Prologue - A Fool's Trap [SOLO]

[Zifo]

Zifo stepped on horse dung and cursed loudly. Beside him an old limping man spat visibly, while a group of women just ahead raised accusing eyebrows. What? Never heard that one? Zifo released his shoe and awkwardly cleaned the dung with nearby stones. Even though he gave the group of women his best smile, they sniffed loudly and resumed walking down the street.

The street ended abruptly up ahead against Radasanth’s outer wall. The massive stone structure loomed ominously several meters high. Battlements and guardhouses crowded the upper sections; guards manned and patrolled it wearing such colorful garments that would shame any tailor.

Down below, crowded against the wall’s evening shadow, the city’s most prominent taverns and whorehouses attracted a constant flow of costumers with their charms and promises. There was more noise here than during a ship’s payday, and curses so raw that they would make a whore blush. Here’s where Radasanth’s scum and lows came to spend their money. That kind of people would slit their father’s throat for a mug of ale, and sell their maiden sister for a cupper. You could count yourself lucky if you escape just with some bruises, a broken tooth and a clever insinuation about your mother’s past ringing in your ear. Zifo never felt more at home.

Zifo pressed hard against the crowd, zigzagging through waves of people. He witnessed three brawls, a duel – where a man in a fool costume was left bleeding -, and even a scene between a husband, a wife, a mistress and a lover. Last time he saw, the poor fellow was been stripped naked surrounded by a cheering crowd.

A few stars dotted the sky when Zifo finally found a tavern with the sign de was looking for: a painted white man spilling his dinner, with the words “The Proud Drunkard” painted in red.

Zifo made for the door, but was immediately stopped by a shirtless brute with a club. He spat and missed a pot a few paces away.

“Ar, no boys allowed”, said the brute. His voice was course, and he smelled so badly that pigs would flee from him.

Zifo stepped back. It was all he could do to not throw up there and then.

“I am the eyes of Aldur.”

The brute’s eyes opened wide. He gave Zifo a stern look and eyed him up and down. He even looked around as if trying to find the boy’s parents. Ha! Good luck with that!

After a brief while the brute convinced himself that this was not some kind of joke, and that Zifo’s mother will not suddenly appear behind a bunch of piled up barrels threatening to box his ears. He spat again, this time he almost landed on target.

“Ar, they are younger by the day.” The brute stepped aside and opened the wooden door. Zifo heard the brute muttering about babes handling spears as the door shut firmly behind him. I am no boy. I have hair in all the right places.

His eyes took a while to adjust to the damp darkness, but his nose immediately picked the typical smells of boiled beef, cinnamon spice and reek. The Proud Drunkard was a silk palace compared to the hells and pits Zifo has had the fortune to visit, but there were signs of lowlife and decadence that a man could expect and appreciate from this kind of place. A fellow lay on a table, his drink spilled and vomit drooling down his chin. On another table a group of thugs played a crude kind of Dancing Cards game where the cards were placed on the table rather than been held by the players. There was even a guy with a flute in a corner playing a cheerful melody about a dragon and a destroyed village.

On the counter a plump serving lady was yelling to a fellow. She stopped when she eyed Zifo, pushed the fellow out from her sight and practically jogged out from the counter. Zifo gave her his best smile, but she welcomed him with a deep frown and a pair of hands on hips.

“What do we have here, yes? A boy? That fool of Janesh is sleeping at work again, yes? I’d swear to him that I will boil his skin if he sle…”.

“I am the eyes of Aldur.”

The plump lady’s jaw dropped visibly. Zifo grinned and made a flourished bow. “My sweet lady, may I speak with Master Yuulon? I have business to discuss with him. Something about a banquet, a High Lady, a dance with a kiss and a fat purse of gold”.

The lady recovered quickly. She looked around, seeking for parents that weren’t there. Why do they always do that? Finally, after a brief paused, she nodded once.

“Follow me, boy. Hands were I can see them, mind! Don’t want a real customer’s dinner stolen, yes?”.

The plump lady took Zifo through a backdoor and down through a set of stairs into a cellar. It was darker than the common room, and the air was damp and smelled of moss. Dust covered wine barrels and emptied boxes. Web spiders added a cheerful note to the environment.

