//****************************************************************************** /* The characters of Ico and Yorda are copyright Sony Computer Entertainment, and are used without permission. This work is not intended to infringe those rights. Story and all other characters are copyright Jäger Hein, 2001. This will make more sense if you've already played the video game "ICO" for the Sony PlayStation2. Be forewarned, though: if you haven't, this story will undoubtedly contain a few spolers for the game. Hell, the fact that this story is being written is one big spoiler. */ Exhuming the Horns of the Past A fanfiction based in the world of the ICO video game. Part 1 "Long ago, these diverse lands used to be under the rule of a single king, and his castle was located far to the east. It was a castle whose foundations were gears and sorcery, machines and magic, and it was designed to confuse any commoner who might stray too far into it." The storyteller paused long enough to read the expressions of those around him listening. Most seemed interested enough, and the bar wasn't exceptionally loud, so, straightening his brown travelling clothes, the storyteller continued. "The king and those who helped him build his castle were very similar: all were very long-lived, and all were completely infertile. Yet that castle stood as the capitol building for this region for countless milennia." One of the listeners got a confused look on his face as he sipped his ale. "How were they able to rule for so long if they couldn't have any kids?" "Well," answered the storyteller, "legend goes that there was a village near the castle that, once every generation, a family would give birth to one of them. This boy was identified by the horns growing from his head." Another listener, a man wearing a thick, wide, wool hat down to his ears, a red tunic, and brown pants, started listening more intently. "So," continued the first listener, "what did they do? Just give the baby over to the people in the castle?" The storyteller shook his head. "No, no. The villagers were allowed to raise the boy until he was of age, and then the boy would go to live with his own kind in the castle. There he would learn all the things that he would need to know while there: manners, tactics, magic, fencing. Everything that he might need to know if he were to be chosen as king by his brothers some day in his distant future. "This process continued, as I said, for many milennia, and our region was able to live in peace and prosperity for the whole of their reign. Inter-village disputes were settled quickly and fairly by the horned judges that roamed the countryside, and protection from the outer kingdoms was granted through the aid of magical pillars placed at strategic positions on the borders. The rock you people, here, call Baron Dwnn's Finger is one of those pillars." The man in the hat finally spoke up. "Once a generation, you said, a boy was born like them, and they were all taken to the castle. If they were long-lived, then there must have been very many of them at one point in time. What happened to all of them?" The storyteller scrunched up his face in thought. "I'm not sure of all the details, but everything I've read seems to indicate that they brought about their own end through years' and years' worth of in-fighting. It took its toll on the castle, and destroyed all of them in the process. Since then, though, our lands descended into a type of anarchy, leaving the roles of leadership open to the barons and dukes that have been our governments for as long as our histories record." The storyteller ended his sentence with a shrug. "Well, if it means peace again," the third listener said, "then I'm all for finding these bull-men and putting them back in charge. I've already lost two sons in the wars, and I don't want to lose my last. Good tale, Storyteller." His thanks were puctuated by him tossing a silver piece on the table. "A good evening to you, sir. And to you Richard. Ico." "Good night, Alestaire. I'll see you in the morning to help out with your plow," answered Richard, the first questioner of the storyteller. "And thank you, sir," said the storyteller. The man in the hat waved a half-hearted goodbye to his neighbor. He was still deep in thought about the story. "I thought it was a good story, too. Thank you, Storyteller." Richard put down two silver coins. "Thank *you*, sir." Richard got up from his chair. "I'll talk to you later, Ico. Good job with those bandits," he complimented, patting his friend on the shoulder. He only received a noncommital grunt of thanks from the man in the hat. The storyteller, now with only one listener to go, arched his eyebrow in a question for the listener. "Where are you sleeping tonight?" the man in the hat asked. "I have a room here at this inn," the storyteller answered. The man in the hat shook his head. "I'l