Lungworth

The fat tavern keeper, along with a couple of locals, finally shoved the shaven-headed man out of the establishment and threw him face-first into the dust. A two-handed sword followed the man into the dirt. The shaven-headed man cursed desperately and tried to start a fight, but he was likely too drunk — the fat man easily dodged his fist and responded by kneeing his opponent in the stomach. The blow wasn't particularly strong, but it was enough for the drunkard, and he found himself on the ground again.

-- Sons of bitches! I'll show you, I'll get you next time... I won't stand for such treatment...
-- Get lost! – the innkeeper boomed back. – I don't need any brawling in my place.
-- Go sleep it off, soldier boy! – came a sneering little voice from inside.
-- Pray, you bastard, that I never meet you again... And y-you give me back my drink, I-I paid you for it.
-- Choke on it, you dog.

The fat innkeeper set a bottle down before him and slammed the doors shut.

-- Ehh. How'd it come to this, getting so plastered again, -- the man told the door in an indifferent voice, then reached for the bottle and took a mighty swig. Nasty rotgut, but he was used to it. – But what's life without being drunk... Fortune, that lousy whore, is turning her fat ass toward me again...

He got up, groaning heavily, picked up his sword, and continued on his way.

He walked through the narrow, dirty streets of this godforsaken town through a moonless winter night. He was heading east, had been walking for days now, and today he wanted to rest at a tavern and finally get a good night's sleep somewhere warm and clean, which he hadn't managed in a long while — and now he'd have to pound his boots against the frozen ground again and sleep right on it. Damned town. What misery... What kind of people live here... The man suddenly felt like singing — it was just too dreary to trudge through the darkness and silence across this village. He struck up, almost howled like a wolf at the moon, in his hoarse, drawling drunkard's voice:

Arrows darken the sky and clatter upon armor
They throw us into the breach again - war is war
Orphan children will weep, corpses piled under a bush,
If in bloody battle my sword finds its mark...

The head rolled away – hello, new widow!
You're free forever now, why aren't you cheerful?..

-- Shut up! Shut your mouth, son of a bitch, a stake down your throat! It's midnight and you're yelling, you animal! – apparently one of the locals didn't care for the singing.
-- Screw you too, you prick! I could've, f*ck, been a singer if not for you bastards, screw you all! I would've become a bard, but who would save your flabby hides?! But I'm not like yo-ou... I went to wa-ar, more than once, I've seen life...
-- You wouldn't have! You wouldn't, you damned scoundrel! You haven't seen jack shit! Shut your trap before I set the dogs on you.
-- Scum! You and all... you townsfolk! Scum...

The man with the sword shook his fist at the darkness, took another pull from the bottle, and continued on his way. He was furious and wanted to leave this place as quickly as possible, so he strode hastily and with wide steps, but he was also very drunk, and thus could barely find his way through the night, weaving plenty through the narrow streets of this small town until he finally reached the outskirts. The man was glad, and on that occasion finished off the remains of his drink in one go.

-- Ahh, the hea-ad rolled awa-ay! – the man roared hoarsely, and pleased that aside from some faint voices in the distance no one was interfering with his heartfelt impulses anymore, he started singing again:

Arrows darken the sky and clatter upon armor
They throw us into the breach again - war is war
Orphan children will weep, corpses piled under a bush,
If in bloody battle my sword finds its mark...

The head rolled away – hello, new widow!
You're free forever now, why aren't you cheerful?
The head rolled away – hello, new widow!
You're free forever now, why aren't you cheerful?

Roienthal they chopped to firewood, barely barely
What, they're driving us to attack again – means they gave us coin!
With Reginleif we'll fight our best, just pay us well upfront.
Too bad not all of us will carry it home...

He couldn't remember the rest. Damn song, every time he forgets how it ends.

Now that the town was behind him, the darkness was utterly pitch-black. The streets gave way to dense forest, and the drunkard kept crashing into trees, each time spewing some profanity or other. But he was a stubborn man, and the drink made him even more stubborn, and he kept walking toward where he thought the east lay, tangling himself in bushes, falling and rising again, feeling around for the path, blindly making his way through the woods. He lost the trail through the forest, then found it, but lost it again; after every fall or collision with yet another tree he changed direction, and now he was completely lost. But he didn't want to stop — the cold winter air gave him strength, and the man knew that if he stopped or slowed down, he'd surely fall asleep. Why he mustn't sleep, he couldn't reasonably explain, but sleep was out of the question; the man was certain that right now he had to keep walking, a feeling that he was destined to find something, to arrive somewhere, and this chance was given to him only once in his life. The forest seemed to be thinning — he still couldn't see anything, but he sensed he was colliding less often. The man was cheered by this and quickened his pace.

