Steven George & the Terror
23
The Gathering Storm
ONCE UPON A TIME, in the days that true heroes walked the earth, the world was ruled by four great chieftains. Athriel the Fair ruled the Nation of the East. He seemed slight and very unlike a hero, but he was swift. He could rush in upon his enemies before they knew what was about to happen. Like the wind, he was swift and sure and seemed to be everywhere at once.
Hotheaded Skoldor ruled all the Nation of the South. He had flaming red hair and rose to anger at the smallest provocation. His anger consumed everything in its path. Even his own soldiers learned to follow safely behind Skoldor so they would not be in his fiery path.
Easy-going Rael held the Nation of the West. His flowing golden locks sat easily above the deep blue eyes that could pierce into the very soul. It was hard to know the exact boundaries of the Nation of the West because they seemed to ebb and flow with the tides of the great sea on which it bordered.
Finally, there was dark and brooding Borion who ruled the Nation of the North. Some say his face was carved of rock, for his expression never wavered. His eyes were the same in laughter as in weeping. It was, it is said, impossible to know what he thought or when he might strike.
With four such powerful chieftains, you might expect that there was conflict, and, indeed, their borders were never quiet. Borion responded to Rael’s shifting borders with hardened lines of defense. The suddenness of Athriel’s presence fanned the ardor of Skoldor and conflict raged. But all these great heroes paid common fealty to the one Lord greater than all: Chrivu the Mighty.
Chrivu had no nation, no army, and no allegiance. Chrivu rode where he pleased and slept wherever he lay his head. Each of the four great chieftains had at one time or another challenged Chrivu for the right to rule all, but each had failed and barely escaped with his life.
Chrivu had disdain for all, for no one was as mighty as Chrivu. He drank the sea and pissed the rivers. He walked through fire as though it were nothing. When the wind blew in his face, he sucked it into his lungs until the wind was exhausted. And when a mountain rose before him, he flattened it with his fist rather than walk around. Never before and never since has there been a hero like Chrivu.
If there was a dispute between the rival chieftains, Chrivu might show up on either side of the conflict and subdue the other. The balance of the rivalries might be shifted at any moment by Chrivu’s word. After the chieftains had suffered the uncertainty for a hundred years, they came together in treaty to talk.
“We must conquer Chrivu,” said Athriel. “He diminishes our prowess and respect among our people.”
“Indeed,” Boriel answered. “The people believe he is their king and not we.”
“None of our borders are safe as long as he lives,” said Rael.
“But how shall we bring him down?” fumed Skoldor. The chieftains shook their heads and then as one uttered a single word.
“Oawo!”
Oawo was an ancient wise woman who lived alone in the mountains. It was said that she was present at the birth of the ocean and was midwife to the desert. She was so ancient that when she was asked a question, it sometimes took days before her jaw hinge became unstuck so she could answer. But the wisdom she imparted never failed.
It was also rumored that she was Chrivu’s mother, imprisoned in the mountain so she would never challenge him. It was to her that the chieftains took their suit.
The old woman pried her eyes open to look at them through the gloom of the cavern. Then her shaking hand withdrew a silver strand of her hair that had not been cut in two hundred years and held it out to them.
“You must act as one in order to master Chrivu,” she croaked. “He cannot be bound as other men can, but by the hair of his mother’s head. You must take this and wrap it tightly around him. This will immobilize him. Then you can take his head. But beware. If he is free of this strand, he will regain his head and come back stronger than before and more terrible as well. Do not let him free, even after he is dead.”
With that, she fell silent again. The great chieftains took the strand of Oawo’s hair and left the cavern in secret.
On the appointed day, the four lay in ambush as Chrivu came from the forest toting a deer he had killed for dinner. They waited until Chrivu had gorged himself on the venison and fell asleep, then they leapt to capture him. Chrivu jumped up, grabbing his great battle axe to swing at the head of the nearest chieftain, but Skoldor blocked the blow with his hammer while Rael rushed him with his sword. While Chrivu was occupied battling the two heroes, Boriel anchored the thread of hair around Chrivu’s feet and swift Athriel rushed around the great Lord winding the thread around his legs, arms, and shoulders. At last, great Chrivu’s axe fell at his feet and he could no longer move.
Triumphantly, Boriel raised Chrivu’s axe and severed his head. They mounted the head on a pole which became the face in the mountains that so many have seen in the centuries since. The four chieftains dug a deep pit in which to cast the body, but before they did, Rael made a suggestion.
“Well I remember the words of the old lady Oawo,” he said. “I would not have Chrivu rise from the grave and regain his head. Let us, therefore, sever his hands and his feet so that if he should come to life, he can do no harm for he will be unable to do battle or to march to war.”
This seemed right to the chieftains who swiftly carried out the bloody sentence and buried the remainder of the body in the pit. The four agreed each to take one of the severed hands and feet to the furthest reach of his nation and bury it so that it could never be reunited with Chrivu’s body.
And that was the death of Chrivu.
It is said that Athriel was slain first. A hand came from nowhere and strangled him as he slept. Hot-tempered Skoldor was trampled beneath the feet of a stampede of horses, but it was a human footprint that marked his head. Rael saw a hand swing a sword, but never saw who wielded it as he fell dead. And Boriel, as he looked over his nation from a high cliff, was suddenly kicked over its edge by a foot that came from nowhere.
