Song of Cairos

Song of Cairos

By

Visa Lukinmaa

Cairos bustled with life as Daemon Jeremias, a poor but a gentle songwriter and poet, entered the Capital of one of the great kingdoms of Shiiros, Caradas. The city was like a paradise to a young country boy like him. In a city this busy with life and action his visit wouldn’t even be noticed by anyone as he watched the people, trying to find a person who would be worthy of a song. He had heard mere songs of a bar fight make a brawler famous and wanted across the whole city. He didn’t see why he wouldn’t be able to do the same, and who wouldn’t want to become famous, he thought.

Soon, after walking on the main road leading towards King’s castle, I found an alleyway leading towards the more crowded pub areas. I followed the alleyway for a few moments and then turned left, following a sign that said; Jumping Pride. That sing had to be a good-luck-charm, I thought to myself. Though in few minutes I learned that wasn’t really true as my head suddenly hurt and my eyes were half blind. It took a moment to realize that I had just been hit to the head with a bludgeon.

I felt how my pockets were ramped through by someone. They weren’t really experienced thieves, I thought. In my youth I’ve seen many people who are stronger than them and they had beaten me so many times I had learned a few trick of my own. As soon as I regained my vision, mostly, I jumped to my feet and at the same time swung my arm towards the thief ramming through my pockets. The thief fell to the ground, gasping for air. The other thief, the one carrying the bludgeon, leaped towards me and I quickly dodged him to the left and kicked him on his knee as he landed. I then kicked the bludgeon further away and kicked him to his face, just to be sure I was far away when he woke up.

After all I do still remember what had happened when I got too cocky with the bullies back home. They beat in a group so large I couldn’t do anything to resist, although I did try and received some satisfaction from that, although brief satisfaction.

I began to walk away from the small fight and picked up my lute and purse that the thief had taken from me. Lucky for him it was still in a great condition, except for a string that I had to tighten up a bit as it was out of tune. Suddenly my path was blocked by three other men with bludgeons, and the oldest one was pointing at the two men sleeping comfortably on the muddy ground of the alleyway. As sudden as the appearance of the three men had been so was the suddenness of my returning memories of the beating I thought of earlier.

I turned around and started running the other way as fast as I could. I looked over my shoulder and saw the three men, whenever my lute didn’t decide to get in the way, chasing me. My clumsiness made an unfortunate return as I tripped over to the big thief I had knocked out. And the worse thing wasn’t the fact that I had tripped and the three men were now able to catch me easily and that I had nowhere to run. No, the worse thing was that the big guy woke up and now looked at me like a mad dog would look at food after starving for days.

I thought, if I ever survived from this I would write a song about the dangers of a city and the misery it had—and would—brought and bring me. I stared at my fate as the men approached me and as the big guy reached for his bludgeon. Then a third unexpected situation happened. A man, about as old as I was, approached the men from behind. He knocked the last two men unconscious and punched the third in the face breaking his nose. Blood spattered on me and I watched as the lifesaver moved on to the last big guy, who had finally grabbed his bludgeon and was ready to fight against the mysterious lifesaver. The lifesaver dodged the first attack of the big monstrosity and then delivered five quick punches to the big guys face and then hit his stomach with his knee. The monstrosity was on his knees and looked at the stranger with one eye as the other one was walled up. Without any remorse the stranger brought his foot onto the face of the big guy and then he was all out. Unconscious he laid on the mud once more, this time he would stay there until dark.

I looked at the stranger as his dark hair wobbled in the wind. ‘Thank you’, I said trying to please him as I might have found a target, or more as a subject, to follow and I didn’t want to lose the chance to write about battles. Much larger battles of course than a fight against a small band of thieves. It wouldn’t be a bad subject either though, if he was to leave me hanging. It just needed some extra weight. Like a hero who saved the bard, it has a little bit of truth and a little bit of art.

