Tarok the Wanderer and the Madman's Knowledge

Ruined Castle, with Cattle and Trees by Joseph Mallord William Turner

The lands of the north were peaceful, rocky desert gave way to grasslands in fits and spurts, the two environments locked in eternal struggle. The old roads were worn and patchy so far away from the western sea, echoes of dead empires travelled by those without memory of who built them. Tarok kicked a lump of crumbling stone, watching it spin and bounce into a cluster of long grass. He had felt drawn to the north, away from the desert heat, the rampaging nomads, and murderous Beys intent on killing him for minor insults.

A hamlet grew on the horizon. A cluster of stone cottages were gathered around a well, granaries and one storey packed earth buildings were dotted around the land. All were shadowed by a three-storey stone and earthen fort. There were no signs of soldiers, mercenaries, or nomadic raiders, if anything the settlement was the perfect target for the wild raiders that had laid waste to Tarok's home. Soon he could see children playing around the well, men working the fields, and women milking the cows. Chickens squawked and fled from a long eared dog that chased but never bit. Tarok grew sullen, remembering his own village that was now nothing but a charcoal crater, how had these people averted the eastern nomads when the walled city of Ascamyria had not? The Sultan had put a stop to the hordes, at least in the west and along the coast of the western sea, but there in the north there was no such power, at least none that Tarok had heard of. Idyllic life required a firm hand and firmer spears.

Tarok arrived at the well in the centre of the hamlet with three boys staring at him in awe. The girls had run of, one hid behind a wall, stealing a look at him with one eye, her hand pressed to the stone. 'A cup of water,' Tarok growled.

Two of the boys continued to stare, slack jawed, but the blonde one jumped to action, winching the bucket out of the well and filling a clay cup moulded in the shape of a cow. The boy held it out to him, water dribbled down the side.

'My thanks,' Tarok took the cow cup and finished it in one gulp. 'Another?'

The boy rushed to serve.

'Can you swing that?' one of the other boys said, he slid his straw hat off with one hand and pointed to Tarok's axe with the other.

'Of course. Why else would I carry it?' it was true the double-bladed axe was a heft of iron metal and iron wood but in his hands it was as light as the cow cup.

'And... have you killed with it?' the third boy asked.

'Many times.'

The boy who'd asked swallowed hard but the boy serving him made a sound of wonderment. 'Do you kill... bad people?'

'Depends,' Tarok drank from the cow cup.

'On what?'

'If they attack me I assume they're bad and when I'm paid to kill then they're my enemies and my enemies are always bad.'

The child nodded his understanding and seemed unaware Tarok had brushed over a great level of detail. Some people he had been paid to kill were likely decent people, though not many given the reasons he was paid. He refused those without good reason, becoming embroiled in some limp wristed merchant's affairs only led to trouble.

Two of the boys ran off, fear filled. Tarok glowered down at the one who remained, returning him the bowl. The took it, eyes vacant. Silence stretched and Tarok made to leave, he was hungry.

'Mister, how much to kill a man?' the boy said, the hushed words catching in his throat.

Tarok paused, 'More than a boy has to offer.'

The boy nodded, set the bowl on the well, and ran off down a lane. Tarok began his search for food. He could hunt but whoever lived in the manorfort likely claimed all the deer, rabbits, foxes and whatever belonged to them, though without a retinue Tarok wondered how the lord would enforce his claim. He carried on down the road, sun rising over the thatch rooves until he smelled roasted chicken. A low rumbling conversation came from a low hovel, smoke dribbling up from the stone chimney, the only part of the building that wasn't packed earth or thatch. There was a bench against the outer wall and the door was ajar. Tarok entered.

His eyes resisted the gloom, the glare of the fire blinding him like an early morning sun. The smell of cooked meat was strong, as was the smell of sour wine and rosemary and garlic. The conversation stopped.

'Morning, stranger. Hope you don't mean trouble,' an old man slapped his gums.

