Building a World: Baems of Ramnor (fiction)

This week, I am posting the second installment in a (not so) short story that I've been writing to get me back into the swing of writing. It always surprises me how writing for long periods of time is really similar to endurance running. You have to pace yourself, build up your stamina, and commit to making it a habit. I was actually really impressed with myself when I wrote the entirety of this installment in a few hours.

As always, I implore you to let me know what you think of my work. Whether you text, call, email or DM me, I would love to know any moments that you found exciting or confusing.

If you didn't have the chance to read the first part of my story, click the button!

Read the first half here!

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The Baems of Ramnor

(pt. 2 of 3)

Patrim loved the taste of blood. He always had. 

He hadn’t even realized that he had bitten the inside of his cheek while inside the witch’s tower, not until he and Haggins had rushed through the forest back to their horses. The slight taste of copper had tickled the back of his tongue, before an errant branch scratched his cheek, causing the blood to start flowing more freely. The hot, thick blood filled his mouth and burned the back of his throat. He spat it out onto a cluster of white crocuses growing at the base of a large oak tree. Yet, mouth sores never bled for long. When he had reached his gelding and mounted him, the blood had already slowed. 

It would have stopped by the time they reached Barnat Mar’Derrat, if he hadn’t kept biting it. Neither the biggest nor the wealthiest in the kingdom, it was the first one founded in the kingdom of Mardet. According to Prae Mullin, that made it the most holy. Even as the ruling family, Patrim’s family didn’t come here that often, despite the fat priest’s squeaking objections. They had visited once, when Adelaire had been twelve and he’d been only ten. She had worn her sparkling smile, the one she had inherited from their father, before rolling her eyes behind every priest’s back. Patrim still remembered how, after they had bowed to the beacon, Adelaire’s eyes had bored into the back of the bald man’s head. Patrim had never seen her glare at someone with so much hatred, until they walked past the statue of Derrat, She-Who-Gives-Life, holding a child against her breast in one arm and a bushel of wheat in the other. Patrim hadn’t understood her hatred for the stone sculpture. Even at ten, he appreciated the artistry it had taken to hone her supple, youthful figure out of rough stone. 

For Adelaire’s sake, however, he’d hated it, too. 

Just like the tower, Patrim could smell it before he saw it. Wood smoke blew down the road, mixing with the earthy scent of dust and the metallic taste of blood. He breathed it in, relishing it. Within moments, he spotted the thin trail of black smoke mixing with the gray clouds of the early autumn sky. Then, the cluster of gray, stone towers that stood alone on a hilltop cleared of trees.  

They passed a statue of Arikat, He-Who-Guides-Heroes, his head in one hand as he lifted the other to point them towards the barnat. 

Patrim dug his heels into his gelding’s stomach, causing him to bolt towards the collection of gray towers in the distance. Haggins yelled something at him, but his words were lost to the wind, the dust, and the metallic taste of blood. 

They galloped through the open front gate of the barnat, pulling their horses to a stop just before the statue of Derrat. The stone woman still held her child to the breast, while holding out a bushel of wheat to her new visitors. She even smiled at them. Patrim hadn’t remembered that, he must have been too busy admiring her artist’s handiwork. 

The baems and their novices, all looking like women in their long robes, ran about like chickens with a fox in the coop. One flapped his wings all the way into the central building, a round building considerably shorter than its ancillary towers, but much larger in terms of width and depth. The flapping baem emerged from its silver, wooden doors with a surprisingly young man, whose embroidered dress and flat cap marked him as the beacon. The beacon crossed the dusty courtyard, his stride strong and step sure. Patrim remembered a different beacon, Beacon Renald, who hadn’t been able to stand upright without the shoulder of a novice, had hair as white as snow, and skin so covered in red and blue it resembled an illuminated manuscript. When that beacon had touched Patrim’s head, his fingers had been cold. He must have died. 

“My lords,” the beacon said, stopped before their horses, “how pleased I am for you to grace us with your presence. How may we provide for you?” 

Patrim shifted uncomfortably, glancing back at Haggins. The other boy shrugged, a furious welt shining bright red between his eyes. Idiot. The beacon eyed him expectantly. His father wouldn’t like this indecisive silence. Solart has raised us to knights to command the smaller man, he had told Patrim once. You must command them.  

