by Ben Stovall
“No, sir.”
“The size of the army?”
“… No, sir.”
“Why they’re coming?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“My comrades and I fought a man of their rank. Their harbinger, Aldayn. He said they needed to move out of the Deadlands into more hospitable land—that the patron that had allowed them to live there had grown tired and weary,” the medic said.
“Well, Gandaraar is as verdant as they come! We will not let them have our kingdoms,” the general smiled.
“Why did you want to see us, exactly?” Ellaria asked. Fanrinn had begun to wonder that himself.
“You two are the most knowledgeable about all this. I had hoped you’d know more than I’d been briefed on already. Alas, this was not the case. Is there anything else you’d like to share?” the general responded.
“No, sir,” Fanrinn answered.
“Very well. Thank you for your time, Red Watch. Dismissed,” Ranuiin said. With that, the siblings left.
After a moment, Ellaria said, “Well … that was weird.”
“Agreed,” Fanrinn chuckled. “I certainly wasn’t expecting that.” Both laughed. They continued their path a short way until the medic stopped in his tracks.
Ellaria halted a few steps ahead and turned to face him. “Fanrinn?” she called.
“Sister,” he began, “I … I’m glad you’re with me. I’m glad you asked to come.” Fanrinn had never been great at … this sort of thing. Ellaria knew that. Her eyes welled up, and she threw her arms around him, clutching him tightly. Fanrinn smiled warmly, and patted her back, glad for the embrace.
✽ ✽ ✽
Tyrdun scratched his beard as he walked beside Joravyn. “What’s on your mind, Stonehammer?” the mage asked.
“What isn’t?” the dwarf joked. “Got more bearin’ down on us now than ever before.”
Joravyn nodded. “Quite the undertaking we’ve gotten roped into. How’s Andor doing with his first task as king?”
“Second, really. The first was retaking Aljorn. By the mountain, you can’t even imagine how hard that was.”
“Not even an inkling. I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
“Thanks.”
“Did King Thorstan have any specific questions in mind when he asked for me? Maybe I can think on them a little before we get there?” the mage asked.
Tyrdun thought for a moment. “Mostly about the sword Tyldor got his hands on. He went over some records, and Aldayn—nor anyone matching his description or likeness—ever entered Aljorn. The Royal Record Keepers keep a very, very accurate list of all entrants to the city.”
Joravyn nodded. “There’s a spell like that. It—”
“Wait until we’re there. No need to repeat yourself.”
“You’re right, Stonehammer.” The dwarf winked in response. It was only another minute or two before the pair entered the dwarves’ campground. They’d set up in a park in the southern side of the Ironwood District, only a few moments away from the King’s Way road. Altogether, it was about a ten-minute walk from the Unruly Pony. Tyrdun recognized the tent the king was using as the same from the camp they’d set up outside of Aljorn. The pair walked inside to find the regent directing the placement of a keg. It was set up very close to a bench that had a collection of cushions about its surface. Tyrdun had to admit he’d missed the comfort of the life he’d had in Aljorn. Sometimes.
“Ah, there you are!” King Thorstan exclaimed. “Good to see ya, good to see ya!” Tyrdun and Andor shared an embrace. Then, the regent offered his hand to Joravyn. “Nice to meet you, ser mage.”
“Please, call me Joravyn, Your Grace.” He bowed.
“Please, call me Andor,” the dwarf laughed.
“No, no,” the mage chuckled. “If I’m not going to address you formally, it’ll be with a nickname.”
“Well, let’s see what you can come up with!”
“Shortcrown.”
“Too easy.”
“Smallking?”
“You can do better.”
“… Tinybeard?”
“Something that doesn’t have anything to do with me being a dwarf,” Andor commanded.
“I don’t know much else about you.”
The king sighed. “Very well. Just Andor then.”
Joravyn deflated. “I feel like I’ve let you down.”
“A little, but oh well,” Thorstan joked. “Let’s hope that doesn’t continue.” The regent whistled, and a dwarf clad in crown warden armor approached, holding a blade covered in cloth. He revealed the weapon. Tyrdun grew unsettled, even with it broken in two.
