Tales & Treasure Chapter 3

Vatis - Montalvo The Kind

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Vatis felt years younger, which made his job easier; the characters and performances were always better when well-manicured. Well, other than the beggar he played in Numeria, he was not desperate to play Gron again, not after the dungeon incident. Vatis shivered, trying to shake those thoughts out of his head. A long bath and a shave rejuvenated his aching muscles and gnarly appearance, but the prospect of performing tonight genuinely excited and terrified him. He hadn’t been in front of a crowd in months.

What story shall I tell? Vatis thought as he changed into his only clean shirt – an azure-colored garment with a raven embroidered over his heart. It was his last performance-worthy shirt. He brushed his hair behind his ears, fighting through several knots. What would the people of Basswood want to hear? Vatis rarely took suggestions from his audiences. He knew which stories to tell.

He pulled his trousers up over his waist, nearly to his navel, cringing as the cloth passed over his protruding hip bones. The pant legs rose to the middle of his shins, their frayed ends hanging like half-broken branches. He tightened his belt as far as possible, but his pants were still loose. Perhaps The Merchant of Dartmore. It’s a classic tale. Vatis thought for a moment while tying his boots. No. That doesn’t feel right. How about one of Mia-The-Maiden’s heroic tales? He continued his debate as he tried to smooth out the wrinkles in his clothes.

Vatis straightened his collar, checked his buttons, and adjusted his sleeves; his performance preparations were nearly finished. I could tell them the story of The Lost Forest, he thought, looking at the book on his bed. But, no, that doesn’t feel right either. He rubbed his fingertip on a piece of charcoal, applying a thin layer to his eyelids. Vatis thought the makeup added a subtle layer to his performance. It was easier for a man of his slender frame to be frightening with his unnaturally dark eyes. He brushed his wiry mustache with his fingers; the charcoal also helped to hide a few of the white hairs that poked through. There was no mirror to check his work, but years of the same preparations had made him an expert. He knew how he looked.

The door creaked on its rusty hinges; floorboards whined beneath his feet. As he made his way down the stairs, the loose railing jiggled in his shaking hand. Vatis exhaled thrice, slowly, his breath joining the wind, whistling rhythmically through a slight crack in a window. Montalvo, he thought, humming the tune to a nearly forgotten song. He knew what he would perform tonight.

The pleasant murmur of conversation brought a smile to his face as Vatis-of-the-Road reemerged into the tavern’s common room. Rain drummed on the roof, creating a pleasing melody with the whispered conversations. He walked past the low burning fire, the flames warming his exposed shins momentarily. Shadows cast from the stone hearth danced on the wall to his right. Vatis found a stool, pushing a half-empty glass toward the bartender. No one saw him, so he hummed – rather loudly at that. Still, no one noticed him, so he hummed louder.

“Would you quit that humming?” a patron from the opposite end of the bar called.      

Vatis hummed more dramatically.        

“I’m warning you,” the bearded man yelled.      

“Hmm, hmm, hmm,” Vatis hummed in a deeper tone.    

The stool screeched across the wood floor and toppled over with a loud thump. Thunder crashed outside the tavern echoing the room-silencing thud.

“All right, men enough,” a commanding voice from behind the bar said. “Sit down, Graham. And you quit that damn humming.”

“Montalvo, Montalvo, where did you go?” Vatis sang.   

“Montalvo,” the bartender said. “Why do I know that name?”

“Ah, most of us have heard the name. Montalvo-The-Kind. Montalvo-The-Lucky. Montalvo-The-Terrible. He was known by many. His name still carries weight even centuries later,” Vatis said.

“Who was he?” Graham asked. 

“Oh, you’re interested in my song now that it has words,” Vatis said.

“He sounds familiar, that’s all.”

“As he should. There was a time when every man, woman, and child in Emre knew his name.”

Light burst into the tavern, briefly giving the shadows more dancing partners; a vicious boom followed, rattling the neatly arranged glasses by the bar. Graham picked his stool up off the floor, nodding his apology to the bartender. “Excuse me,” he said as he set the stool closer to Vatis. “It sounds like you’ve got a story, and since we are stuck here,” he gestured to the window, “how about you tell us about this Montalvo-The-Nice.”

“Montalvo-The-Kind, and yes, he has a tragic story,” Vatis said. “I could tell you … for an ale … or two.” A bard gets thirsty, after all.

