Tales & Treasure Chapter 7

Vidmar – Running From The Past

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The bird’s melodious chirping seemed different this morning. It was slightly softer and less enthusiastic, and there was no echo, no annoyingly accurate echo. Vidmar watched Vatis. The bard sat in the dirt, hugging his knees to his chest. The remains of their campfire smoldered a stride away from his face, smoke spiraling upward into the foggy air. His bloodshot eyes seldom blinked. “First skirmish?” Vidmar asked. 

Vatis shook his head, avoiding eye contact. He glanced at the red-stained earth where Zidane’s guard died, then back to Vidmar. He opened his mouth slightly. His dry, cracked lips glistened as he licked them. “I,” he started, but his voice cracked as if the words were punched back into him. “It was,” he continued. “We could have,” he rubbed his bruised face. “My fault,” he mumbled, looking at the ground. He sat silently for a few moments. 

Vidmar waited. He knew what it was like for most people after a battle. Surprisingly, Vatis handled the situation much better than Vidmar anticipated. 

After a moment, Vatis found his voice. “Thank you, Vidmar.” A tear escaped from his swollen, darkening eye. “Thank you.”

“Just listen to me next time,” Vidmar said softly, trying to ease the tension.

“I’m sorry,” Vatis said, with more strength returning to his voice. “I’m glad you were here.” A shy smile emerged from beneath his mustache. 

Vidmar helped Vatis to his feet. The bard hissed as he stood. “Let’s see the damage.” 

He gently pressed on Vatis’s side. The bard squirmed, hissing as Vidmar examined him. “At least two broken ribs. Lift your shirt. No signs of internal bleeding. Alright, you can put it back down. A few broken ribs, some bruising, a broken nose, and just a little unrepairable trauma. Not too bad. Pa always told me, ‘If you come out of a battle with your life and half your wits, consider yourself lucky,’ and it sure looks like you passed that test. Not that you had many wits to begin with - a peddler, really?”

“I’m sorry,” Vatis repeated softly. His face reddened despite the bruising. 

Vidmar handed Vatis his pack. “I think that’s everything,” he said. “I just stuffed it in there when I woke this morning. You might want to double-check.”

Vatis opened the bag, rooting through its contents systematically. “What’s this?” Vatis said as he pulled out a black coin purse embroidered with golden symbols.

“Zidane’s purse,” Vidmar said, gathering his supplies. “I figured you deserved it after that beating you took.” 

Vatis paused, weighing the purse in his hand. “We should split it,” he said.

Vidmar smiled. “I was hoping you would say that.”

---

They stepped out of the dense forest back onto the road where Zidane was tied tightly to a thin birch tree. He perked up as he heard footsteps. “Help, help, please, I beg,” he stopped abruptly. 

“Good morning, Zidane. How did you sleep?” Vidmar asked.

“Untie me, you… you twisted goat fucker,” Zidane shouted.

“Well, I was considering untying you; that is my favorite rope, but that rash vulgarity is precisely why I must leave you here. You’re unpredictable.”

“Untie me,” Zidane cried. “You can’t leave me here.”

“Oh, I can. Here you go,” Vidmar said as he tossed the thief’s purse. It fluttered like a feather before falling to the ground in front of Zidane’s feet. 

“It’s empty.”

“Of course it is. Did you really think I would leave you any money? After what you did.”

“What I did? How about what you did? You killed four men last night and nearly a fifth. We were just going to rob you.”

“Right? Vatis is proof that you were just going to rob us,” Vidmar said, pointing at the bard. He stood, more like, hunched next to Vidmar. An orange-tinted sun illuminated his bruised, swollen face.

Zidane nodded at his shin. A bubbly black scab foamed out of the narrow wound. “What about this?”

“You’re lucky as far as I’m concerned. I'm sorry, Zidane. We must be going. May your feet find the road… before the wolves find you.”

“Get back here, you insolent, black-hearted son-of-a-bitch,” Zidane’s insults faded away as they crested the hill at the north end of the road.

Vidmar winced. “That was probably a mistake,” he said once Zidane’s cries were no more than mummers in the wind.

“What?” Vatis asked. 

“Leaving Zidane alive. He is a Gar dealer or at least a smuggler.”

Vatis perked up. “Gar? What’s Gar?”

“Gar. Gentleman’s Bane. Midnight Flower. It is a drug made from the Garvasta flower. A white powder that, when mixed with wine, produces euphoric hallucinations, often leading to crippling addiction and crazed withdrawal symptoms. Gar.”

“Ah, I have heard of Gentleman’s Bane,” Vatis said, vague recollection appearing in his widening eyes. 

“It’s common in Haran, but it is also starting to seep into other parts of the world. Zidane will likely be working for a much more powerful man with many more guards. So, we need to get to Vicus quickly.”