“Food, water, clothing?” The beacon asked, looking at him expectantly. “We have plenty of extra novices’s robes if you—”

Patrim spat a mouthful of blood onto the ground, staining the white stone of Derrat’s feet. “Weapons,” he stated, puffing his chest out. “We came here for weapons.” 

Haggins snorted behind him. “He wants to kill a witch.”

The beacon’s eyebrow shot up, but, slowly, he smiled. “Of course, my lord. It seems the Age of Heroes has not yet met its end.” 

The baems fed them hard bread, hot porridge, and cold cheese. Patrim ate it greedily, stuffing everything they offered him into his mouth. He hadn’t realized how exhausted he truly was until the food hit his tongue, and the honey-wine washed it into his stomach. He hadn’t even finished eating before Haggins’ head hit the table, snoring into his porridge. Gross. 

“So you want to kill a witch?” The beacon asked, sitting down opposite of Patrim on the bench. Patrim nodded, his mouth too full of porridge to dare open it. “How do you even know she’s a witch?” 

He swallowed. “When I went into her tower, a lady of fire came out of the hearth and attacked me.” 

The beacon raised his brow, clearly impressed. “Did you hear anything when you were there?” His eyes narrowed, and he leaned in. “The whine of an insect, perhaps?” 

Patrim shrugged, taking another bite of his porridge. “I don’t know, my ears were ringing.” 

The beacon leaned back, nodding. “Do you know how to kill a witch?” 

“Put a sword through her chest.” Couldn’t be that much different than killing a regular woman. A chill settled over Patrim. Unless they were dormeum, too. 

“No, my lord.” When the beacon said, “my lord,” a muscle above his lips twitched. “Witches aren’t like you and I. You can’t kill them with steel through their ribs, but with fire and magic.” 

“Magic?” The Ruby-Cheeked Knight had always said magic was the dominion of demons and women. Then again, Patrim glanced at the beacon’s robes, these men did dress like women. “What kind of magic?” 

“A blessing from the gods.” The beacon said, straightening his robe. “If you attempt to fight any of the Maultin’s creatures without the blessing of the gods, you will die. Are you, my lord,” his lip twitched, “ready to die?” 

Patrim bit the inside of his cheek, causing a new burst of blood to flood his mouth. He swallowed, imagining what it must be like to die. Years ago, when the Ruby-Cheeked Knight had brought home a dormeum, Patrim had witnessed the man’s death. They had hung him from a pole in the training yard, and slit his stomach from his heart to his navel to pull out the evil spirit that had possessed him. All that escaped the cut were his guts. Patrim didn’t remember the sickly blue color of the man’s insides, or the stench of excrement, but the blood. The hanged man had coughed, and blood had gushed out of his mouth. They hadn’t even cut anything on the inside, yet still blood had poured from his mouth. The Ruby-Cheeked Knight said that was the demon, suffering inside him. When the dormeum had stopped kicking, they had cut his body down, poured tar all over, and then set it on fire. The training yard had smelled like burnt flesh for days, and the dark speckles of old blood had lingered until the next hard rain. 

Patrim bit his cheek. Swallowed. Shook his head no. 

The beacon’s lip twitched up into a smile. “The baems and I must start praying then. Hopefully, the gods will hear us and be swift.” 

Patrim and Haggins stayed there four days and three nights. They weren’t allowed in the Barum Sanctum, where the baems locked themselves away all day. They weren’t even allowed up to the silver doors, as a contingent of novices—none of them older than Patrim and all of them much, much smaller—prevented them from even hearing the prayers that the baems uttered in their name. It all seemed backwards. Knights command smaller men, yet here they are, commanding me, Patrim thought bitterly. He spent most of his days hacking at a straw woman the beacon had created for him, wondering whether the witch was turning Adelaire into a dormeum as they speak. 

He wasn’t even allowed to leave. Or send word to his father. The baems had sent a dove to his father’s castle on the first day, right before they dumped Haggins’ unconscious body onto his bed, but Patrim had no idea what it said. For all I know, they’ve told him I’ve committed to the priesthood. He shivered at the thought. 

