The Guide

Wrote this some time ago...
Copyright belongs to me, Jared G. Juckiewicz.

Their guide was mad. Absolutely, completely, utterly, stark, raving, bonkers. Since hiring him to lead them on a tour of the Blackwoods, and the Shield Mountains, and the Wildder Plains, he'd done naught but prove this. Whilst they spent every night safely ensconced in their tents, he slept under the stars. Worse than that, he slept in a special hammock, dangling from a tree. Most uncomfortable, they all thought. Every morning, he was up before dawn, had a fire lit for their breakfast, although whilst they supped on things like porridge and toast, he settled for a few strips of Jerky, and perhaps a handful of dried fruit or nuts. He'd help them pack up their tents and such like, and then, taking a pack that was twice the size of any of theirs, even if he carried none of their gear, they would set off.

And despite the weight of his load, he would not tire, would not slow. Indeed he kept darting off ahead, and dropping back to help guide his puffing, panting, charges. Come lunch time, he would be willing to keep going, whilst his charges demanded a break. Whilst they fed on the rations they brought with him, he contented himself with a mouthful or two of water, before leading them on further. Twas with much argument they had convinced him to stop the trek for the day as the sun began to fell, rather than when the full dark hit. It was then that he finally began to show signs of being almost human. For even as his charges began to prepare their meal, he would do the same. A strange conical pot with a pair of loops sticking up out of it would be filled with water. He would throw in some of his jerky, and the fruit and nuts, and a handful of herbs. A dash from a hipflask, anything he'd picked up over the course of the day that he deemed edible, and a little scoop of a mix of grain, peas and beans, all dried, and he had the makings of a rather neat little stew. And whilst he had that cooking, he'd mix some grain with water and a little salt in a neat little leather bowl, add another dash from the flask, and then make little cakes to grill on a flat rock.  Between his stew and his cakes, he'd have himself quite a nice supper, whilst his companions contented themselves with that old lie of Meals Ready to Eat.

But that was enough to suggest to them that he was mad. And if that hadn't, the fact that he slipped off every night after supper without a word and returned without giving a clue as to what he had been doing. And then, to top it all off, when they had woke this morning, and looked out their tents, it was raining. Raining rather heavily, a sudden storm. And there he was, with a little fire going, sheltered under a large square of fabric propped up on a set of poles. "Morning. What are you doing hiding in there?" He gestured expansively at the pouring rain. "Tis good Wildder weather, the rain so thick you can almost swim through it." He sat there, clad as he always "Not get very far if you keep hiding in there." He turned back to the fire, where he was busy preparing a breakfast. "Breakfasts about ready. Tis not much, by your standards. But it'll do. We should have been on our way by now." He saw to it they were fed and breakfasted, and even packed up their gear, all the while keeping a steady eye out. In good weather, one could see many miles, but in this weather, visibility was rather poor.

His charges hid under the cover he had set up, and when he had packed their gear, he took a peculiar device out of his ruck. A ring of black iron, slightly ajar, with a spike on a loop attached to it. He then took the fabric off of the poles, slid the poles into a special quiver in his pack, and then, donning his pack, he threw the square over his back and the ruck. He then locked it about his neck with the iron ring. And they set out, with the guide mantaining a far sharper watch than usual, not that his charges noticed. On the other hand, they did notice when their guide suddenly stopped. And dropped to his knees, swinging his pack off his back. He had shown no sign of weakness so far, and they could not think what it was would unnerve him. He slid a pair of the poles from the quiver, each of them three foot of wood black as night. Rummaging in his pack, he drew forth a pair of caps, one with iron filigree extending from one side, and one with it extending from both. Sliding the filigree onto the poles, he twisted them tight, giving him a six foot stave, shod with iron at one end. He then drew from the pack a wickedly hooked axehead, and slotted it onto the unshod end of the stave. A twist and he had a long two-handed axe, light and keen-edged.

He drew forth his leather bowl, sat it on his head, where it fitted as though it had been made to, covering the top of his head and reaching down the back. Over this he set his pot, the two loops suddenly making sense, the thing being, in fact, a spectacled helm put to other, less noble uses. A Mailled coat was next, followed by a belt on which he hung a longsword and a knife. The guide they had so long thought to be harmless and slightly odd now presented himself a rather martial figure, despite the rain bucketing down. He stood there, staring into the rain, his right holding the axe, his left digging under his tunic to draw forth a talisman. A pendant in the shape of a short hammer hung from his neck. All of a sudden, there was the sound of thunder, and the guide whispered. None were close enough to hear his whispers, until he reached the final phrase. As he bellowed the word 'ASATOR' Those he watched for arrived.  Sinuous shapes could be seen writhing and weaving in a ring around the group, but their guide stood there, doing nothing, an impassive look on his face.  All of a sudden, one of the shapes darted out of the driving rain, straight at him. He stood stock still, not even blinking, one hand on his axe, holding it erect, the other passively resting at his waist.