“Ha, fine, Rane get this would-be-bard an ale,” Graham said. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry, long day at the forge.”

“And I apologize for the humming. I was simply trying to get someone's attention.” And I’ve got them, Vatis thought as his audience began to build.

Graham slapped Vatis on the shoulder. “Well, it worked.”

Rane set a frothy, golden ale in front of Vatis. “Ah, you can’t tell a story without a good ale,” Vatis said, wiping foam out of his mustache with the back of his hand. Vatis’s hand trembled as he raised the mug to his lips again. He slurped a long drink, his tense shoulders relaxing with each gulp. Nerves always fought a battle between his stomach and mouth before he performed in front of a crowd. Alcohol helped calm those nerves, or so he thought.

“Well, you got your ale. Now tell us about Montalvo,” Rane said.

“We don’t get many bards in Basswood these days,” Graham added.

A few eavesdropping patrons pleaded for a performance from a nearby table.

“The audience grows,” Vatis said. He took another drink. Sweat dripped from his brow despite the frigid night. “All right, I will tell you the story of Montalvo. Keep in mind, it is tragic, so don’t get angry with me if you don’t like how it ends.”

Another flash of light, followed by an even louder bang, shook the tavern. “I guess the gods want you to start the story, too,” Graham said.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to anger the gods,” Vatis said.

“Mon… Montalvo,” Vatis said. He stumbled over the words. His lips quivered as he raised his mug for another drink. He wiped his mouth clean with the back of his hand and began again.

“Montalvo was like any other man, indistinguishable from commoners and the wealthy alike. Place him in a crowd of beggars, and he’d fit in, give him elegant clothing, and he could attend the finest ball in Barna. Wherever Montalvo went, good things followed. He passed through Vicus, and withered crops came back to life. He stayed a night in Haran, and the fishermen caught record hauls. He peddled wares in Yimser, and a dry well was suddenly refilled. Similar events followed Montalvo everywhere he went earning him his first nickname Montalvo-The-Lucky.”

Vatis paused to take another drink, but his mug was empty. “Rane, was it? Can I have another?” Vatis asked.

The young, brown-haired bartender refilled the cup with a practiced efficiency that usually comes from work in a much busier tavern. “Thank you.” Vatis diligently cracked the knuckles on each hand before taking a drink. A man sitting in the back of the crowd watched Vatis with an eagle eye. His hard, angular face set him apart from the other bystanders in the Rau Tavern. Who are you? Vatis took another drink and continued his story, pushing thoughts of the mysterious man aside.

“Montalvo-The-Lucky began to gain quite the reputation; however, one thing confused people. He never stayed in the same place for more than a day. Once, he visited a small mining town outside of Numeria. Within the first hour of his visit, a miner found a vein of iron ore so large it could have sustained the village for months if not years. The townspeople begged and pleaded with him to stay one more day.

‘I wish I could,’ he said. ‘But there are more villages that could use my luck.’

Still, they continued to beg. ‘Fine,” he relented. ‘One night.’

The townsfolk rejoiced. They danced and drank into the early hours of the morning, but Montalvo's demeanor grew grimmer with each passing hour. Finally, the sun rose, the miners returned to work, and tragedy struck. The long-standing mine collapsed, killing the men working inside and burying their recently found treasure.”

Vatis paused, taking a moment to let the sudden turn take its toll. He sipped from his mug as the anticipation built amongst his audience.

“What happened next?” voices called from the growing crowd. “Come on, don’t keep us waiting.” An eager crowd tonight, Vatis thought, scanning the room. The man in the back showed no excitement, but his gaze never wavered. Vatis licked his lips, tasting the bitter combination of charcoal and ale. He continued.

“Devastation. The people could not comprehend how quickly their fortunes had turned.

‘I must go before more tragedy strikes,’ Montalvo cried.

‘You mean this was your fault,’ a newly made widow asked.

‘I told you that I shouldn’t stay,’ Montalvo replied. ‘Whenever I stay in one place too long, tragedy follows. Maybe if I return in a few years, I can bring another stroke of luck.’

The townsfolk cried. ‘A few years. Our town will be lost by then. We lost our mine and most of our men; we have nothing. There must be something you can do,’ they pleaded.

‘I am no mage. The longer I stay, the more likely another tragedy will occur,’ Montalvo said. ‘I have to leave.’

The elderly man wept as he walked away from the town, vowing never to stay in the same place longer than one day again, but the damage was done, and this was how he first earned the name Montalvo-The-Terrible.”

