Valan Luca's Traveling Circus and Torture Center for Mat Cauthon [Altara, Tuesday, Fandom time]
Another morning, another day to be saddled up on Pips, traveling the Altaran countryside at a bloody crawl. For a long while, they saw not so much as a farm but about two hours after the sun passed its zenith, they came on a sizable village. The buildings, some of them three stories tall, were all heavy timber with whitish plaster between and had high-peaked roofs of thatch and tall stone chimneys. Something about them tugged at Mat's memory, but he couldn't figure out exactly what it was. There wasn't a farm to be seen anywhere in the unbroken forest, but they had to be somewhere--villages were always tied to farms, supporting them and living off them.
Oddly, the people he could see ignored the approaching train of show wagons. A fellow in his shirtsleeves, right beside the road, glanced up from the hatchet he was sharpening, then went back to work again as though he'd seen nothing. A cluster of children came hurtling around a corner and darted into another street without so much as a glance at them. Very odd. Most village children would stop to stare at a merchant's train and the show had more wagons than any number of merchants' trains. A peddler was coming from the north behind six horses, his wagon's cover almost hidden by pots and pans and kettles. That should cause interest, at least, but no one pointed or shouted that a peddler had come.
Three hundred paces short of the village, Luca stood up on his driver's seat and bellowed, "We'll turn in here!," then gestured to a large meadow. As Mat turned Pips toward the meadow, he heard the shoes of the peddler's horses ringing on paving stones. The sound jerked him upright. That road hadn't been paved since---he turned Pips back around. The peddler himself, a rotund man with a wide hat, was peering at the pavement and shaking his head, peering at the village and shaking his head. Peddlers followed fixed routes. He must have been this way a hundred times. The peddler halted his team and tied the reins to the brake handle.
Mat cupped both hands around his mouth. "Keep going, man!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. "As fast as you can! Keep going!"
The peddler glanced in his direction, then hopped up on the seat and began to declaim, gesturing as grandly as Luca did. Mat couldn't make out the words but he could guess what they'd be: news of the world interspersed with lists of his goods and claims for their vast superiority. Nobody in the village stopped to listen, or even paused in their tasks.
"Keep going!" Mat bellowed. "They're dead! Keep going!" Behind him, somebody gasped, Tuon or Selucia. Maybe both.
Suddenly the peddler's horses screamed, tossing their heads madly. They screamed like animals beyond the ragged edge of terror and kept screaming, throwing Pips--and every other animal in the circus--into a panic. Mat finally got Pips under control and glanced back at the peddler, who leaped back down from his cart to see what was the matter with his horses. Landing awkwardly, he looked down at his feet, and began screaming as well. The paving stones were gone and he was ankle-deep in road, just like his shrieking horses. Ankle-deep and sinking into rock-hard clay as if into a bog, just like his wagon, and horses, and the entire village next to him. The people never stopped what they were doing, all of them nearly knee-deep in the ground by this time.
Tuon grabbed his arm, and only then did Mat realized he'd nudged Pips forward. Light! "What do you think you can do?" she demanded.
"Nothing," he replied softly. His bow was completed but with the constant rain none of his arrows had dried. That was all he could think of--the mercy of an arrow in the man's heart before he was pulled under completely. Would the man die, or would be be carried to wherever those dead Shiotans were going? That was what had caught his eye about the buildings: it was how country folks in Shiota had built their houses nearly three hundred years ago. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the peddler. "Help meeeeeeeee!" the man cried, waving his arms. "Help meeeeeeeeeeeeee!" Over and over again.
Mat kept waiting for him to die, hoping for him to die--surely it was the better option--but the man kept on screaming as he sank to his waist, to his chest. Desperately he tipped his head back for one last breath like a man being pulled under water, then his head vanished, and finally his flailing arms. Only his hat remained.