Their path to Vicus wound up over hills, through a densely packed forest, and over a slow-moving creek whose bridge had decayed into nothing more than three posts and some frayed rope. A few hours more of steady hiking in damp clothing through acres of farmland led them to the Vicus’s market. 

The sweet, spicy aroma of cinnamon and nutmeg filled the cobblestone square. A well-maintained wooden structure with three chimneys sat in the middle of the grassy plaza. A round, friendly-looking woman held samples of sweet rolls on a wooden tray to lure in potential customers. Around the square, farmers and merchants sold their wares from stands, some much more elaborate than others. High, competing voices hollered over the bustling street conversation. “Sweetest apples in Emre. Get your corn here, the finest crop of the season. Trinkets, odds and ends.”

A clean-shaven elderly man pushed a wobbly cart through a crowd of people. “Whatever you need, ole Jur has it. Lowest prices in all Vicus,” he called as he pushed the jingling, rickety cart slowly, without much heed of passersby. 

“That is a peddler,” Vidmar said, elbowing Vatis in the side. 

Vatis’s expression changed from amused observation to annoyed quicker than a mother with a disobedient toddler. “I know,” the bard said flatly.

“Too soon?” Vidmar asked. Don’t push him, Vidmar. You know how tough it is to recover. 

Vatis didn’t respond. He limped to the peddler. “Excuse me, sir. Do you have any blankets for sale?” His voice changed as he approached the cart. It was friendlier, cheery even. Maybe I underestimated him. 

The peddler stopped abruptly. Jars and small crates slid forward, crashing into the opposite end of the cart. “Of course, ole Jur has everything,” he said, straightening his wares. He pulled three blankets out of a drawer on the side of his cart, displaying them in a neat row. “Let’s see. This one is made from sheep’s wool from a nearby farm.” He pointed to a thick, gray-knitted blanket. “Perhaps if you’re lookin for something a little thinner, this excellent silk fella could do the trick, or if you’re lookin to save some coin, this cotton one is good for travelin.”

Vatis examined each blanket. “May I?” he asked for approval to pick up the wool blanket. 

“Of course,” Jur said, stepping backward.

Vatis rubbed the material between his fingers, then held it up, eclipsing the sun as he examined it further. “This is quite fine.” 

“As interesting as this conversation is, I’m going to find us somewhere to sleep tonight,” Vidmar interrupted.

Vatis focused his attention on the peddler. “Now this one,” his words trailed off as Vidmar strode away.

Vidmar explored the market, stopping at various carts. The first sold a vegetable he had never heard of; the farmer called it zucchini. It looked like a cucumber, and Vidmar hated cucumbers. Nevertheless, he offered his thanks and moved on. The next merchant sold homemade medicine and tonics; her wooden stand was painted in a vibrant shade of green. Collapsible shelves folded out to hold dozens of vials and jars containing colorful liquids and powders. A familiar aroma rose from the cart like steam from a cup of tea. “Oh, sir, you look pale. I’ve got the remedy you need,” An attractive dark-haired woman said, pulling down a small, corked vial with a thick brown liquid inside. “Wormwood, not to worry, I’ve enhanced the flavor with some mint. It’s actually quite pleasant.” She offered the vial to Vidmar.

“Thank you, but I’m feeling fine.” 

“Are you sure? You’re rather pale?” 

“Pale is my natural color, but I’m sure a week on the road with little sleep hasn’t helped. I assure you I’m fine,” Vidmar said. 

“You need something to help you sleep? I have this wonderful lavender powder; you mix it with a little tea.”

“How about wine?” 

“Oh,” the woman paused. “Oh, I wouldn’t advise using any of my medicine with wine.”

“Damn, that’s about all I drink.” This is going nowhere. Where’s the inn? 

“I have a tonic that soothes headaches faster than a cat running from a dog,” she said, putting her offerings back onto their shelves and pulling out a tall vial with a clear liquid inside.

“You have my attention,” Vidmar said. As he reached to examine the concoction, a deep, booming voice yelled from the opposite end of the square. “Vidmar. Vidmar, you fucking bastard.” A muscular man with a long gray beard charged across the yard. “Vidmar,” he yelled as he lumbered, pushing unsuspecting men and women out of his way.

“It’s been lovely chatting with you, but unfortunately, I have an urgent matter that needs addressing,” he said calmly with a bow before spinning and sprinting away from his sudden assailant. Vidmar had only been to Vicus a handful of times. He was unfamiliar with the side streets and nooks he could use to hide, but his nearly three decades alive had provided plenty of experience running away.  

