[MFaughn]: 311.Wartorn Land Ch 1

CHAPTER ONE
Before the dawn was his favorite time of day, the quiet stillness of the fading darkness gave a comfort unlike anything he had known before. In a life which had led him to many places, Malin Yar knew much of the world. Now, he lived in solitude with little of the comforts he had known in his youth. He now spent his days in quiet contemplation, where once every moment was filled with the torrent of activity associated with life in civilized places. The peacefullness was something he had come to cherish.

When he had first come here it was a torture, but one he had brought upon himself. He knew that without seperating himself from the rest of humanity, he would never reach or learn his potential. He had always known he had a skill, a power, that magic was as much a part of him as the air he breathed or the blood in his veins. So, he had come here, and had learned, delving into the secrets of his heart and mind and finding within himself a power beyond his reckoning. He had struggled to control it, exerting his will over the wildness of such power and gaining a mastery over it that had eluded his younger days. He could recall the days of his youth, vaguely, as if it were someone elses memories, and remembered when he had longed for power. Now, he had power and had learned that its use was hazardous so that now he feared it in a way that prevented its abuse. Such power would have undone him in his wilder days, and he knew that he would have been a danger to others as well.

After so many years in this place, living as a hermit in the roughly built shack, he was now ready to return to the world. And perhaps for the first time, he did not wish to go. Having struggled through all the painful process of mastering his power, he had longed for the life he had led. Now Malin Yar was master over his power and no longer its slave, and he knew that in the world among men, his power was needed. He knew it was time to go, and yet he had delayed, putting off the day when he would leave this place that had become his home.

"Home? Yes, this is home. How odd that no other place in my life has ever made me call it home, through all my life I have never felt this closeness, this bond to a place. And now, I must leave it. Ah, there is a lesson here, I think" Malin said to the rising sun, enjoying its warmth in a way that he feared he would never feel again. He relaxed now, recalling the dream, the vision of the night before, how it had set a burning in his mind. Now he had a purpose and could no longer delay his departure. He had someone to find and knew that his success was important to the world, and that failure would end in suffering beyond his imagining. The fact that he did not have a clear idea of who this person was made his urgency even greater.

The clothes Malin wore, he had saved all these years, had never understood why he had worn rags when these fine garments rested in the chest unused. But, he had not worn them, and he now knew something made him save them for this day. The rich doublet of scarlet, the black hose, the long black cape that could cover him as a robe and which hid his small treasury of goods. The boots he had saved as well, even though his feet grew sore from the poorly made sandals he usually wore. Now he wore these fine things again after all these years and as the sun stood full in the sky he left the place he had come to know as home, beginning the long trek out of the desolate mountains above the old city of Cliffside.
The old cliffside fortress was a marvel to Malin, nearly hidden as it blended with the cliffs, rustic yet majestic in a way. This was an old place, some had said it was the oldest city ever known. Malin believed that could be true, it felt old and his feelings were generally to be trusted. It had been several months since he had made this journey and this last one brought back many memories. The journey through deep snows four winters ago was one that kept coming back. It was rare to have such a snowfall and it had caught him unprepared. Only his link to the elements had kept him alive and brought him to Cliffside before he perished. Mad old Umma had taken him in them, fed him warm broths and healed his injuries. The man was more in tune with the elements than anyone Malin had ever met and had spent what remained of that cold dreary winter teaching Malin control and understanding. Before that time Malin had been wild and uncertain. Since then his grasp of the elements and his control over them had grown beyond his wildest imaginings. He could now whisper his needs on the winds and quiet breezes would bring him whatever answers he sought. He could stand upon the earth and hear its tale and learn all that might concern him (and more at times). Fire would dance at his bidding and water....well, water was one element he seemed to have the most trouble with. Umma had told him, and back then he had not understood or really believed, but now he knew it to be true. "Boy, not all the elements will like you or answer to your call. You have no will over water and you never will, I think"
Umma had passed and returned to the elements a short time after Malins stay with him, and now there were none in Cliffside who Malin would consider 'friend'. He had to admit, though, that there were also none he would call 'enemy'. There were friends in his past, of course, and enemies. Yes, perhaps more enemies than friends if he was being honest with himself. The days of his youth were spent among the only real friends he ever knew, and later his time was spent among the most real of enemies. The friends now led lives which Malin had no contact with, and his enemies, while perhaps wishing to have contact with Malin again, could not find him. It was a kind of justice, Malin thought, that in escaping his enemies, he had also escaped his friends.
Malin entered Cliffside, greeted by few, but accepted, if somewhat reluctantly. Malin was unconcerned, believing that he would likely never see this city again. The one thing which was a concern was to find a suitable mount and perhaps a weapon that would serve. He walked along the Grand Avenue, a dusty tired stretch of crowded, busy street which Malin felt sure held all of the people who had ever visited Cliffside. Perhaps even a few of those who had only heard tales of the place. After some time Malin reached the place that was his purpose for braving the dangers of the street-horde, the Tinpenny Inn. The Tinpenny was really the only establishment of its kind in Cliffside that outsiders would consider suitable. They had clean rooms, decent dining, good strong ale, a large well stocked sutlery and the best stables for quite some distance. All of this was housed within a small stockade, complete with gates and guards, though trouble in Cliffside was rare.
Malin passed within the stockade with only a cursory glance from the guards, and made directly for the stables. The stablemaster was one known as Nemen, a wrinkled, surly looking fellow who actually had a good sense of humor. Malin knew his favorite joke was to sell an old nag for the price of a trained warhorse to some overdressed fop. Malin also knew that Nemen would see his need right away and expected to pay at least three prices for a good horse. Malin worried little over this, his need was pressing, though he did not quite understand why. As Malin expected, he found Nemen at his business in the stables. Nemen looked up atMalin, grunted and waited.
"Need a horse Nemen." Malin squinted a bit, and added, "A good one." 
Nemen stared a bit longer, then answered with a malicious grin, "I have no other kind, friend."
* * * * *
In the darkness behind the kitchens, the boy gathered wood for the fire, struggling with the cold and the gloom. He hurried to grab up all he could carry, dropping the pieces several times before deciding he would need to make another trip. He heard the sounds from around the corner, the serving girl and the filthy cart driver. The carter was a regular here, came often and had some odd friendship with the innkeeper. The girl was sure that the man would take her away from her cruel life here, but the boy knew better, had heard the laughter of the cart drivers each time they left. The innkeeper would never let her go, regardless. The carter could never afford to buy her outright and she was worth too much to the innkeeper.