I sprinted after the mysterious-stranger-whom-had-saved-me-from-evil. It was a long name and needed shortening so I decided to ask him his, for the story of course. ‘May I know you name, oh great hero?’ Of course that is the way an artist speaks to his mind, in reality the question was more, eh…standard. ‘Excuse me, what is your name? I’m a songwriter you see and I wish to sing about you and your adventures. I bet you have a lot of adventures. Some of them probably even more heroic than what you just did. To others maybe, not to me as much. I mean appreciate what you did, but it wasn’t the most heroic of actions. Don’t get me wron…’ The rude stranger stopped me by showing his hand in front of my mouth.

‘Silence, songwriter’, said the stranger. It was odd to hear a person say silence to me as I was used to people wanting to hear more, or that they threw their bottles at me, which was nice as some of the bottles still had booze in ‘em.

I decided to do as he had asked and followed him in silence. We entered to a pub called the Wavering mill. I rather liked the place. There was not much hassle. People sat on their seats and no one was sleeping on the ground. A nice place all in all. The stranger sat down and I followed his great example on how to sit. A very important lesson if I might add. It comes in use often and really helps you make an impression on the waiters, I’ve heard.

The stranger looked at me like he was about to lunge and eat me for breakfast. I decided it would be best to make small talk. Now that we were in front of a nice mug of ale it should go along a lot smoother than earlier. Now that was a fact I tried out myself during my 16th birthday. That day was amazing for me. I wrote two new songs. Both of them however was explaining how rounded women’s breasts can be. They weren’t symmetrical that’s for sure. Even my drunken brain recognized that. Although now that I think about it, that song might be the reason I woke up with a black eye.

‘So, I never caught your name, what is it’, I tried again as it seemed to be kind of useless to try anything else before.

‘You didn’t caught it because I never put it out there’, said the stranger.

‘Wouldn’t you like me to call you by your name rather than calling you a mysterious-stranger-who-saved-me-from-the-muggers’

‘I mean it’s not a bad name, just a tad bit too long.’

‘You’re not going to give up are you?’

‘Not easily, no.’

‘Fine then’, said the stranger and slammed his mug, which had barely enough time to reach his lips, on to the table. Small amount of ale was thrown out of the cup. What a waste. That amount would have brought me a horrible hangover. The man coughed to gain my attention after I stared into nothingness. ‘I’m only going to say my name once and you’d better be listening.’

I opened my ears as far as I could, which wasn’t very far as my flesh was on the way. I stopped as the stranger looked at me with a raised eyebrow. I stopped and only listened.

‘Like I was going to say, my name is Woran.’

‘Well, Woran. Nice to meet you. I’m Daemon, a bard and a pet…poet. Would you like to hear your story written on a paper and singed by the most famous bards in all of Caradas?’

‘If you belong to them. No.’

‘Are you suspecting my abilities?’

‘No, I just think you talk too much.’

‘My tongue is a one of an artista. It cannot be changed.’

‘By the gods, give me more ale’, joked Woran. Which was very odd since he looked like a serious man.

‘All I wish is to follow a man of action and write stories about his heroic actions.’

‘Did you suffer a bad concussion?’

‘No. I fell perfectly fine, thank you for asking. But to answer my question. Will you allow me to follow you and write your stories into legends?’

‘No. I’m on an important mission and cannot be bothered by bards.’

‘Bothered. I wouldn’t bother you. I move like a shadow and…’

‘A shadow that intentionally jumped in front of a bludgeon’, he interrupted.

He should’ve figured it out already. The bludgeon was only a small piece of misfortune that happened to cross paths with me.

‘Well I do need a person that could write down my every action and would do my reports for me’, pondered Woran out loud.

‘Well, then I’m your man.’

‘But I could also do it myself and save the trouble and the money.’

‘Money? I would do it for free.’

‘Then who would pay for your food, drinks and housing?’

‘It’s customary that the subject pays for fame.’ It was a bit of a lie as no such rule existed but I though, hey free ale.

‘Fine, you follow me and write down everything I do. More detailed the better, and please stay out of trouble. I won…’

I couldn’t hear the rest of his words as I was already partying in my mind. It could have been the ale and the head wound I received earlier but I’m quite sure I now had a hero to follow. This was going to be interesting, assuming I won’t die. Which would be interesting too though.

Tell me what you thought and wait for the next chapter if you liked it.