“Where’s my dagger? You shit-eating excuse of a treasure hunter,” the voice closed more distance between them. Vidmar darted into the bakery plaza. He nearly knocked over the woman passing out samples. “Hey, watch it,” she said. “Sorry,” Vidmar yelled, running backward. Seconds later, he heard a high-pitched screech followed by the unmistakable twang of wood falling on stone. Apparently, the poor woman who narrowly dodged Vidmar’s wild pass couldn’t replicate the maneuver as the bearded man bulled her over like a battering ram. A chorus of surprised shouts chastised the burly man giving Vidmar the opening he needed. 

He ran across the street between two buildings, ducking behind a stack of barrels. His breath returned frantically. The commotion from his chase brought almost battle-like chaos to the usually peaceful square. 

The woman sobbed loudly. “My arm, my arm.” Her painful cries were joined by a mob of “Get back here.”, “Where did he go?” and “What were you doing?” Vidmar couldn’t tell who the demands were being yelled at or if his attacker had made it through the crowd, and he didn’t dare look. 

He knew he had to find a better place to hide, or he had to put some serious distance between himself and the crowded market. If he were alone, he would have been long gone, but he felt obligated to Vatis, at least until he overcame the shock from the bandit attack. Though he seems to be doing better now that we are in town. He had been wandering through Emre alone for over a year, and Vatis was an entertaining companion, despite the whistling and signing. Crouching, Vidmar inched his way behind the building to find a door slightly ajar. It might as well have been an invitation. He gently pushed the door open further and entered. 

Vidmar couldn’t tell what kind of building it was, and he didn’t care; he needed to hide. He found himself in a kitchen. To his right, a rickety shelf held different vegetables and spices. To his left, a small kettle simmered in a low-burning fireplace; the herbaceous scent of rosemary and thyme bubbled up from the contents of the kettle. A creaky floorboard might have saved his life; minimally, it spared him an awkward conversation. Vidmar sprang into the shadows behind a pair of crates. 

A young, blonde woman brushed her hands on a white apron as he walked into the kitchen. “I’ll be there shortly, hun,” she called to someone in the front room. “These fucking men have no patience, none.” The latter, she said under her breath as she stirred. She grabbed a clay bowl from a nearby shelf and ladled in a steamy soup. “I’m coming. I’m coming. Settle down.” 

When she was back in the front room, Vidmar crept into earshot. The mummer of many conversations made it hard to distinguish any relevant information, but he guessed he was in a tavern. Suddenly a loud crash halted the discussion like an officer’s command. He couldn’t hear what the voice said at first, but as its frantic pace settled down, he was able to make out the end of the announcement. “Acer just plowed right through her. I don’t know. He was chasing someone. We all know about his temper, but this was different. Whoever that man was, Acer was going to kill him. Poor ole Addy, she’s got a broken arm for sure.”

Acer. Why is that name familiar?

A slew of questions burst forth from the other patrons. “Who was he chasing?”, “What happened to Acer?” and “Is she going to be alright?”

“I don’t rightly know who he was chasing. But, aye, she’ll be alright. Acer ran around the square a few times before he went into the bakery, hopefully, to apologize, but we all know he isn’t one for apologies.” 

“They ought to throw Acer in jail for this,” a deep raspy voice bellowed above the commotion. The crowd went silent. Apparently, the owner of the hoarse voice was a man to be respected. “And that’s all I’m going to say about it.”

Vidmar peeked out, trying to see the speaker. “We all know how you feel about him, Hobb,” the woman replied after a lengthy silence. 

The soup began to boil over the lip, splashing onto the coals below with a snake-like hiss. “Shit,” the woman yelled and ran back into the kitchen. Vidmar deftly ducked behind the crates again just in time to avoid being seen. The kettle was quickly pulled off its hook and onto an awaiting iron trivet on the floor. Thick yellow bubbles exploded; liquid projectiles cascaded onto the tavern keeper's bare forearms. “Ah,” she yelled, dropping her ladle onto the ground. 

“Everything alright back there,” a voice called.

“I’m fine. You ungrateful louts made my soup boil over.”

After cleaning the floor and herself, she ladled out five bowls of soup, placed them on a wooden tray, and brought them to the waiting patrons.

An awe-struck silence overcame the commotion of the common room when the front door crashed open.

“Has anyone seen a short skinny piece of shit skulking about? I know he is fond of taverns,” the harsh voice said. The door slammed shut, punctuating his accusation. 

The silence lingered for an uncomfortably long time, even for Vidmar, who knew no one in the tavern. Finally, Hobb spoke. “What are you doing here, Acer?” Oh, that Acer, Vidmar thought, touching a dagger sheathed on his belt.

“This doesn’t concern you, Hobb.”

“You’re lucky that you aren’t in jail. Did you apologize to Addy? Did you notice you broke her arm in your tirade?”

“Why does that matter?”

“Well, we all like Addy… can’t say the same about you.”