As the boy dropped the armload of wood again, he heard a muffled cry, and then the sound as a blow landed. He knew the carter beat the girl if she would not comply with his wishes, and that she rarely failed to do as he demanded. Now the screams began and the blows became louder, and the boy froze, afraid to help and hating himself for it. He would be beaten too, the carter knew the boy was there, it was cruel game. When the boy had first discovered the carter and the girl, he had been told about the many terrible things that would happen to him for interfering. Later, the innkeeper beat him for causing trouble with the customers.

The boy knew if he did not hurry now he would be beaten again, being behind with his chores and having more heaped on him each time he stepped inside. He still had to finish the wood for the night, bring in water, clean the pots that were still piling up and then bring in more water and wood for morning. It was a light workload tonight, other times it was much worse, and he struggled with the work he was given even when things were slow. Fear drove him, despair always on the edge of his mind. Still, the thought remained that all he really must do is survive, that if he lasted he would eventually be able to get away from this miserable life.

The boy knew his task was hopeless. He could not manage all the chores heaped on him by the cruel taskmaster of an innkeeper. No, he would eventually be killed outright or beaten to death, for being too slow, for being a cripple. Sometimes when the pain became unbearable he would look at his missing right hand and wish he was not afraid of that death, would almost, just almost, pray for it. His body was a mass of bruises and the filth of his unwashed body did little to help. The cook would kick him as he came into the kitchen with his one arm load of wood, if he lingered or even if he only seemed to be thinking about the warmth coming off the stoves or the food that was fresh and fit for humans.....almost.

