by David Rice
***
Deven of the Crystal Marshes stood tall upon the ridge, the half-light of northern winter shrouding all. He pulled his moss coloured robe tight and let the weave flow through his staff to deflect the winds. Through remorseful eyes, he watched billowing purple flames erupt and ripple along a riverbed leagues distant. He shivered as he recalled the last moments of his fellow Shaman. Losing them all stabbed at his heart. They had died in the same purple consuming fires, at Ulimbor’s hand, while trying to save their people from madness and disaster. And they had urged him to flee. Peren. Dazej. So many were far worthier than him, and were lost. He knew their choice would haunt him and drive him endlessly.
Some of his own clansmen had urged him to seek shelter in one of the northern holdfasts liberated from the dwarves. Deven refused. His people did not cultivate weakness. If Ulimbor was ever to prove vulnerable, the Crystal Marsh Clan would have to be close enough and desperate enough to react decisively. To hide in the mountains would only prolong their disaster by encouraging sloth, and inviting dwarven retribution. No. He would keep his enemies close.
Almost a score of worthy shaman died believing that their people could be brought together to build a better life than Ulimbor’s diseased dream. Deven was determined to hold fast to that purpose. He would not dishonour their courage and trust. Now, here they were, the scrabbling rebels of a dozen clans joined with his own, cast upon the steppes between Ulimbor’s army and the horsewardens, striving to stay hidden, and waiting for their moment. It was not an enviable position.
For millennia, elven horse wardens had claimed these northern steppelands and hunted his kind. Today, everything had changed. The future was no longer slave to the past. Ulimbor’s promise was being fulfilled. The lifebane were now free to occupy the world, and Deven shivered at the countless foolish costs that lay ahead for that vision.
Deven knew that his daughter, Rybaki, approached long before seeing or hearing her. There was a wavering in the weave that accompanied her everywhere, and that pleased him immensely. She would be the first woman to lead the Clan of the Crystal Marshes since the earliest days. But they would have to survive the challenges of this new conflict first.
“Father,” Rybaki said. “Scouts have found one horse warden who survived Ulimbor’s attack.”
Deven faced his daughter and lifted an eyebrow. “Still alive?”
“His wounds are being treated and I have guards posted to keep it that way. However, our war parties are torn on what to do. Some wish for a sacrifice to balance a life of suffering at their hands.”
“A live captive is worth more than a dead body.”
Rybaki nodded. “Others know that there is no returning to our traditional alliances as long as Ulimbor rules.”
“Do you see this as an opportunity?”
Another blast of distant purple flame briefly lit the horizon.
“Ulimbor must be stopped.”
“We must bide our time until his Drake tires of his games.”
Rybaki nodded again. “If we can convince the horsewarden to speak honestly with us, and trust us, perhaps there can be an opportunity to forge new alliances.”
“With old enemies?”
Rybaki pointed towards the fading purple light. “The drakes have changed everything. Now, our only enemy is death.”
Deven nodded. “The horse wardens are born to hate and hunt us. What could convince a them to trust us at all?”
Rybaki let a smirk lighten her face. “He was riding a beautiful stallion. They worship ther horses. I saved this creature, too.”
XXVI
Day or night, Kirsten couldn’t sleep. Whether it was the threat of Siandros ambushing her, or the fear of slipping into dreams of recrimination, Kirsten felt her past pulling on her neck like an inescapable weight. With a whispered oath she had borrowed from Grumm, she tossed away the blanket and threw herself to her feet. Swiftly she pulled on her outer layer of leathers, the ones Balinor had made for her just before—
She brushed away a tear and then froze. Near the stairs that rounded the trunk of the tree was a shadow that shouldn’t have been there. She forced herself to move casually away, placing the trunk between her and the shadow, and approaching her bow and sword.
She didn’t see the trap.
A fine web of strong lines snared her foot and, with a tug from the shadows, pulled Kirsten crashing to the floor. She squirmed to reach the lines with her skinning knife but sudden jerks upon the line kept her off balance.
“You creep,” she yelled. “How long have you been watching me?”
The line pulled hard, cutting into her ankle and dragging her towards the tree trunk dangerously fast. Kirsten rolled to bring both her feet together and braced for impact. With a force that drove the air from lungs, Kirsten managed to absorb the blow with her legs and find enough traction to push away. The next tug was less effective without the leverage of the tree trunk’s curve, and Kirsten rolled upright and cut the line below her boot.
Reacting instinctively, she rolled away and cast a shieldcharm just as two arrows slammed into the platform where she had lain a heartbeat earlier. If she could just reach her bow or Fahde.
“Coward,” she yelled as she briefly caught sight of the shadow popping from its cover on the other side of the trunk to fire another arrow. It grazed off her shield and disappeared into the abyss between the trees. She reached for her the comfort of her pendant and her fingers only grasped skin. Her heart surged with anger.
“Thief!” she screamed.
