Call Of The Tamer - Chapter 7: Balor, The Little Town

Michael's life in the old church was boring. In the mornings, he woke up drenched in sweat and changed his bandages after wiping his body with a towel. The church didn't have a bath and had a simple hole for a toilet. He missed the clean, modern bathrooms of his world and lamented how well he had it before. During the afternoons, Sharasn had him read the holy scriptures for his education and eat the slop he called a stew, though, after a while, it became more bearable to ingest. In the night, he caressed Mong's hair and brushed Grace's feathers, having nothing to do while injured. An entire month had passed since his encounter with the Awakened bear, and he finally recovered, tearing off the bandages and cheering in glee.

"Tomorrow, follow me outside. The town knows of you. See them and consider if you want to stay. Check." Sharasn moved a knight onto a spot. As it turned out, chess also existed in U'ru, a heartening discovery that proved the Gods had indeed been to his world in the past and, with that, the certainty of a return trip home. Oddly, black went first instead of white. Did the game change rules during the tens of thousands of years? Though, according to Sharasn's knowledge, the game was created by the Night God and Sun God, the tricksters for whom changing the rules on a whim wasn't beyond their pranks.

"The town…." Michael frowned at the state of the board and defended his king with a bishop. That was a mistake that cut off his king's sole route of escape as Sharasn moved his rook into position, locking the king in a death trap. Michael flicked his king piece, toppling it onto the board, and sighed, "I lost. Sorry. I'll probably be leaving tomorrow." The church here was a bust. Perhaps he needed to head to the Holy Kingdom of Celern, the place where the Gods first descended to U'ru.

"Ah. That's alright." Sharasn chirped, his saggy throat trembling with each chuckle. "Small child has dreams. Dreams that fly and soar into the sky, not to be buried in a town. But see the town. See what you might miss while you fly." Coughing, he slowly raised his cup and sipped. In the span of a month, he looked far wearier than before, flakes of skin degrading off the wrinkles, afflicted by decay despite life remaining in the withered husk of his body. Facing the weary elder, Michael nodded, relenting to the old man's suggestion.

Sharasn retired for the night, helped by Michael, who had regained his former strength. Gently, Michael laid the priest on a bed of coarse linen, one that itched the back and provided no comfort. Sharasn fell asleep in a matter of seconds after the candle was blown out. Returning to his room, Michael sat cross-legged in the middle of his bed and brought up his status as Grace and Mong rested in their respective positions, having claimed certain spots of his body for their beds.

Name: Mikhael
Age: 12
Class: Beast Tamer [FFF]
Strength: FFF
Endurance: FF
Vitality: FF
Agility: FF
Magic: FF
Active Skills: Tame [FFF]
Passive Skills: Unlimited Evolution [???], March Of The Beasts[???], Pain Blocker [FFF]
Traits: Pain Resistance [FFF]

'At least the month of staying here wasn't a total waste.' Michael stretched his arms and cracked his back. His Pain Blocker and Pain Resistance had ranked up from enduring the constant pain of recovery. His Vitality also ranked to FF, and he could feel its immediate effect, a refreshing surge washing throughout his veins and reattaching his torn muscles. 'Sharasn said there are stats that are higher-ranked from the start. Awakeners have the greatest growth in those stats.' He pondered while stroking Mong's fur. Grace seemed jealous and poked his cheek until he petted her as well. 'My primary stats should be Endurance, Agility, and Magic. The first two seem easy to rank up, but how do I raise my Magic?'

He had no spells, no visible use of the mana that existed in every part of the world. The lack of knowledge of how to progress frustrated him, and he sank into his bed, frowning in his sleep. Mong curled up on his chest and breathed out onto his chin as Grace rested on his forehead, scratching her beak on his furrowed brows. Peeking out, he scoffed with a grateful smile, realizing their attempts to care for him. "Thank you, you two."

The fresh sunlight seeped past the gaps in the boarded-up window and poured on his face. An irritating heat burned his eyes, and he woke up, light flooding past his blinking eyelids. It seared his pupils and forced him straight up and out of bed. Michael groaned and rubbed his eyes, wishing he could wash his face right now. Stumbling around the room, he reached the water basin and sank his palms in the shallow amount of precious water, dabbing his face with refreshing droplets. His own handsome reflection of a face that wasn't his stared back at him.

'This isn't me. I am not him.' Michael wiped with a clean rag and hurried to the assembly hall, waiting for the old priest. He faced the statue of the Tamer God and clicked his tongue, not offering a bow or prayer. Many times, Michael had prayed, and every time, no response arrived. Perhaps a sign of resistance might attract their fury, but he didn't care if retribution came as long as he could speak to them. Slow steps sounded on the uneven stairs, and Sharasn panted in faint wheezes, dragging his feet toward him.

"Let's depart. Mind the door." Sharasn motioned, and Michael opened the main entrance. The fresh scent of the outdoors, a grassy scent mixed with honeyed flowers, filled his nostrils, bringing a renewal to his lungs that had breathed only dust and the scent of old papers for a month. Several buildings, not as glamorous or tall as the spires and houses of Meades City, greeted him from below the hill that the church stood on. Short with sod roofs of grass and dirt, the houses sprawled over between small dirt roads, barely paved with only rocks to act as the boundaries. It looked homely and peaceful.

