The Thief of Years

The Thief of Years

Aranthir XI

The sacrifice was a truly wretched man. A humble fisherman, he had been found washed up on the shore after a sudden winter storm had wracked the seas near Blackcove, the wreckage of his boat scattered across the rocky beach. Laerk had been called to the beach by his second Kalb, and the two of them had hurried the half-drowned man through their decaying village and into the sea cave before summoning the others.

Now all the people of Blackcove's Chosen drew close, clad in their long black robes and bearing candles before them. They gathered round, under the low-hanging roof of the cave where water sometimes dripped from above to douse candles of those who had displeased their dread lord. Laerk did not fear, for this wretched man was clearly a gift to them. The fisherman lay chained on the great basalt altar, his head lolling about as if in a dream, for the sea had robbed him of his senses.

"We should be quick," Kalb whispered from Laerk's elbow, clutching the jagged ritual dagger beneath the folds of his robe. "I feel the jaws of time eating at me even now. We have quarreled too long and squandered much time. Hurry, and make use of this opportunity before he slips away!"

Laerk nodded. He could feel the years weighing heavily upon him as well. He looked around and saw that his neighbors were no different. Everyone in the cave was old, and not any usual sort of old. Their faces sagged, their backs were hunched, their movements slow, and even their voices cracked. Even though he ached everywhere, Laerk had delayed the sacrifices too long, afraid of what he would have to give.

But now, the gods had seen fit to grant him a reprieve, and he could not waste it. Kalb extended the dagger and Laerk took it from his withered palms, striding purposefully toward the man on the altar. His fellow villagers noticed and took up a chant.

"Thief of Years," they called together. "We Chosen offer you this sacrifice in accordance with our ancient pact. Blood for life, life for service. We honor you that we might serve you."

Thirty candles burned low in the gloom of the cave, and their bearers knelt similarly low, holding the candles out before them. One villager came shuffling forward on bended knee, long, wizened arms outstretched to present a candle. The hood slipped back, and Laerk looked into the eyes of Nelba, his wife of these many years.

Their eyes met meaningfully, and Nelba managed a slight smile. Laerk replied with a little nod, their shared relief palpable. Without letting the others see his emotion, Laerk turned and raised the candle above his head.

Now illuminated above him, a huge statue of black stone loomed over the altar out of the cave's shadows. The wretched man on the altar started, coughing up a cupful of seawater in shock. The simian countenanced statue's curving fangs gleamed in the candlelight.

"Do it now," Nelba urged in an insistent whisper. Laerk took a deep breath. He had done this a hundred times before. Why should this one be any different?

It was not, he told himself. What was different was the next one.

He cast the candle into the great brazier that sat in the statue's lap, and almost instantly, the whole cave was lit up with a blazing light. He squeezed shut his eyes at the sudden light, as always caught off guard by his lord's radiance. The sacrifice cried out as well, the first sound other than coughing he had made since being found on the beach.

Above him, the ruby eyes of the statue flared to life. They seemed to fixate on the naked man chained to the altar and Laerk saw the man quail, his awareness slowly returning to him. Too late.

Laerk stepped forward and drew out the ritual dagger with a flourish.

"Great lord!" he cried, and his neighbors cried out with him. "We Chosen offer this sacrifice to you!"

The dagger plunged downward, piercing the fisherman's breast with a terrible keen of iron on bone. The man shrieked, thrashing in his rusted old chains so much that Laerk feared he might break free. He carved down the man's chest, sawing open his breastbone in a spray of blood. The sacrifice heaved for breath, tears in his eyes as they turned pleadingly to Laerk. But the village aldorman had no mercy in him. Bone gave way before the knife and the fisherman collapsed. His blood ran freely down his open chest, down his sides, and onto the basalt slab beneath him, where it melded with the hungry stone.

Laerk paid it no mind, for he now had access to the dying man's heart. With swift, practiced slashes, he cut it free and held it aloft.

"Great lord!" he cried again, "May this humble sacrifice please you! Now, give us our reward! Steal from this man the remaining years of his life! And give them to us, your long-suffering, long-serving slaves!"

He hurled the heart into the burning brazier after the candle, where he heard it thud against the stone. There was a great crackling, a sizzling, and he felt the change in his old bones right away. His aches waned, his fingers no longer cracked, and even his mind felt sharper. It was a familiar feeling, the rush of youth after every sacrifice. He had been miserly.

