Tales of the Seekers
Prologue: The Joining of Two Paths
With excerpts from the notes of Faela daughter of Caoúl, Court Recorder
during the reign of Arim, Prince of Maychoria
There are tales told, legends chanted, rumors whispered, of things that happen deep in the wildernesses of the world called Madra.
There are many tales told of the Seekers, lone guardians of this world, who wander like aimless leaves blown by the wind. But they are warriors of the highest class, and the breeze that brushes them along is golden, breathed by the One called Abba, King, Maker, Atheos, Sebastoes, Jah, Master of Time and Space, El Shaddai, Golden Eagle. He is their master, and they are true to His purpose. Where they appear, darkness trembles.
In the Keranúm Forest of Upper Tappuah, other tales are told, jovially, in a tavern over cider and ale, laughingly related from one hunter to another. These are of a great hunter, a master woodsman, a young boy, named Mateo son of Droc. It was an incredible accomplishment, that one so young could have the respect and admiration of these doughty Tappuans, made more incredible by the fact that few had ever seen him. The boy was a legend, a phantom, a ghost birthed of fireside tales and the swapping of long-old rumors.
But the boy Mateo was as real and alive as the men who discussed, debated, and taled him, leagues from where his soft forest slippers treaded shadow-dappled undergrowth. The reputation conferred on him was difficult to earn from his hard-bitten fellow forestmen, but the lad deserved it fully and more besides, though he little knew or cared about his broad-spread fame . . . .
Mateo sat on the damp bole of an enormous grandfather tree, repairing the red fletching on one of his arrows. A striped groundmouse chittered at him from its den only inches from his right foot. He lobbed an acorn at the creature, but missed purposely.
The little animal came further out of its den to scold him, completely unafraid. Mateo finished twining the feather to his arrow shaft and paused to glare at it, his forest-hazel eyes catching an errant sunbeam slipping through the leaves above.
"This could kill you, you know," the boy said fiercely, gesturing with the arrow. The groundmouse sat up on its haunches and chattered again. "I could hit you at two hundred paces. I've had much practice."
The small creature came a few inches nearer and began sniffing at the toe of his soft leather slipper. Mateo sighed.
"But you know I don't want to, don't you?" He cast a weary glance at the pile of skins he had gathered that day as easily as if he sought only the numberless leaves. His father would take them to be tanned and sold.
"I hate this!" In a rare act of defiance, Mateo seized the arrow he had just repaired and snapped it in half. "Why does Father have to--"
The anger drained as swiftly as it came. Mateo sighed again and tossed the broken arrow away. "I don't understand many things about my father."
The groundmouse climbed onto the boy's slipper and began journeying up his pant leg. Mateo laughed bitterly and put out a hand to stroke its three-striped back.
"You beasts know how I feel about you. How do you know when to run and when to approach? Hunting is never this easy."
He leaned his head back against the rough bark and looked up at the tiny patch of blue sky. "What use are all my skills? They give nothing to Madra, only take and take and take."
Mateo looked down at the groundmouse as it ran over his knee. "What use is my strange friendship with you if all I do is kill? What use is this strange understanding of men's hearts I have when I never see them anymore, and why does it not help me understand my father? Fourteen summers I've lived on this world, little one. Fourteen useless summers."
He glanced again at the sky and saw the warning deepness of the blue. Night was coming.
Mateo sighed again and shooed away the groundmouse. "Time to go home."
He glanced around the woods, then called, "You hear that? I'm going home now! No following, I mean it!"
It is said that there are wood sprites in the Keranúm Forest, creatures infused with a small touch of power from the potent dawnlight of Madra's creation. They are neither good like the Elinrómi, bad like the Katamobi, nor choice-given like the Three Peoples. They simply are, plenteous as the voiceless beasts and neutral as pure water.
It pleases them, at times, to act as messengers, but do not rely on them, and do not trust them with secrets. They are likely to forget, or to sound the message abroad. And only children can see them, so messages must also be conveyed through them. They are as unlikely as the sprites to keep confidence
It is said that a tribe of these woodland mischief-makers thought it fine sport to hound the lad Mateo's footsteps and report his feats back to civilization. He had lost the ability to see them with the onslaught of physical manhood, but perceived their presence anyway, as he perceived many things beyond the ken of outer senses . . . .
Mateo stopped. Night came gradually to the forest, but it came completely, and earlier than it did to a place less shrouded with trees. It was gloaming now, and growing darker with the passing of each heartbeat.