“Through that door there”. The plump lady pointed with a fat finger.

Zifo flourished yet another bow, but the lady was already climbing the stairs. So much for a goodbye kiss then. He tried to push the door, but it was closed shut. He was about to return to the common when Zifo heard a faint voice from across the door.

“Who’s there?”

“I am the eyes of Aldur”. I’m getting tired of this. Next time the password will be a middle finger.

The door opened slightly and a head popped out from the opening. The man eyed him carefully, mouth hidden under a thick brown mustache. He closed the door again and began working the locks. Soon enough, Zifo entered the back room.

A single candle on a small stool fought against the overwhelming darkness. Two men were leaning against one of the room’s walls, their hands hidden under hoods and raincoats. A third man was holding a piece of cloth against the mouth of a fourth fellow. The latter lay bleeding on a table, his life running out from him. He jerked and trembled visibly. A fifth man locked the door behind Zifo.

Zifo knew right then and there that the man was done for. He was damped in sweat. His chest raised and descended wildly, and his hands and feet were bound to the table with leather stripes. Oddly enough, he was wearing a fool’s costume. The fool trashed and trashed, fighting desperately for life. The third man raised the piece of cloth slightly, but the fool began to loudly moan in pain. The man pressed the cloth down, but the moans were still audible.

“He got stabbed back in the street”, said one of the men leaning on the wall. “The bloody fool thought he can grab a lady’s arse and go away with it”.

The fool’s eyes opened wide and then closed slowly. He stopped trashing a moment later. The room felt surprisingly quiet without his moans.

“A nice performance”, began Zifo. “Although I’ve seen better”.

A blow in the back threw Zifo to his knees. The fellow with the mustache was on him in a heartbeat. Somewhere in the back someone drew a blade.

[Zifo]

The audience roared again as the two riders dashed forward. This time the one riding the pig aimed his lance to the second rider’s torso. The impact unsaddled the rider, but he simply rolled a couple of times before halting graciously and making one elaborate bow. The crowd roared and cheered again, demanding a seventh pass. The dwarf thrown from his saddle nodded violently and demanded a rematch, which the dwarf riding the pig complied with an elaborate speech predicting his fourth victory. The second rider walked to the hound he was thrown from and got on the saddle, restarting the show once again.

All considered, the celebration was taking a turn for the best. Butlers and maids poured out from the kitchen at an unbelievable speed with food and drinks that smelled gloriously and looked even better. Wine flowed freely, and there were even special rooms prepared for guest with ‘special’ appetites. The night’s first show had been a complete disappointment – a juggler that got burn when he tripped and failed to catch a burning stick that another juggler threw to him – and the guests were becoming restless. But then came a sparring pair of dwarves mounting a pig and a hound. That show was a complete success from the beginning. Soon the bruised dwarves were limping out of the common room accompanied by a roar of applause.

Zifo watched as a maid poured more wine into Aldur’s cup and wondered just how much longer the elaborate farce they’ve prepared will last. The old man laughed and joked amongst Radasanth’s elite as if he really was some kind of lord, and the high class fools surrounded him were buying it splendidly. Aldur’s ‘son’ Yumil – the man who opened the cellar’s door back at the “The Proud Drunkard” – was been courted by a group of young ladies of the highest houses, even though he had a face so scarred by disease hidden under those annoying whiskers that he would scare his own mother, and manners so rough that is was a miracle that no one had demanded proof of his alleged nobility.

A new set of applause announced the beginning of the third show. A shirtless bulky man was helping a little girl squeeze into a small coffin. He closed the coffin tightly and announced that he will attempt to cut it in half without so much as harming the girl inside.

“Fool! Come and make us laugh!”

I must look ridiculous, reflected Zifo. He was wearing the bloody fool’s custom, a stupid sole piece of fabric with horizontal black and red stripes. It even had those silly bells pasted to a hand-shaped hat, which rang every time he moved. It was obviously too small for him, but somehow that seemed to make the farce more credible.

Zifo jumped, danced and made a fool of himself, much to the amusement of Aldur’s new friends. Even Yumil flashed a smile. But the old man’s stern face made it clear that he didn’t appreciate the show.

“I see that you’re not taking this seriously” said Aldur. “Ser Gregor, take this fool out of my sight!”.