“I know the basics—Stonehammer explained a little on the way. I would assume Aldayn—or another necromancer … but Aldayn’s had his hand in nearly everything thus far, so let’s assume it’s him. He’d probably have used a spell most mages learn—we refer to it as projected form. Exhausting magic. Doesn’t last long. Without an anchor, it’d be impossible to return to your body. Leaving something behind is new to me, but … Well, it’s magic after all,” Joravyn shrugged.
“I see,” Andor nodded. “Well, that’s that. I guess we can just drink now.” The trio laughed.
“Before we do,” the mage began, “I had a question for you as well.”
“Absolutely, I’ll answer to the best of my ability,” Thorstan offered.
“Trilite … we don’t have that in Kual’apir. What gives it the ability to break enchantments?” he asked, eyeing the broken blade.
“Feel like that’d be a better question for the elves,” Tyrdun interjected. “They’re the ones who found it, after all.”
“Well, we’ve studied it a lot in Aljorn,” the king shrugged. “It’s … hard to say, really. What we’ve learned is … strange, to say the least. It’s unlike any other metal in the world. That’s all we know for sure. Have you ever touched some that was unrefined?”
“Never. I barely see it at all,” Joravyn said.
“It feels … wet before it gets heated.”
“That is strange,” Tyrdun agreed.
The regent nodded. “I assume you know the story as to how the elves found it?”
“I read about it, but it’s escaped me,” the mage replied.
“They claim it … called to them. Sang, even.” The king shivered. “Unsettling. But it’s useful.”
“I feel like I know even less now.” Joravyn sighed. “Another time. Tap that keg!” With smiles, the three of them began to drink and share stories all through the night.
✽ ✽ ✽
Lytha rolled her shoulders, causing the cloak’s edge to brush against her legs. Her steps echoed across the mostly empty street. The large cathedrals and extravagant churches of Abbey Lane rose all around her. It was nearly dusk now, and while Lytha might have been more cautious after her last night out, the loaded crossbow at her hip set her at ease. A leather strap made by a man named Travis Trench hung it from her right shoulder to be in easy reach of her hands. Her sword sat at her other hip, and in her full armor with her hood drawn, she believed she looked hardened enough that criminals would search for another mark.
Not that Abbey Lane was the site of much illegal activity. The proximity of the churches seemed to influence the men and women around, as if the gods were watching at every moment in this pseudo holy ground.
Lytha wasn’t so sure. She didn’t believe the gods acted as directly or often as others. In fact, the woman thought the gods only cared for people insofar as they benefitted from them. That only their own machinations gave them any preference to the actions men and women throughout Amera took.
And Lytha didn’t think any gods had interest in her. She believed in her own insignificance and found freedom in it. That no god dogged her heels meant every step she took was truly her own, due entirely to her irrelevance to their plans.
Many of her colleagues in the college had found her belief disturbing. They’d one and all taken solace in the id
ea that a god would be their patron and protector and found the thought of their indifference uncomfortable. “Witness watch you,” they’d say. As far as gods went, Lytha did find the Witness the most interesting. He … or she—the depictions of the god were normally intentionally androgynous—was a member of the Pentarin, a pantheon of five gods that was the most widely worshipped religion in Souhal and Achor both. The Witness was believed to be the guide of fate and the hand of death. The phrase usually meant “fate guide you,” but had, on occasion, been used as a curse to say, “death find you.”
Mostly unconsciously, Lytha found herself climbing the steps to the Pentarin Cathedral, the largest church on Abbey Lane by far. The stairs led to a massive pair of doors, each twelve-foot-tall and five-foot-wide. The building was divided into six sections, the Hall of the Five, within which she now stood, the Sanctuary of the Witness, the Champion’s Arena, the Matron’s Home, the Builder’s Respite, and the Study of the Scholar. The Hall of the Five stretched before her about two hundred feet, the statue of the Champion at the end of it. Depicted as a man in full plate armor and helm, with a sword pointing toward the ceiling in an outstretched arm and shield in the other. Many guards, warriors, and fathers revered the Champion and asked for blessings of valor, courage, and protection. Even now, two men knelt before the altar at the base.