The cottage lay fifty paces ahead, still hidden by the trees, but Mateo knew. His mouth tensed. His father was home from his latest trip, and drunker than a Vorprix intoxicated with blood in the midst of battle. He was going to be delirious with rage, raving about how his son was cursed with that strange, unmanly affection for the beasts he hunted and that uncanny wisdom too great for his summers. And something dark was lurking . . .
Mateo glanced over his shoulder. "Go away."
After a moment he blew out an exasperated breath and turned around to face what he could not see. "I tolerate you most of the time," he scolded, "but I can and will get rid of you when I want. Go away, all of you!"
He waited another moment, then rolled his eyes. "Have it your way."
Mateo whistled five sharp, shrill notes, then turned around and stomped toward home, carrying the bundle of skins over his shoulder. Within a few seconds his anger fled. His footsteps slowed and his face tightened with dread, but no one was there to see.
So it was that he was a hero to the people of Tappuah, but little was known of his personal life. It was murmured, with some pity among the goodwives, that his mother had died giving him life, and his father, Droc, had borne it as long as he could but had eventually gone insane with grief and moved into that cottage far from curious eyes. Stories were told, also, of how Droc emerged almost weekly at one tavern or another to sell what his son had hunted. There, also, he drowned his grief with ale and complained about everything and nothing. It was said that Droc had been a mighty hunter himself upon a time, but now the boy was both protector and provider. Droc's strength served him well in brawls, though, and many were the men with scars to prove it.
Mateo never came out of the woods, and so rare were chance meetings within it that they were almost unheard of. But those meetings were also taled abroad, for the lad's perceptions into men's hearts were as marvelous as his feats with a bow and the battles he fought with the more dangerous creatures of the Keranúm.
Another tale is told of a mighty Seeker, a lean and world-worn man, who came to the village of Culmari . . . .
Culmari was hard upon the edge of the Mingled Forest, and her tavern-inn served many of the men who worked the dangerous wilderness. Tonight it was full, as were most of the rooms on its second floor. The fire blazed warm and homelike, and the resident minstrel had more requests than she could perform, almost all of them for tales of their favorite hero, Mateo.
"More ale, more ale!" cried Bolen Hunter, slamming his empty tankard down on the bar.
The owner and keeper, Camrus, shook his head disapprovingly as he filled the mug, though he smiled at his old customer and friend. "Haven't you had enough? I think you should start on the cider now."
"'Course I haven't had enough!" Bolen grabbed his refilled tankard and took an enthusiastic swig, jostling the arm of a large man who had just stepped up. "Pardon me, good sir," he apologized carelessly, and belched loudly. "Ho, Camrus, why is the ale so bad here?"
"Because most of us drink cider!" Camrus laughed, then turned to his new customer. "Greetings, good sir. How can Tavern Locks be of service to you?"
"I wish to stay here a night." The man opened his cloak to reveal the brooch on his collar.
"You're a Seeker!" Bolen exclaimed. Hastily, he rubbed the back of his hand over his mouth, then offered it for a clasp. "What brings you to the Mingled Forest?"
The Seeker shook his hand, but seemed startled. "Mingled Forest? Oh, you mean the Keranúm."
"Naturally. This is where the Wilders and Bluewood mingle, very dangerously so. What name could be better? Only scholars and Maychorians bother to call it that Elvish name. Now, which Seeker are you? Oh, let me guess. Let's see." Bolen leaned back, chin on fist. "Hmm . . . big silver-steel sword--oh, but all Seekers have those. What's its name? No, don't tell me, that would be too easy. Hmm. You're big, and you've got a brown beard, and, and . . . Hmm."
"Oh, come, Bolen!" Camrus cried. "Don't you see the tibian chain about his neck? He bears the marcellia jewel, Kóa!"
"Oh, then you must be Wari! And the sword is Riannan! What brings you to Culmari, Seeker? We have no troubles worth a warrior of your mettle."
"Aye, our constables take care of the drunks like friend Bolen, here," Camrus agreed. "Why have you come?"
Wari's storm-grey eyes were distant and troubled of a sudden, the faint smile he had worn during the discussion of his identity completely gone. When they continued to question him he just shrugged, his rangy broad shoulders shifting words away. "The Golden Eagle directs me," was all he would say.
