"Please. I don't mean any harm. I'm just lost and saw you from a distance."
Nyori saw his face more clearly. The man was old and pitiable; his face dry and wrinkled as old discarded leather. He hunched his shoulders, looking birdlike with his lanky limbs and long, beaklike nose.
Marcellus kept the sword level at the man's chest. "How is it that you have come to be where the bravest men avoid and no town or village resides? Speak quickly, or I swear I will strike you where you stand."
Nyori's heart pounded as she stared. She was sure Marcellus would do exactly as he claimed. His voice was no longer gentle as it had been only moments earlier. It grated like a whetstone on a blade when he addressed the stranger. She recalled the look in his eyes when he slew the Bruallians. He was not just a comforting protector. He was a man of swift and sudden violence as well, something she had allowed herself to forget.
"I was a prisoner." The man cautiously eyed the blade. "I make my living as a meister, entertaining the good people of the villages west of here, on the border of Runet." His voice suddenly grew livelier. "I juggle, eat fire, perform magic, and tell the best and greatest of stories. I—"
"I have no interest in stories," Marcellus said. "Other than how you came to be out here."
"Ah, yes. Of course." The man kept his eyes on the sword only inches from his heart. "My name is Murdon Abchanchu. I was between villages when a band of marauders from Bruallia swept through and captured me along with others from the nearby villages. The dogs in Aracville and Bruallia do this from time to time, run raids along the border."
He paused to spit. "But it was not my destiny to die as a slave. Two nights ago we were crossing the Dragonspine when we stopped to rest. I awoke to the sound of screaming. The shadows had come alive with wings, glittering eyes, and fangs that ripped open a man's throat like a dog does a rabbit. How many there were I could not guess, but in no time the marauders turned from warriors to bloodless corpses.
"One of the prisoners liberated the keys from a slain guard, and we freed ourselves, running into the wild with the fiends above us in hot pursuit. When they closed down on us, I knew my luck had ended. But it was my companion they snagged, lifting him away as his screams rang in my ears."
The old man sighed heavily. "I have been lost since then, with naught to eat but insects and the dew off of plants to sip. Just spare me a crust of bread and a few drops of water, point me in the direction of the nearest civilized place, and I will burden you no more."
Nyori took a good look at Murdon. His graying hair was long and unkempt, his clothes ragged and filthy. He looked like a man who had been taken prisoner, as he said.
Finally, Marcellus sheathed his sword. "I apologize, friend. Times are strange, and evil things indeed stalk the night of this place. You must be famished. Sit, please. We do not have much, but what we have we will gladly share." He gestured to Nyori. "Come, welcome our guest."
Murdon's eyes seemed to flash metallic in the dying light as he turned his attention to Nyori. "Here in this wilderness flowers still bloom, I see." His voice was rich and soothing. She felt foolish as she stammered her introduction, though she could not say why. He was just an old man, after all. She smiled as Murdon took her hand. His grip was surprisingly strong, and his nails long and clean.
Marcellus stood close and placed his hands on Nyori's shoulders. "I am Perris, from Eloren. This Shama is under my protection. I too have escaped the bonds of imprisonment, and head to Runet. Let us sit as friends and share a meal."
Nyori realized that Marcellus still did not trust the man at all. The omitting of his true name and destination confirmed that. There was something too about how he said the word protection. It was as if he were sending a message. She wished she could tell him Murdon was harmless. But men were like animals sometimes, growling and bristling at one another. She squeezed his Marcellus' hand, but he ignored her, giving Murdon a fixed stare as the man settled down and leaned back against a stack of ancient rock.
"Amazing," Murdon said, "to think that the ancient city of Riallo once stood proudly right here where we sit. A grand city of dazzling spires and towers. Built by men apprenticed to the Aelon, so it was a marvel indeed. Right now we sit in what was the Grand Hall of the main palace, where the last king, Vali Ermadon made his decision to war alone against the power of Stygan the Dreadlord, an act that plunged his kingdom to its doom. Now all that remains is this rubble." He ran his hand along the aged stone.
"Not many even remember that Riallo existed, but I know. No tale is unknown to me. I can tell you stories of ancient legend and lore as though I was a witness. Tales of Talan and the fall of the Elious. Tales of the dawn of men, and the first contact with the Aelon. I can tell you stories of young Endran Lucretius, the lion that roared in Kaerleon, and the adventures of his legendary knights. From the heroes of the Wine Wars to the Norlanders and their clashes with the giant Jonarr of Glacia, I know them all. I shall tell you of whatever you desire if you wish."
He spoke to them both, but Nyori felt that he looked at her especially, and felt color rise to her cheeks. Her mind felt hazy, but it wasn't an unpleasant sensation. She looked at Marcellus, but he seemed absorbed in removing the packs from his grunnien, checking their rations.
Murdon gathered some sticks and twigs and placed them in a pile. "I thought a little fire would be nice if my host does not mind."
Marcellus gave him an unreadable look. "I have no flint to make the spark. But if you have some way to conjure a flame, by all means."
Nyori watched as Murdon waved his hands around the pile. Sparks danced around his fingers. He grinned as he thrust his hands into the brush. Flame bloomed from the twigs and leaves, which popped and cracked as they burned. He leaned back with a contented smile on his face.
Nyori stared in delight. "Are you sure you're not a sorcerer?"
He laughed. "I would not say that. In my times I've lived by any means, and I spent some time among the traveling Rhoma, who taught me a little on the nature of fire, as well as a few magician tricks that serve me well from time to time."
Marcellus approached with some dried meat and bread. "Eat, my friend. It is not much, but it's better than nothing."
Murdon took the food absentmindedly. "Indeed so, warrior. Many thanks to you for your kindness." The food remained in his lap as a smile creased his weathered face. "Shall I recite a song for the lady?"
She nodded excitedly. A faint, almost inaudible voice wondered why she felt so light-headed and giddy. She ignored it, lost in the childhood memory of sitting in a crowd with her parents as they listened in wonder at the tales from a traveling meister. Murdon looked much the same despite his griminess as he sat up, hands placed as though holding an invisible harp.
"This would be the dirge of the women of Riallo, sung as they watched their men go to their certain deaths, six thousand warriors riding against a host of a hundred thousand of the bestial Gorian, Fandred and savage outlanders who served Stygan the Dreadlord. Listen and you may hear the outcry of the sorrow of Riallo, as they strode boldly to their bitter end."
With a voice far more melodic than would be believed of a man of his appearance, he sang.