Jehoram twisted and turned, unable to sleep. The ship creaked and groaned around him, the rough seas battered it like a cat with a mouse. The lone light of a solitary lamp barely illuminated the underbelly of the cargo ship. What little light there was glinted in the eyes of the nervous farm animals. The stink of their fear was lost in the smell of human filth, neither of which bothered Jehoram anymore as he had been copped up with it for weeks now. He coughed and shifted suddenly causing the hammock to rock alarmingly. It was still dark outside from what he could tell, his stint at the ores had yet to start. He rolled over and drifted back into uneasy sleep.
**********
He was a child again running hollering through the streets pursued by guards. They were no match for him, weighed down by their chainmail and shields. Deftly he dodged down an alleyway and leapt over a pile of refuse. He shouted with glee at their muffled curses as he pulled ahead. His haste became his downfall however. A stray mongrel darted out in front of him causing him to slide and trip. Pain shot up his leg from his ankle. He looked down to see it twisted at a strange angle. The shouts of villainous delight came from the guards as they saw their fallen prey. Fear paralysed Jehoram as he saw his fate coming for him. But his elder brother had other plans. Running up behind he had seen what had happened and had taken a shortcut to over take them. Now he stood at the side of the road and casually pushed a barrel into their path causing them all to trip and collide into each other, ending up in one giant pile of metal, bodies and cursing. Jehoram tried to hide his tears as his brother half carried, half dragged him to safety.
Now he was a few years older and sat at the dinner table swinging his legs. They almost touched the ground which he was very proud off. His brother sat to the left and was looking with concern at the three adults on the other side of the table. They were all talking very loudly and occasionally pointed at him. His mother and father were both speaking fast and aggressively at his uncle, which was strange he thought, as his uncle did not come round anymore. His brother turned to him and whispered,
“ Watch out for uncle, he's not allowed around here for a reason”.
With a start his uncle jumped up, and swept towards the door with a single backwards glance at Jehoram.
It was autumn now and he sat in a rickety chair with a slate and a piece of chalk in hand. His mother had sat him down a few weeks ago and explained to him that they would pay for lessons in writings and such as she new he had the potential to get a real education.
“Education will set you free” she had told him “you're the first in our family to have a talent for words and numbers, you'll be able to make a good life for yourself and your family”.
His brother now worked with his father on the docks to pay for his lessons. Guilt made Jehoram work hard.
The next year he was thirteen. He remembered his birthday more vividly than any other day in his life. He remembered walking home from his tutor, cursing at his shoes which were falling apart. He opened the door to their small house in the slums. He remembered it was cold inside, so cold. He saw his mother hunched in a chair, crying. He saw his brother trying to comfort her, his face drawn. She looked up at him.
“Jehoram! My son, come to me”.
Cautiously he walked over to her and asked what was the matter.
“Your father...he's left. Jehoram, my child, my son. You are the only one now who can save this family”.
He never saw his father again.
The sound of racking coughing came from the room next door. He sat there, quill in hand staring at a blank piece of parchment. When the next fit of coughs came he cringed at the sound and stepped outside. His brother was walking slowly down the street, he looked tired now, older. A wave of greeting was exchanged between the two. They both sat down on a nearby stone bench. His brother yawned and stretched out his worn arms and callused hands to the evening light.
“I spoke with a few people today, down at the counting house. They say that they may be willing to take you on next year.”
Jehoram said nothing. The sound of horse coughing drifted out of the house. His brother looked up with surprise.
“She's sick again then?” He sighed. “Farther's departure has been hard on her.” He sighed again and looked down on Jehoram's expressionless face.
“I know the feeling Jehoram, the feeling of being powerless. Just don't let it lead you to do something stupid.”
He playfully punched his arm and walked inside.
He remembered now why Arnax had such a fearsome reputation. This wasn't like when his father left, as he had taken his things with him. His brother's possessions were still strewn about the house when he never came home. They held a small wake for him, though of course there was no body. Even his uncle was there, his mother not having the strength to send him away. She was worse now, a husk of the women she had once been. Jehoram could no longer stand to look at her. His uncle could though and winked at her then at Jehoram. After the service he walked up to him with a grin.
“Jehoram my boy, I would have a word”.
**********
He sat up suddenly bashing his head against a low hanging rafter. He swore loudly causing shouts and curses to erupt from those still trying to sleep. He wiped the cold sweat from his face and rolled over sighing. Drearily his eyelids slowly closed , his last vision, the worn dark wooden ceiling.
**********
He was sixteen now, older, wiser in the ways of the world. He didn't understand why his parents had disliked his uncle so much, in his time of need he had taken him under his wing. Hallucinogenics and the like were dealt to him so that he could sell them on for a profit. He was grateful to his uncle, this was a good source of income. The counting house was a long distant dream now, a relic of a happier time. He still told his mother that that was where he worked, bedridden as she was she had no way of knowing. He gave her this one small gift, and smiled sadly at her foolishness. No one from the slums had ever gotten out to make a better life for themselves, he had gone the way that most went at his age.
“Jehoram my boy, come over here for a moment”.
He walked swiftly into the room where the voice had come from, eager to please his uncle. It was a bare whitewashed, cramped affair with a steel table in the middle. A man whom Jehoram had never seen before was held down there by two burly thugs. His uncle welcomed him with open arms.
“Jehoram my son we have a slight problem here that perhaps you might be able to solve”.
Jehoram raised any eyebrow quizzically, unsure of what was to be asked of him. His uncle grinned.
“This man here” he pointed to the one held on the table, “has brought dishonour to me and my brothers. This is the third time he is late with payment, something which is unthinkable. Do I, no we, not have to eat? To feed our families? Yet you deny us even that”.