The one freedom they allotted him was the freedom to wander the grounds. On the second day, while Haggins slept—and he slept a lot here—Patrim grew bored of beating the straw woman with a dull sword, and decided to explore the dark corners of the barnat. Eventually he discovered a small statue carved into a rock. The rock itself was only the size of a dog, hardly big enough for any form of art. Yet, someone once had carved an alcove into the round rock, and carved around the vague figure of a woman. Well, Patrim didn’t know if it was a woman. A veil obscured its face, it did not have a figure anywhere near as voluptuous as Derrat, and it was only the size of his hand. Running his fingers over the stone, however, his fingers vibrated when they passed over the face. Odd. 

That night, he snuck out of his room and into the courtyard. He ran his hands all over Derrat, wondering if he’d feel that same, strange sensation, but nothing. When the baem on watch saw him, he hurried him back to bed. The next day, the rock with the relief had disappeared. In its place stood a very similar hunk of granite, but without the carved woman. Patrim wondered if he had dreamt it. 

On the third and final night, however, he knew that he had not. He awoke in the middle of the night, shivering from the chill and naked as the day he came into the world. Yet, he had gone to bed in his tunic and trousers, like he always had. Panicking, he reached beneath his bed for his sword, only for a hand to grab his wrist. 

He jerked back, pushing himself into the wall and grabbing the blanket to wrap around his naked body. The hand around his wrist was bright white, yet didn’t emanate light. Rather, it sucked it in. The body that it was attached to poured into the center of the room, rising like a stalk from what was a silver, reflective pool. It solidified into the form of a man, pure white, with what looked like a veil covering his entire body. The veil was tightest across its face, shallow depressions showing where its eye sockets, nose cavity and mouth should be. Patrim pressed himself against the cold stone of his cell, the rough linen of the blanket scratching his bare chest. He wished Haggins were here— But what would Haggins even do? Scare the bloody thing off? It’s not human. 

A tremor overtook his body, causing him to shake so badly he could scarcely keep his blanket around him. Even if he had been able to grab his sword, he wouldn’t have been able to hold it.

The great, white figure before him began to moan. An opening where its mouth must have been began to widen, as if the creature were going to speak, but it never did. It only continued to moan as its mouth grew wider, and its chin dropped lower and lower until it reached its navel. Then, the monster took the bright, white hand that had grabbed Patrim’s wrist, and plunged it into its monstrous throat. It pulled out a dark helmet, which clattered against the ground, and a scythe of black steel, which hit the flagstones with a twang. Finished, its chin rose higher and higher until it hung loosely from the creature's jaws. It shook its head, slapped its cheek, and the chin snapped back into place. Again, the creature opened its mouth to speak. 

“Kill her,” it croaked, as if it were breathless. As if it were choking.

“Who?” Patrim stammered. “The—the witch?”

“Ourari ib obsatar veniadtur.” 

Patrim nodded, knowing without knowing what the creature meant. Knowing that the gods had chosen him to destroy the demon that plagued his kingdom, who had taken his sister, who had killed the girl in the woods. 

The white creature nodded. Then, it grew brighter, like a star twinkling in the night sky, before blinking out of existence. 

Patrim found himself in a dark cell, alone with cold stone, a small wooden cot, a hay-stuffed mattress, and a rough blanket pulled over his naked body. The thin light streaming in from the moon made the dark metal of both the helm and the scythe glitter. He reached down with his hand to touch them, and winced as the steel burned his fingertips. Looking underneath his bed, he found his shortsword, so small and pathetic besides the black scythe. Returning to the safety of his blanket, his foot brushed a bundle of fabric. He had kicked his nightclothes to the bottom of his bed. He grabbed them, pulled them on, and shivered until he fell asleep. 

When he awoke the next morning, he found the beacon outside of his cell. 

The beacon peered over Patrim’s shoulder, to the helm and scythe that lay, still glittering, upon the floor. Patrim dropped his arm, stepping to the side to let the beacon pass into his room. The holy man bent down to touch the metal, leaving his fingers on it despite the fact that it was as hot this morning as it had been in the middle of the night. Patrim knew; he had tested it. Strange man, not like any beacon before him. When the beacon raised his eyes, smiling at Patrim, he felt more naked than he ever had before. 