Bolen gave up and turned to the minstrel strumming in the corner. "Ho, Melirie! Let's hear the Tale of Jerichimo!"
Melirie smiled and called back, "I'll add it to the list, Hunter!"
Tales are told of what must have happened, but most are speculation and hearsay. Only a few shreds of truth remain. The participants themselves say little about it, and it is clear that the pain of it echoes like the shockwave of thunder, reverberating and intensified as if boxed in a rocky ravine.
It was said, though, months later, that a Katamobe had possessed Droc, that he invited it in. He had become crazed, convinced that his son had a curse. True enough were the whispers of later years, that Droc was a cruel man who had brutally mistreated his son, beating him almost daily with little or no excuse. Mateo had chased away the sprites before going home because he wanted no one, not even those little invisible creatures, to know of the misuse he endured. After this night, though, it could be hidden no longer . . . .
Droc yelled incoherently, something about a 'curse' and 'get rid of it,' and 'dead!'
Mateo just tried to reason with his father, tried to absorb the blows without falling to the floor. "You're possessed," he gasped. "Father, demon, Katamobe--I feel it--"
"Curse in you! Beat it out! Out!"
It hadn't started out that badly, no worse than any of a thousand earlier such punishments. But the Katamobe had egged Droc on, and it escalated until the boy thought he could feel his bones cracking under the assault of fist and belt and boot.
"Father, no, you aren't--" He couldn't finish. He couldn't speak, only sob. You aren't like this, Father. You used to be a good man. What happened to you? Why are you doing this? The blows continued to fall. "Maker--help me . . ."
But at last, weeping, bleeding from countless wounds, almost senseless, the throb of each heartbeat pulsing pain through his entire body, the boy screamed. Not in rage, nor pain, grief, terror or desperation. No, the cry was impossibly triumphant. Were they his words, or Another's?
"By the Golden Eagle of Hosiotos, avaunt, foul Katamobe! Cease your vain flutterings and depart from Droc son of Colbert!"
He lost consciousness completely, then, his last reserves drained and empty. But his eyes closed on the sight of his father staggering back, eyes confused as the Katamobe left him.
The next day Wari was gone from Culmari, early in the morning, saying only "I am needed," to the stableboy before heading off into the Keranúm Forest.
Later, it is said, the wood sprites followed him, drawn by the power in the great Seeker. He glanced in their direction, perceiving their presence, but his attention was on the forest ahead. He seemed to know where he was going though he had never been there before, guiding his stallion on a threaded path through the hoary trees as if following a bright, unwavering beacon.
As the sprites reported, the large man halted halfway up a wooded hillside and clenched his fist around the tiny marcellia Kóa, which he wore on a chain about his neck. For a moment he closed his eyes, gritting his teeth. It is said that Seekers have Second Sight, a peerhole into the Spirit Dimension, and marcellia jewels magnify that gift. What the grey-eyed warrior perceived now seemed to pain him deeply. Then it was that a sharp-sighted sprite recognized the cottage hidden in the trees, the home of the hunters Droc and Mateo.
"Atheos, High God of all things, Father to the fatherless," the Seeker prayed, "be with me now and lend me the strength of an eagle, the keenness of Morrévril. Let it be so."
Seeker Wari was well-known, and that was rumored to be his battle-prayer. With his tough, weathered frame set in an attitude of determination, he slowly descended the hill. The sprites hung back at first, dismayed by the stillness of that lonesome cottage, but gradually followed him all the way down. When Wari opened the door, knowledge of the Katamobe's presence ripped through spiritual perception like thunder, and the sprites fled . . . .
Mateo woke cold and stiff and in agony, unable to stir from the floor. His body was disobedient to his commands, his mind whirling like a leaf caught in river-rapids. His father had collapsed into a drunken stupor on the sole bed.
The boy coughed and spat blood, trying to be quiet, trying not to weep. He was alone and beginning to despair. He thought he heard a door open quietly, but couldn't believe it. He thought he felt the vibrations of stealthy footsteps through the floor, but his senses were confused.
Mateo's vision swam before him and suddenly there was a face directly above his. In terror he tried to shrink back, battered body cringing away, but then his eyes cleared and he blinked in surprise.
Not his father? His head spun. Who?
Gentle hands lifted him, propping him on a brawny arm, holding a filled cup to his cracked lips. Storm-grey eyes, kind and concerned, a brown beard, trimmed and kempt, noble nose, weathered face, deep voice.
