Before the End – sneak peek

Before the End- Darandur

The gentle dripping of the clock that marked all the days and nights of life within the massive keep had a character all its own, to those that truly heard it.

Darandur had heard that sound, echoing through the caverns for all his life. Sometimes, he felt they burbled with the joys of discovery in the deeps, urging him on around the next bend. It was a promise to guide him home, no matter how many twists and turns the path may take.

Some days, the tempo was a steady given that exhorted him to calm and patience. I have measured millenia in this same way, and I will go on for always and ever, that drip said, and none of Darandur’s problems seemed all that pressing in the sound of that ever onward pace.

On this day, he found himself resting his forehead against the stone of the time piece’s edifice, trying to shut out all of the thoughts clamoring for attention. Of a mercy, there were no other steps or voices, none of the crowded shuffling and murmuring of the Many here.

There were many advantages to life in the keep Naradhurn had carved out of the rock at the beginning of all things. Surrounded by the most treacherous mountains in Myskaria, outsiders were not a common sight. As the treasures crafted by the inhabitants were prized and highly sought, a distant and sheltered refuge was what had kept them all safe.

When he was due for his shift, the drops had the insistence of a drumbeat, driving him out into the snows with his spear this grandmother had made for him to stand the watches and march the patrols. Darandur was honor bound to take both his and his mother’s duties that they keep their debts paid to the thegn.

Once, and only once, Darandur had suggested that Thegn Barhadnein would understand the challenges within the Durein clan and reduce the tithe. “The thegn has spoken fair to me this past season, and never fails to inquire for mother’s health.” He remembered that he had said this with a gentle smile and touch to his mother’s hand, so unnaturally still. 

Without so much as moving his chair back from the dinner table, his father backhanded Darandur from his seat with a cuff that spilled him onto the polished stone floor. His head and shoulder took the brunt of the impact, but he bit his lip on any cry of pain. His mother struggled to rise before Grandmother laid her hand upon her shoulder, her mouth a grim line while her eyes bored into the patriarch.

Who did not look up from his bowl, but merely went on eating the watery stew, his jaws working mechanically. His face was weary, as it always was at the end of a day spent in the damp mines. Tharandur had no affinity for magic, no elemental gift at all to coax the precious ores and treasures from the stone. The Durein claim was not as profitable as it had been once, and the hours spent wresting even a meager living from it had taken a toll.

The silence stretched out, unbearably tense. Darandur, scion of the house, had achieved adult status from the time he first paid the family tithe. He would be within his rights to challenge his father, but a quick glance to Grandmother’s face told him this was not the time.

With his forehead’s warmth being leached away by the cold stone, it was easy to bring the scene that had played out three seasons ago to his mind. It was, he admitted privately, why he was standing here instead of putting his feet on the graveled path that would take him home.

Grandmother would be there, taking his spear and armor from him, as befit the matron of the house. She would have warm water at the hearth ready, that he might wash before sitting with his feet soaking in and not catch a chill. A hot drink would be in his hand while Grandmother cleaned and oiled his raiment, clucking over any new dings to be repaired during the next rest day.

And, if she were in a particularly good mood, with mother resting quietly and father gone wherever it was fathers went, Grandmother might tell him the story.

Over the years, Darandur tried to figure out what made the story so important, what it was that made it linger in his mind. Maybe it was the tale itself, filled with adventures unknown to a small boy, safe in the depths of the keep. Maybe it was how the hero broke every rule and every tradition for reasons most mysterious, or the people and creatures met along the way. The hero was young, and wise beyond those years,and people listened when they spoke. Maybe it was the way that the hero always got out of certain trouble, always saved the day.

Maybe it was the way Grandmother’s eyes shone when she looked at him and told him that he was her hero, her hope. It made him feel powerful, strong, determined to do the best he could for all of them.

As all the best stories, it had a hundred different parts, all of which Darandur knew by heart. He had only asked his mother for the story once, only to have her turn away with tears in her voice. “I don’t know it, I am not worthy to carry it to your ears.” That was all she had to say to cause her son’s tears, dripping with a silence beyond voices into his already growing beard.

It was best that Tharandur never knew the story was being told. While it hadn’t always been an armed truce between them, he had never been easy in his manner. Unlike the fathers of his agemates, Tharandur rarely made time for his son’s education, entrusting it to his own mother as their people had done in the days of old.

There was one day his father had taken up a teaching, though, that came unwillingly to Darandur’s mind as he stood, listening to the timeless dripping of the clock.

They had been out in the clear air, running the snare line in the deepest part of winter. Normally a duty that fell to the women of the clan, with their more nimble fingers to set the traps, Tharandur had taken it on the rest day so that Grandmother could stay by the fire with a nagging cough. Her thanks had been perfunctory enough to irk the proud man, and he stamped from site to site, Darandur struggling to keep up in his footsteps.

When they had four rabbits and a fine fat beaver, Darandur asked why they did not turn back to the keep.

