The Chronicles of Astaris

And that which seemed self-evident shall cease to be. The bird will forget how to fly, The heavens will withhold the truth, And man will lose all sense of reality.

— Paul Éluard, The Mirror of a Moment

There is a castle there, yet no keys can be found,

There is fear there, yet no tears will fall.

— Alejandra Pizarnik, Ashes

Since the eternal judge Granted me the prophet’s sight, In human eyes I read Pages of malice and of vice.

— Mikhail Lermontov, The Prophet

“The true path runs along a rope, not stretched high, but just above the ground. It seems designed more for stumbling than for walking.”

— Franz Kafka

The company had been on the road for two days already. The relentless downpour had softened into a fine drizzle, yet the cold remained biting. Weak rays of sunlight pierced through the heavy grey clouds.

The dense veil of fog was slowly lifting.

Lord Dear Forrester led the procession astride a bay gelding. Banners fluttered lightly in the wind, fixed to the tips of lances. Lord Dear bore the sigil of his house—a red bull upon a field of blue. At the sight of that banner, bandits would think twice before daring an attack. Only overwhelming numbers or a carefully laid ambush could compel them otherwise.

His retinue consisted of half a dozen knights and their squires, ten spearmen clad in scale armor, and several archers wearing chainmail and leather breastplates reinforced with four iron discs.

Fifteen-year-old Barney Cotbrey, Lord Forrester’s squire—a fair-haired southerner from Periford—rode to the left of the lord’s eldest son, young Ser Salord. The latter had only just turned seventeen, yet he strove with all his might to assist his father and accompany him on every campaign. Only a few days ago, Salord had been knighted.

Barney had entered Forrester service at the age of seven. His village had been burned to the ground. All the Cotbreys—including his two-year-old sister—had been executed before his eyes. Whether he would have been next, or spared to carry a message, remained unknown. The Forrester company resolved that dilemma.

Those saved by Lord Dear entered his service. That very day, Barney swore to himself that he would protect Lord Forrester and his entire family—even at the cost of his own life.

He wore a padded doublet reinforced with iron. Armor still weighed heavily on him. Though he trained with the sword daily, he remained a thin, wiry boy. The nickname “Skinny Barney” seemed to have clung to him since birth, though he no longer remembered who had first called him that.

Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled. Barney shivered, glancing toward the forest.

Salord turned to him and smiled reassuringly.

“Not far to the inn now.”

Barney smiled back, about to thank him—but he never got the chance.

“Well now, has little Barney soiled himself again?” boomed Greph Folser, one of the twin brothers, bursting into laughter. Lam Folser, riding at his brother’s left, rolled his eyes in irritation. “Keep your breeches dry, lad, or even the innkeeper’s daughter at the Silver Hind won’t warm your bed tonight!”

“Limping Jenny? Her backside’s broader than my mare’s!” Several riders behind Salord burst into laughter.

Even if Greph hadn’t lost his right eye years ago in a drunken tavern brawl, Barney would still have had no trouble telling the brothers apart. It was simple: Lam was not an idiot.

As long as Barney could remember, Lam had treated him with respect—sharing his bread on campaign, defending him when Greph’s drunken antics went too far. For that, Barney was deeply grateful.

“Oh, come off it, Greph,” Lam said, taking a swig from his flask. “Last time I recall, you stank so badly Jenny wouldn’t have you either.”

Lam laughed heartily and slapped his brother on the shoulder. Greph belched loudly and spat at him, missing slightly and hitting his horse’s girth instead.

“Go to hell, you defender of the wretched.”

Lam waved him off and turned to Barney.

“Mark my words, friend—the day this oaf stops bothering you will be the Day of Judgment.” He raised a hand solemnly, as if delivering a prophecy.

Barney grinned widely.

Nodding gratefully, he took a pull of mead from Lam’s flask and replied:

“In that case, we needn’t fear the Ekrings ever returning.”

***

When they entered the village, the signs of devastation were immediate. Barney understood at once—there had been a massacre here not long ago. The rain had turned the road into thick mud, and the horses struggled through it.

One of the distant houses had burned nearly to its foundations. From a nearby hut emerged two peasants in loose brown wool tunics and tall leather boots. The one in front—likely the village elder—wore a hood with a long liripipe. Behind him trailed a boy no older than fifteen, his rain-soaked silver curls falling to his shoulders. He carried a large wicker basket filled with fresh bread.