“I’m in no mood for your bullshit tonight, Hobb. Either you have seen him, or you haven’t.”

“We haven’t seen anyone out of the ordinary,” the tavern keeper said. She was joined by resounding support for the other guests.

With Acer in the tavern, Vidmar used his opportunity to escape to the safety of the street. 

The faint purple-orange glow of a fading sunset provided no aid in the unfamiliar surroundings. Vidmar slowly retraced his steps. A few moments later, he found himself in the dimly lit square once again. The farmers and merchants had all but disappeared. Only a few remained. Luckily, he found Vatis talking to a farmer packing up his cart. He approached cautiously. 

“No, there’s not much work for a traveling bard these days. Not in the South, anyway. I can find work in Barna, Haran, Dartmore, and maybe Yimser, but they aren’t fond of foreigners, from what I hear. Hopefully, I can entertain at a few taverns along the way,” Vatis said. His cheery disposition seemed to recover from its state of temporary shock. That’s a quick recovery. Vidmar eyed the bard thoughtfully.

“Well, Kat runs the only tavern in Vicus, but most of the men there would rather play dice than listen to a story,” the farmer said, packing the last of his produce into compartments in his cart. 

“They have never heard my stories.”

“Good luck. It’s right there. The Barnyard Cat.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Vatis started towards The Barnyard Cat, but Vidmar yanked him wrist-first into an adjacent alley. “Don’t go in there,” he said.

“What? Why? Where have you been? What did you do?” Vatis replied after he recognized his kidnapper. 

“We have to go. It’s a long story.”

“Did you knock over that poor woman earlier?”

“No, but I led a raging bull dangerously close to her. I don’t have time to explain. We need to get out of here. But, first, I need you to run back to that farmer and ask him if he knows where a man named Hobb lives.” 

“What?”

“Go,” Vidmar urged Vatis forward with a less-than-gentle shove. “Hobb, ask him if he knows Hobb.”

Vatis nearly fell over. “I’m going. I’m going. Hab?”

“Hobb, you dim-witted turd. Where does Hobb live?”

Vatis smiled and jogged uncoordinatedly to the slow-traveling farmer. 

A few moments later, Vatis returned out of breath. 

“Well,” Vidmar said, looking around the square for signs of Acer. 

“He told me, but I was hoping to tell a story or two at the tavern. It’s how I make my living, after all,” Vatis said, scratching the back of his neck.

Vidmar exhaled through his nose. “I can’t go in there, but if you want to tell a story, go ahead. Just tell me where Hobb lives, and we can go our separate ways.”

Vatis appeared to think like a merchant debating a trade. “Fine, follow me.” 

A long walk down a dirt path led them to a massive farm. Acres of unrecognizable crops grew on both sides of the road; a well-kept stone house stood at the center of the property. Sharp, threatening barking shocked Vidmar as a black dog ran from the porch. The bard sprang behind Vidmar, using him as a shield. 

“What is it, boy,” a soft, high voice called. 

Vidmar put his hands in the air. “We don’t mean any harm.” Vatis followed Vidmar’s lead but remained silent; he felt Vatis shaking behind him.

The dog growled, baring its teeth. “Easy, Igni. Easy.” A young boy with brown shoulder-length hair said, petting the back of the dog’s head. “Who are you?”

Vidmar kept his hands in the air. “I’m Vidmar, this is Vatis. Does Hobb live here?”

The boy examined the men before speaking. “Why are you looking for him?”

“I had hoped he could help me,” Vidmar said softly.

“Help you how?”

A deep voice calmly thrummed from behind Vatis. “It’s fine, Taldor. Go back to the house.” The storyteller nearly jumped into the field.

“But Pa,” the boy whined.

“Go.”

Taldor’s shoulders slunk as he turned on his heels. “Come, Igni.” The dog’s tail wagged happily as he trailed his owner into the house.

Hobb waited until the door closed to speak. “What can I do for you?” The old man said. He snorted as he observed Vidmar, but he eyed Vatis with a suspicious glare usually reserved for criminals facing trial. 

“Well, it’s a delicate matter. First, let me introduce myself. I am Vidmar, and this is Vatis. He is a traveling bard.”

“Vidmar,” Hobb said like he was tasting the name. “Vidmar,” he repeated. “Why do I know that name?”

“Ah, well, I may have inadvertently caused a bit of a disturbance in the square this afternoon,” Vidmar said, rubbing his right thumb into his left palm.

“Are you the fella that Acer was after?” Hobb said. His bushy gray eyebrows nearly jumped off his forehead.

Vidmar cracked the knuckles on each hand. “Yes, I’m afraid so. It’s all a big misunderstanding.”

Hobb held up a hand. “Not here. Anyone who can get that pile of manure with eyes that riled up can have a seat at my table. Come.”