He felt his gaze drawn upward, toward the great gleaming rubies in the statue's eyes. As the heart sizzled and shriveled in the flames, he felt his lord's stony gaze upon him and went to one knee.

"I was wrong, my lord," he whispered. "Your sacrifices will be delayed no longer."

Looking up, he thought he saw the stone lips curl back in a smile.

---

Outside the cave, he stood looking out over the wintry waters. Blackcove was a village unbothered by travelers in the best of times, but the cold months always laid a blanket of isolation about them. There would be no travelers passing through until springtime, and the Thief of Years hungered.

Kalb stepped up beside him, his thoughts clearly echoing Laerk's own.

"We have secured us a reprieve," he sighed. "I feel the ravages of time receding. For now."

Laerk nodded numbly, for he knew what was coming.

"But time marches ever on. The Thief of Years must be satisfied, and we are not likely to get another gift such as this one."

"I know," Laerk whispered. He closed his eyes, trying to picture what he was asked to do. But the images were too horrible for his mind to conjure.

"You must give him Marra," Kalb pressed. Laerk's eyes flew open. This was no surprise. For years, he and the other villagers had argued over the fate of his dear daughter. She had been born after the sealing of the pact, and did not share in the stolen years. For that reason, Kalb and the others had seen her as merely a sacrifice in waiting.

But to Laerk, she was his daughter. His only child. The light of his life.

"Don't be greedy," Kalb sneered. "We have all given up our own to the great lord."

Laerk nodded somberly. Once, there had been many children in the village. Now, there was only Marra. But that made her precious.

"I understand," he managed at last. Kalb regarded him suspiciously, as if questioning whether Laerk truly did. He leaned in to Laerk's ear, his whisper harsh and his grip on the aldorman's shoulder even harsher.

"If you won't, I will." He turned and strode away. Laerk stood watching him for a time, until he was disturbed by Nelba emerging from the cave. She looked toward the figure of Kalb, disappearing into the village, and laid her hand on his.

"He asked again," she said, and Laerk nodded.

"I cannot," Laerk said helplessly, and his wife understood. It was hard enough for a father, but for a mother? He could not ask this of her, his dear Nelba. "We must find others," he said firmly.

"Others?" Nelba asked. She looked to the bluffs surrounding their village. The road inland had not been used by any other than Blackcove's inhabitants in many years. "Where?"

"We will send someone out. Someone who knows the ways of others, who can lure them back to our village and onto our altar. We must, for Marra must be protected."

"Aye," Nelba added. "Our daughter will not be next."

---

"I am sorry, messere, but I dare not set sail until the winter winds subside."

Aranthir frowned at the boatsman's thickly accented words. With a frustrated sigh, he looked out over the water. Whipped by frigid winds, the sea was a vast carpet of snow-capped blue-green that stretched from the rocky gray shores to the distant horizon, broken by not even a single sail at this hour.

"And when is that?" he asked, biting back his frustration. He had been in the port of Graystone for days without being able to find a ship to take him back to the mainland. The apathy and close-guardedness of the locals had done nothing to improve his mood.

The boatsman rambled in his heavy, near incomprehensible accent, before finishing with "Month of Cleansing, not earlier than the Rising of the Hunter."

Aranthir spat onto the old wooden dock. The man shrugged again. "I dare not set sail in my little wooden boat," he said, not for the first time. "If the smugglers put to shore," he offered hopefully as Aranthir turned away, but the tone in his voice gave Aranthir no hope.

A fresh, cold wind whipped his lengthened brown hair over his eyes and the half-elf growled as he pushed it back under his sallet and trudged across the rain-slicked gravel toward the inn. Though it was still mid-morning, the day was dim and the little port of Graystone was chill and quiet. A blanket of morose gray clouds hung low overhead, and to the southwest rain clouds threatened to turn the mid-afternoon even more miserable.

And so it was with rising frustration that Aranthir threw open the door to the Slaughtered Lamb and nearly trampled a serving boy on his way to join his companion at a table. He dropped down onto a worn bench of oak and blew out through his lips.

"Nothing?" asked Janguld the Fox. The other man's reddish gold hair and beard had grown long during their months on this rocky island, and he cradled a pewter mug of warm cider against his chest as a shield against the ever-present chill. Both men wore jack coats, dark and damp with the misty air of this remote harbor's cold climes.