-- Oy damn it!.. – the man cried out, feeling the ground suddenly slip from under his feet. As he tumbled downward, it even seemed funny to him — he was flying so fast, as if the man were meant not for walking but for rolling, and he wondered how much longer he'd have to travel in such a peculiar manner and what he'd end up rolling into. Then he felt he was no longer rolling but simply falling straight down, and immediately after, pain shot through his head. Consciousness left him.

The head rolled away, and my wife is a widow!
You're free forever now, why aren't you cheerful...

***

It was still dark when the man woke. It was early December morning, impenetrably dark, cold, and silent — that hour when the watch of those few creatures that forage by night has already ended, but the time for those that seek their prey under the sun's rays to awaken has not yet come, not to mention that even the furry and feathered inhabitants of this wild region between what men called the "west" and what they called the "east" preferred to spend the winter either in unbroken slumber or in warmer lands. Two-legged inhabitants within a good couple of miles there likely were none, and the few settlements — not quite towns, not quite villages, rather just waystations for those heading east — were now plunged into dead silence.

All these details, however, the man could not currently comprehend, and even if he could, it would hardly have done him a penny's worth of good. Right now he was aware, first and foremost, that his head hurt terribly, and with two pains at once: the first seemed to emanate from the center, rhythmically pulsing through his entire skull with saturated jolts of aching, throbbing sensation, while the second had settled somewhere near his temple and kept reminding him of itself with a sharp, stinging feeling. Afterward he realized he was freezing — for he lay directly on the ground, on the dead and frigid winter earth, lying completely uncovered. He felt behind his back for his cloak, and as he clumsily spread one edge beneath himself and covered himself with the other, the man suddenly realized he was nauseated, unbearably so, and promptly emptied the contents of his stomach onto the ground.

"I drank too much... Why did I drink so much?" – the man didn't fully understand right now what exactly getting drunk was, but somehow knew precisely that this was what had happened to him. – "And what happened yesterday... And where am I?"

Now he could finally listen to his senses and form an opinion about his situation. His sense of smell reported a discouraging picture — hanging in the dry winter air was the stench of vomit, and beyond it something else equally unpleasant, but evidently distant, some five meters away. The ground smelled of rotting grass, his clothes of stale sweat. He finally opened his eyes, but they too were stingy, revealing nothing except utter darkness all around and, a step away, something metallic lying there with a faint glint. Mechanically grabbing the object — unexpectedly heavy and as long as his own height — the man, without knowing why, felt much calmer.

"I'll sleep a bit more," – the man thought, turned onto his other side, and passed out instantly.

***

When he opened his eyes again, the sun stood at its zenith. The man lay embracing his sword, one hand resting on the crossguard, the other gripping the hilt. His head still ached, but not as badly; his stomach, having voided everything possible, had completely settled, and under the sun's rays he was even nearly warm. But now the man became aware of another problem, and, not daring to open his eyes, lingered over waking. This awakening would be very strange and even frightening — because the man remembered nothing.

He didn't remember what happened yesterday; that was still normal for those who, like him, love drink beyond measure. What drinking was, the man somehow remembered very well — it's fiery water that feels good at first and bad afterward, and the better it feels, the worse it'll be later; or perhaps drinking is a bitterish but tasty foamy cloudy liquid, or a tart liquid smelling of berries and fruits, of a beautiful ruby color... That he remembered. But nothing that had happened to him before this morning could he recall, try as he might, and he didn't even know who he was, not even in the vaguest outline — he only knew that yesterday he had drunk a lot, and today he had a sword and a warm cloak. For about an hour he lay motionless, trying to grasp how such a thing could have happened, but weary of such languid inactivity, he began attempts to re-understand reality. The man felt his head with his hands and discovered that he had recently shaved and cropped his hair bald, leaving only a tiny beard; discovered that he wore two earrings in his left ear for some reason; discovered that his hands were wonderfully rough, yet with long and slender fingers, and that he could be anywhere from several years shy of thirty to well past thirty — depending on how merciful nature had been to him. For all that, he noted that if he could ever have been handsome, it would only have been in his youth and before he'd shaved himself up like this. Such a thought saddened him slightly, and then greatly amused him — what a greedy creature man is, fretting in such a predicament over nature not having lavished him with a pleasant appearance.

Feeling his belt and pockets, he found a number of coins, a small pouch of hardtack, a flint and steel, and a hunting knife. Perhaps he was a traveler? An explorer? And where was he going, then, and why was all his equipment just a flint, a cloak, and a knife?

Much as he didn't want to, he had to open his eyes again and fully confront unfriendly reality with its blinding yet barely warm light, with the frozen ground, dried grass, and other joyless circumstances. The man looked at the sword he was probably clutching tighter now than any woman he might ever have met in his life. It was a good blade — even an excellent two-handed wavy blade, with weight as significant as necessary and as slight as possible, with a central ridge and a razor-sharp edge, though nicked and chipped from use all the way to the point. The sword might be little younger than its owner, judging by its current state — all notched and battered, the guard and grip seemingly replaced, and the replacements made by none-too-skilled craftsman, and it now looked as worn and beaten as its owner. The man smiled weakly — he suddenly felt affection for the soulless piece of iron.

