last sign was beyond my humble savvy, but-”
GGFFFfrrr. “Ahh, friend. I understand. Coronation, and in my eye you could not have been more worthy, but it was… a disappointment?” Yhorm nodded. “Then came the unstoppable fire… a betrayal.” A more solemn nod followed and Siegward followed again silently.
Yhorm held both arms aloft and mimed the bashing of a sword on shield before dropping both arms to his side in despair. In the silence that followed a lonely cry issued from one of the Capital’s towers, answered from all over the city by a multitude of chants. Perhaps these orisons had once been inspiring, but now held a sinister timbre.
“Those vestals…” There was a subtle creaking of armor as Siegward shuddered. “Please continue, friend.”
Yhorm turned back to the bonfire and pointed at the huge machete there, leaning against an outcropping of rock. It was pitted and marred, it’s edge almost more nicks than true edge. Siegward gazed on it. “Your great-sword and shield were the arms of legend. None could compare in power and justice to the mighty Yhorm, protector of his people from all threats.”
The Giant Lord shook his head. BBBRRRRrg.
“That blade there may not be the regalia you wielded before but it is the hand of the king that matters, not what it grasps.” Yhorm pounded one fist against his leg, no sign other than that of impotent rage. Siegward was taken aback.
GgGKKKlllll. A giant right hand bounced from the giant’s chin down to his left held flat, then made a bird’s beak gesture down into a fist. The beak then pinched Yhorm’s wrist and his small friend sighed.
“Of course. Of course, it is my shame not to heed your explanation immediately. What friend would I be to ignore your meanings. We sons of Catarina take joy in hearty foodstuffs, but almost as much in the wisdoms of war. I could think of nothing but an aegis against invaders. Yet…”
Yhorm nodded, the red pinpoints blinking every so briefly. HHHRRr.
“Such a rough blade could not protect your people from threats inside the walls. From themselves. Such a blade is the tool of the headsman. Or of the butcher!”
FTTTHHhhh. Yhorm thumbed where his chin should be, then that hand turned flat and smoothed out its opposite. Both hands then grazed the side of the Giant Lord’s head before making a swirling or twisting motion in front of his chest.
“Do not say that, my friend. Oh… do not say it! The failure is not yours. There is a saying in the codices, read and translated by men of letters more learned than I shall ever be. ‘tis a tale of cancer… and the knife. Are you a chirurgeon, noble Yhorm?” The red eyes blinked. “Nor am I. I have always been more comfortable with a stout blade in my hands, which are too clumsy for scalpels.”
KKGGGgmmh?
“You jest, great King. I could never bear a crown as well as you. I may be a slow deep thinker in most cases, but the hot blood rises in the face of conniving courtiers. Like that sorceror. A wizard’s robe should bear no thread of gold. One leer from that blackguard and I’d clout him in the face. Siegward of Catarina would be in irons and a cell within the first day of rule!” He chuckled in spite of the dark turn of conversation, and Yhorm clapped in what passed for humor.
TTTHhhhnnN.
There was a slight crackle and a waft of petrichor again. The two friends turned again towards the massive machete, and leaning against the rock as well, another blade. This one was a zweihander in the simple, classic style. When first Siegward had sit down to sup with his giant friend, the sword had been large enough for a giant to wield, and he had barely been able to stand its presence from the corner of his eye.
Something about it bothered the Catarinan and he’d avoided looking at it as best he could, but over the course of the conversation it had seemed to shrink in his peripheral vision. That intuition had been correct, for looking at it now the zweihander was clearly proportioned for a human warrior’s grip. The sword briefly crackled with bluish arcs of lightning, as if acknowledging Siegwards notice.
“Hmmm, I did not avert my gaze to disrespect you, good Yhorm. ‘twas out of simple fear. Fear I might be too jolly a sort to bear this burden.” Siegward’s face fell. “I will take it up, of course. No true friend would deny such a request.”
The Giant Lord’s hands sprung into action again, showing a pinch between flat hands, then those flat hands waving in place before face and breast.
“I… Siegward, of the Knights of Catarina, make this promise. Let the sun shine upon this duty you ask of me. May the ring of friendship forever turn.” Yhorm slapped his knees and there was almost a twinkle of glee in the crimson glow of his eyes.
Bbbbddddk.
“Indeed, I turned a sacred oath into a sacred toast. Almost as if I planned it… hmm. You know the master planner that I am!” Siegward gave a broad smile to his friend. “Then rejoin me at the warm fire, dear Yhorm, for a refreshing flagon. The only thing to do, really, after a nice oath.”
Yhorm strode his bulk back to the bonfire, which again ejected embers and sparks in response to his tread. Siegward kept pace with him and plopped down next to his helmet and stein. Yhorm continued past the glow of the fire, laying stout hands on his enormous machete and wresting it free from the ground. Bits of gravel and dust rained down as the blade made its journey vertically to rest on one of the Giant Lord’s lofty shoulders.
NNNLLlllrr.
Siegward’s eyes tightened. “These cursed sparks make my eyes water. But fret not, my friend, you have a kingly duty to fulfill, and a long road to take you there. We shall sup and sip again, and regale each other with ribald tales of our adventures. Until then, Yhorm, may the sun shine on you.”
The Giant Lord nodded silently, then turned and left the small yet cozy circle of light.
Quiet minutes past as Siegward stared intently past the flame, his eyes still watering from the smoke. At last he turned aside to take up his stein. The Knight of Catarina looked boldly upon the zweihander leaning nearby. Undoubtedly it was going to be much heavier than its physical size would indicate. He raised the stein high, then took a heroic swig.
Siegward wiped foam from his mustache. “I shall not fail.”