The patrons sat silently, awaiting more of the story. Vatis took another drink. The warmth of the ale flowed through his body, giving his limbs a pleasant tingling sensation. He took a deep breath and began again.

“In the years that followed, Montalvo stuck to his word. He passed through town after town delivering small miracles and selling miscellaneous trinkets. The people seemed to forget the mining incident, even dubbing him Montalvo-The-Kind as he never had a bad thing to say about anyone.

Before I continue, I should say something about this time in Emre. A terrible, bloody war led to a terrible, bloody king sitting on the throne, Geils Dallain. He was known for his harsh temper and even harsher punishments. When he sentenced a man to die, he did not send them to the gallows or the headsman. No, he had an iron dragon built upon a gigantic pyre in the square. This dragon was not a simple statue. It was hollow. A thick black door just big enough for a man to fit through faced the crowd. In as plain of terms as I can put it, the convicted man was thrown inside and was cooked alive. But that’s not the worst part. The King had this monstrosity so well engineered that it sounded like a dragon roaring when the victim cried and screamed. King Dallain loved it. I will let you put together your conclusions as to what kind of a man can relish that gruesome of a punishment.”

Vatis looked at the horrified faces before him. “I told you this was a dark story. Do you want me to continue?”

Graham looked at Rane, then downed his entire mug. “I’m going to need another before you continue,” he said. “Same here,” a few voices called from the back of the crowd.

Vatis sipped his ale while waiting for his audience to refill their cups. Rane smiled as he left a table of two young couples. They picked up their benches, moving closer to Vatis. A lopsided stack of bowls teetered in the center of their now-vacant table. The man in the back was gone. Where did you go? Vatis thought. He appeared at a new table with the same unrelenting stare a moment later. The tower of bowls must have obstructed his view. Vatis exhaled. He relaxed, knowing where the mystery man was sitting.

“Is everyone ready?” he said once it seemed like the crowd had settled into their chairs. “Good. Where was I? Ah yes, King Dallain had put fear into the people of Barna.”

“In all his years of traveling, Montalvo never visited the capital city. He feared that the King would try to abuse his luck. But word of Montalvo’s miracles had reached the King, and Geils Dallain was not a patient man. One morning, as he pushed his cart down the road a few miles outside Haran, a rider wearing polished steel armor branded with the King’s dragon sigil approached him.

‘Montalvo?’ he asked.

‘Indeed, I am,’ Montalvo answered in his usual cheery fashion. ‘How are you doing this fine day? Can I interest you in a candied apple? They’re fresh.’

The strong guard grabbed the back of Montalvo’s shirt and lifted him onto the back of the horse. ‘The King has summoned you,’ he said as they galloped away toward Barna.

As they approached the palace, people stopped and stared. ‘Is that Montalvo-The-Kind?’ they whispered as they rode by.
        

King Dallain welcomed Montalvo with open arms and unaccustomed enthusiasm.

‘Is this the Montalvo I’ve heard so much about? Come, come. I’ve had a feast prepared in your honor,’ the King said.

Montalvo was overwhelmed by the extravagance of the feast. The long wooden table was filled with more food than Montalvo had seen in months: an entire roast pig, whole chickens, dozens of varieties of bread and preserved meats, and bowls of fruits and nuts.

‘This is too much, your Grace,’ he said. ‘I cannot guarantee miracles, but I appreciate your unrivaled kindness.’

The King dismissed the notion. ‘Nothing is too much for Montalvo-The-Lucky,’ the King replied.

As Montalvo guiltily ate a whole chicken, a midwife burst into the dining hall.

‘Sir,’ she said.

The King sprang to his feet.

‘The Queen has given birth. It's a boy.’

You see, the King and Queen had been struggling to sire a boy. Four, well five, princesses were born. The last died shortly after birth.

‘A boy,’ the King yelled. ‘I finally have a boy. I knew you would be the luck that I needed, Montalvo.’

The King departed with the midwife to see his firstborn son. While he was gone, Montalvo snuck handfuls of the preserved meats to the servants.

‘Come. Eat this food. I fear it will go to waste,’ he said as he invited them to the table. ‘But be quick. I would not want the King to find you at his table when he returns.’

That meal with the castle's servants was the last time Montalvo would be truly happy. He told stories of his travels, all the miracles, and all the tragedies. ‘Thank you for sharing this meal with me. Now return to your posts as I fear the King will return soon,’ he said.