'Nay, breakfast. Meat, eggs. What passes for wine here,' Tarok squinted into the gloom, two men sat facing each other on long benches either side of a table. There were dice and wooden figures between them. The other man, just as old, threw a die and moved two pieces along the board. A plate of chicken bones sat beside them, along with a gourd of Tarok hoped was wine.

'I can offer bread and eggs, chicken's gone. What you paying with?' the old man scratched the grey and white stubble on his chin.

Tarok reached for his purse hanging from his belt and tucked into the waist of his trousers, he pulled out three copper bits, two with a sultan's visage and another with the sun. He tossed them on the table, 'This'll do.' It was not a question.

'Aye, that'll do. Take a seat,' he patted the bench beside him and turned to toss two flats breads in a pan of fat and set it on a grate over the fire. He slid the coins into his hand and dropped them into a pot in the far corner. They clinked against a horde more.

Tarok slipped the double-bladed axe from his back and leaned it against the wall. Dried rosemary and garlic hung from the wall, long past having much scent. He sat, the old wood creaked under his weight, sagging in the middle. 'No other patrons?'

The old man rolled a die, it landed on a five-pointed star, 'No, pretty slow round these parts since His Valour moved into the manorfort.' He moved a round piece along the board.

'No trackers? Hunters? Vagrants?' the bread began to sizzle and lift up in the pan. Air bubbles popped.

The old man turned and cracked two eggs atop the flatbread. 'You're the first in a moon.' He set a clay cup for Tarok and filled it with a thin, clear wine from the gourd. The other man grunted and rolled a die.

'How come?' Tarok asked.

'His Valour keeps us safe, if there's no traders means there's no one safe on the roads. We'd heard tales of roaming bandits all on horseback a few moons ago.'

Tarok knew all to well who they were. 'Those men aren't bandits, they're nomads from the east, live on raiding and pillaging.'

'Sounds like bandits to me,' the old man lifted the pan from the stove and slid the fried bread and eggs onto a wooden plate. There you go. Got no salt or anything like that, might be a bit of dried garlic somewhere if you can find it.'

'This'll do,' Tarok began to eat. The bread was bland but the chicken fat gave the underside a good taste, the eggs were rich at least, he tore a corner of the flat bread and broke into the yolk, slathering gold onto brown. He ate in silence.

The other man rolled a die, it landed on a horse head and he moved his piece, he grunted, stood up, and left.

'He lose?' Tarok said, wiping the plate clean of fat and yolk with his last strip of bread.

'No, he won. He's annoyed we didn't gamble a few coins,' the old man laughed.

Tarok sniffed the wine, sour and strong, he downed it in one all the same. 'I didn't see any retinue, how does “His Valour” keep the peace?'

'Oh he has his ways,' the old man grinned, the few teeth he had were yellow and chipped. 'I'm shutting up,' he shooed at Tarok.

Tarok rose, the bench groaned, and collected his axe. He ducked through the door and it slammed behind, a bar banged into place inside. Some places liked their privacy, others welcomed travellers, Tarok cared little for either. He made his way back towards the well in the centre of town. The manorfort loomed behind the one storey buildings, there were no torches burning in the windows, no flag flying from the towers, no birds nesting, no signs of life at all. Tarok wound his way down the lanes back to the well. Hands fidgeted at curtains and shutters as he passed, always wrinkled. An old women sitting on her front step rose and glowered at Tarok before vanishing inside her home. A man, young but fat, slunk by, ashen skinned, his eyes drained of fire. Almost every person Tarok saw was old, man or woman, full of spite. The few young men he did so were void of life. There'd been no other children save the three by the well and fewer women of child bearing age. It was as if the town had been raided, ransacked, the women taken as spoils, the children killed, yet there were no signs of fighting, no burnt out buildings, no signs of struggle or pillage, no recently dug graves. He reached the well to find a woman filling a pail, she bore no wrinkles round her eyes or lips. 'Where is everyone?' he asked. The woman looked up in surprise, dumped the pails contents into her bucket and fled. Tarok had had enough of that nameless place and continued on the road north.