His charges watched in terrified fascination as the giant lizard, some twenty feet long from fang filled snout to armoured tailtip, charged straight at him hissing. It moved low to the ground, and at the last minute, the thing riding it yanked on the reins. It reared and spun, crashing down to a rest, not even a muscle twitching. "Sssstep Assside, Thunderborne" hissed the rider, hidden in the rain. The guide hadn't even flinched, and answered in a voice that, whilst calm, was also unyielding. "I Will Not." He said simply, and the rider hissed back at him. "Do not think to deny ussss of our prey, Longssstrider" it told him, and now he showed emotion. He laughed, and as it echoed away, he spoke again. "You think to challenge me, a child of the storm, on a day so clearly favoured by my father as this?" he asked, bringing his axe around to a guard position. As the long blackwood haft thudded into his hand, light as Ash, stronger than Oak, lightning struck nearby, the roll of thunder almost deafening. At that, the rider wheeled his mount away, and then a moment later, came charging back, hissing commands in a strange tongue to his fellows. "Down" Bellowed the guide, as he struck his first blow, dodging to the side of the first lizard to reach him, his axe swinging round, humming as it sliced the air.

The axehead clove straight through the riders skull, and the guide lept onto the lizards back, as its former riders corpse slid off. Unlike those who had been riding them, who knelt on the broad backs, he stood, bracing off the bony scutes on either side of the spine. Leaning down, he gathered the reins in one hand, wielding his axe deftly in the other, for all its great length. With an ease that spoke of long practice, he directed the lizard into battle. It seemed almost as though he had more practice than those who had attacked, for he had it fighting in a manner that none of the others managed. It used its fangs and its claws and its massive tail to equal and deadly effect, but always targeted at the riders, never the other beasts, and it was the same with the guide. He had only felled a few before on of the others hissed a command and they faded into the rain, the unridden serpents following. The guide dismounted, and his steed sped off into the storm, moving far more rapidly than something of its size should.

His guests reckoned they were owed explanations, but he proffered none. Instead he simply exhorted them to stand up, and continue the trek. He promised shelter by nightfall, claiming that by that point they would reach the Zigil village, and when queried on the nature of these Zigil, he simply gestured at the dead, and set off, in a direction not overly dissimilar to that taken by the retreating lizard riders. He was correct in that by dusk they had reached the outskirts of the Zigil village, having squashed their objections (Raised on the grounds that surely those who had attacked them would not grant them hospitality) with the simple statements that none would dare harm a Longstrider. And that to decline hospitality to those under the guard of the Thunderborne was an even greater taboo.

As they drew near the village, the guide could make out the forms of sentries, Zigil and their steeds laying motionless in the tall grasses. Before them was a palisade made of sheafs of those selfsame grasses, bound tightly and packed, raised to a height double that of a man. At its base, a ditch, some three foot deep, and half again as wide, lined with short stakes of the same dark wood the guides axe was hafted with. He had yet to remove his military gear, and had used his axe as a staff the whole way back. As he drew near to the opening in the palisade, he stopped, staring through the gap until a figure, indistinct from the rain and the distance appeared in it. When the figure had stopped, the guide removed the head from his axe with practiced ease, and lashed it to one of many ties hanging from his belt. Having thus demonstrated peaceful intentions, he strode forward, his charges following behind. As they drew closer to the gate, they were able to make out the figures of the Zigils for the first time.

They were humanoid, standing around five foot from taloned feet to the tip of their bony head-crests. They were scaled, and heavily built, with powerful legs, and strong arms, and reptilian heads that jutted forward from bodies always leaning to the fore. Long tails stretched out behind them to mantain their balance, and the colours of the scales varied, although whether this was natural, or due to paint, could not be told. They wore no clothing bar belts and harnesses, upon which they hung various implements according to their rank and duties. These were further demonstrated by many piercings, of bone and wood and metal, through the crests, and various jutting scales, and the nostrils. Jewellry was common, armbands and anklets and pendants being the most so. None of the softer metals humans tended to value for lustre and decoration were in evidence, only bronze and black iron and steel, each being accorded more worth than the last.