The shadow moved swiftly away from its cover, towards the edge, its darkness flaking away wherever shafts of sunlight penetrated the forest canopy. Kirsten could now see enough of her attacker to identify him and her blood chilled. It was Siandros, and he turned to smile at her just before kicking her gleaming sword and her bow off the platform.
“Coward?” he said? “Thief?”
Kirsten’s mind whirled. No weapons. What could she do? “You took my pendant while I slept, you creep. Give it back!”
Siandros chuckled and pulled the silver leaf from his pocket. “What? This trinket?” He dangled it over the edge and his grin widened. “I could have taken more,” he purred.
He is trying to make you mad, Kirsten realized. She feigned a lunge towards the elf but grasped a large water jug instead. With a heave it smashed at his feet and, before Siandros could brush away his surprise, she followed with a freezing charm.
Siandros growled as his boots froze firmly to the platform. While Kirsten paused to choose her next move, Siandros drew a long dagger from behind his back and hurled it mercilessly at Kirsten’s face.
She yelped and ducked. The shield did not slow the dagger and in a flash of dread Kirsten knew she would die.
A hissing snap of light smashed the dagger from the air so close to Kirsten’s brow that she felt the slowing passage of time, and saw the two daggers meet violently and ricochet away.
“Stop this now,” a strong voice commanded.
Looking up from her crouch, Kirsten recognized the Second Warden, Cinn, his face contorted with contempt. Behind him, horrified and disgusted, was the woodmother Dria.
“You have no place here,” Siandros snapped back. “The minx is receiving instruction. Leave me to my task.”
Cinn offered his hand to Kirsten.
She bit her lip and stood up on her own. “He’s right,” she replied. “A class on avoiding assassination, I think.”
Siandros closed his eyes momentarily and the ice dribbled away from his feet.
Cinn advanced on Siandros until the two were close enough to touch. “If this was a class, where are her weapons?” he demanded.
Siandros glared back and bumped shoulders as he pushed past. “Where they deserve to be given her carelessness.” With a toss, he threw the pendant off the platform. “That should land close to the others.”
Cinn grabbed Siandros by the arm and the Third Warden twisted out of his grip, his hand upon the hilt of his swo
rd. “Touch me again, sea waif, and you’ll regret it.”
Dria rushed to Kirsten’s side. “It’s true. He told me he planned to see you die while training. I had to tell someone. Just because some say you’re an abomination—”
Siandros glared at his promised mate. “You did this? You? How dare you—”
Cinn stepped in front of Siandros once more. “Your service as mentor is done. I’m taking over.”
“You are a stranger here and should mind your own business,” Siandros spat. “Her existence puts us all at risk and the council knows this—”
“The council agreed to mentor the half-elf and they’ll know more soon. They’ll support my decision.”
Siandros’s gaze poured utter contempt upon Cinn, Dria, and especially Kirsten. “Do what you want, Second Warden. Let her failure be on your shoulders.” He turned to leave and turned back in an afterthought. “Dria. Come with me.”
Dria cast a glance back at Kirsten and whispered, “Be careful.” Then she reluctantly followed her future mate.
Kirsten took a step towards the stairs but Cinn held up an open palm.
“Wait until Siandros is gone,” he said.
Kirsten wrinkled her nose and then moved to the platform’s edge and stared down. “I can see where the sword landed. The gem is sure glowing brightly.”
“I’m glad I made it here in time.”
Kirsten whirled to face Cinn. “Why exactly? Don’t you all want me dead? You just want it to be my fault some how. Siandros messed that up so now it’s your turn, isn’t it?”
Cinn shook his head. “Siandros, Ballok, Alvilas, a few others would be pleased if you failed. Others such as myself, Galen, Tyrin, and Dorak think you have much potential.”
Kirsten snorted. “Sure. I don’t know what you see that I don’t.”
Cinn unwrapped his mat and sat down on the platform. “You’re the only one who can hold the Fahde and it is the only weapon that can stand against the drakes. That makes your survival and your proper instruction rather important.”
“But there’s how many drakes? There’s no way I can do much against more than one.”
“There’s other aspects in your favour, as well.” Cinn pointed to a spot nearby. “Come and sit.”
Kirsten slowly approached and lowered herself to the polished oak floor. Cinn had a sparkle in his eye, and a calm confidence. And, although she hadn’t noticed until now, unbelievably long eyelashes. “Aspects? Like what?”
Cinn smirked gently. “You have the spirit of your mother. That is no small gift.”
Kirsten blushed at the compliment. “I thought she broke your biggest rules and was punished? How is that a good thing?”
Cinn’s smirk faded. “It would not have been so had she been in the Salt Isles.”
Kirsten sat up. “Salt Isles? How do you know it’s different there?”
Cinn smirked again. “I was born there, too, Kirsten. Your mother is my aunt. I’ve known her a long time.”
Kirsten was surprised by how her heart sank. “So, we’re—cousins?”
“Yes,” Cinn replied. “You are family and I am going to honour that bond by teaching you as much as I can.”
Kirsten let out a long sigh. “Cousins?”