"Not until the new year," Aranthir reported, and Janguld groaned.

"Stuck in this godsforsaken port for six weeks!" he moaned. "Nothing but fish, mutton, weak cider, and not even a whore to take the mind off the misery. How cruel a fate. Perhaps we should steal a boat and sail for the mainland ourselves?"

"Fancy yourself much of a sailor?" Aranthir challenged, too bitter to be wry at the moment. He waved over the surly serving woman and ordered himself a matching mug of cider. Janguld sighed.

"Not at all. I'd never been out of sight of land before we set out from Mathel. I don't like my chances at sea without an experienced hand on the tiller."

"Then we are trapped here until the winter fades," Aranthir grumbled, watching the kitchen door impatiently for his cider.

"It's just as well," the third man at the table spoke up, and both Janguld and Aranthir turned scornful eyes on him. The man was unremarkable in almost every aspect, being of average height, average weight, plain of face, and dressed in common traveling clothes. His expression was pleasant enough, but the tight cords around his wrists told even the most casual viewer that he was no common man. "I am in no hurry to get back to Daum Albor," the man went on casually, "and our time together will afford me ample opportunity to convince you of the wisdom in letting me go free."

"Shut your mouth," Aranthir snapped. "I did not spend three months running up and down this pile of gray rocks just to turn you loose."

"My good half-elf," the man continued, "we have a common enemy in the king. If you could look past your dislike of me, born no doubt from your frustrations at my skillful evasion, you might see that we have much in common."

"You are not the king's enemy. You are a murderer, nothing more," Aranthir shot back, "We have nothing in common. You will be turned over to the magistrate in Mathel for the ten pounds of silver you are worth, and I will never think of you again. Now keep quiet, for the bounty is a price on your head, but not your tongue, which I will gladly cut out and toss into the hearth if you insult me again."

Syv the Child-killer nodded sagely and said no more, leaving Aranthir and Janguld to sit in silence. The serving woman at last returned and rudely thrust the cup of cider into Aranthir's hands before stalking off into the back of the Slaughtered Lamb. Aranthir sipped it with a surly mood to match her own. Looking over Syv, he secretly hoped the murderous bastard would make a noise, for he much desired to vent his frustrations on the unrepentantly horrid man.

The door to the Slaughtered Lamb opened to admit a man who at once caught Aranthir's eye. He was thin, not just of body but also pinched at the nose like his skin was pulled too tight about his skull. His hair was gray but never fully white, and pulled back behind his hooded head in a bun. The chill seemed to affect him worse than anyone, for long after the door had shut behind him, he was standing beside it and rubbing his hands together beneath his thick cloak.

At last, he ceased his rubbing, and his flinty eyes roamed the room before settling on Aranthir and his companions at their table. The man strode quickly across the room and seated himself at the adjacent table, even though the tavern was nearly empty. Aranthir cast a suspicious eye on him, while Janguld watched their prisoner with disdain. In his friend's eye, he could see that Janguld's mind was elsewhere.

"The winter will be long and cold," the red-haired man muttered. "We should head southeast to Arakan. There will be captains willing to brave the journey there. Or else, we'll be trapped in this desolate town until spring with only weak cider and not even a whore to keep us company!"

Aranthir frowned into the cider. The overland journey was nearly a hundred miles, and they had been forced to sell off their horses on the mainland before taking ship so he would have to make it on foot. In the cold and rain and soon to be snow, he wished for little more than a roof over his head, a fire, and a hot meal. Though Janguld's dreams of whores was not disagreeable either.

"You looking for boats?" the newcomer asked too loudly. Aranthir turned his suspicious eye back upon the man, who leaned forward on his elbows, smiling too eagerly. There was something strange about the man, almost fae. Aranthir smelled a touch of magic about him that he deeply misliked. "I come overland. To sell fish," he added, almost as an afterthought. "My village has many boats. We can take you wherever."

"Where is this village?" Aranthir asked, chewing the rim of his cup in thought. The man waved one hand vaguely.

"Close by. Maybe one day overland. It is not much, but has boats. Blackcove, we calls it." Aranthir's suspicion deepened. The man's accent was thicker than even the yokels of Graystone, and stranger, too. In their long weeks running up and down the island on Syv's merry little chase, he had learned more than he ever cared to know about Paleas' people and tongues. But this man and his accent still struck him as odd. And Blackcove was not a name he had heard before, either.

