The sun was low. The western sky was ablaze with a dark crimson, slowly fading to a light purple. In the east, the sky was dark already with sparkling stars beginning to wink into existence. Nayru's Dew, as his brothers called them. They were gifts from the goddesses, guardians of light to ward of the cold loneliness of the dark. They watched vigilantly from their place in the vast firmament. In the south a dark mass of heavy storm clouds dominated the sky, lanced by silvery threads of lightning. A warm southerly breeze brought with it the smell of rain, stark and earthy. Thunder rolled across the plains and the mountains, the forests and the streams.
Allar paid no attention to the oncoming storm, however. He sat cross-legged under a willow tree on top of a green hillock, the long grass a wall around him. His back was as straight as a fence post and his eyes were closed. He was deep in meditation, one with the world. He could hear a grasshopper chirping, an Elk bugling into the wind, a fox digging a burrow. He could feel the sadness of a woman who had just lost her husband, the excitement of a man who was hot on the trail of a boar, the happiness of two boys swatting at each other with wooden swords. He could feel everything, every sound and every taste and every smell.
But what was this? Something, barely perceptible, very distant yet very...cold. He had never felt something so cold before. It brooded and waited and thoughts of revenge and hatred rushed through its mind. Such anger...such raw fury. And then it was gone, as quickly as it had come. And then the vision came, of a blue stone glowing and pulsating with warmth and power. If what he had felt before was cold, this was as hot as a sword blade taken from the forge.... And then his eyes opened and his feelings and thoughts were once again his own.
He stood from his position on the ground and swept the dust from his baggy white pants. The storm was closer now, and he needed to find shelter before dusk gave way to night. He gathered up his pack and his staff and made his way through the long grass and down the gentle slope. There was a village about three miles ahead, a traveler on the road had told him. He hoped he would find a monastery there, he had no wish to stay in an inn again. Inns were too crowded, filled with raucous laughter and drunken revelry. In a monastery of his order he could find peace to practice his martial arts and study his psalms. And above all he could contemplate the task that had been set before him.
He had been traveling for four weeks. He had departed his home of 22 years under orders from the Grand Priest: Retrieve Nayru's Tear and protect it from those evil ones who wished to use its power to bring back the evil one, who's name shall not be spoken. He had accepted the task graciously, anxious to protect the Tear in the name of the Goddesses, the mothers of the earth. They had granted him the vision of the stone that he must find, as they did everyday during his meditations.
He had been chosen because of his adeptness in the Kiatan style of Martial Arts. He had devoted fifteen years of his life mastering the style, becoming one with his inner spirit. He could wield a quarterstaff or sword with deadly precision, and focus his body and spirit in such away that he could feel no pain. And during the time of his training he had come to love his Three Mothers above all else, with all his might and mind and spirit. He had learned their teachings, and devoted himself to the cause of serving them. And in his servitude he had learned wisdom, and humility, and love for all living things that breathed and grew and felt. He was content.
The trail to the village gradually left the greenery of the deep vales between the snow-crowned peaks and wound its way upward along a rocky ridge. Allar jogged along the winding trail tirelessly, taking advantage of the failing light to admire the beauty around him. He was within the Rachla mountain range, surrounded by tall jagged peaks that took on the dull reddish color of the sunset. The trail was rough, but his legs were experienced and he hopped and weaved around rocks and other obstructions almost mindlessly.
He came within sight of the village just as night's embrace was nearly complete. It sat in a saddle between two high peaks, hard against the side of a rushing stream that wound downward and fell in misty waterfalls where there were steep drops. Golden lights spread all about, marking the houses and buildings. Allar made his way down the trail to the village.
It was called Härnöhamn, if the hand painted sign at the gate was true. It was small, smaller than it looked from up high. There was but one small, wheel-rutted road that ran through it, though some smaller trails broke away to houses that were on a higher level than the road. Most of the villagers were warm and snug in their homes, perhaps sitting by the fire and listening to fairy-tales, or enjoying dinner with family and friends. He did come across some that wandered through the streets. He saw one man pushing a cart full of bread, and another driving a dozen sheep into a pen. They were a tall, fair-haired people, probably with Calatian blood. He must have looked quite strange to them, being a slender monk with a bald head.
He inquired if there was a monastery here, and wasn't surprised to learn that there was not. He was shown the way to a small inn, however. It was by the side of the rushing stream, beside a rope bridge that spanned the cold water. A water wheel stretched out into the stream, turning and creaking as the fast current caught it. It was in good order, with new thatch on the roof and whitewashed walls. Merry music drifted from the common room, a flute and perhaps a harp.