The leader, or at least, that was what they assumed the Zigil in the gateway was, bore no harness, and no belts. Indeed his only adornment was a simply helm of steel, the wave patterns of good steel clearly visible. This assumption was further borne out by the hissing challenge he issued to the guide, who responded in the same tongue. They made several exchanges in that language, before the guide turned to those he led. "Shelter, Meat, Beer, and Salt, under the bonds of hospitality, they will give us. As forfeit for their attack this morn, they proffer transport and safe passage to the shield. As mark of respect they gift me the Kee-rahk whose rider I slew, and who I rode into that battle." He said, and led them into the village. Shelter they were indeed given, in the largest of the huts made of bound sheaves inside the wall.

Most were small, barely large enough for a Kee-rahk to curl up inside, with its rider snuggled beside it. Some of those were indeed home to but a single rider, and its mount, but others it seemed housed only Zigil, a single young family. The rest, bar one were all several times that size, clearly home to larger, extended families. The last remaining was huge, with room for every Zigil in the village, some few hundred. That they had built it off no material bar bound grasses was amazing, and when this was pointed out by one of the ignorant strangers to this place, the guide simply saw fit to point out that Zigil were prized for the design of buildings in all parts of that world, regardless of their crude, savage appearance. It was in that great building they were giving shelter, whilst a feast was prepared. Translators were supplied, as the strangers guide was requested to take a private council with the Hearth-Keepers, and the Mount-Keepers, and the Lore-Keepers, and the Steel-Skull who headed them all.

From these translators, the tourists learned much. The Zigil tended to feed almost entirely on flesh, from the hunt and the herd, nigh always eaten raw. But, traffick with other peoples had taught them cooking, although such esoteric activities were reserved for special occasions. Youngsters roamed far and wide on the Kee-rahk, hunting, herding, rustling, and raiding. Those who had attained their peak held them in check, and those past it taught all and sundry the lore of the Zigil, the myths, the ways of the beasts and the plants, how to build, everything the Zigil knew and believed. The Zigil were, it turned out, semi-nomadic, and come time for them to move, all they had built would be left to house the spirits of those who had died whilst they had dwelt there. When they picked a place to build a new village, they lived rough for the first season, until the excretions of the Kee-rahk and of the Zigil themselves prompted the growth of the requisite grasses to the requisite state.

All this and more they were told, whilst Zigil of both genders prepared the feast, and hatchlings ran about under their feet, cadging the odd treat, and getting a swift, talon-checked kick or sharp tailswipe should they be too rambunctious. Meanwhile, the guide, and those he held council with spoke of recent events, for Longstriders were bearers of tidings ill and benign. They spoke of matters of Diplomacy, for Longstriders were often couriers or messengers, and their travels gave them experience much valued in council. They spoke of the weather, and of omens, and matters divine and arcane, for the Thunderborne were touched by the other, the fey and the aether. Lastly they spoke of the guides plans for his charges, their route first to the Shield, and then into its heights, before descending into the diggings of those who dwelt underground to avoid its harshest. They spoke of him and his coming out of those diggings far to the south, and their descent into the encircling Blackwoods, which they would cross before cutting across the lands beyond it to reach the head of the river, where the tourists people had their enclave.

And come the end of the learning and the council and the talk, they all gathered for the feast, the Guide sitting at the head of the table, with the Steel-Skull on his right and the eldest of the Lore-Keepers, by his choice, on his left. To the left of the Lore-Keeper sat the chiefest Hearth-Keeper, followed by three of the guides charges, and their translators. To the right of the Steel-Skull sat the most skilled of the Mount-Keepers, and besides him were the other three tourists and their charges. The rest of the village moved their accustomed places down to account for these additions. They sat crosslegged, tails extending out behind them, and the meal was set down on wattle dishes on the straw floor of the hall. It was very heavy on the flesh side of things, roasts and dishes of boiled and stewed meats. There were some loaves of bread, and bowls of coarse-ground salt and herbs were placed at intervals. To drink, beer, the only reason bar housing that the Zigil harvested the grasses that grew always around their dwellings.

After the feast, beds were prepared in the hall, bundles of straw loosed over the floor, and blankets of soft hide placed over them. Additional blankets were provided, although the weather on the plains was normally warm. This being an exceptionally good things, as people who live in straw houses should not light flame. And the tourists had, over the course of their visit, been forced to acknowledge the Zigil as people. Come dawn, they were woken, and fed on the remnants of the feast. The weather was bright and clear, taken as a good omen by all but their guide, who felt at home in the storm. They were given an escort of Kee-rahk riders, and each of them was also lent a Kee-rahk to be controlled by their translators. The guide needed none to control his Kee-rahk for him, and close inspection found it to be one of the largest in the village. It's loss would no doubt be a blow, but honour demanded it.