Nattas

A historian’s fate

The silence was deafening.

Only interrupted at uncertain intervals, by the rustling of heavy pages turning one after the other. All made of fine calfskin, skillfully bound into an old manuscript, the young librarian was reading.

This venue brought out the poet in me, Storm thought with a grimace, moving his arse to the side on the uncomfortable wooden chair. He’d appropriated it from a nearby table; since he didn’t see another option. Every table had only one, urging cultured folk either to read in isolation, or endure a life of unnecessary labor.

Probably another reason in there as well, though he couldn’t fathom it. The furniture in question just a simple hardwood seat, hard as rock, with no upholstery that caused him to slide more than he’d expected and almost topple over, hurting his leg and dignity in the process.

The chair creaked alike an old cart at the slight abuse; as if ready to break apart and Storm had to grab ahold of the table for purchase, hearing the sound multiplying in the empty corridors around them tenfold.

It was shockingly loud.

Abrakas douse that accursed wife’s mound, with putrefied black lice!

The carpenter’s was his meaning.

The young man raised his eyes, a light brown that almost matched his hair, from the page he was reading and looked at him silently. Storm cleared his throat, a little embarrassed at causing a ruckus initially, until he caught himself, now twice as angry for feeling it in the first place. His first thought; to accuse the young man for doing it on purpose.

He’d a familiar surname as well, Storm thought, giving him a mean stare in return. It was at the tip of his tongue.

“Lord Nattas,” The man said in a pleasant calm voice, “I take it, you will be taking over for Lord Alden?”

His query wrong-footed Storm and he leaned back on his chair deflated, the protruding rail hurting his nappe. Cursing inwardly, he nodded in silence, only a twinge on his left eye telling his plight.

“It is an honor to work with you my lord. My name is Sirio Veturius.”

“Well… it is nice to be recognized, dear Veturius. You’re doing a commendable job, I’m certain. Are you the First librarian? You appear rather young, no offense.”

Storm had gone overboard in his praise perhaps, but he genuinely appreciated flattery.

He also appreciated people steering clear of his presumed shortcomings.

“I aspire to be a writer, lord Nattas,” Sirio replied, ever respectfully.

Ah.

Storm remembered where he’d heard the name before. It was rather obvious.

“A historian?”

It was an easy conjecture.

The kind that makes you lose good coin at the races.

“I love embellishing history too much for that. I’m afraid, I would be a pitiable substitute for my famous ancestor,” A tiny smirk on the side of his mouth, showing a layer of his character, deceptively hidden, Storm noticed.

“There are more lies in history, than branches in a forest,” Storm parried with a quote of his own and got a nod of approval from the cultured young man.

“Would you like to review the treaties?” Sirio asked, after an appreciative moment passed between them.

Storm wetted his lips, casting a nervous glance at the huge tomes, right next to the hefty manuscript young Veturius had been reading from.

“I could offer my abbreviated version,” Sirio said in understanding.

You will of course.

But one, should never take the road freely offered.

It’s the best way, to walk into a trap.

Storm sighed deeply. He brought both hands on the table, minding to cover the bandaged finger with a palm. Back to business, he decided, ending their brief interlude.

“Since you are apparently digging into the Histories for more context; per King’s orders, I’d like to read the treaties themselves. With your help, but not your embellishment.”

Sirio smiled and got up, after carefully placing a thin engraved wooden bookmark, on the page he was reading.

“Library keeps an exact copy. The original parchment is held in the King’s treasury.”

“A copy would suffice,” Storm replied, impressed by his poise.

Lord Nattas had an eye for talent.

But he did make poor choices.

At times.

“Chief!” Sudi cried behind his back almost finishing, what the accursed chair had tried and failed earlier.

“For fucks… keep your voice down, you imbecile!” He snapped.

“Apologies. Being searching for you,” The man explained looking around for a chair to sit on and finding no easy options alike Storm before him, eyed the empty one across from lord Nattas.

“No,” Storm said sternly, adding with a smirk. “Remain standing.”

Sudi puffed hard. “Right. I was at your nephew’s—”

“I’m pretty sure, it’s my place still,” Storm cut him sourly. “Is he dead?”

“Ahm… nay. He’s actually made a remarkable recovery.”

Abrakas you foul, miserable piece of shite.

He sighed, corner of his eye catching young Veturius returning.