Out of nowhere came the towering figure of Ser Gregor. He was completely clad in armor, although the pieces were so mismatched that they were obviously knitted together from different suits. Some even had a touch of rust. It was a wonder that could actually move in that outfit and convince everyone that he was really a Knight.

Ser Gregor smacked Zifo twice in the head and dragged him out of the common room. His ears were still ringing when Gregor finally released him. He stumbled to his knees. A trickle of blood ran down his face.

“Why so hard?” muttered Zifo. He tried to rise but his knees failed. He stumbled loudly on the floor.

“I don’t like you”, began Gregor. “My friend was to be the fool, and you were to be my squire. Now I don’t have a friend or a squire”.

Zifo unconsciously went for the round hole on the fool’s custom fabric, right below his stomach. The blood stains were still visible.

“Go”, whispered Gregor. “You are free to roam now”. He looked around just to make sure no one was listening.

“If you mess this one out I’ll…”. Gregor let the threat unfinished, turned around and disappear behind a corner. His steps soon faded in the distance.

[Zifo]

Zifo pressed the lock harder and felt the tick he was looking for. He rotated the lockpick ever so slowly, but in the end the thin iron stick broke under the pressure. Exasperated, he pressed his fourth and last lockpick inside, but to no avail. The thing broke as well.

Zifo was getting low of options, and he didn’t have much of them of begin with. Apparently, Muli’s lockpicking skills were top notch. A lock as thick as this one would have been as easy for him as arousing a virgin, Aldur and his men had claimed. Well, too bad his skills were not enough to protect him from that blade.

“It’s not like I killed him”, whispered Zifo lowly. His head still throbbed, and from time to time he had to close his eyes to stop the world from spinning. He guessed that Gregor, Aldur and the bunch of fools cared for Muli. Zifo had seen that kind of bond between his fellow sellswords, the camaraderie between friends. But it was a feeling he didn’t understand, nor cared for. It’s just muck.

Every person Zifo has cared and loved for were long dead and buried. If you care for someone you will eventually get hurt. They’ll get themselves killed, and end up disappointing you. The guys’ reaction to Muli’s death seemed rather illogical. After all, in the end, we all die. Some die easier than others, of course, but that’s a different story.

The door he was trying to pick lead to the manor’s private halls and corridors. Normally, servants would have filled the empty hallways, but they were currently too busy tending the banquet. They did took precautions, though. They barred the door with a pair of locks, of which Zifo managed to pick one. The last one, however, proved to be far more stubborn.

There must be another way.

The door was located on the far end of the corridor. Richly woven carpets covered the floor. Portraits of prominent lords and battles decorated the walls and depicted scenes blatantly fictional. Colossal windows watched the street below; their impressive crystal work reflected the moonlight with an eerie glow.

Zifo opened the closest window with care. The windows had locks of their own, but they were made to guard from those trying to get in, not out. He leaned carefully and looked around.

The street below was still crowded even though the sun had set a couple of hours before. The manor was three stories high, with ample gardens and small forest surrounding it. It was a tranquil island in an otherwise chaotic city, and all the bustle and uproar from the street was quelled with the singing of the birds, the ripples from the fountains and the rustle from the trees.

To the left rows of balconies popped out from the building. They belonged to the private chambers of important guests and dignitaries. Zifo turned up and saw a thin ledge just a couple of inches away from the window’s edge.

Better do it now before better judgment returns to me.

Zifo carefully climbed the window’s edge. He jumped and grabbed the ledge firmly with both hands. After a couple of seconds, Zifo mastered enough courage to begin moving slowly towards the nearest balcony. Every inch was a battle against gravity.

Soon his fingers were beginning to let go, so Zifo pressed harder. Dust and bird stool fell on him as he advanced. He wondered if someone below had seen him and was raising an alarm. Zifo half-expected a rain of arrows to fall on him any moment, or imagined himself falling down and breaking each and every bone in his body. Gregor will most likely make a sport of those that do survive the fall.

He let go and landed with a bump. His hands were numb and his fingers a throbbing mix of pain and blood, but he had somehow managed to reach the balcony. He made himself look down and puked.