As he reached the last few hovels at the end of the hamlet he heard rapid footsteps behind him. Hand poised on his axe, he turned. The boy who'd served him water sprinted towards him, 'Wait, wait. Is this enough?' the boy held a necklace, the gold figurine bobbing as he ran.

Tarok snatched the fox pendant from the boy. The leather string was well patinaed from sweat and was wide enough for a man's neck. The fox was crude but it was solid gold, 'This is plenty.'

The boy beamed up at Tarok, 'I want you to kill, His Valour.'

Tarok found himself in a treehouse, though it was little more than a few ill shaped lengths of lumber bridging two thick branches with a rope railing round it. The boy, Lucale, kept a few precious items in a hollow he'd carved into the trunk of the thick tree, one of few around the town.

'This was my sisters,' Lucale held a doll with painted pebble eyes. 'Ma said we should throw it away but I ran off with it before she could.' He stroked the doll's hair, likely clippings from someone's head.

'Where's your sister?' Tarok shifted side to side in an awkward crouch. His head grazed a branch overhead, his axe knocked against the trunk.

The boy turned to face the manorfort. Nothing was needed to be said.

'Why?'

'The yearly tax.'

'Explain,' Lord's took grain, meat, coin, as tax, not people.

'”His Valour keeps us safe, so long as we pay our due.” That's what ma says.'

'And that's a person.'

'Every year.'

'And... what does he do with the people?' Tarok surveyed the manorfort, there was no sign of life.

'Dunno. They're never seen again, best to forget about them, that's what ma says.'

'What about your father?'

'Dunno. He's been gone,' the boy went quiet and picked at a splinter by his foot. 'He left years ago. I remember seeing him leave, but that's all I remember. Ma doesn't talk about him.'

'What's her name?'

'Alyssa,' the boy tucked his knees under his chin and wrapped his arms around them.

Tarok was silent. He didn't remember much of his family, the nomads saw to that. He pressed the fox pendant between his thumb and forefinger. 'Alright. Stay here.' Tarok dropped down from the treehouse and prowled towards the manorfort.

The fountain in the centre of the courtyard stood still, the water beneath languid and verdant. Reeds grew round the edge, rustling as some creature dove beneath the moss peppered water. Dandelions sprouted between the sett stones and once well worn grooves from carriages and carts had filled with soil and dead leaves. No watchman manned the walls or windows. No boys tended to the stables, vacant of horse and hay, the roof of the wood store had collapsed. There was no life.

Tarok approached the entrance, a set of grand double doors in a combination of pale and dark woods with carvings of wheat, apples, birds, wreaths, and all manner of abundance. He reached for the hefty bronze handle in the shape of a bear paw, it turned and the door yawned open without a sound. A wave of musty air seeped out, wafting over Tarok from the gloom. He stepped inside.

Dozens of candles at the end of their wicks burned on a sideboard dripping with old wax like stalactites. Puddles of cooled wax stained the once ornate rug, now thick with dust. Grimy sheets hung from mirrors and paintings on the wall, shrouded couches and tables dotted around the grand hallway. Two staircases dominated the far side, one climbing above and one descending below, both were laden with dust, cobwebs and spiders nesting between the spindles and bannisters undisturbed for eons. The musty scent crawled up Tarok's nostrils, itching and worming down his throat, he reached for his axe on instinct. “His Valour” was here, somewhere, the commonfolk were certain, who else were they paying their taxes too if not the lord of the manorfort and where would a lord live if not the seat of his power?

He crept across the carpet, the leather straps of his fur lined boots creaking with the slowness of movement interrupting the screeching silence. A wet cough sounded from the staircase leading below. Tarok rushed toward the stairs, crossing the grand entrance in a handful of strides, he dove down the stairs, axe first. His footsteps banged against the well polished wood and he charged through the open door at the bottom of the steps. A swirl of gold and burgundy blinded him and a bone crunching force cracked against his chest. He flew backwards, his axe slipping from his grip, and he slammed into the stairs, the old wood splintering beneath his bulk. Pain weaved across his back and down into his hips, he growled with the pain and rushed to his feet, stumbling forward to were his axe glistened on the carpet in the basement. A force curled round him, invisible, and held him in its grasp. There was a coldness to it, a finality, a despair that seeped into his skin and crawled up his veins to reach his heart. It was not death but something worse. Tarok wormed against the skulking horror that laced his veins, his skin turning black as it climbed up his arm.