"Where is Blackcove?" he pressed, and the man half rose from his seat.

"On the coast," he answered and Aranthir bit back a growl of frustration.

Of course it's on the coast with a name like Blackcove, you rube!

"Ten miles east, over the Bare Hills. Not much of a town, very old, like me!" he laughed, a hoarse, hollow laugh that seemed forced. "But we have boats to take you to the mainland."

Aranthir thought to ask the man if he had ever been to the mainland, for every part of the man's story seemed false. But Janguld cut in before he could.

"Do you have stronger cider there?" he asked, half in jest.

"The best!" the man promised. "I am Kryb." He extended a hand. "I can guide you there, yes?"

"A moment," Aranthir interrupted, pushing his hand away. "I must confer with my colleague."

"Aye," put in Syv, "we must decide our future before making any--" Aranthir slugged him across the mouth.

"Shut your fucking mouth." He pulled Janguld aside while Syv rubbed his broken lip and sulked. The two of them spoke in the Clathi tongue, native to kingdoms some three hundred miles from here. Aranthir supposed that his words would be unintelligible to this old peasant.

"We should just go to Arakan. This man is far too eager to be inviting strangers to his village. And something smells off about him."

"It'll take us more than a week to walk to Arakan in this rough country," Janguld countered. "And that's if the rains hold off and the rockslides don't close off the roads. Meanwhile," he threw a suspicious look at Syv. The apprehended fugitive was still rubbing his lip with bound hands, looking only slightly miffed by the punch. "This one's got his rogues prowling the hills looking for their leader."

"Bandits," Aranthir muttered. "Lower than bandits. Common rabble. I slew them by the bucketful and I'll do it again."

"Perhaps," Janguld mused. "But they're shadowy sneaks. That one nearly had us under the poplar trees. It only takes the one getting fortunate before we'll wish we'd taken the boat."

"But what does this one have waiting for us when we get to his village?"

"Less than Child-killer's rogues, I'll wager. Besides, I must get off this damned island. This was supposed to be a two week job, Aranthir."

"It was," the half-elf conceded. "The ten pounds of silver will be scarce payment for all this time spent."

"And more time will be spent heading overland or moldering on this windswept rock."

Aranthir sighed. He had the distinct feeling that he would soon come to regret this.

"Lead on to Blackcove," he said in the local tongue. Kryb beamed and stood up from the table.

"I meet you outside soon. I must sell fish first, then be off."

He hurried out of the room while Aranthir stared after him.

"Keep an eye of him," he told Janguld as he they finished their ciders. The red-haired man nodded. Leaving a few coppers on the table for their drinks, Aranthir shouldered his pack and weapons; a gilt longsword, poignard, and two pistols with spare shot and powder for each. Janguld carried a matching pair of pistols and attendant shot in addition to a broadsword on his hip and a wide-hilted parrying dagger. Across his back, the red-haired man wore a light arbalest and a thin sheaf of twenty quarrels. Slapping his sallet helm loosely onto his head, he seized Syv the Child-killer by his ropen lead and yanked the man to his feet.

"Alright, I'm coming along," the prisoner assuaged, but Aranthir cut him off with a hard glare.

"Shut up," the half-elf snapped. "Now move." He shoved his prisoner along before him as they headed out the door.

---

The journey to Blackcove was harsh. Kryb led them over nearly barren hills swept by strong winds and rain. Twice they saw places where the road had washed out and forced them to take another route. Pausing for a breath atop one hill, Aranthir looked back and saw the port of Graystone where they had started from, barely two miles distant. He sighed. Hours of work to get perhaps two miles from where they had started. He did not look forward to the rest of the journey.

But he could not spend all his time looking back. Syv had gathered to him a band of rogues, a hideous collection of pariahs, cast-offs, exiles, and criminals of the very worst sort. Fleeing civilization to this barren island off the coast, they had preyed on villages and what commercial traffic plied the backwater roads. Before his arrival, they had been any other band of ruffians scraping out an existence among the hills. Syv had come among them and swiftly won their loyalty. The group had absorbed other exiles among the hills and emerged as a major force on the island, extorting protection from many of the villages along the northwest coast.