Vortumbra - the old man's tale

1 - The knife grinder

The old man woke up. It was still too early, the sun had not appeared. He's been living alone for some years and tried to re-establish a new routine for his life, since his wife, Ralye'ra, had died. He did not think about her much, he just missed waking up and smelling something good coming from the kitchen. She spoke too much. The three-room cottage seemed to have doubled in size since she left. He enjoyed the silence of the dawn, above all else.

He set the blanket aside and felt the cold cut through his shins. The bladder was heavy, so he had to go out to empty it. He fumbled on the pitch until he found his lighter and oil lamp. One, two, three little sparks until the flame lit up showing his suffering face, had few white hair left in his head and a full beard.

The only thing new about him was his teeth. He'd spent all his savings just to feel again the sensation of biting a fruit and chewing meat. He could not bear to just eat soup and wet bread anymore. He ran his tongue over his teeth, very white, made of dragon bone. Those did not match his face, but worked very well.

The fire from the metal fireplace in the corner had already gone out. Above it, the rusty shield with the almost imperceptible red catigre's coat of arms, was a reminder of his youth, when he served in the army and fought to defend the kingdom.

With the spoils of war he was fortunate enough to buy a small house within the walled part of the city, with a yard where he still raised han'jacus, big birds that were fattening well and had a lot of soft flesh covering their bones. They were sleeping on their perches. The stench of dung mixed with straw and aged grains was far better than the smell of the city streets.

Overhead, the cloudy sky showed no stars or moons.

The tall walls with glass shards on top and small traps kept the han'jacus thieves at bay almost always. He had the pleasure of hitting one of them a few months ago with a arrow in the leg. The old crossbow was slow to cock, but still fulfilled its function. Now, it was the damned bladder who did not fulfil its function. He opened the bathroom door at the back of the yard and waited. The pain of wanting to urinate that made his body burn inside and then the result: a drop. Another drop. A timid, swinging jet. He made an extra effort to expel. And it then everything finally came, along with a great relief and a sigh. The pleasures of old age were others.

He sat on a stump in the yard and lit his pipe with the lamp's flame. He enjoyed the taste of that strong herb reviewing some of memories of his youth. It was in such quiet hours that the echoes of the past returned. The screams of that terrible battle. When all the members of his unit died. She shook his head, trying to get rid of it. And yet, at the end, the campaign was victorious. Some time passed as he struggled to ward off the sounds and images of the war of his mind. A little dawning light tinged the courtyard with gray tones and a little of the color of the grass and his limejuss tree, with the bountiful and yellow fruits revealed.

She struggled to his feet, his back creaking and complaining a little. He was quite healthy for someone his age. He never thought he would live that long. He saw four kings rise and fall from the throne. Two dead on the battlefield, one poisoned by his wife, one infected by the white cough... It seemed that kings simply had no right to die of old age.

With the arrival of morning, the sounds of the city began. He fed his han'jacus, who always woke up bristly and loud. The dark blue feathers gave them a black silhouette, except when illuminated by the sun, from which they showed a very beautiful and metallic glow. He picked up an egg for breakfast and put wood on the stove. He fried with the egg a piece of bacon he kept in the lard can. He scraped the mold of the black, hard bread. To help get everything down, hot flowerblu tea. A nice breakfast. Better yet, if you can chew it.

He put his equipment in the shoulder bag. His good honing stones and two sharpening steels. Locked his house and walked the streets beating his brass bell. He climbed the slopes to reach the top of the city. His legs and feet complained, but that neighborhood paid better. There were some customers here and there who always brought the razors for him to resurrect.

She sat down on the gray stone steps leading to the mansion, placing her instruments on his side on a gummed cloth. There were three kitchen knives and a pocketknife. The latter, he only needed sharpening, but the knives... looked at them with a scowl. He imagined that they might employ noruks in the kitchen to get the knives into such bad shape.

He used the thicker sharpening steel. The blades were full of teeth and also blind. He sharpened and tested the three, cutting off a scrap of leather. Now, perfect, good as new. The equipment he bought from a merchant from Zanzidia was expensive, but was worth every gold coin. There was no other knife grinder like him all over town, at least so he thought. She thanked the customer's preference, put the instruments in his bag, the two coins in the inside pocket of his jacket, and went on his way.

It was supposed to be just another day like any other, but then, he heard the screams.