“How fortunate. Now, I’m in the middle of serious business…”

“Can I help?” Sudi offered, watching envious the young man taking the seat, he’d flirted with earlier.

“Yes. You can watch the doors,” Stord replied readily. “Don’t let anyone enter. Especially if he’s an assassin intent on killing me,” He paused, thinking about it some. Settling for a minor amendment. “Unless it’s that Priestess of Naossis. Been meaning to have a talk with her.”

The woman had caught his eye in the funeral.

Alas, bared female skin was his weakness.

And with any luck, not his undoing.

“Flavia?” Sudi asked with an idiotic grin, as if he’d knew of others.

“Guard the goddarn doors!” Storm rumbled, losing his patience.

Good talent, was very hard to come by.

Whomever copied the original, had done a fine job, inputting with gusto all the archaic and by now obsolete calligraphic letters; packing them together as if afraid he’d run out of page, despite the text in this first one Sirio had offered him, being a mere paragraph.

Or perhaps he had embellished it, all in a futile attempt at prettying up, what was the scratching’s of an illiterate ancient scribe, who didn’t know his cock, from a quill.

“So, the leaders of the… Issirs, and I bloody well hope, it isn’t saying seers and making a fool of myself; requested aid from the Lorian lords, where was it... ah, yes... in their war against the… empire of Wetull. It is rather refreshing to see, what is old to us now, being current back then,” He stopped and looked at the patiently waiting Sirio, sitting across from him. “When was this?”

“It is generally accepted, as being the first communication with King Lucius the first,” Young Veturius replied prepared. “Timed, three years before the start of the New Calendar.”

“During the earthquakes.”

“As they were described from our own people. The Khanate scholars probably differ on this part, and of course those living near the epicenter of the events, clearly described volcanoes erupting. We tend to accept the latter explanation as more accurate at this time.”

Storm smacked his lips, mouth made dryer by the subject. He needed a bottle of good wine, if he was to go through ancient history. A genuine man of the present and the near future, he had kept himself to the bare minimum of knowledge on the matter; mostly as a filler to be more accurate, or a tool to use, when a conversation needed thinning;

or to be steered away from more... sensitive matters.

Storm should have attended a better academy was the long and short of it, but for lack of means and his meagre family standing... he hadn't.

He went for the obvious discrepancy.

“I thought Reinut led the Issirs.”

“More context is needed here,” Sirio’s pleased smile faded seeing his sour expression. He pulled another vellum page from the stack he’d brought with him. “This was written, six months later.”

Hail thee fêted Lord Alden,

By order of Reinut the harsh, and in gratitude for thy assistance in preserving the fleet’s womenfolk and progenies, hereby it is decreed:

The lands below the Canlita Sea, up to the coast of Regia, are thus thine and thy heritors.

The lands beyond the Flauegran valley, following the great mountain range, where the Mabindon River has its source, up until the coast of Lesia, shall belong to Lord Davenport and his heritors.

No Issirs will lay claim thare.

No Issirs will ever raid thare.

And then there was only one, Lord Nattas thought.

“I imagine the Issirs have Reinut going by his more flattering moniker,” Storm murmured, finishing the equally difficult to read script.

“They do now. But it was Issirs that have written this as well.”

“I’m missing something here,” Storm said, accepting the next parchment from the young Veturius. “Is this what was signed, after our reply to the previous communication?”

“It is. Another six months or so. I believe it was much less.”

“Hmm.”

Storm read from the almost pristine vellum, the darkening of its color the only sign of its age, attempting to put all the details in order. He wasn’t here for a history lesson, nor was he interested in events that happened two hundred years in the past. Lord Nattas was searching for the reason or reasons, behind the King of Kaltha’s bizarre string of decisions.

“So… King Alden,” Storm said, reading aloud to the expecting Sirio. “Wisely accepted all this territory, he didn’t previously own, disregarding the slight and that conniving Daveport followed his example, the other minor lords be damned.”

“The king had to fight three campaigns to secure his rightful gains,” Sirio parroted the party line with a grin. Adding an often slurred over detail. “Against fellow Lorians.”

Storm nodded in agreement.

“It must have softened the sting of bending the knee to Reinut,” He noted. “Then again, King Lucius fought very little in this conflict with the Zilan.”