-- Well now, you steel serpent. Now we're a team, pal. You've got a worthless master, Gods witness, but you seem to have seen all the crap life has to offer already...

He must have been a serious warrior, fighting with such a beast. Or he stole someone's sword.

The man examined his figure. He didn't look like a strongman, though he didn't look weak either, and he was dressed in exceptional rags — his whatever-it-was, jacket or vest, seemed to have once been a brigandine, but now not a single steel plate could be found under the cloth, and the quilted sleeves he probably wore as protection from frost rather than from blows. Quite a sight — nowadays they wouldn't even let you into some cities looking like this... And what year is it now? That the man could not remember.

Last to catch the man's attention was the ring on his middle finger. Good thing it wasn't on his ring finger. Though the only certainty here was that he couldn't have been a married Artherian, whereas a married atheist — he could well have been. The ring was silver, darkened with age; on the outer side — a half-worn ornament and... a skull? Strange. He took the ring off — it took a good five minutes even with his elegant fingers — and on the inner side found a crudely but very carefully and deeply engraved inscription:

"To Gaius, for luck and in memory of his homeland"

Luck and memory. The former is unclear, but the latter has certainly gone poorly. Well then... Whoever had engraved this inscription and given him this ring — the man waking with a hangover now felt the warmest feelings toward him or her. He must have had a family, once, somewhere — ancestors, or a wife, or even children, and they wished him luck... Gaius may not be the best of names, but better than having no name at all.

Having finished examining his person, the man, who now thought his name was Gaius, looked around, and found himself at the bottom of a ravine some five hundred meters deep, surrounded by lifeless grass, a few bare bushes, a pile of vomit, and a dead hare — or maybe some gopher; hard to tell from the half-rotted torn carcass — about five meters away. There it was, that foul odor he'd caught upon first waking — the smell of death. Maybe not even a hare's death, but his own, to which he should have been doomed by falling into the accursed ravine — only escaping it by some absurd accident. Foul stench. Like this whole place — a ragged wound in the earth's flesh, stones, hummocks, and weeds covering the steep-sided hollow with neither end nor edge; no living creature belongs here, and a man least of all. And the sun gazes indifferently upon this ugliness, and all around is perfect silence — not even a breath of wind. It rings in the ears.

Seized suddenly by some ill foreboding, Gaius jumped up, hurriedly beginning to roll up his cloak, but his hands wouldn't obey him, and his legs even worse — his head spun, he fell again, rose again, grabbed his sword, and using it like a staff, hastened up the slope of the ravine.

-- Phew, -- reaching the top, Gaius exhaled like a winded horse. – Nah, not today, old death. Some other time.

His ability to think had returned to him; he again tried to strain his mind and recover at least something of past events, but his head answered such an act of will with a fresh flash of pain. Truly, better not to think about the past for now — indeed, better for a man not to think about the past at all; there's surely nothing good there, only regrets over things done wrong, which haunt a man all his life, pricking and hindering him. One can also find disappointments over things that didn't turn out as hoped; these pile onto the heart like a stone, and you carry them all your life, and new ones pile on, until with such a burden you can't move from the spot at all — you just want to lie down and slowly sink into the earth under the weight. And whoever does manage to recall something good will immediately remember that it's gone irrevocably, and he'll feel bitter again.

Better for Gaius to think about the present. Where to go? Where was that idiot headed when he collapsed drunk into the ravine and had his memory knocked out of him — whether by the blow or by the binge? Well, Gaius will go the same way. Not far from the ravine at all — a road, a narrow track of bare earth trampled by feet and hooves amid sparse woodland. To the east the sparse woods stretched, by Gaius's estimate, for several kilometers — through the straggling assembly of bare gray lindens, occasionally interspersed with spruces so festive and lush among the naked and sickly lime branches, he could see no clearing ahead, though the trees grew sparsely. To the west the forest thickened, spruces growing more numerous, and everything beyond a kilometer appeared as a solid dark-green wall.

--  I don't like the west, I feel it in my gut — I won't be welcome there... -- Gaius muttered, and the spruce standing nearby rustled approvingly in the wind.

Gaius slung the sword over his shoulder. Keeping his balance while his head ached and spun so badly was no easy feat, but he managed. The sooner he got away from that accursed ravine, the better.

"When forced to choose between the unknown and the unknown, the result is the same — you'll choose the unknown. Or you make no choice, and heaven knows where that leads," – Gaius reasoned philosophically. – "If the result is the same, then the choice isn't worth a broken penny, and you should choose what your soul leans toward most. Because the soul always leans toward one thing more than another..."

Enheartened by his wisdom, worthy of the finest philosophers of Telos, Gaius strode eastward.

-- A day's worth of hardtack left... Well, maybe I'll run into a tavern. With luck, fortune will smile on me.