"I am Seeker Wari. Do not speak, just drink. Don't be afraid, young one. You are safe now."
Water. Mateo closed his eyes in gratitude. He had been unable to reach the bucket, and his tongue had swollen in his dry mouth. It tasted better than he had ever imagined it could, and he had to be careful not to breathe as well as drink it.
"Must, must warn you," he said hoarsely when the cup was removed, his voice barely above a whisper. "Katamobe in--my father--" Mateo squeezed his eyes shut against the pain, slight frame tensing in the Seeker's arms, then opened them again. "Still, still here . . ." He turned his face away to cough, again spitting blood.
"I know, young one. I sensed its presence long before I came. Don't fear."
The boy laughed huskily, a surprising response for a person in his condition, and a disturbing sound in the cottage heavy with the demon's presence. "Not afraid . . . want you, to, to--"
He coughed so violently the Seeker had to hold him down. More blood splashed the wood floor, joining the rusty-brown stains already there. The boy's last words were weak. "Destroy it."
Wari's face was creased in worry. "Don't talk anymore. You're only making your injuries worse."
"Aye, don't talk anymore, Mateo." The new voice was cruel and mocking, and familiar to the boy, who shrank back against his rescuer. "You'll only make your injuries worse!"
The Seeker looked up at the man, eyes abruptly determined, and angry. He knew this man, yes, and the power behind him. "Droc son of Colbert, you have an accounting to give for what you have done to your son."
Droc held a heavy club, which he now brandished before him. "The boy is cursed," he growled, and went on to give the Seeker all arguments leading to that conclusion. His mother's death in labor, the death of a Teacher and a close friend in Mateo's presence, before they moved to the Mingled Forest. His other-wordly perception and wisdom, his affinity with the beasts, his refusal to delight in the hunter's trade.
Mateo turned his face away against the Seeker's shoulder, closing his eyes in weariness and hurt, but Wari's eyes blazed dark with anger. When Droc was finished Wari gently laid the boy down and moved to stand between father and son as he spoke his challenge, the kind issued by all Seekers before drawing sword.
"I am Wari, Seeker of lost ones, in the service of the High King. I claim no allegiance to any Prince or country, I have no true ally but the Lord of all. My enemy is Kataphage and all that comes from him, all despair and pain, all hatred and injustice, and all that serve that father of lies, whether man, elf, dwarf, Katamobe or earthly creature. I have no rival, for I fight not for my own power, but to further the cause of El Shaddai. Having told you all this, I challenge you!"
One brave sprite had remained, waiting hesitantly outside the cottage, and she heard Droc's roar of rage. The duel began, Wari wielding Riannan, his opponent the club. The sprite lingered for awhile, fearfully, listening to the sounds of the furious battle within. As a creature of power, she could sense the maddened fury in Droc and the calm determination in Wari, as well as the dizzy agony of the wounded boy and the unveiled evil of the waiting demon.
Then the Katamobe joined the fight, adding strength and skill to Droc's murderous intent. The fight became more intense, and the sprite poised to flee.
"El Shaddai!" Wari cried. "By the Golden Eagle of Hosiotos, avaunt, avaunt, foul Katamobe!"
Painful shrieking filled the air like the sound of claws scraping on tibian. "Depart from Droc son of Colbert," Wari cried in triumph. "Flee from the region, and return not while Mateo son of Droc lives!"
With a membranous fluttering of wings, undercut by the thud of Droc's unconscious body striking the floor, the Katamobe obeyed. Terrified when the horrible creature burst from the cottage, the brave sprite fled too.
It is said that Seeker Wari returned to Culmari several weeks later with an apprentice, the famous Mateo. The boy had a heavy limp, and was weak from long illness, but he was alive, and safe in the Seeker's caring protection. Droc remained in the forest.
Wari told Servant Krymote, the leader of Culmari, that Mateo had extraordinary talent in the Second Sight of Seekers, and that already he was a marvelous apprentice. Servant Krymote told the Seeker several of the more well-known Mateo legends, while the boy hid behind his tankard of cider and blushed, once in awhile mumbling something like, "No, it wasn't five treecats, it was only four, and I had two arrows, not one."
Krymote would have none of the young hero's modesty, and much enjoyed his own tale-telling, as did the Seeker and everyone else in Tavern Locks.
And that was the beginning, the 'joining of two paths,' as Wari put it . . .
--end prologue
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