They cast brief, disdainful glances at the riders and passed without a word.

Lord Dear Forrester and his right hand, Ser Elder Neitsmel, dismounted by the inn. Two thin stable boys in worn robes rushed out at once.

Ser Elder began issuing orders while the rest dismounted.

“Feed and water the horses properly. Make sure our men are given decent quarters. And no leaks—this rain has chilled everyone to the bone.”

“Yes, ser, of course,” the boys said, leading the horses away. “The table will be set shortly.”

***

Inside the inn, warmth prickled painfully in Barney’s fingers after hours in the cold rain. A bright fire roared in the hearth, lifting everyone’s spirits at once.

As the Forrester men made their way between the tables, the locals turned to stare.

It was clear: strangers were not welcome here. Not after what had happened.

While Barney and Lam searched for seats, Lord Dear was already questioning the innkeeper in raised tones. But the moment the grey-haired, hook-nosed man saw the heavy pouch of gold, his demeanor softened.

Soon they were seated at the largest table—Lord Forrester, Salord, the Folser brothers, and Barney.

Barney still felt out of place, sharing bread with lords and knights. But Lord Dear always insisted that Barney had long since earned his place.

“What will you have?” asked a plump, rosy-cheeked girl, about Salord’s age.

“Bring all the bread you have left. Salted meat. Boar,” Lord Dear said wearily, looking as though he might collapse at any moment. Yet Barney could see—something troubled him.

“And plenty to drink,” he added with a tired smile.

As she turned to go, Greph called after her:

“And where’s your fat Jenny?” He laughed, eyeing the girl. “You’ll do as well, but I reckon little Barney here would rather spend the night with Jenny—he’s quite taken with her… assets—”

“Jenny was killed last night,” the girl said coldly. “Another marauder raid.”

Greph lowered his gaze.

“Forgive him,” Lord Forrester sighed. “You may go.”

Before she left, Lam struck his brother across the back of the head.

“Stop behaving like a fool!” he roared.

But Lord Dear cut him off, weary:

“That’s enough.”

“Father? Are you unwell?” Salord asked, alarmed.

Lord Dear answered with a strained smile.

“And who is, these days?” came a hoarse voice behind Barney.

At a nearby table sat a gaunt old man with sparse grey strands of hair. A fresh scar marked the skin beneath his right eye. He wore a single tattered robe, stained with dried blood.

“You think it was bandits who attacked us?”

“But that’s what she said—”

“Oh, that,” the old man waved dismissively. “Yes, they came yesterday. But I’m speaking of what’s yet to come. You should know—they are already on their way.”

The company exchanged puzzled glances.

“Seems someone’s had too much to drink,” Salord said with a polite smile. “Perhaps you should lie down—”

“Soon we’ll all be lying down,” the old man rasped with a grin, revealing a row of rotten teeth. “Not in feather beds either—but in the dirt beneath our feet.”

He tapped the floor with his heel and suddenly collapsed.

“How much longer must we wait?” Lord Forrester muttered, glancing toward the innkeeper.

Outside, the sky had darkened again. The rain returned in sheets. It was not yet noon, yet the gloom was so deep it felt like nightfall.

“And truth be told,” the old man hiccupped, rolling onto his back, “things have been going poorly here for a long time. I used to be a farmer, you see. Worked the land for over fifty years. And what did I ever ask for, eh?”

He reached weakly for a bottle left on the table, failed, and fell back again.

“I loved this life,” he went on. “After a long day’s work, I’d lie atop the hill, chewing on a corn cake, looking out over the barley fields and the villages near my lord Podgers’s castle. I could even see my own home from there… thatched roof… the chicken coop…”

“Why are you telling us this?” Salord said, shrugging. “Really, I think you should—”

“My name’s Kasver, by the way,” the old man continued, unfazed.

“I didn’t ask—”

“I worked from dawn,” Kasver went on, hiccupping again. “Best time to ready the soil, you know. Then half the day tending the sheep. Wolves—why, they’d take a dozen each winter. Tore my dogs apart too. And what were they doing? Just their duty. Like all of us.”

He fell silent for a moment, fixing Barney with a strange gaze.

“And then the other day…”

He sighed heavily.