The King returned in a marvelous mood. Who could blame him? He had been desperate to secure his lineage for years.”

Thunder crashed outside the Tavern. Vatis jumped in his seat, as did most of the audience, which had now grown to ten patrons. Even the man in the back jumped, though not as noticeable as the rest of the crowd. “God, that’s a way to make a dramatic point,” Vatis said. The crowd chuckled. He emptied his mug before continuing; Rane anticipated the refill this time.

“On the house,” the bartender said.  

“Why, thank you, Rane,” Vatis said. “Let’s continue, shall we?”

“The King returned to his dining hall, almost dancing with excitement.

‘How’s the prince, your Grace?’ Montalvo asked.

‘He is wonderful. He has my chin but my wife’s eyes. He will make a fine king one day,’ Dallain said.

He beamed with joy. At that moment, he seemed human, not like the monster many thought.

‘I can’t help but think this has something to do with your arrival,’ the King said.

‘Well, I don’t know about that,’ Montalvo said.

‘Don’t be so modest. I could use a source of good luck. Therefore, I am appointing you as a royal advisor. You will have lavish rooms in the palace with whatever amenities you desire,’ the King proclaimed.

Montalvo bit his lip nervously. He had anticipated this kind of offer. It was an offer that you don’t dare turn down. It was why he avoided the capital city. ‘Your Grace, that is a tremendously generous offer,’ Montalvo said before the King cut him off.

‘Then you accept, wonderful.’

‘Well, your Grace, I must decline. You see, I cannot stay in one place for too long, or my luck sours.’

The King looked puzzled. He wasn’t used to denial. ‘Nonsense, I’m sure that is a simple coincidence,’ he said as the excitement from earlier teetered on the edge of anger.

‘It’s true, your Grace. I’m sure you’ve heard the story of Randall, the mining town outside Numeria,’ Montalvo said.

‘A true tragedy,’ the King said. All happiness vanished from his expression leaving only a deathly cold stare. ‘There are other, less comfortable rooms you could stay in.’

Montalvo knew he had no choice. ‘I hope you are right, your Grace. I accept.’”

Vatis stretched his arms straight into the air turning slightly to crack his sore back. His audience was as attentive as ever. Now, the climax.

“For two days, news of no miracle or tragedy reached Montalvo. He began to think that maybe the King was right; perhaps he wasn’t cursed. But of course, Montalvo was correct; on the third day, fever tore through the city, afflicting many innocent civilians. Late that morning, the King burst into Montalvo’s room.

‘What witchcraft is this? Half of the city is infected. Undo this spell or suffer the consequences,’ the King demanded.

Montalvo wept. ‘Your Grace, I am no wizard. I am no mage. I am cursed, as I have told you. If you let me go, no more tragedies will befall your city.’

The King ran at the old man, grabbing him by the neck. He threw him against the cold stone wall. ‘Liar. If this plague is not cured, no amount of magic will contain my wrath.’

Before the King stormed out of the room, he ordered three guards to ensure Montalvo didn’t escape. There was nothing Montalvo-The-Kind or Montalvo-The-Lucky could do. It was Montalvo-The-Terrible’s turn.

That night an ancient bridge over the Cemil River collapsed, killing dozens and cutting off one of Barna’s most important supply routes. At midnight King Dallain and his guards broke down the door to Montalvo’s chamber.

‘Now, you cut off our supply of medicine. What kind of warlock are you? Montalvo-The-Kind more like Montalvo-The-Killer. Guards bind him and take him to the dungeons,’ the King commanded.

Montalvo pleaded. ‘Let me go, Your Grace. Let me go, and no more tragedies will destroy your city.’

‘Gag him. I don’t want him to be able to utter another spell or lie,’ the King said as he punched Montalvo in the gut.”

A fit of coughing from a feeble-looking man beside the hearth interrupted Vatis momentarily. “Sorry,” he grumbled. Vatis smiled as he watched the crowd eagerly awaiting his story. He felt euphoric, a warmth far superior to anything alcohol could provide. He took a moment to enjoy the silent expectancy. 

“Montalvo was thrown into a dark, damp cellar with a ridged stone floor. His only light came from a tiny gap underneath a triple-locked iron door. There was no escape. He could only sit and wait for the next terrible event. He sat in darkness for what seemed like days, but he could not be sure how much time had passed. Finally, the heavy door opened, bringing forth a blinding light. In the doorway stood the silhouette of a tall man.