"Balor. They say it's a town. But it's only a village." Sharasn shut the squeaking doors and pulled out a set of keys that jingled as he searched for one. He locked the entrance with a rusted lock, the chains almost falling apart. Wiping his dirty hands on an even dirtier rag, he smiled and looked livelier than usual, beckoning Michael down the hill. "I have to make my rounds around the village. So follow and meet them."

At the bottom of the hill, a man clad in old leather armor used his spear as a walking stick and greeted them, "Morning, Priest Pius! And that'll be the lad you found, right?" His broad face of rough, tanned skin neared Michael, and he grinned a toothy smile as he beat his burly chest underneath the wrinkled leather. "Name's Mort. I'm the captain of the Balor guard, along with my lieutenant Boyle. Though I say lieutenant, we don't really have ranks in this place. Easier to call him that since I'm in charge. There's only two of us." 

Contrary to the outward, burly, and stoic presence he exuded, Mort talked a lot and fast, too. Simply listening to him ramble on was confusing. He grasped Michael's hand and gripped it firmly in a handshake. "Nice to meet you, young whatsyourname? Like I said, mine's Mort."

"Mikhael. It's nice to meet you, sir." Michael resisted the urge to shake back, letting his hand fall limp in Mort's grip. He could tell his Awakened strength would overwhelm Mort if he couldn't control it.

"Well, damn! Sure he isn't a noble's kid, priest?" Mort scratched his shaggy brown hair and lifted Michael's chin, turning it left and right. "Only a noble's kid can be this damned handsome. I feel jealous. And the manners too! He's too prim and proper to be just some kid. My daughter's going to fall head over heels for him. You stay away from her, now?" Mort regarded Sharasn with a smile and patted the old man's shoulder, a hint of worry in his tone. "You sure you want to? We can take care of you from now on. No need to keep dragging yourself out."

"A man must earn his keep. I can't stay on charity. Not while these old bones still work." Sharasn chuckled and patted Michael's back. "I want to show him around."

"Alright. That's a fine suggestion. Young Mikhael, Balor is beautiful. I lived here all my life, married my childhood sweetheart, and guarded it for many years. If you want to live here, maybe I'll let you marry my daughter. But right now, don't you dare look at her with that face of yours." Mort walked along a coarse path of pebbles and rambled on, tossing jokes and mild threats about Michael courting his daughter around. Right near the church, by the base of the hill, was a squarish building, moss filling in between the bricks as water leaked down from the tiled roof. Mort banged the door of rotting timber. "Boyle, get out here, lieutenant! We have Priest Pius here again and a rare visitor!"

The door creaked open, and a drowsy guard emerged, yawning and stumbling out. The other guard, Boyle, leaned on the stone wall, not minding the green pus leaking from the moss onto his back. "Morning, Captain. Morning, Priest Pius. Morning, rare visitor. I am…" He yawned again. "I am Lieutenant Boyle." His head bobbed and swayed in a fit of exhaustion.

"What in tarnation is wrong with you, Boyle? Stand at attention, boy!" Mort lifted Boyle off the wall and had him straighten up. "Sorry about him. Boyle comes from a big town. Transferred here after a little accident where he was found drunk on duty. Are you drunk, Boyle?" He raised his voice. "Where's the damn bottle?"

"No bottle, Captain. None at all. Just sleepy. I woke up too early from the noises." Boyle grunted, seemingly irked as he cleaned out his ears. His lazy eyes wandered to Michael and sharpened as if the former state of drowsiness was a lie. "He looks like a noble. He is a noble, isn't he? What, were you abandoned for not being an Awakened? Live a nice life and get trashed away? Goddamned nobles. Well, welcome to Balor, where castaways can live and rest in peace, milord." He jeered, uncorked a small flask, and took a swig.

"I knew it!" Mort snatched the flask away and poured out the alcohol before Boyle's horrified expression. "Take a break, Boyle. And the kid ain't a noble! Get your ass out of here!" He gripped Boyle's arm and threw him out.

"Young Boyle is still angry." Sharasn shook his head.

"Damned lad can't get over himself. Drinking on the job." Mort threw the flask on the ground and smashed it under his foot. "Come on in. Don't be shy. Forget that nasty Boyle."

The guard station was a simple room, not larger than his bedroom in the church. One plain table and two chairs were placed in the center. A pile of equipment cluttered in the corner, ranging from old armor to dull spears and blades. Michael swiped his foot on the floor and winced at the thick clump of dirt and dust on his toe. Was it the guard station or a garbage dump? Michael peeked his head out of the window and exhaled a mouthful of dust, inhaling the fresh air outside. The stench of sweat and rusted metal combined with the nauseating moss made him miss the old papery smell of the church.

"Not too much, today. Priest Pius. I told you if you don't want to do it, I can still give it to you free of charge. You're getting too old. Pressing an old man ain't right to me." Mort warned, piling the dirty equipment on the table.