When the last thatched roof melted away, Mat let out a long breath. The circus behind him was in an uproar as each person demanded to go someplace--any place--that wasn't where they were right now. He didn't care. The dead were walking again, even if briefly. The end of the world was coming, and not in some distant time.
He'd figure out what that meant for Mat Cauthon tomorrow. Tonight was for getting drunk enough to be able to blot out that peddler's face from his mind.
[OOC: Tweaked from Knife of Dreams.
Oddly, the people he could see ignored the approaching train of show wagons. A fellow in his shirtsleeves, right beside the road, glanced up from the hatchet he was sharpening, then went back to work again as though he'd seen nothing. A cluster of children came hurtling around a corner and darted into another street without so much as a glance at them. Very odd. Most village children would stop to stare at a merchant's train and the show had more wagons than any number of merchants' trains. A peddler was coming from the north behind six horses, his wagon's cover almost hidden by pots and pans and kettles. That should cause interest, at least, but no one pointed or shouted that a peddler had come.
Three hundred paces short of the village, Luca stood up on his driver's seat and bellowed, "We'll turn in here!," then gestured to a large meadow. As Mat turned Pips toward the meadow, he heard the shoes of the peddler's horses ringing on paving stones. The sound jerked him upright. That road hadn't been paved since---he turned Pips back around. The peddler himself, a rotund man with a wide hat, was peering at the pavement and shaking his head, peering at the village and shaking his head. Peddlers followed fixed routes. He must have been this way a hundred times. The peddler halted his team and tied the reins to the brake handle.
Mat cupped both hands around his mouth. "Keep going, man!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. "As fast as you can! Keep going!"
The peddler glanced in his direction, then hopped up on the seat and began to declaim, gesturing as grandly as Luca did. Mat couldn't make out the words but he could guess what they'd be: news of the world interspersed with lists of his goods and claims for their vast superiority. Nobody in the village stopped to listen, or even paused in their tasks.
"Keep going!" Mat bellowed. "They're dead! Keep going!" Behind him, somebody gasped, Tuon or Selucia. Maybe both.
Suddenly the peddler's horses screamed, tossing their heads madly. They screamed like animals beyond the ragged edge of terror and kept screaming, throwing Pips--and every other animal in the circus--into a panic. Mat finally got Pips under control and glanced back at the peddler, who leaped back down from his cart to see what was the matter with his horses. Landing awkwardly, he looked down at his feet, and began screaming as well. The paving stones were gone and he was ankle-deep in road, just like his shrieking horses. Ankle-deep and sinking into rock-hard clay as if into a bog, just like his wagon, and horses, and the entire village next to him. The people never stopped what they were doing, all of them nearly knee-deep in the ground by this time.
Tuon grabbed his arm, and only then did Mat realized he'd nudged Pips forward. Light! "What do you think you can do?" she demanded.
"Nothing," he replied softly. His bow was completed but with the constant rain none of his arrows had dried. That was all he could think of--the mercy of an arrow in the man's heart before he was pulled under completely. Would the man die, or would be be carried to wherever those dead Shiotans were going? That was what had caught his eye about the buildings: it was how country folks in Shiota had built their houses nearly three hundred years ago. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the peddler. "Help meeeeeeeee!" the man cried, waving his arms. "Help meeeeeeeeeeeeee!" Over and over again.
Mat kept waiting for him to die, hoping for him to die--surely it was the better option--but the man kept on screaming as he sank to his waist, to his chest. Desperately he tipped his head back for one last breath like a man being pulled under water, then his head vanished, and finally his flailing arms. Only his hat remained.
When the last thatched roof melted away, Mat let out a long breath. The circus behind him was in an uproar as each person demanded to go someplace--any place--that wasn't where they were right now. He didn't care. The dead were walking again, even if briefly. The end of the world was coming, and not in some distant time.
He'd figure out what that meant for Mat Cauthon tomorrow. Tonight was for getting drunk enough to be able to blot out that peddler's face from his mind.
[OOC: Tweaked from Knife of Dreams.