Lasarais, part 2/2 (Patreon)

Lasarais walked until the sun set and pushed on until it rose again. At times he needed to stop to rest or to drink from unfrozen streams. The night was cold and his fur alone was not enough to keep the biting wind at bay. Three times his feet failed him and he fell. Yet the skies spreading above the open plains drove him forwards, to surpass the limits of what his body was capable of. When he reached the end of the plains, his strength finally gave out. He collapsed on his knees and was asleep before his head could hit the ground.

It was then that the eerie blue flame almost went out. The lantern, hung on the blade of Lasarais' heavy bone-crafted polearm, had rolled away into the snow when Lasarais had fallen. The flame fought against the cold until there was only a little blue ember left. Before it died, however, it was restored by a spirit.

Minosh had been imprisoned in that lantern for twenty-three years, ever since the birth of that calf. Before that, he had been a ghost existing somewhere between life and death, cursed to wander alone till the end of time. And before that, a long, long time ago, Minosh had been a warrior not unlike this miserable creature buried in snow. (He had, of course, been mightier and more handsome, and he had been created in the Labyrinths - this wet-behind-the-ears brat had nothing on him.) He, too, had been punished for his deeds, although he did not know how to regret them.

If the brat died, Minosh would most likely become a powerless ghost again. If he played his cards right, however, he could perhaps eventually possess Lasarais' body. The kid needed to be alive for that, though, and so the lantern couldn't go out. Or so Minosh insisted. Perhaps it was that, perhaps it was a moment of genuine care - Lasarais was his descendant after all, as miserable as he looked. Or perhaps he had some of his honour left and wanted to guide his ward, curious to see what he would accomplish.

And so, using all the strength an incorporeal entity possessed, Minosh stuck two ghostly arms out of the lantern and wiggled himself and the lantern upright. The flame awoke and Lasarais took a deep breath. To Minosh's disappointment, however, Lasarais had not been informed of the lantern, and so Minosh had quite a lot of explaining to do when the fallen warrior woke up. He spoke of the illness that had almost taken Lasarais' life as a calf, the way the Blindhorn had saved his life by binding it to a lantern, and the spirit that was pulled into that lantern to guard and anchor Lasarais' soul. To Lasarais' credit, the young warrior took it quite well: he passed out after Minosh was done, not during his explanation.

After resting the morning, Lasarais decided he'd rather continue walking aimlessly than digest his banishment or the lantern. Minosh's voice and face in the fire had disappeared, and Lasarais could almost forget he had ever existed.

Later that day, he found a village. Tired and bloodied he approached the people. But although Lasarais looked miserable and his hair was a tangled mess, there were very few four-horned minotaurs. The people recognised him and they did not think kindly of him. They turned their backs and marched away. Lasarais understood. That woman's husband had been killed by Kashbar, that man had lost his house in a raid, that child had begged Lasarais to spare her mother. Alone, Lasarais wept. Not because of the blade that had carved his flesh, but because of the one stabbing his heart. He was alone, forever would be.

When the snowfall changed into rainstorms, Lasarais had travelled so far his name was not known; he was a stranger here. He walked until he reached a woodland. Then he was too tired to continue, and he welcomed the foreign shade of the trees. He was malnourished and his body had gone through a fever after fever. He was exhausted both mentally and physically, and the scars on his back had healed poorly. The rain and mud did not make healing any easier: it was difficult to find a dry place to sleep, let alone keep the wounds clean. He still had no proper clothes, only a piece of burlap cloth, and had survived mostly on tree bark and skinny squirrels.

That winter rumours of a beast living in the woods spread in the surrounding villages. The creature was whispered to be a small but fierce chort and a hunting party was arranged to claim its head. Travellers were warned that the road was dangerous until the beast could be slain. Of course Merric Whistlebrook had to catch a glimpse of it before it met its demise.

Merric was a young halfling girl with short dust-brown hair and a mischievous smile. She had a tendency to get in trouble (which worried her parents quite a lot), but after paying the price of her curiosity for many years, she had become an excellent tracker who could hide even in the brightest daylight. After half a day of tracking hoofprints the size of her head, she found the beast of the wood leaning on a barren tree. It was watching the raindrops paint circles on a pond. Oh how sad it looked - head hanging low, barely dressed, fur grey and matted, bones poking through the skin.

"You are no beast!" exclaimed the halfling.

"But I am," said the beast, its language familiar but heavily accented. "I wait for the hunters and their blades to find me."

"No beast is capable of such sadness," replied the halfling, bravely approaching the creature. "Therefore you are no beast."

The beast could not think of anything to say. Quietly he watched the rainfall with the stranger, oddly comforted by her presence.

"The hunters will be here in a day or two," said the halfling. "Come with me! You'll find nothing but arrows and misery here."

And thus, led by the small halfling girl holding his hand, Lasarais Grimram came to meet the Whistlebrook family.