Since that day, the severed hands and feet of Chrivu have been journeying to rejoin his buried body, for the four heroes failed to keep all the Lord’s parts bound by the strand of hair. When they reach the rest of Chrivu’s body, they will unbind him and reclaim his head from the mountain, and Chrivu will rise more terrible than ever.
We have seen the Terror coming, but I say to you, we have seen only Chrivu’s hand as it journeys to reunite with his body. Whosoever that hand touches will surely die.
All were silent at the telling of the monk’s story. They quaked in their bedrolls and edged nearer the fire. Then in the silence a hand dropped, seemingly out of nowhere, and landed on Steven’s chest.
“Duck!” screamed the monk. “It has found us. Flee! Flee!” The poor panicked refugees dove for cover and scrambled into the underbrush.
Steven lay on his bedroll with the severed hand on his chest. It was withered, but it also wore a ring on its finger—a ring Steven recognized. He picked up the lifeless hand and flung it toward the fire.
“No!” screamed the monk as he made a diving catch before the appendage hit the flames. “Not in the fire! My hand!” He cradled the fingers in his arms and Steven could see the stump that protruded from the long black sleeve. The monk lay on the ground whimpering and was not nearly as frightening as he had been only moments before. “My hand, my precious hand,” the monk continued to whimper.
“Pablo Ibin Ariaga, Thief of Byzantium,” Steven called out to the monk. “Come out, come out wherever you are.”
The monk jerked upright with a snarl and pulled himself to his feet to face Steven.
“Who are you to summon me, Steven George the Liar,” asked the man in the robes of a monk. He threw back the cowl on the habit and Steven could see his face clearly in the firelight. “You lied to me! Now look at me!”
“I have never lied to you,” Steven said calmly.
“You said that a hand severed with that sword would reattach itself. I chose the weapon that cut off my right hand and clutched it to myself as I fled the marketplace,” Pablo Ibin Ariaga stuttered in his rage. “It never grew together. I held it in place. I lashed it to my wrist with leather straps. I nearly died, but it never grew together. You lied! You lied! You lied!”
“It wasn’t a lie,” Steven said, indignantly. “It was a story. How can you imagine that a mere story would be a fact? Are there ogres to slay? Gnomes in the garden? Damsels to rescue? Dragons to master? They are stories.”
“But my stories are true,” cackled the thief. “Just ask the villagers if you can find any left. The Terror stalks them and drives them from their homes. Men have died when the hand has struck them. You should have died!”
“The Terror is just a story,” said Steven, “and people have believed it like you believed that the sword could sever your hand and reattach it. What people believe doesn’t make it true.”
“But you know the Terror is real, Steven George,” said Pablo, “else why have you not looked into my eyes? Come my little dragonslayer friend. Come look into my eyes. Are you afraid?”
When Steven had first met the thief so many years ago, he had fallen under his spell when he looked into his eyes. Steven remembered how the deep black wells of Pablo’s eyes could mesmerize you. How his voice could turn you into his servant in moments. He also remembered how Pablo had taken everything Steven had—his horse, his knife, his sword, his coins—and left him with only a donkey. Well, that had worked out all right in the end.
Steven slowly raised his eyes to look deeply into Pablo’s. They held each other, locked in a gaze as if each awaited the other’s first blink. There was no sound but the crackling of the fire. Suddenly Pablo shook his head violently and backed away from Steven.
“What has happened to you, Dragonslayer?” he asked. “Have you indeed mastered your terror?”
“Thief,” Steven said, “I have looked into my own grave. What fear should I have of you?”
The thief backed away another step and turned to run. Steven reached into the pocket of his vest and pulled out three hard round balls, which he launched in rapid succession at the back of the fleeing thief. They struck and the thief fell forward. Steven stood over him with a foot in the middle of his back.
“Pablo Barcenas Ibin Ariaga, I arrest you in the name of the King. All those who honor their lands and the kingdom of Montague Magnus, come out and witness the arrest of the Terror of Rich Reach,” Steven intoned in a loud voice. The frightened refugees crept out from the shadows slowly.
“By what authority do you arrest me?” the thief cried. “I am a free man. I’ve paid my debt with my right hand. All I did was tell stories. You have no authority to arrest me.”
Steven reached into his pocket again and pulled out a leather thong with a rock at the end. He placed the thong over his neck.
“I arrest you as a member of the King’s Guard,” he said. “The crime is terrorizing the Principality of Rich Reach.” Again, Steven reached in his pocket. This time, he pulled out a ball of yarn given to him by Orithyia the Spinner. With this, Steven bound Pablo’s arms to his sides, being unable to tie his hands together. The spun wool was strong and held the prisoner firmly, as if he were Chrivu awaiting execution. At this, the rest of the refugees emerged from the shadows whispering.
“Is it true?”
“Was this the terror?”
“Is this all?”
“This is all that you were afraid of,” Steven said calmly. “You may not believe yet, but the fear was inside you. Now gather round. I owe a story debt to this thief and I will tell it before we sleep.”
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