have none of that. You will come home with me and stay under my roof. There's no way a travelling storyteller can afford a decent room in this inn, and I won't have you sleeping in squalid conditions and eating poor food." He stood up. "Tonight, you will be my guest." "I've already paid for the room here," the storyteller argued, not wanting to lose any money. His eyes bulged, though, when two gold pieces were tossed on the table in reply. "Will that cover your room?" "More than adequately," he answered, swallowing hard. "Good." The man in the hat readjusted his sword belt. "Let's get your things, then. Do you have a horse?" "No. I travel on foot." The man in the hat nodded. "I'll carry your load, then. Take me to it." It was short work before they were both outside the inn and on their way to the listener's house. "So, what's your name, storyteller?" "I am Ichabod Mastersen, sir, from the province of Lantriss. And you might be?" "My name is Ico. I assist the local constabulary in keeping order, and also am hired to go out and remove any wild beasts that might be causing trouble for travellers." "'Ico'? That is not a very common name for this area, is it?" "It was probably not in this area until I brought it here. I'm from the eastern lands, originally. I moved here with my wife a number of years ago, and found that I liked it. As such, I decided to settle here, and here is where I built my home." Ico readjusted the pack he was wearing, Ichabod's gear. "Yes, but it gets a little cold here, though. Colder than I like, anyway." "That's why you're passing through in the summer, I take it?" Ichabod nodded. "I don't like snow. And you get a lot of it here." "So what keeps Lantriss so warm? It's due west of here, isn't it?" "It is," Ichabod nodded. "But the winds there always seem to carry warm air in the winter, and it never gets much colder than what's required to see your own breath." They walked in silence for a moment, until Ichabod broke it. "You said you moved here recently. How long ago? If you don't mind my asking, that is." Ico shook his head as he thought about it. "We've been in Brannock for five summers, now. We traveled the countryside for the five prior to that." Ichabod tried for a closer look of Ico in the receding light. "Ten summers you've been together? You don't look more than a score and five." "A score and two, actually. We're... orphans. Had to make it on our own for a while. Eventually we got good at it and were able to make a good life of it. When we came here, we both agreed to settle down, and settle down we did." Ichabod sighed. "The war's made a lot of orphans since it picked up recently. I gues your folks--yours and your wife's--died in the wars when they were smaller ten years ago?" "Yes," Ico lied. "I'd... rather not talk about it." "I understand. Losing one's parents is never an easy thing. I'll change the subject, then: what keeps you out of the wars?" "Well, Brannock's a rather small village, and nowhere near the wars. We're not a terribly martial place, either; just enough to keep the local peace. Baron Roland gets most of his warriors from the villages closer to his capital, anyway. And they're naturally more proficient in warfare than we are, meaning he has to expend less money to make them good warriors. What about you? You look like an appropriate age. About a score and ten?" Nervous, Ichabod stammered a bit. "Heh, yes, well, I'm about that old, yes. But I'm a storyteller, you see: we're very important to the, er, morale of the countryside." He smiled a nervous smile. "Ah." Ico caught what Ichabod was trying to avoid saying. "Well, I can't say that I blame you. I don't fancy laying down my life for some land-hungry baron who just wants to increase his area of influence." "Heh. Yeah. Say, if people from here aren't called to the wars, then why did that one man mention something about his sons being killed?" "His older two sons enlisted in the baron's army. They inherited their father's pride for his land and enlisted against his wishes. Undoubtedly, he will try to remove some of that zeal from his last son. Here we are." They stood in front of a modest, one-story log cottage. It had windows in the front and shutters on the outside to keep out the storms. Flowers were growing in the pots outside the windows and along the path to the front door. A chimney raised itself from the center of the roof, and smoke wafted out of it. Large candles could be seen lit through the windows. Ico went up to the door and opened it. He held it open for his guest. "Yorda, I'm back. I brought a guest." Ichabod entered the main room and looked around as he removed his travelling cap. This entrance room also acted as the kitchen and the dining area; the stove and table helped him come to this conclusion. There were two doors on the wall opposite the main door, each door bookending the stove. Standing at