“That… what’s his name… the prince…”

“The king,” Salord corrected impatiently, drumming his fingers on the table. Still no food or drink had arrived, and the inn had noticeably emptied.

“Yes, yes, the king… Osver, or whatever—”

“Oswin Swansburg,” Salord said through clenched teeth.

“Well then,” Kasver hiccupped, “it’s because of that Osver that everything I had went to ruin…”

“Oswin.”

“What?” Kasver blinked.

“Oswin. Not Osver.”

Salord’s face had flushed red with irritation. Even Greph did not dare speak when he was in such a mood.

“To hell with him,” Kasver muttered. “Because of this Oswin, my late lord Podgers raised the taxes by ten deins, and life became unbearable. And just a week ago, my eldest had a daughter. Fourth child in the family. Of course, I was overjoyed—family was all that kept me going. They were my strength, my fortress. But these are hard times… My youngest’s wife is expecting again. Winter’s coming, and the farm’s already gone to ruin… and this prince Osver—”

“Will you stop already?!” Salord slammed his fist on the table.

He leapt to his feet, grabbed Kasver by the collar, and dragged him toward the door.

“Let go!” the old man shouted. “Help! Murder!”

Barney and the Folser brothers couldn’t help but laugh.

“Sal, let him be,” Lord Dear said tiredly. “The old man’s just drunk his grief away…”

But he never finished.

A deafening crash of thunder silenced the tavern. The rosy-cheeked girl carrying a tray stumbled and fell backward. Barney rushed to help her up.

Then the thunder came again.

Salord released Kasver and returned to the table.

“Well then,” Kasver wheezed with a laugh, “we’ll all end up in the dirt, heh-heh…”

A third thunderclap followed—then the sound of a horn.

“What was that?” Salord froze. “The Ridales?”

“Not them,” Lord Dear shook his head. “They have nothing like that.”

The horn sounded again—closer this time. The remaining patrons fled in panic. One dark-haired youth crawled under a table.

“Bandits?” Greph asked, fear creeping into his voice.

“Perhaps,” Lam said, his voice trembling. “But if so—we’re too few to hold them off!”

“Sal, gather the men at once!” Lord Dear rose to his feet. “If yesterday’s raiders have returned, we must hold the inn—”

Glass shattered.

An arrow with a forked head pierced straight through Lord Dear’s chest.

“Father!” Salord rushed to him as he collapsed.

A blast of icy wind poured through the broken window.

The next arrow struck Greph Folser directly in his remaining eye.

Lam caught his brother’s lifeless body.

“Greph!” he roared. “Greph! NO!”

“Who’s shooting?!” Salord shouted. “I can’t see anyone!”

He drew his sword and rushed to the window.

The last traces of light vanished.

Darkness swallowed everything.

Barney could not believe his eyes.

It felt like a nightmare.

From the forest came the thunder of hooves. A moment later, ranks—three deep—of heavy cavalry emerged into the fading light. Their riders wore armor black as coal… or perhaps they were simply one with the all-consuming darkness.

The horn roared again.

So close, so powerful that Barney fell to his knees in pain. Blood streamed from his ears.

He could hear nothing.

Two more arrows flew.

Lam and Salord fell—each struck clean through the heart.

Gasping, Barney forced himself to his feet and ran outside.

The courtyard was a grotesque tangle of human and horse corpses.

“Ba… Barney…” a spearman crawled toward him. John—that had been his name.

Where his legs should have been, there was only a mangled ruin of flesh.

“Barney…” John coughed up blood. “What… what happened? Has Lord Forrester dined already? Are we… moving on soon?”

He fell silent, face sinking into the mud.

Forever.

Barney retched and collapsed to his knees.

From the darkness of the forest, a figure emerged—a rider.

In an instant, he stood before Barney.

The rider leaned down.

But Barney could no longer see.

The black rider removed a glove of dragon-hide and touched Barney’s forehead. The hand was soft… impossibly soft. Like that of an infant.

Or… his mother.

Tears streamed down Barney’s face.

Somewhere in the forest, a jay cried out.

But Barney Cotbrey could no longer hear it.

Stumbling, Kasver emerged from the tavern, clutching his bottle of mead. He took one last drink.

“Told you…” he rasped with a laugh. “We’ll all end up in the dirt…”