'A volunteer,' a man hissed. The slithering ink halted its advance, the grasp lessened, and Tarok was dragged into the room below the manorfort. The door slammed shut behind him and candelabra burst alive along the walls. Transparent pods lined the walls, some held people, women and children mostly, while others lay empty save for a murky liquid. A little girl lay on a blood stained table with lead and bronze pipes piercing her arms, her back, and legs, a transparent tube entered one side of her neck. Her eyes were bloodshot and all the time Tarok hung in the air she did not blink, not once. The man, taller than Tarok by a head but bone thin, fiddled with some vessel of fluid hanging over a flame. He wore a thick blacksmiths apron over tattered wool and silk finery.

'Release me,' Tarok growled.

'You came to me, willingly.'

'To stop you.'

'Why? I have discovered the nature of the soul and powers unseen, I have communed with conscious beings from beyond this dusty world, I am at the beginning of a chain of discovery that will reshape the world!' the man shook with passion.

'What are you doing to her?' Tarok wrestled against the invisible grasp that held him aloft but it would not weaken and each movement only tired him.

'Little Alyssa is going to facilitate communication between myself and an outer being of such considerable knowledge that... that... well, I cannot comprehend the visions I have seen. The world transformed, the world transformed!' His Valour flicked the jar hanging over the flame, the liquid began to bubble and gas peeled off its surface and into the transparent tube inserted into Alyssa's neck.

Tarok searched the room, his axe was mere feet away from him but he could not move. The men, women, and children who hung in the transparent eggs were unconscious, or perhaps dead, as they hung in that strange amber like fluid with pipes jutting from their arms and legs. One stood out, older, well built, with a mane of white hair, he was naked, like all the rest, save for a gold medallion hanging from a golden chain around his neck, each of the links were criss-crossed fingers, with a eagle's claw hanging against the man's chest. 'Who is that?'

“His Valour” twitched like a desert hare to see for a brief second. 'Oh, him. Yes. My predecessor. Didn't like what I was doing so I used him to contact the power that holds you. Fortunately I can now talk with that in here,' he tapped his head. 'I have always wondered if a man will age in one of those, now I will find out,' the man cackled.

Tarok grimaced and felt the ink beneath his skin squirm a little closer. The thin man shot a look over, his lip twitched, and the ink receded an inch. 'You don't control it.'

'Silence, do not distract me,' “His Valour” selected a scalpel from his belt and stood over Alyssa's head. She had not blinked yet her eyes dilated and her nostrils flared at seeing the knife. 'Now, stay still, this will only hurt a little,' he put the scalpel above her ear and began to slice around the hairline of her forehead. Alyssa thrashed, as much as she could against the leather straps holding her down, an odd muffled scream came from her throat but her mouth didn't move while her nostrils flared and unflared.

'What are you doing!' Tarok raged, straining against the invisible grasp. For the first time he felt it weaken yet it soon reasserted itself, tighter than before. Tarok groaned as his ribs grated into one another.

'Silence!' the thin man cried.

'Squirm more and I will have no choice but to destroy you,' a voice crowed in Tarok's skull.

Tarok froze and felt the black ice slither up his arm.

'The old man's distracted. You. Are. Mine.'

'NEVER!' Tarok barked, clenching his fists and writhing against the force that held him.

“His Valour” flinched, the scalpel slipping and carving a gash across Alyssa's eyebrow. The girl shuddered, her breathing quick and shallow. 'Half-wit!' the thin man tossed the knife to the carpet, thick with dried blood and crusted bile. 'Cease your struggles!' He marched over to Tarok.

The grasp halted its resistance.