[Zifo]

Memories from his past haunted him. They mocked him. They laugh at him. They hurt. But worst of all, they yearned for an answer, an explanation, a reason, anything to let them rest. Why?, they asked. I don’t know! Zifo answered them in return; bet they kept coming, clutching ghostly fingers to his throat. He had pleaded them to stop countless times in the past, curled up in his bed and weeping desperately. Let me be! But they didn’t stop; they never will.

Zifo remembered the limp-less bodies lying scattered on the ground. He remembered the intoxicating heat from the scorched wheat fields and the smoke rising from the burned farm. He remembered the naked bodies of women and girls sprawled in obscene positions. They left them there to rot, muttered Zifo. And the babes. Oh, the babes! Suckling children thrown against the walls, the blood stains still fresh. Why?, they asked.

“I wasn’t there!” he yelled at them. “I was in the wild seeking herbs, I swear!”.

Was he? Zifo didn’t know anymore. He remembered that he was cutting leaves from a bush to make a concoction when he saw the smoke rising in the distance. But he also remembered hiding under a cellar clutching a sword and weeping wildly. He remembered been wounded by and arrow, clinging desperately for life as his comrades died around him. He remembered been thrown out from a ship and into the freezing water just as the waves broke the hulk. He was a different a person in each memory. A different face, different hair; skin sometimes white, sometimes black. But that didn’t make it less real. Were all those memories his?

He woke up with a gasp. A sweet breeze washed his face, carrying briefly the scents and sounds from the street below. A full moon played joyfully in the sky accompanied by a multitude of fickle stars. Zifo rose with effort. His hands were sore and bleeding. He cleaned his face with the costume’s fabric, and discovered that he was crying.
Blood and ashes! When will they stop tormenting me?

Zifo heard a wild BOOM followed by gasps and cheers. He went instinctively for his long-dagger, but remembered he left it at “The Proud Drunkard”. "Why must a fool carry around a dagger?", had claimed Aldur back at the tavern.

A flash, followed by another BOOM and more cheers. Fireworks! Mother’s milk in a cup! How long was I asleep? The fireworks were supposed to be used at end, right after the mummer’s show. Time was getting short.

Zifo went for the balcony’s crystal door and found it closed. Without realizing what he was doing, he broke the crystal with shoulder just as a third BOOM echoed and came trashing into the room.

The pain from the cuts came like a flood. He felt the blood running down his hands and legs staining the costume. It had been foolhardy, but he had managed to get past the corridor’s locked door and into the private chambers.

[Zifo]

Zifo pressed his head against the door and waited before opening it. The corridor outside was scarcely lit with a couple of candles dancing in nearby walls. Dark and ominous shapes crawled in the darkness beyond, but upon further inspection he realized they belonged to furniture. Limping, and with a sore shoulder, Zifo watched as the fireworks illuminated pieces of glass sprawled on the floor. Then he closed the door carefully.

BOOM!

Time was getting short. Once the fireworks were done the guests will probably return to their rooms.

BOOM!

Zifo ran as fast as his wounded legs allowed him. Each step sent jolting pain across his body, and, before long, he was panting from the effort. Sweat and blood ran down his face in streams, staining the richly woven carpets. His eyes lost focus once, then a second time. The third time he lost footing and stumbled to the floor, sending precious looking china to its demise.

He reached for the door he was looking for, of solid oak and marked with the number 22. Zifo produced the thin little key that Aldur gave him back at The Proud Drunkard, matched it, and turned the doorknob slowly.

The room inside flashed with the last set of fireworks, followed by a BOOM. When his eyes got used to the dark, Zifo began searching meticulously for the parchment. He searched under the bed and inside drawers. Exasperated, he even ripped opened the mattress sprawling white goose feathers everywhere.

Move. He obeyed quickly, almost by instinct, and rolled to a side just as a club swung closely. Zifo stood rapidly, ready for a second assault. A man with a club watched him closely with a disgusting smirk. His face was scarred with disease and…

“Yumil…”, whispered Zifo wide-eyed. There was no mistaking that scarred face. But where were his whiskers? And what was he doing in the room?

Malic launched without notice, this time missing by merely an inch. They both danced for a while until Zifo’s legs gave away. He stumbled to the ground and gasped just before the club hit him hard on the head.