"Who else but an old man can take on these tasks? Young ones should be out there." Sharasn sat on a chair. Mort brought a couple of buckets of water. Michael watched the old man dunk a mud-ridden leather bracer in one bucket and rinse off the dirt, scrubbing it with a wet rag. The old priest turned to Michael and smiled, "Mort can take you around Balor. Follow him out."

"No. What is this?" Michael dodged Mort's firm grip and looked at the two.

"See, I said it looked bad. Even the kid is feeling bad for you." Mort crossed his arms and sighed as he tried to grab Sharasn off his chair, but the old priest brushed him off.

"I earn my keep. Small child. I work, and I get food." Sharasn explained, still wiping off harder smudges. "No money in being a priest in Balor." His faint smile sank Michael's heart as he realized the old priest had sacrificed the rewards of his hard labor to care for him–an entire month as well. What little the priest could earn from it had been split for his sake. Sharasn waved him off to follow Mort, but Michael sat on the other chair and picked up a rag, starting to clean a leather belt. Sharasn sighed, "Go with Mort."

"You said you'd lead me around. And one of your sermons lectured me on keeping promises. Shouldn't you keep yours?" Michael focused on the belt; his hands caked in dirt as each wipe of his rag expelled more from the dirty leather. Sharasn smiled, his sagging cheeks lifting for a bright one. Mort departed silently and closed the door, leaving the two inside. Michael finished the belt and scrutinized the wrinkles and creases along the band. He had cleaned it but could do nothing about the wear and tear of the leather itself. Placing it in a pile for cleaned items, he picked up another, paused his wiping, and faced the priest with unshed tears in his eyes, "Thank you."

"Thanks for what?" Sharasn lifted his wrinkled brow, clearly played dumb, and chuckled. Michael shared the chuckle and returned to cleaning. After the weird kindness of the strange girl in the bookstore, he was glad to have been saved by Sharasn.

After an hour, thanks to his help, they finished the cleaning of the guard station. Following in silence, Michael matched the old priest's pace, ready to hold him up if the need arose. Several farmers worked in the large fields of grains bordering the town, collecting bushels of wheat and plucking the sprouting weeds out of the dirt. They looked up and lifted their straw hats with a welcoming wave. Sharasn returned the gesture and led Michael inside the large farmhouse where the bushels were collected. One of the farmers, chewing a straw between his teeth, noticed them and stopped raking.

"Priest Pius. It is a pleasurable morning, isn't it?" The farmer took off his straw hat and bowed, his white hair dangling down. Deep wrinkles contorted his face, not as deep as the chasms on Sharasn's but a proper sign of advanced age.

"How's the harvest? Good from what I see. Ah, Mikhael, meet Old Sten. Sten, Mikhael." Sharasn pushed Michael forward.

"So you're the kid Priest Pius saved a month ago. Mort came swinging by and yelled about hiding our young kids away from you. He warned that you'd take all our daughters and granddaughters." Sten cackled and spat out his straw. "I have to say. His warnings were not unfounded. I've never seen a more handsome lad in these parts. You'll be a heartbreaker for sure."

"I hope not to do so," Michael replied. "Maybe I should wear a mask."

Sten stared sternly before cracking a smile and bursting into hearty laughter, patting his shoulder. "I like this one. Priest Pius, are you here to help out again? I got a fine pound of cheese from the good milk of those cows grazing over there with your name on it if you can help with the harvest. Oh, and to answer your question, yes, it is a plentiful harvest."

"Bless the Gods for their grace. The Sustenance God has provided well for Balor." Sharasn murmured a prayer with his hand over his chest.

"Yea, yea." Sten looked dismissive of Sharasn's faith but didn't interrupt the prayer. After Sharasn finished, Sten asked, "The kid helping out, too?"

"I will. I owe Priest Pius, and I have to earn my keep, don't I?" Michael received another strong pat as Sten approved of his words. He started from one corner of the field and cut the wheat by hand with a sickle, tossing them in the basket hanging on his back. Grab, stretch, cut, and toss. He entered a good rhythm, repeating the four words in mumbles like a mantra or chant, cutting grains faster than the farmers in the other fields. Not even a bead of sweat dripped from his forehead. His Awakened body granted him good stamina underneath the hot sun.

"Huh?" Michael reached the end of one row and stared at the forest that stood a mere hundred feet away. He was on the edge of the town. The morning subsided for the afternoon, and the shadow of the forest stretched and loomed over him. His vision was distorted. The darkness between the ancient trees gaped wide open like a maw beckoning him forth to swallow him whole. A sharp pain pierced his ribs as if something had struck them. Michael lurched forward, his breathing ragged and face pale with cold sweat. He held his trembling knees and bit his lips, turning around and running into the farmhouse.

Vomiting, Michael grasped his chest. His heart thumped loudly in his ears. A chill tremored his spine. Michael clutched his hair and wept, afraid and in agony. At that moment, when he saw the forest, he tried to take a step forward, but his feet refused. Exhausted, Michael pulled on the wooden beam and dragged himself up, hitting his quivering legs to force them to move. He knew something was wrong with him, and right now, there was no chance of leaving the town, not in his present state.