The Innkeeper, Brema, was large mean spirited man, not wealthy, not at all. The price he paid for the boy had been a small sum, but was all he could afford. That the boy was not able to keep up with his tasks was a constant aggravation, even though he knew it would be so when he paid. The boy would bring no price on the block, would not make Brema’s money back for him. And so Brema took his frustrations out on the boy, beat him for his slowness, for the look in his eyes, the color of his hair, the hand that was not there to do the work Brema required. Brema watched the boy, saw his every fault, saw every time he took a moment to catch a breath, and punished him for each time. What Brema did not see was the underlying strength in the boy, the fact that he was growing stronger, that one day the boy would be a man, and that Brema should know a fear that had, as of yet, not crossed his mind.
* * * * *
The horse Malin Yar had aquired at Cliffside was better than he had expected to get out of old Nemen, a sturdy gray gelding that carried him tirelessly across the lands of Cibol. The gray moved with an easy gait which ate up the long miles, eventually bringing him to a place he had known in his youth. The city of Markett had once been a lively, burgeoning place, but seemed changed so much. Now, outwardly, it was a tired, dirty town of people without hope. In the hidden places and quiet corners, Malin knew that the essential pulse of the city had not died. Malin could see the oppression, but could feel the defiance. Of course Malin knew the horrors of the Rae-Gaethan conquest, knew that these people were now enslaved to fear and the whims of a hateful oppressor, but he had yet to actually see any of the goblins which rumour said covered the land. He saw soldiers, plenty of those, but they were not monsters, they were just men and they served the Rae-Gaetha out of fear just as the people did. He was aware that many of the leaders of the communities and the soldiers had jumped at the chance to improve their standing, had joined with the conquerers. He also knew that many had no choice at all, that they served simply for one reason, to survive.
The trek across Cibol went well. Malin had avoided the soldiers easily enough most times, or had been able to convince them that he was a servant of the Rae-Gaetha through small uses of the power. He had found a sword and carried it now, and it was so closely made to the typical Rae-Gaethan weapon that he had been easily mistaken for an important officer of the conquerers. He had found this odd at first, but had learned that the tales were not completely true, that many of the Rae-Gaetha were not monstrous to look at, that there were many who appeared as any other man might. Only rarely had he faced danger from the invaders, and most often, pulling that curved serrated sword changed his opponents from hostile to complacent and subservient. He had thus also learned that many of the most powerful of the Rae-Gaetha appeared more as other men than the lower ranking soldiers did. It seemed that even these monstrous people were unlikely to follow one who did not have a nobility to their appearance. Malin wondered at these things as he entered the town of Markett, was amused by the salutes of the guards at the gate and the easy passage he was granted.
There was sense to his coming here, a pull which Malin did not fully understand. He knew that his purpose here was to find someone, but still did not know who. He was not even sure that person was to be found here, only that some clue lay ahead and that he could not avoid its draw. He wandered down side streets, between close buildings and into dirty alleys. After a while he realized that the path was the shortest route through the city, that all the old short cuts were being taken subconsciously. People looked at him sullenly or fearfully, never with friendlyness in their eyes. It made Malin uncomfortable, made him want to unleash his power to free these people, but knew that his power alone would not be enough. And so, he continued through the city following the pull toward a place he did not yet know.
Malin passed through the more densly populated part of the city, reached the far side where the wagons came to deliver their goods. This was a hazardous area in the old days, filled with dangers that Malin remebered well. He cringed at the memory of his short time as a denizen of this place, recalled the foolishnes that led him to believe his answers could be found among the criminal society that ruled here. His leaving here had been a relief, escaping the wrath of the cutthroat leader of thieves who saw Malin as a threat to his power and position. Big Dury was surely no longer here, but Malin watched his back anyway. Being recognized after so long was unlikely, but he didn't think that Big Dury would forget him.
In those old days, Malin had been full of himself, filled with a cockiness and self-imortance that the power gave him. He had become noticed by the bosses here, had been brought in to act as a oracle of sorts. He could discern the wealth of a potential victim, and made his employers quite wealthy. But, he let his greed overcome his good sense and had made an attempt to gather a following. He learned the hard way that such an action would not be allowed. Big Dury had squashed his followers with a ferocity and an efficiency that astounded Malin, and he had escaped in just the nick of time. But on his way out of the city he had killed the brother of Big Dury and had been been the target of assassins in the years that followed. The constant attacks had led him to his mountain retreat, and his time there had led him back to this place.

As Malin's mind wondered through his shady past he came to a run down tavern, the "Iron Keg" and remembered it as a rough dangerous place. He did not expect to wind up here, did not want to be here, but the horse had come straight into the yard, and had stopped. Now the horse would not move, shook its head and snorted when Malin tried to pull its head around, to leave. And then Malin felt a hunger and a thrist he had not felt to this point. It overcame his trepidation and he dismounted, slowly, tied the horse and moved to the door. He stopped there, and the power filled him, giving him a knowledge of what lay inside, he could see the people in his mind, could hear the rough talk and laughter. His mind worked over each item quickly, putting an understanding of what lay beyond the door, and with this knowledge he entered the Iron Keg, fearless and with purpose.
As the door closed behind him, Malin saw the patrons turn to look, all eyes on him. As one they took in the rich clothing, and the sword and they turned away with eyes downcast. All but one, a boy near the back who's eyeslooked full of both fear and determination. All Malin saw were those eyes, almost animal like if fear, and yet noble of purpose. There was something about the lad which drew Malin's attention. But, then the boy darted out, entering the kitchens and Malin moved to an empty table with a good view of the room.

Malin watched the patron's, knew already where the threat lay, who was a danger, who was not. There were three who concerned him most, standing near a long high table speaking together, one on the far side. Many times their eyes cut to Malin, gauging him and he knew he was a target to them, a difficult one to be sure, but the rich clothes were a telltale sign that the risk would be worth it. Malin watched them, and the rest. He watched the serving girls, both outrageous flirts. He watched the sad eyed riverman who appeared lost in his thoughts. He watched the group of youths, so out of place, but safe in their numbers. He watched them all, and waited for another glimpse of the boy.

The food was inedible, and the ale was sour, but Malin forced himself to gulp it down. He watched and waited, the boy not reappearing for near half an hour. Then, he burst through the kitchen door, carrying 2 waterbuckets in one hand, and then Malin saw, noticed the boys lack of a right arm, it being gone from a point halfway between the elbow and the wrist that was not there. He could see that it was a struggle for the boy, that he only barely managed to do the things that were demanded of him. Malin also saw that the determination in the boy was such that he did not know despair, but was allowing him to overcome his loss and grow into a man.
Malins eyes were locked on the boy, he could not pull them away, and the boy met his gaze, took in his clothes, his sword and Malin saw hatred flare in the boys eyes. Malin was shocked, not by the boys reaction to what he percieved, but to the fact that the emotion was so strong, so raw with power. Malin was also shocked by another realization. This boy was the one he sought.

Now Malin had to figure out what to do about it.