His father had snorted, blasting a long plume from his beard. “There’s a lesson to teach there, lad.” He used a mittened hand to clear off the next stone overlook bench they came to. “Yes, we have enough meat to eat until the next rest day, or until mother’s cough decides to heal itself. But we also have three more traps set- because you can never count on the luck of traps. Now, we could go back, have our warm drinks, smoke our pipes.” His hand lingered over where his pipe hung from the belt for a moment, then went to his water flask instead, passing it to the boy before taking his own long draught and coming to a decision.

Tharandur motioned the boy back to his feet, with a sign that meant to step quietly. Very far inwardly, Darandur groaned to himself, feeling he was being punished in the way that small children do. It was another few minutes of sneaking through the snow before he felt an unwontedly gentle tap from Tharandur, followed by a point.

There, floundering desperately in the snow where their snare should be was a perfectly white rabbit. It was laying on its side, mouth open and panting, legs having churned the snow in panic. Around the right rear leg was the twine of the snare. As they watched, the rabbit leapt back to its feet, pulling and tugging, wildly bucking to attempt to free itself. It was a brief struggle, only this time the rabbit landed on its other side, facing away from the watchers. It turned its attention to the back leg as Tharandur cupped a hand over Darandur’s ear.

“I want you to watch this one,” he murmured. Horrified, his eyes darted between the rabbit, suffering so cruelly, and his father. He wanted to ask why, he wanted to take the spear and put the creature out of his misery, ashamed that he was being forced to do this thing.

This was not a thing a hero would do, he thought as the rabbit lay in the odd, curled shape on the snow.

It was just then that they heard the sounds of the thegn’s hunting party, crashing through the woods heedlessly so close to the keep. They were mounted on study ponies, thick furs to keep them warm, with mead in their flasks, and a stone sledge to drag their kills back over the snow. Darandur’s eyes were wide at the number of deer, rabbits, and even a moose piled up, reading for butchering. The rabbit lay, apparently too exhausted to care about the noise or footsteps anymore.

“Ah, Tharandur!” bellowed out Thegn Barhardnein, his red beard nearly glowing as the sun struck him. “I wish you’d come to join us if it was hunting you wanted this day. I do miss your voice raised in song, the way we used to hear it.”

“Illness in the house, my thegn. Wouldn’t do to spread it.”

“But you do hunt, and on your rest day, too!” The big man turned in the saddle to his companions. “See now, do as the head of Clan Durein does- always takes care of his own!” Darandur noted the expressions of the younger men take on the same he was sure his own had- was there ever a time or a place without old men feeling like they had to tell young men their duty?

“Och, thegn, the beast suffers. Should we not make an end to it?” asked a boy, younger than Darandur, mounted on a fine dapple grey pony.

Why couldn’t I say that to father? Darandur wondered.

Then his father’s dark eyes flashed before he spoke. “I would that you leave it to me, young master. Doing a bit of teaching this afternoon.”

The thegn’s wild brows formed a bridge over the long nose. “Oh, and what might the lesson be? Teaching your lad to do the women’s work?”

Predictably, this caused a derisive shout of laughter from the hunting party. “Nay, thegn.” The sledge passed by the party, and Tharandur motioned to it. “Do you not wish to guard that all the way back to the keep? We did see bear sign this day.”

The thegn frowned down at the pair before motioning the party off to follow the sledge, while keeping the boy on the grey pony by his side. “One can manage all responsibilities when one has the hands to do so. And I would know more of this lesson you teach.”

“Be that as it may, my thegn.” He turned away from the imposing, glittering figure wrapped in all the furs who did not feel the cold nor stamp through the snow. “Look again at that rabbit.”

Afraid of what he was going to see, Darandur turned back to find the rabbit in the odd, hunched shape, facing away from them. It seemed so very still. “Is it… is it dead?” he whispered, feeling as though he had failed the little creature.

“Nay, lad,” Tharandur said, pointing at the almost imperceptible movements around the twined foot. “Here’s the lesson- you give even the simplest creature enough time, and they will find a way out of the trap.” Darandur felt his heart leap as he looked back to the rabbit, who had almost gnawed through the twine and was moments from being free.

His eyes darted back to the thegn, who’s face had become a frozen mask.

“Aye, lad,” the thegn said, giving a nod to the boy. The boy flung a dagger from the saddle at the rabbit’s head, striking true. The movements stopped. “So it’s best to take what’s yours while you can. And ensure it does not suffer.” The thegn turned his gaze from Darandur back to head of the Durein clan. “A cruel teacher can lead to a cruel man. Next time, I would that you and your lad join the hunt.”

“As you wish, my thegn,” Tharandur said, and the great man rode away without another word.

Memories that make Darandur shake his head as though they were smoke from the pipe he could clear away as easily. They would not help him, just as tarrying here would not help him.

For this was the day that the scion of Clan Durein had failed his testing. The magic did not pulse in his veins, and the song of stone would not sing for him.

Darandur would be no one’s hero. Just the son of a cruel man.

The clock wept for him as he set his feet for home.