Tarok did not. He felt warmth on his right side, the ink fled his veins and with a twist and a curse he slipped free and scrambled for his axe. Something grabbed his ankle, he fell, his hand catching the hilt of his double-bladed axe. Tarok was dragged backward, the force snaking up his legs to hold him still. He swung. A shimmer of silver dust burst from the nothingness around him. A screech raked his ears.

The thin man fell to the floor clutching his head, 'What have you done!?'

'You. Are. MINE!' the voice shrieked inside Tarok's mind.

'No, he is mine!' “His Valour” croaked, reaching with a hand more bone than skin and muscle.

A flash of silver tore the air before the old man and blood burst from his eyes, his ears, his mouth. 'It is time for a new host,' a cloud of silver dust surged towards Tarok.

Tarok leapt to his feet and swung his axe but there was nothing to hit, no flesh to rend, no armour to crack. The silver dust dispersed into two clumps, above and below, as his axe carried on crashing into one of the transparent pods against the wall. A cascade of pale yellow liquid drenched the floor. The man with the medallion slumped forward, the bronze and lead pipes sliding free of his body as he crashed to the floor. He gasped and flailed, the holes in his skin oozing black tar.

The silver being hissed, dispersing more and more. Tarok swung at the lingering dust, not knowing what else to do, and with each swing the being was forced backwards until it hovered over the man. Blades of gold emanated from the medallion and the mysterious being was drawn toward the medallion, the air swirled and then fell still, the demon was no more. Tarok leaned on his axe, panting. The man oozing tar coughed and began to rise, burn marks around his neck and on his chest, he held himself up on all fours for a long time merely breathing.

Tarok approached Alyssa, feeling for broken ribs. His torso was one big bruise with welts of dark red around his ribs, some were broken and he struggled to draw a full breath. They would heal and a good ale would keep the pain at bay. He stowed his axe on his back and began undoing the leather straps holding Alyssa down. Only then did he realise how small she was, younger than her brother Lucale by a few summers. The last strap fell loose.

Alyssa sat upright, eyes like black marbles and streaming smoking, blood sheeted down her face. 'All shall perish! All shall become one in the Beyond! All will bow before the Exarch! Your souls are not your own!' A decrepit voice bellowed from the child. The smoke rose from her eyes and faded, the girl fainting. Tarok lay a hand on his axe and watching. A moment passed and he reached out to scoop up the girl but as he did her eyes snapped open, black as ink, and the air was torn asunder above her. A force exploded from the starry tear, shoving Tarok to the floor. Clawed tentacles reached out from the Beyond, a multitude of eyes blinking and rolling up the numerous appendages. A great monstrous slab of flesh slithered out of the tear, all eyes and claws and tentacles, 'Bow before me!' The thing had no mouth yet its voice bellowed all the same.

Tarok fought against a force holding him down, it was weaker than before and he rose to his full height, sweat pouring down him, 'No.'

'Bow!'

The force intensified and Tarok's bones creaked from the pressure, yet still he stood. His axe felt leaden in his hands, the double-blade drooping to the floor. With gritted teeth he raised simply to show he could. His arms bulged, the veins standing proud. 'No.'

The demon flailed its hundred arms and rushed Tarok, slicing the air in a blur of fleshy claws as sharp as Shao Xing steel. Blood streaked the air. He stumbled back, his arms and chest stinging, the cuts were thin and deep weeping crimson. The pressure around him burst and Tarok raised his axe to strike. The thousand eyed demon whipped its tentacles wrapping one around his ankle and another to his wrist. The axe was halted in mid air, the beast began to drag Tarok towards itself. A maw opened up, parting eyes in the midst of its tumorous form. Tugging and pulling did nothing to assail the strength of the beast as Tarok slid across the carpet towards his doom. A thousand thousand teeth shimmered, protracted and thin but as sharp as the monster's claws. He kicked with his free leg but a tentacle snapped the air to coil around his knee and squeeze. Bones ground against one another. A glob of drool dripped from a tooth and splashed against Tarok's leg, his skin hissing and smoking. Tarok grit his teeth and with his free arm yanked on the appendage locking his wrist into place. He pulled and squoze, the slimy flesh stretching and squelching as if void of bone. A roar broke his lips and his hand tightened until the demon's skin bulged. More tendrils whipped about, ensnaring his neck, legs, and torso. Tarok continued to squeeze. Black sludge burst from the moist flesh and his axe hand was free. He swung without thought, without aim, severing a handful of tentacles with one swing. He fell backwards, the binds falling free, leaving his skin bruised and covered in welts. The demon flailed wildly, eyes weeping and blinking swift. Tarok rushed forth burying his axe in the monster, splitting the void flesh in to from top to tail. Black gore sprayed over the room, over Tarok, over Alyssa. The beast lay still, two halves recoiling, withering like cut vines until there was little more than a few strips of ebony leather.