“He came to you last night?” The beacon asked, his eyes wide as the full moon.

Patrim nodded. 

“What did he say?” The beacon still touched the burning metal. Doesn’t it hurt him?

“To kill her,” Patrim said. 

The beacon’s face fell. “That was it?”

“There was more. It…” Patrim shuddered. “It wasn’t in the common tongue.”

“Come on, boy,” the beacon growled, his voice much deeper. “What did He say?” 

Patrim shook his head. “It was something like, ‘ouvartee bob satar veniator.’” 

The beacon’s eyes lit up. “Ourari ib obsatar veniadtur.” He nodded, staring off into the wall. Patrim glanced behind him, worried the white figure might have reappeared, but only cold stone stood behind him. “I don’t fault you for not remembering it, my lord, it is an ancient language, forgotten by the men of today. It’s ancient kargahan, which your grandfather’s grandfathers spoke.”

Didn’t he mean our grandfathers? Yet, Patrim didn’t ask that question. “What does it mean?”

“That the age of heroes is not yet over.” 

“Heroes?” Patrim looked at the black metal, thinking it must mean him. After all, gods didn’t give gifts to just about anyone. How jealous will the Ruby-Cheeked Knight be?

“It’s not you, boy.” The beacon rolled his eyes. “Get your toys, let’s go.”

The beacon stood up, leaving Patrim alone with the scythe and helm. He scooped them up, wincing as the hot metal touched his skin, and raced after the holy man. 

He found him outside in the yard, beside Patrim’s already saddled gelding. The poor beast snorted uncomfortably, scratching at the dusty ground with his hoof. The young novice shuddered as he held the reins, as if scared of the gelding. Hasn’t the idiot seen a horse before? 

The beacon held out a cloth bag, which Patrim gladly dumped the burning metal into. He then tied it to Patrim’s saddle, causing the poor gelding to dance its discomfort. With a wave of his hand, the beacon invited Patrim to mount his steed. As he did so, he realized that they hadn’t prepared Haggins’ horse, too. In fact, he didn’t even see the dun gelding in the yard with the other horses. 

“Where did Haggins go?” 

“We’ve sent him home,” the beacon said, walking over to Patrim’s foot. He placed his hand on Patrim’s knee, and stared up with big, golden eyes. “He doesn’t have Arikat’s blessing, he can’t face the witch.” Patrim nodded, all too aware of the older man’s hand still on his leg. “I have one final gift for you,” the beacon continued, holding up a blown glass vial. In it, shone a star. “This will lead you to the witch.” He placed it in Patrim’s hand. 

Patrim held up the vial closer to his face, peering inside of it. No, it wasn’t one star, but a whole sky’s worth. A million drops of gold spun around each other, creating something that glowed no brighter than a candle but was as brilliant as the sun.  

“Don’t drop it,” the beacon growled. 

My lord, Patrim wanted to correct him. Yet, even with his shortsword belted at his waist and the god’s gift hanging by his foot, he couldn’t bring himself to insult the holy man. Perhaps I should bring Father here. Once we have Adelaire back, we’ll visit for Januxi Dei. This beacon won’t speak so freely before his king. 

“Bring me the witch’s head,” the beacon called, slapping Patrim’s gelding on his rump. 

The horse whinnied, surprised, and tore through the far gate. In only a heartbeat, they had left the barnat, the beacon, and the gods behind. Peering over his shoulder, he looked down at the oblong shapes in a canvas bag beating against the side of his horse. Placing his hand on the canvas, he felt the heat still emanating off the enchanted metal. 

Patrim nodded at the stone marker of Arikat they passed, his long hair and human face so unlike the god that had visited Patrim in the middle of the night. The castle baems will be in for a shock once I tell them what I’ve seen. Before he could go home, however, he had an errand. 

Kill her, the god had said. Arikat, the beacon had called him. Arikat, He-Who-Guides-Heroes. The age of heroes had returned, with him, Patrim of Mardet, at its helm. He felt around for the old sore on the inside of his cheek, then, finding it, bit down.