“Reinut broke the Zilan Imperial Hoplites on the Lazuli Peninsula and freed the Shallow Sea,” Sirio added. “No one thought that possible. He’d help of course.”

“The Horselords,” Storm said. Which translated to the warlords of the Khanate, before they united under the banner of Ranpour. United is used loosely here, as many of them is still rumored to roam the Khanate plains. A menace, whichever way one looks at it. “Which were originally employed by the Zilan and the Wetull Empire as cavalry.”

“Subjugated is the more correct term, I believe,” Sirio said. “But no Cofol will admit that to a foreigner.”

Abrakas, this is a fuckin’ odious undertaking, Storm groaned inwardly, cursing Lord Doris for putting him through all the trouble, and read the last lines on the parchment as fast as he could.

The High King’s authority and wisdom,

secures thus; peace in the realm.

The Three kingdoms were bound to one another, as allies against their common foe. They will remain bound, for the good of their peoples.

The King of Kaltha is elevated above all others rightfully.

It was his line that ended the Wetull era of terror, and eliminated their threat from the realm.

Whatever remains, all parties to this treaty agree, it must be destroyed.

Never again to rise in a position of power.

The Khanate is bound to the same agreement.

It must uphold it and it can’t lay claim on the High King’s lands in Raoz, they are bequeathed to him, as he safeguards the freedom of the Isles and keeps the narrow seas open.

All this was earned through blood and suffering and it cannot be taken back in perpetuity.

So long as the promise of Reinut the Great is kept true and stands

All three kingdoms are as one, under the High King of Kaltha.

Those signing the ensuing,

Swear on the bones of their ancestors and to the Gods themselves,

to uphold its word dutifully,

Always,

and to the letter.

Blessed be the Five.

“Well, this was…” Storm paused. “A bit more palatable, but still…”

“It is a later translation,” Sirio explained dutifully.

“Is there a difference?”

Young Veturius stared at the large tomes, Storm had stopped him from reading earlier.

“More context is needed,” Nattas answered his own question. “I spotted an anachronism and I’m not even a historian.”

The absence of the old Gods was glaring.

Abrakas, give favor to your faithful subject.

Before I fuckin’ die of old age.

“That is correct, my lord.”

“I will hazard a guess here,” Storm said, and noticed a smug smile creep up on the handsome man’s face. But for the thin goatee, he decided. That, he should shave off soon as possible and fuckin' forget about it. “King Alistair is looking for a way out of the treaty. Without breaking his word of honor and disgracing himself to Gods and ancestors.”

Sirio gathered the copies and placed them in a neat pile, next to the manuscript he was reading earlier. Found the bookmark he’d placed there and opened it carefully, under the curious scrutiny of lord Nattas.

“There is a point,” Sirio started, voice pleasant and fitting for the place, “one regarding Reinut’s promise, but it is part of an obscure verbal tradition that most historians avoid and my ancestor that mentioned it, was vilified for it.”

The latter added a bit of color on his cheeks.

“Wasn’t he extradited by the Khanate?” Storm asked.

“Betrayed after promises of safe haven were given.”

“Imagine that. He insulted Queen Dowager Femke, if I’m not mistaken,” He’d heard a song in a tavern about the whole incident. The bard had a horrible voice, more goat-sounding than human, but he was funny as all hells and that mattered the most, where Lord Nattas was concerned.

The song itself was outright vile, its title a gruesome punishment.

“There was no insult, but his love of history. Moment she read a copy, it was over. She branded him a traitor of the Three Kingdoms, and forced her eight year old son to decree, he was to be Hanged Drawn and Quartered publicly in Caspo O’ Bor. In the summer of hundred and three NC.” Sirio paused to collect himself, the subject deeply personal understandably. “People say his bones are in the Royal treasury, put back together into a gilded skeleton, his favorite quill still in hand.”

The Issirs were notoriously cruel to their enemies.

Storm sat back and breathed deeply, impressed at this relatively unknown part of history, regarding one of her biggest devotee’s no less; before exhaling slowly to give the young man time to find the thread again. Hoping he would remain impartial on his research. A lot of people wish for war. The reasons are many, the most common of them being revenge, against those they can’t harm or touch, due to a difference in standing.

“I can read you the quote from the proscribed edition, lord Nattas. It is an original copy.”

Storm raised his brows.

“I won’t find it in the library is your meaning.”