Alyssa slumped to the bed, the tear in the air vanishing. Tarok limped over to her, lifting her eyelids to find clear blue eyes beneath. He cradled Alyssa in his arms and headed to leave.

The man with the medallion stirred. 'Wait, stranger,' the naked man said, his voice clipped and polished. 'What has happened? What day is it?' He sat against one of the unbroken eggs, naked, he had ceased to ooze tar.

Tarok paused, the girl limp across his arms. 'I do not know, I was paid for a job. Ask the people of the hamlet.'

The man frowned and admired his medallion, 'I recognise this... I recognise this carpet but not ought else... I...'

'Memories return. Flesh heals,' Tarok continued up the stairs.

'Wait... who are you?'

'Tarok,' he did not stop.

Tarok waited three days for the girl to wake. No more rifts to the Beyond opened and the girl's eyes remained clear blue. Her mother had been lost in her cups the whole time leaving her brother, Lucale, to tend to hearth and home, a job it seemed he was used to. Alyssa remembered nothing of the manorfort, nor the strange voice she had spoken with when the silver demon had vanished. The medallion had been involved but Tarok knew better than to fiddle with enchantments and sorcery, clearly that was the cause of the problem in the first place and best left forgotten. The girl agreed.

'I don't get it,' Lucale set a flatbread to fry. 'What was His Valour up to?'

'I don't know. I stopped it, as you paid me to do. Questions lead to complications,' Tarok admired the crude fox pendant Lucale had paid him with. If the boy kept pestering him he'd have to leave, he wasn't sure why he hadn't already. Summons had come from the manorfort and two sentries had been placed on the gates, the old man who'd fed and watered Tarok the first day had gone back to work tending the gardens and a few women had been seen fetching water for the new old lord, though everyone thought he had died years passed.

There was a knock at the door, 'A summons from His Valour,' a young boy called.

Tarok sighed and opened the door, 'What?'

The boy flinched, 'A summons for you,' he held out a wooden tablet carved with a script Tarok didn't know.

Tarok grunted, 'What does it say?'

The boy side-eyed him but began to read, 'To the esteemed warrior, Tarok, who came to the aid of our humble village I beseech thee harken to my call so that I may bestow proper thanks and enquire about the nature of what occurred. In truth and honour, His Valour.'

Tarok closed the door and stalked back to Alyssa. He took her hand and placed the fox pendant in it, 'For you.' He padded to the door. 'Take care of your mother and sister,' he told Lucale. He slipped outside.

'I will,' Lucale hastily said.

The boy waited with the summons, trying to press it into Tarok's hand. He grunted and accepted the slat of wood. He'd returned his pay, had a stabbing pain in his left side, and was as hungry as the day he'd arrived, the few coins in his purse wouldn't get him far and that was only if there were settlements further north. Was he at the edge of the world? No, he scoffed, that was to the far north and drenched in ice, all the tales agreed, but a full stomach and a heavy purse would do him good on the journey. 'Fine, take me to His Valour.'

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FOR MORE TAROK THE WANDERER CHECK OUT: The Tarok the Wanderer Collection

Thanks for reading, and waiting while I recovered from a horrid flare up of Crohn’s Disease. I hope this is my return to regular posting but will write more in another update post sometime in September.

In the mean time you can read more of Tarok here: The Tarok the Wanderer Collection