this stove was a woman with pale skin, short, grayish-blonde hair, and wearing an off-white dress. She turned at the sound of her husband's voice. "Oh, Ico, welcome back. What happened with the band--" She cut herself short, seeing the visitor. "Oh, I'm sorry. Where are my manners?" she smiled. She partially turned back to the stove and removed and placed to the side the spoon she was using to stir their dinner and placed a lid on the pot. "Yorda, this is Ichabod Mastersen, a Storyteller. Ichabod, this is my wife, Yorda." "Pleased to make your aquaintence, ma'am," Ichabod bowed. "And yours," Yorda said, inclining her head. "Ichabod tells some rather interesting stories," Ico told his wife, a look in his eye that she easily read as meaning the stories were more tham mere entertainment. "Oh, they're just local legends," Ichabod modestly dismissed. "Nothing more." "All the same," Ico responded, "I'd like to hear it again. The one from earlier tonight." He went to lean against the wall with the doors. Yorda returned to the stew, an eyebrow arched in a questioning glance at her husband. His glance had all the answer required: listen. "Very well," Ichabod relented, seating himself at the table. "You're housing me tonight, so stories are more than fair trade." He adjusted his posture to something comfortable and told again his tale. All throughout the story, Ico and Yorda exchanged knowing glances and questioning looks. This tale was most certainly more than just fancy for an evening at the pub. As Ichabod was finishing his repeat performance, Ico helped Yorda set the plates, glasses and utensils at the table. He then took the mugs over to a barrel in the corner and filled them while Yorda brought the pot to the table and filled the bowls with the stew. Ichabod, remembering the customs in this region, took some of his food first. Seeing that their guest had eaten first, Ico and Yorda began to take their supper. It was many moutfulls before Ichabod spoke again. "This is rather good, ma'am," he said, pleasantly surprised. Yorda smiled at the compliment. "Thank you. It's some rabbit that Ico snared the other day. The potatoes are from our garden." "Well, then the both of you did a good job: you, sir, with the trapping, and you, ma'am, with the cooking. Though this seems too much of a payment for my meager stories, I do thank you." Ico cleared hs throat. "Well, if you're up to it, there could be more." Ichabod stopped his spoon in mid transit to his mouth and looked up. Answering his gaze, Ico continued. "I want to hire you to record some of your stories in books, if you're willing." Ichabod sat back on the bench, physically mimicing his emotions of being taken aback. "You want me to write out some of my stories?" he asked, confused. Ico nodded. "In particular, anything and everything that you know regarding the horned kings of old." He began to take another spoonful, but stopped. "And anything that had even the slightest bit to do with them, including that one village," he amended. Ichabod thought about this for a few moments as the others ate. "'Tis a great task you ask, sir; there are many legends about the horned-ones, and some that may or may not have anything to do with them. Many volumes could be filled detailing the stories." "The more information, the better," Ico answered. "And the more you record, the more I will pay. And you've already seen that I'm willing to pay a fair price for whatever services I request." Ichabod thought back to the inn earlier. Free lodging, as well as two gold pieces to repay a ten-copper room, seemed a little lopsided; not at all fair to Ico. However, if this man considered his payments as fair for just the one story, writing books for a man so willing to throw around two gold pieces could be very profitable. Ichabod was eating as he thought this. After a few minutes, he looked back to Ico. "Sir: I find your offer most acceptable; I would be more than willing to take up the role of your scribe, provided that you purchase that which I will require in order to record my tales." "Agreed," answered Ico. "Now, let us finish supper; in the morning we will go out and buy the things you need, and I will also rent a good room for you in the inn, one that will be condusive to your recording." Ichabod inclined his head and put his hand to his breast. "As you will, Mister Ico." Ico shook his head. "No, just Ico. That will be sufficient." Ichabod nodded. "Very well, Ico. Tomorrow, then, we shall begin." He returned his attention to the remainder of his stew. Ico, idly eating his supper, had his attention focused elsewhere, now. Yorda, however, had her attention on him and could practically read his thoughts. She could tell that, soon, they would be leaving Brannock and going back east. She knew that, soon, they would be retracing their steps, heading back towards the castle they had left ten years ago.