On the right side stood two statues, the Matron on the end closer to the Champion, and the Scholar on the side by the entry. The Matron’s effigy was shaped as a beautiful, motherly woman, a proud grin on her face, her eyes narrowed by the smile. Her head looked to her altar, as if she’d smile at all supplicants who’d approach until the end of time. Her arms held a babe swaddled in cloth to her breast, the small child completely at peace in her embrace. To all men and woman who revered her, she stood as a paragon of hope, love, family, and life itself.
The Scholar’s image was of an elderly man in long, flowing robes. A hooded cloak hung over his shoulders, but not much further. In one hand, down by his waist, he clutched the spine of a closed book, the masonry perfected to show the lines of pages in the depiction. The other was open faced toward the ceiling with a flame flickering on its surface. The Scholar was regarded as the patron of all students and wizards, and many mages invoked his name as they cast spells, hoping for a divine boon to enhance their casting.
To the left stood the remaining two statues. Beside the Champion was the Builder, and at the entry stood the Witness. The model of the Builder had surprised Lytha her first time in the Hall of the Five—for it was a sculpture of a woman. Big breasted, wearing a simple shirt and a harness with a hammer at her belt, she stood with crossed arms and a pleased smile. A long mane of braided hair flowed down her back, the hair completely kept from her face—the stonework impeccable enough that the line between the face and scalp were distinct even from the distance Lytha had from the likeness. While she’d expected the Builder to be a man when she’d first heard of the Pentarin, the form of a woman before her made much more sense. Without women, there was no society, and that was what the Builder had … well, built. All work and craft was born of community, and for that to exist, there had to be women.
The statue of the Witness stood, head bowed, heels together, and palms forward down at the sides, slightly in front of the form. A hood covered the head, attached to a cloak that draped down to the likeness’s knees. Stone carved to look like ornate clothes covered the androgynous form, replete with gloves and tall boots. Two locks of long hair draped from the hood to hang at the breasts on either side of the shrouded face. Lytha stepped closer and looked up at the visage. Two eyes, an aquiline nose, and no mouth.
Swallowing her apprehension, the bard stepped around the statue’s large base. Behind it stood an ajar entryway, opening into a hall that then lead to a smaller shrine dedicated only to the Witness. There were six or seven people seated in the pews, listening as a priest gave the end of a sermon. The cleric was dressed in a simple black robe, hood drawn over his head, face covered in a mask that bore two holes for eyes, but none for a mouth. Even so, the deep timbre of the priest’s voice carried effortlessly over the crowd. Lytha quietly took a seat on the last pew.
“… the Witness’s ever-burdened hand of fate glows in these foreboding times, my friends. It is times like these where destiny calls every one of us. The battle to come will be remembered even when we are all but dust—even when the seas rise to claim Amera once again, it shall be remembered. That fate has called you to serve is not a curse, friends. It is a blessing.
“Go now, and know that the Witness watches you.”
“Witness watch you,” the few men and women present said. The wooden benches groaned as they rose to leave. They paid Lytha no mind as they walked past. The cleric pulled the holy text of the Pentarin, the Five Holies, from the small podium before him and began making his way to a small door off to the right.
Lytha bit her lip, then called, “Excuse me, priest.”
The holy man’s steps stopped, and he turned to face the bard, the flat surface of the mask glistening in the light cast by the hundreds of candles about the room. “Evening, my dear, did you need something further?”
“I … I’d just like a moment of your time. To talk.”
“Certainly. If we may speak in my office? My feet cannot bear to stand any longer,” the cleric said, the sound of a smile on the last words.
“Absolutely,” Lytha agreed, and followed him to the door. The small room was made even smaller by the mountain of clutter strewn about it. Two bookshelves lined the left and back wall, a small cushioned chair in the corner next to a table with a small lantern sitting unlit beside a tower of tomes. On the right there sat a desk that the priest moved around, gesturing to a small chair on Lytha’s side, wooden, oak, with a small linen padding on its seat.