‘Are you happy?’ It took a moment for Montalvo to recognize the voice. It was the King. ‘My son has caught your sickness.’

‘I’ve told you, your Grace, I cannot stop these tragedies from happening. I can only provide solace if I leave the city and get as far away from here as possible.’

King brooded in silence as if contemplating Montalvo’s release. ‘I will not stomach any more of your lies. Cure my son by tomorrow morning, or it’s the dragon for you.’

Montalvo dropped to his knees at the King’s feet. ‘Your Grace, I beg you do not kill me. The curse upon me will find another, and I do not wish this fate on anyone else. Let me go, and your son may live,’ he cried.

‘I told you, I have had enough of your lies. Cure my son, wizard, or die,’ the King said as he slammed the heavy door shut. Montalvo clawed at the door's lock until his fingers bled. In the morning, he knew he would die, but worse yet, he knew dozens, if not hundreds, would die as well. Worse still, he knew someone was about to be invaded by one of Emre’s worst curses.”

The crowd shifted in their seats. The only sound in the tavern was the crackling fire in the hearth and rain drumming on the roof. The story consumed them.

“The king returned with the prince in his arms the following day.

‘Look what you have done—my son. My only son has died because of you. Bring him back to life. Now,’ the King wept.

Montalvo cried along with the King. ‘I cannot, your Grace. I am no mage; I am cursed.’

The King was utterly helpless for the first time in his life. He stared at his cold son swaddled in a blue blanket hugging the tiny corpse like he was rocking him back to sleep. ‘So be it. Guards bring Montalvo-The-Killer to the square and announce his execution.’

The guards roughly grabbed Montalvo’s underarms and yanked him to his feet. ‘Your Grace, I beg you do not do this. I’m profoundly sorry for the loss of your son, but I do not wish the curse upon anyone. Let me go. No one else needs to die.’ Montalvo cried.

The King looked at the ragged old man with murderous eyes before turning to the guards. ‘Remove his clothes.’ The King said as he walked out of the dungeon.

‘Please, no,’ Montalvo pleaded one last time. The King didn’t acknowledge the plea; he only searched his son’s stiffening face for a sign of life. The guards stripped Montalvo of his already torn clothing and marched him, naked, toward his death. People stared, pointed, laughed, and even threw stones at him as the guards dragged him through the most public route to the square. The King, Queen, and Prince were waiting for Montalvo along with a starving crowd. The King held up his son for the people to see.

‘This demon is who caused this plague rampaging through our city. He killed my son. Now he will suffer the consequences. I’m deeply saddened that I did not do this sooner. Perhaps I could have saved some of your family and friends or even my son.’ The King gave the baby to the Queen and continued. ‘Montalvo-The-Killer, you are sentenced to die. Do you have any last words?’

Tears ran down Montalvo’s dirt-covered cheeks, splashing onto his bare chest. ‘I’m sorry to you all, especially to one of you,’ Montalvo’s words were cut short as he was shoved into the menacing dragon-shaped oven. Friends, I will spare you the details of Montalvo’s last moments. I only add that some as far as Haran say they could hear the dragon’s roar that day, and with that, the story of Montalvo-The-Kind comes to an end. A tragically kind, cursed man whose life was ended by the greed and stubbornness of a mad, vengeful king.”

Vatis finished his ale and awaited the reaction of the crowd. There was no applause, but his audience was satisfied. He could see it in their faces, how they slid closer to their loved ones, and how their eyes widened when they looked at Vatis.

Graham was the first to speak up. “That is a sad story. Thank you for telling it,” He said, draining his cup.

“Thank you,” the room echoed.

A few patrons offered to buy Vatis another drink, and a couple came up and shook his hand. Still, most of the room sat silently contemplating the story's finer details or drinking their somberness away until the rain subsided. The man in the back of the room disappeared in the commotion. Damnit, Vatis thought. That man has a story. He looked around the room for a while but eventually gave up. The crowd passed a bowl around for coins. Vatis would have told stories for free; the money was a bonus and a means to get to the next tavern. He collected twenty-two Kan in total. Not a bad night. He put the coins in his purse and placed two on the bar for Rane before heading to his room.

With one foot on the stairs, Graham called, “What’s your name? I know bards can use all the help you can get. I want to be able to spread the word.”

“Vatis-of-the-Road,” the bard said with a flourishing bow. He smiled and retreated to his room.