They became very dear to him. Lasarais found out that they were a family of winemakers and self-proclaimed bards, travelling to sell their fine wine. When Merric (who was presumed to be lost or worse) appeared out of the forest with a beast in tow, Yerda Whistlebrook knew what to do. She ordered her husband, Rufus Whistlebrook, to prepare the wagons and the donkeys but leave one wagon empty for their guest. Lasarais was barely conscious at this point and needed the assistance of both Rufus and Yerda to haul his body onto the wagon. He was too weak to protest, and so the oldest daughter, Calie, could cover him with blankets and tarp. Quickly and silently, as halflings can be, the Whistlebrooks set on the road to avoid hunters and curious eyes the best they could.

Slowly Lasarais healed. It took a lot of crying and even more of Yerda's lentil soup, but he healed. He was scrubbed clean of mud and dirt and for the first time his wounds were covered with bandages and herb salves. He had people to talk to and stories to learn. The halflings had seen many places: they had a vineyard, but when they didn't tend to it, they travelled the world to sell their wine and sing their songs. Lasarais was amazed by the strength of the little folk - not strength that could slay enemies or lift swords, no, strength that could make soup, brew wine, raise a family and create music.

When grapes were ready to be harvested, they went back home. The house and the brewery were built next to a river on a hillside, vineyards snaking around the hills. It was a joy to see the family members who were too old or ill to travel: grandpa and grandma, great-great aunt, uncle Mort who had a bad leg, aunt Priskin and her baby son Billie. Yet again, Lasarais was welcomed to the family as their tall son, and they taught him how to harvest grapes and brew wine out of them. His strength had returned and he could lift even the heaviest of barrels with ease. And yet his adoration for the strength of the halflings grew.

That year gave Lasarais the hope and determination he had needed. However, although he wished to stay, it was not his time for rest yet. It only took one question to send him running again.

One spring evening, a little over a year after Lasarais had met the Whistlebrooks, he went with Merric to catch salmon that swam up the river. When Lasarais got into the cool water to stalk the fish with his glaive raised high, Merric asked that tragic question. Where did Lasarais come from and why was he alone in the woods, beaten and broken? The rush of memories suffocated Lasarais: his father, the bone blade, red blood on white snow, Kashbar, the innocent people dead by his hand.

He turned around with the trained ease of a warrior, ready to slay his enemies and rid of the red clouding his vision. But there were no enemies. Only little Merric, that sweet but rowdy girl who was his best friend. The salmon continued their swim upstream and the birds continued to sing, but Merric bled on the mossy ground.

Lasarais' rage ended as suddenly as it had begun. He did not know if Merric lived or not, because after he had carried the unconscious girl back to her family, he turned his back on the Whistlebrook caravan and ran. How it pained him to leave, to welcome loneliness in his heart again! But the thought of Merric bleeding because of him pained him even more. How had he dared to think he could stay with the halflings, when he hadn't even tried to search for the Labyrinth? How could he call them his friends when he could lose control of his strength so easily? He did not even have his honour!

And thus began the longest of his journeys, the one that still continues today. It took him across wildlands and coasts where monster hunters almost caught him; through flower fields to hillsides where his lunch was stolen by a pack of Pressian hyenas; to the perilous Fang Mountains where he got lost and wandered in the mist for days until a giant shadow scared him off to the right path. His poor luck with directions continued and he found himself stuck in a brine pool of the salt marshes where a travelling bard helped him out, just to end up naked in a mushroom circle after an accidental strange and colourful drug trip. His journey took him to the Valley of Despair and very quickly out of it, for it was worthy of its name. He saw rivers, forests, mountains, hills, even some cities when he needed to ask for directions or information about the Labyrinth.

Unfortunately, Minosh was not of much help. He could not recall where the Labyrinth was, despite insisting he would know the Labyrinth when he saw it. Most of the time his advice consisted of either murder, courting, eating, mockery or making Lasarais adjust the lantern so Minosh could see the view. Lasarais usually did not bother to talk to him much, and it seemed that communicating with Lasarais was quite taxing on the lantern-bound spirit's powers. However, they eventually formed a bond: Lasarais even learned to borrow some of Minosh's strength, and the old warrior proved to be, well, not a complete fool.

Years passed and Lasarais still travelled. He didn't have a proper destination and sometimes he would spend months in the same place, usually alone but once with a group of druids. Not all contact with humans was hostile, but he avoided civilization when he could. One day, however, after getting lost in Kiled when searching for a Builder ruin, he approached a house surrounded by fields to ask for directions. The people did not bother to listen to him: the farmers shot him, driving the so-called beast off their lands. Lasarais found an abandoned tavern by the road and hid there, too tired to nurse his wounds. He was content on dying then and there. However, his luck turned around when a group of adventurers found him curled into a corner under a tattered cloak, twelve arrows on his back.