He entered to find the place almost full, though only a few of the patrons looked to be travelers. Pipe smoke was heavy in the air, and the only light came from three torches along the wall and the blazing fireplace. The rest were villagers that had come to the inn for a cup of ale and good song. The innkeeper was a thickset woman with black hair, held back with a tight bun.
She looked at him queerly. "I'll wager that you are one o' them Kiran monks?" It was more of a statement than a question really, but Allar nodded anyway.
"You'll get a room, but I feel it be my duty to warn you. People in this village still worship the old gods. They'll not take kindly to your sort."
Allar sighed. Acceptance was a heavy cup to drink from, and most people in this world would rather go thirsty and hold tight to their spite than swallow something new. "I plan to stay only one night." He said.
"Best that way. I want no trouble under my roof, if you have a hunger I'll send a meal to your room. Best not be seen in the common room."
Allar nodded with sullen agreement. He tossed the woman a silver and let her lead him to his room. It was modest and small, but still much larger than his room had been back in the monastery. He found great relief when he took of the heavy pack and sat down on the bed. Allar was pleasantly surprised to find that the plush mattress on the bed was stuffed not with straw, but feathers. He could hear the stream through the walls, rushing ever downward. A small circular window looked out on the water wheel, casting shifting shadows into the room with each turn.
A honey-haired servant came soon after the innkeeper left. She didn't answer when he greeted her, swiftly going about her business of starting a fire in the stove underneath the bed. It would keep him warm on this cold night. He tried to thank her, but again she paid him no heed, leaving as abruptly as she came.
His dinner came not long after. The platter was laden with more food than he could ever eat in one helping. A roast duck, a freshly caught trout, three kinds of cheeses, a large piece of flat bread, a steaming hot baked potato with butter and garlic, and a cup of ale to wash it down. He ate no more than half of the great feast, and wrapped what he didn't eat in cloth so that he could finish it on the road.
With his belly full and his body warmed by the stove he lit the lamp that sat on the table near his bed and took the heavy, leather-bound book of psalms out of his pack. He sat and read for nearly two hours before he found that his eyes were too weary to go on. Sleep came to him quickly, and he basked in the undreaming stupor deep into the night, until he was awoken by sounds coming from the other side of the door.
He could hear a man and a woman's voice, and the shuffle of feet, and the sound of a struggle. He stood from his bed and found his shirt folded on the table by the lamp, he slipped it on and went to investigate. The sounds came from down the hall, where a big man was trying to push a woman into one of the rooms. The woman was trying to get away, but the man blocked any escape with his broad shoulders and big arms.
"What's the matter, woman? Don't you want this? I've seen the looks you have been givin' me all night. I know when a woman wants me." His voice was a drunken slur.
The woman was the servant who had kindled his fire earlier that night. Her eyes were wide with desperation and fear. Allar needed no more provocation.
When he touched the man's shoulder he whirled around. "What do you want, monk? Mind your business." He shoved him, hard, but Allar staggered back without losing his feet.
"Leave the woman alone." Allar said.
This infuriated the man even more. "Do you know who you're dealin' with, monk?" He drew himself up proudly, pounding his chest with his meaty fist. "I am Ægir, son of Æthir. No one tells me what to do!"
"I have no wish to fight you. Just leave the woman be, she is terrified." Allar said. The woman had pressed herself against the wall, watching with wide eyes.
"Fight me? Don't think your Three Whores can protect you from the fury of Ægir! My god is Rügar, Lord of War and Plunder. I strike with all his strength and fury!"
Even after suffering the profane title the man had given the Three Goddesses Allar didn't attack. He would not be the aggressor, and it turned out that he didn't have to be. The man directed a wild punch at Allar's face, with as much force as he could muster. But the man was drunk, and drunkenness hindered accuracy.
Allar crouched into the defense position of Ulahe, and caught the man's wrist. As swiftly as a strike of lightning he directed a clenched fist hard into Kihua on the man's sternum. The man gasped as the wind from his lungs escaped from his chest. Not half a second after the first blow landed Allar's upturned palm took him hard in the nose. The bone cracked and the blood escaped in gouts. That was enough. Allar released the man's wrist and he fell to the ground, moaning in pain.
Allar crouched beside the man and blocked his nose with his palm, halting the flow of blood. He did not want the man to bleed to death. Perhaps this experience could humble him. He looked up at the woman, whose face was a mix of shock, disbelief, and relief at the same time. "Go fetch a linen cloth, if you would." He said.
The woman rushed away, stepping over the crumpled body of Ægir. She was well on her way down the hall before she hesitated, turned around, and looked at him. "Thank you." She said before continuing on.
Allar smiled.
Perhaps someone had taken a sip of the acceptance cup and found that she liked the taste.