The bard lowered into the admittedly comfortable chair as the cleric said, “Do you mind if I remove the mask?”
“Not at all,” Lytha replied.
A nod of the head, then the priest pulled the hood down and removed the white visage, revealing him to be a her, the long blonde locks of her hair tumbling just past her shoulders. Her face was smooth, unblemished, with a small nose and rosy cheeks. “Thank you,” she said, bowing her head. “I am Watcher Samantha—Sam, if you please—Third Cleric and Observer of the Fates in Souhal. What brings you to the Witness’s gaze this night, miss …?”
“Lytha, sorry. I just … It’s …”
“Oh my, dear. I can see the apprehension on your face. Please, speak candidly.”
“It’s just that … the Witness is the Arbiter of Death in the Pentarin, right?”
“That he is.”
“Well … I’m worried … wondering, I suppose. The Witness enforces fate and death, but … what happens afterward? What happens once we die, Watcher?”
Sam sat back in her chair, hand reaching up to grab her chin. “A common worry, especially with the battle that Souhal sees on the horizon.” The priestess looked over to her copy of the Five Holies, then frowned. “In the text, there are several stories of life after death. It is said throughout the Five Holies that the Witness, at the moment of death, leads one to their patron’s realm. Those who worship the Champion are escorted to Vaylan, the Arena of Eternal Glory. The supplicants of the Builder to Aerais, the Great Castle in the Sky, and so on with the other two.
“However … in the sections of the Five Holies devoted to the Arbiter of Death, the Hand of Fate, the Witness himself … well, there are no such stories.”
“Then … what do you think, Sam?” Lytha asked, her heart thrumming in her chest.
A frown filled with sorrow crossed her face, that slowly turned into a wan smile. “I believe, miss Lytha, that when we die … nothing happens.”
Lytha went cold, and still, as every muscle in her body tightened at the thought.
“I believe,” the priestess continued, “that we have but one chance at life, that no everlasting realm awaits us.”
“Then …
why do anything at all? If we all return to the dirt, to be forgotten in time, with no mention of our names within a few decades … why … why do we fight so fervently?”
The smile broadened almost imperceptibly. “I think that it is this limited span of existence that is the most beautiful thing of all. That since we do not live infinitely, the things we choose to do in our lives are given their significance. Speaking with a friend, falling in love, fighting to protect your kingdom … I believe those would all be shortchanged by eternal life, Lytha. For what is a lifetime to the unmoving eye of eternity? A blink. Nay, shorter than that. And life is too beautiful to live with apathy.”
Lytha found herself staring into Samantha’s glistening gray eyes. The priestess’s own were fixed on the desk, as she slowly lifted a finger and wiped tears away from them. The bard struggled to speak, and said, “I … I think that’s poetic, in a way, Watcher Sam.”
“I suppose it is,” she smiled. “However, I worry it does little to ease your woes about the coming battle.”
“No, I … I’m feeling a bit better, actually. Thank you, priestess.”
She bowed her head. “You’re welcome, dear. If you need to speak with anyone in the future, I hope you’ll seek me out.”
Lytha nodded a few times. Then, she rose and left.
Thirteen
Ellaria walked beside her brother toward the palace. King Aldariak had asked for all the members of Red Watch to be present at the discussion of the defensive strategy at large. The armies had been in Souhal for five days now and were showing signs of cooperation. They were united with a singular purpose, focused on preparing for the defense with all they had, day in, and day out.
The sun had set moments earlier, and the streets were completely bare. The only company the elves had were the dim torches whose flames danced and flickered in the cold gale. Ellaria would never admit it, but she was glad for her brother’s company at night. Considering how the group had met Lytha, she hadn’t been as comfortable at dark in the city as she was on the road. With her bow and daggers, she could handle any would-be assailants with ease, but it was nice to relax and walk beside Fanrinn with no worry for such things.