He pointed a long delicate finger at the man, who struggled violent. His eyes swivelling madly.
“He is such a sad, unhappy man, never smiling. But perhaps we can change that”.
He produced a rectangle shard of metal, about an inch in width and one and a half in length. The two thugs grinned and forced the mans mouth open. His uncle walked slowly over, as if savouring the mans fear and anguish. Carefully he placed the piece of metal in the mans mouth.
“Jehoram, come over here if you would”.
Jehoram jumped at being mentioned. Slowly, reluctantly he approached his uncle. He knew what was being asked of him. His eyes became moist, sure he had ruffed up a few people before, gotten into a few fights. Who hadn't? But this, this was to much. The man looked at him pleadingly. His own vision shook, the only thing he could see now was his uncles brilliantly white teeth.
“Jehoram” his uncle whispered, “make him smile”.
It was winter when his mother died. She had been sick for so long, but it still came as a shock. They were all gone, he was alone. As if reading his thoughts, he felt the cold touch of his uncles hand on his shoulder. Strange, he thought, how a man at the peak of his health could be so cold.
“You are not alone Jehoram. You are one of us now, god's forgotten children.”
Jehoram looked up at him, his eyes dead, emotionless.
“Jehoram my child, my son. No...his son. You are an agent of his power weather you know it or not. I saw the potential when you were but a child. Why do you think you parents tried to keep me away? The feared what I would tell you, show you, make you into. It gets easier with time, the killing, the torture, you know that now, I can tell by your eyes. You think everything I asked of you was to do with simple drugs? No, you served a higher purpose”.
Jehoram turned to face him. Should he be feeling something? Betrayal? Resentment? No, he didn't care, he stopped caring a long time ago. When his father left, when his brother disappeared, that man's face...his mother's death. He had felt so powerless, but not now.
“You're a changed man Jehoram, for now you are indeed a man, no longer a child. His man”.
His punch came swiftly and unexpectedly, taking his uncle in the jaw sending him flying. He looked back at him with dazed shock, then smiled that smile of his.
“Good, there is still some spirit left in you, come, you have much to see”.
The temple was strange. Everyone know of it of course. It was spoken about in hushed whispers. Few that entered left. Jehoram coughed as the incisee entered his lungs, blurring his vision and thoughts. The led him down dark twisted corridors, these dark cloaked women. The only light was the gleam off his uncles teeth. Soon they entered a chamber, similar to the one he had been in over a year ago. Though this one was built with stone that conveyed a feeling of ancient pain eternal. A women lay bound to the table. She was dressed in rags, her once blonde hair now knotted and grimy. One of the dark cloaked women handed him a curved ceremonial dagger silently. Then they began to sing. Their voices where angelic, beautiful. His uncle weeped openly. Jehoram just stood there looking at the blade. The bound woman began to moan in fear. His strike was swift, precise, efficient. His uncle was right, it did get easier over time.
“So it is done” his uncle sighed, “ I shall miss you nephew”.
Jehoram just shrugged.
“My heart swells with pride when I think that our family continues this fine tradition, though it pains me to see you go. Remember the priestess's words”.
Jehoram nodded then turned to the dock without a backwards glance.
A scruffy sailor worked on tieing knots in a thick piece of rope. His was unshaven and bare footed, moving gracefully about the piles of rope. He looked up when Jehoram approached.
“Ahh, you the oarsman?”
Jehoram looked back at the city. Dusk was settling in now, illuminating the trails of smoke drifting up form a multitude of chillies. He imagined all those families gathering round the warmth of the fire.
“Yes” he said.
**********
*A battered journal bound in worn red leather lies before you. The pages are made of a faded yellow parchment and consist of drawings, letters and journal entries. Written on the inside of the front cover is the crossed out word, “Morsus” followed by the new word, "Raven".*
I
I write this now not so that those who read it may judge or understand me. There is nothing left for that. It is merely a means to clarify my own thoughts. A gift from my uncle.
I have been staying in the port town of Fort Vehl plying my trade as a mercenary. Its a stinking cess pit of human suffering where the strong prey on the weak...just like home. The followers of Rofirein make their home there to try and impose their will on the lawless town. They have their uses.
I met a strange pair on the outskirts of Haven. I believe they called themselves Duchess and Nastor, judging by their dress and hidden faces I can guess that they were elves of a particular variety. I travelled with them for a while, entering a series of caves infested with Umber hulks. The sickening crunch of their chitin exoskeleton under my great sword was almost musical. Like typical elves their choice of fighting was cowardly. One stood from afar and flung spells of magic, the other chose the backstabing approach. I guess a certain amount of respect is due, they were effective. Though the knowledge that I could snap their weak spines with one hand makes me smile.
I left them when we reached Hlint to make my way south again. The roads are dangerous these days, infested with bandits. I would have thought that fully armed I would not have been a target. I thought wrong.
They came at me like bloodcrazed animals, their pitiful scraps of armour glinted in the light. I have found that the beauty of the great sword, my adopted weapon of choice, is its reach. A single roundhouse swing finished them off with ease. All but a single archer who seeing the fate of his comrades wisely chose to flee, that is in till a crossbow bolt to the leg spoiled his plans. I took my time walking up to his sprawled body. With the tip of my boot I rolled him over. He stank of fear, tears falling freely from bloodshot eyes. Very slowly I brought my face close to his and whispered softly in his ear, “and you will shed tears of scarlet”. My blade did the rest.*A number of blotches and crossed out words follow*
Mercy is for the weak.
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