“The tome has been in my family for almost a century,” Sirio explained sounding tired, the last minutes of their talk taking a toll on him. It isn’t easy to acquire thick skin, Storm thought. It takes years and many humiliations, seasons upon seasons with nothing to show for your efforts, your dreams shattered, but have enough scorn thrown at you and your hide will turn to steel in the end.

“Does it explain it?”

“I believe it does. It is the full text after all.” There was determination in his voice now. Perhaps understanding that Lord Nattas was open minded enough to listen.

“Read the quote, dear Veturius.” Storm said simply, feeling tired himself -thick skin be damned- but particularly impressed with the young man; his mind almost equaling his own. Sirio complied in his cultured calm voice and Lord Nattas realized horrified the gates of war were wide open potentially, but for an obscure but not insignificant detail.

Most people would call, blind luck.

Few though will recognize, the mark of a gifted mass murderer.

Thank the gods, he fuckin' killed them all.

Or did he?

So long as the vile flesh-eating wizards are extinct and in no position of power, the pirate Lord’s promise stands and the realm is free.

So long as each party present avoids consorting with their unholy remnants, until they in turn are eradicated, the treaties and obligations stand.

Those that paid the blood price are bound to its just rewards.

As long as the promise stands.

If the promise fails and the abominations return, this treaty is null and void. The heritors should take care that never happens. Act swiftly to stop them from spreading like a plague, for they are an enemy to all mankind and their presence an offence to Eodrass himself. If the old one is affronted, the Wyverns might return.

They were clouds in the sky, but no rain yet. The weather would turn for the worse eventually, but in this part of Regia near the coast, the winters were mild. He preferred Novesium himself, even Cartagen though more loud, but as lord Nattas stood on Alden city’s guardtower, watching a minute Lucius inspect his men before leaving for the North, on a mission he wasn’t particularly warm on, he couldn’t help but wonder;

what this winter would be over there.

Or across the Shallow Sea.

He turned his head that way and squinted his eyes looking to the West. Where the Khanate ruled the lands of a different continent, distant and mysterious. The words of the long dead Historian coming back, his memory of them vivid and fresh.

Strongly it ruled, but not all of it. There were parts over there, at the bowels of Eplas, where the earth meets the Scalding Sea and its snarling myriad reefs, resemble white Kraken’s teeth. Where the land was torn apart, beyond the infamous Pale Mountains, where lakes were filled with acid and misshapen rocks still bare the marks of talons sharper than steel.

Where an Empire that had ruled forever, keeping the Lorians near their shores small and afraid… was gone, leaving ashes behind.

Where creatures that knew magic and the dark arts, challenged the Gods themselves, taming their beasts and claiming the skies… had died, unceremoniously and without fanfare.

Leaving nothing but blasted lands behind.

Their demise told from the mouth of the vulgar thug

That’d caused it.

Extinct, Reinut the Great had boasted, when the deed was done.

And being a creature of the sea, he staked all on it.

There on a piece of parchment, with his sign on it.

Histories volume III

The old realms, chapter IV

-Conclusion-

(Proscribed edition)

Gallio Veturius circa 101 NC

The silence was deafening.

Up here at least.

Until it wasn't.

“What did you find boss?” Sudi asked, appearing silently next to him. A tendency that’d started to seriously get on his nerves.

Abrakas cock rottin’ in an urn.

Lord Nattas rubbed his chin once, his goatee in urgent need of trimming and with a last look at the now ready to depart heir to the Kingdom of Regia, started walking towards the guard, without answering him.

He climbed down the stairs of the tower in silence, Sudi in tow and reaching its base, paused to rest his feet, the pain on his maimed one welcoming for once. It gave him focus. Sudi eyeing him, deeply worried cleared his throat, wanting to repeat his question no doubt.

“Go ahead.” Storm said, surprising his lackey. “Ask away.”

He looked too much like an Issirian, he thought. It could be a fuckin’ problem, down the line.

“Now, you’re worrying me more,” Sudi said with a grimace. “You found something didn’t ye? And seeing ye face, it can’t be good.”

Storm glanced around them for any onlookers; spotted at least eight of them as a matter of fact, including two of the tower’s guards and answered him in as low voice as it was humanly possible.

Sudi had pretty good ears, for his age.

Which in a way, was also annoying.