Cinn raised an amused eyebrow. An awkward silence descended until harsh footsteps were heard upon the stairs.
Cinn and Kirsten jumped to their feet just as Ballok appeared. Ballok wore his displeasure openly.
“Heard you and Siandros had a disagreement,” Ballok stated.
Cinn stood firm. “Not anymore, First Warden.”
“So you’re going to teach the half-wit how to live through a fight?”
Cinn nodded. “I’ll do my best.”
Ballok looked at Kirsten and his mouth twisted into a crooked smile. “You’d better teach her fast. She’s coming with me on a raid.”
Kirsten scowled. Obviously, this was just another trap meant to get rid of her.
Cinn almost protested. “When? Where?”
“Against Lornen’s fort as soon as the weather breaks. You can stay here and see to our defenses.”
Kirsten stepped forward, determined not to appear scared. “When is the weather going to break?”
Ballok laughed. “Why don’t you ask your sword?”
“Be serious, Ballok.” He regarded Kirsten with concern. “When? How much time do we have?”
Ballok chuckled again. “Dorak says two or three days. I’m taking a hundred warriors. And her.”
Kirsten’s temper flared. “And how many of your warriors have faced a dragon and lived?”
Cinn raised an eyebrow and suppressed a smirk.
Ballok looked dismissively at Kirsten and spoke slowly. “None of my wardens are stupid enough to do that. You got lucky is all. That sword is why you lived. But you? You’re nothing at all. Less than nothing. A mistake.” He turned his back on Kirsten to address Cinn. “Maybe you can teach her to duck a bit faster before we set out?”
Cinn’s smirk faded. Ballok trudged away laughing. Kirsten turned away, grumbling, and rubbing hot tears from her cheeks.
When Ballok had vanished from sight, Cinn turned to Kirsten. “You’ll be fine. I can teach you all of the fundamentals in a few days. Galen says you are a quick learner.”
Kirsten looked up. “He did?”
Cinn nodded. “Fetch your weapons and we will begin.”
Kirsten felt renewed energy flow through her. She’d show them what sort of a warrior she could be. She stopped before descending the stairs and faced Cinn. “My friend Grumm has a word for people like Ballok.”
“And what’s that?” Cinn asked, intrigued.
“Plota,” she grinned fiercely.
“Plota? Sounds dwarven. What’s it mean?”
“Asshole,” Kirsten cursed and thundered down the stairs.
Cinn’s laughter chased Kirsten all the way to the ground.
XXVII
The King’s Road was as clear as Balinor ever remembered. A fortnight of travel and only one harried army courier days earlier. No farmers or skinners. No traders. No colourful gnome caravans. Just drifting white fields, stark cold stone, and dark echoing skeleton trees.
Alain kept his eyes hunting the horizon for some promise of home. They were still leagues from his childhood lands but he imagined he could already smell the musky dark peat soil. He pushed hard against the hope that his parents still waited for him, or that younger brothers would welcome his return. He doubted they would understand or respect his sworn oath to the dwarven Jarl who had spared his life.
Occasionally a thread of smoke from a distant cabin would disturb the monotony but they had decided at the outset not to press themselves upon the hospitality of families with less than enough. Vargas was a constant companion, trotting ahead, chasing the scarce rabbit or groundhog, or sniffing at frozen lumps in the snow.
Balinor held up a hand when he heard the alarmed bark of Vargas coming from a treeline encroaching upon an intersection of road ahead.
Alain stopped alongside. “That’s the old road to Peatmoor. Four leagues now.” He shivered?
“It’s been awhile?” Balinor asked while focusing upon the target of his dog’s continued barking.
“Too long,” Alain sighed. “I can’t imaging how they’ve changed.”
“Wish I felt the same way about my childhood home,” Balinor replied.
“Rough?”
Balinor gave Alain a sidelong shadowy glance and shrugged. “Let’s see what Vargas has found and hope it’s not bandits.”
“Or that army messenger,” Alain added. He drew his cutlass, held its blade flat along the leather barding, and patted his horse. “Steady,” he whispered.
Balinor readied his bow. He was improving his accuracy from horseback but hoped it would not be necessary. The two proceeded carefully towards the trees where they hung over the crossroads.
Balinor noticed that the smaller trees had been cleared out. Dangling from the tree limbs were
scraps of rope. Underneath the bare boughs of the trees, fresh mounds of dirt were scattered in all directions, a hundred or more. Eruptions of darkness against the snow. Vargas was tugging at some cloth along the edge of one mound.
Balinor paled and his gorge rose. Vargas wasn’t only tugging at rope. It was a hand. “By the One, Alain. They’re graves.”
Alain threw himself from his saddle and rushed to the mound’s edge. Vargas backed away and continued his alarmed barking. Something twinkled on the hand. Alain uttered a snatch of prayer and pulled the ring away to examine it more closely. Then he fell to one knee and began shaking.
Balinor circled the area before dismounting. He called Vargas to his side. “Calm down, boy,” he soothed. “Good work.”
