by David Rice
XXXIII
The wind across the lowlands blew the wild grasses nearly flat, and filled the air with swirls of dust. Storm clouds were gathering in the northwest, hiding the sun where it swung low towards the horizon. To the east, the first grey shapes of towering mountains could be seen fading under advancing night. Stars began to appear one by one, and the largest of the four moons was already a shining crescent in the northeast.
Balinor squinted through the gusts and pointed at a shadow low in the grass. “Looks like an old homestead. Maybe a well there, too. Good place to camp for the night.”
Alain agreed. Some shelter would be a welcome respite from the relentless wind and the expectations of rain.
As they drew close, they could see that the home had not been occupied for some time. The grass was knee high right up to the sides of the small hut. The door was missing and the sod roof half collapsed. There was a well, but no rope or bucket. A wagon, rotting and rusted, lay on its side nearby. As Balinor dismounted, his foot crunched upon something solid and he realized why the home had been abandoned. Looking down through the grass he peered into the skeletal ivory eye socket of a farmer whose bones now jutted from tangled knots of grass like shards of scattered glass. The remnants of lifebane arrows littered the wall of the home and the floor of the wagon.
Alain frowned as he surveyed the carnage. “We must be close to the route the lifebane took when we fought them. If so, I have an idea where we are.”
“Oh, no,” Edrie wailed. “There’s the bones of poor folk all around. I’m not staying here. Evil spirits are bound to be about.”
Alain spun to face his sister. “Stop that right now. This is where we are staying so get your kit inside.”
Edrie pouted but followed her brother’s advice.
Alain turned to Balinor. “Sorry. She’s always been moody.”
Balinor shrugged while rigging a bucket to lower into the well. “I’ll see if it’s clean. Horses need fresh water. And we definitely want to be inside. There’s a chimney, so maybe we can get a fire working, too.”
Alain sighed. “We may not have started off on the right foot but you’ve been a good companion, Balinor.”
Balinor smirked briefly. “A long road brings out the truth of folks,” he quipped.
Alain nodded as he began stripping the tack from his horse. “We get a decent rest tonight, we might make it to Arundy in a few more days.”
Balinor brought up the bucket and gave a glance and a sniff. He set it down for Vargas.
“Here’s the test that matters,” Balinor stated. Even the horses seemed relieved when Vargas lapped the bucket dry.
“We’ve got water,” Alain announced.
Edrie stuck her head out of the hut. “That’s a blessing to be sure. The firepit and chimney are clear enough now though some critters weren’t too happy about me evicting them. You get some wood off that rat trap of a wagon and I’ll get a fire started.”
“Keep it low and the smoke light,” Alain cautioned.
“I’m not stupid,” Edrie snipped. “I brought some of my good stuff from home. I’ll make tea for us all.”
Alain felt fatigue creep through his bones at the mention of homebrewed tea. How long had it been? He turned to smile at his sister. The world was full of surprises, some tragic and some suddenly kind.
After the horses were dried off, watered and fed, the three stretched out before the modest fireplace, gnawed at some softened jerky, and sipped at the most aromatic tea until even Balinor fell deeply asleep, his dog curled at his feet.
***
Plax followed the loremother to the edge of a clearing and watched her ascend the stairs of a towering oak until she disappeared from view. Swallowing hard, he crept as close as his nerves allowed and slid into the shadows among a clutch of smaller pine. His mind was jumbled. He needed to find Kirsten. Could he ask the loremother? No. How careless and stupid. He looked like a lifebane. He shivered and rubbed his stomach’s tender scar. What was
he doing?
“What are you doing?”
The voice next to his ear made him jump from the shadows and reach for a dagger. After half a lifetime in the wilds, how could anyone sneak up on him here?
Tyrin shook his head slowly, his eyes shimmering with amusement, and he pressed a finger to his lips. “There’s no need to be so frightened. I’ve brought an elder of the council to meet you.”
Plax stood a little straighter. “I wasn’t frightened, just being cautious.”
A short and gnarled elf in mossy green robes ambled forward. He tapped his oak staff lightly upon the ground and stared at Plax with a curious smirk. “Caution is well advised,” he stated gently. “There are many here who judge first with a blade and later with a mind.”
Plax gasped. Did this one know who he was? “I’ve found that out already,” he volunteered.
“I am Forestward Dorak. I am pleased to meet the brave and young companion of the bladewielder.” Dorak bowed slightly.
“Umm. Thank you,” Plax mumbled. “Is she okay?”
“Is that why you are sneaking about despite my clear advice?” Tyrin asked.
“Umm,” Plax pushed away the impulse to lie. “Partly. I want to be sure she was okay so I followed a loremother from where she was picking herbs.”
“Dria,” Tyrin chuckled. “You’re not the first to follow after her.”
“I’m not?” Plax stumbled. His heart fell, and he knew it was ridiculous to feel or hope for anything.
“We’ll take you to Kirsten but not like this,” Dorak announced.
Plax stepped back. “What do you mean?”
“No need to worry,” Dorak explained gently. “You are a guest and you will be safe in our care. Just as Tyrin can alter his own appearance, I can adjust what people notice when they see you.”
“Won’t everyone know I’m under a sparkweaving of some kind?”
Tyrin smiled. “Master Dorak is too fine a sparkweaver for that, Plax. You’ll not change but others will see what Dorak wishes. He’ll brighten and smooth your skin, add a bit of height,
add some—hair—”
Plax frowned. “I get it. So no one will stab me again because of how I look.” “An act of caution, nothing more,” Tyrin nodded.
Plax sighed. “All right. If it means I can see Kirsten. She’s probably been worried about me, too, you know.” Plax’s inner voice rumbled in his ears, it’s more likely that she’s forgotten all about me now that she’s here.
Dorak slowly walked around Plax tapping his staff upon the ground and chanting imperceptibly.
“Impressive,” Tyrin admitted.
Plax grasped his hair, looked at the sagging and mottled skin of his hands, felt his face. “I don’t look any different.”
“That is because you already know who you are,” Dorak replied.
“This some sort of trick?” Plax grumbled.
“Oh, no, young Plax,” Tyrin reassured him. “You look quite respectable.”
“Yes, young Plax. Come with us.” Dorak pointed to a distant redwood. “Kirsten is receiving some final instructions from our Second Warden.”
“Final preparations?” Plax asked. “What exactly do you mean?”
“She can tell you herself,” Dorak replied. “Now hurry. The First Warden will be demanding her presence at any time.”
At least Kirsten seemed to be safe for now. But final preparations? There was still danger here, a recognition that burned at the back of his mind like an unreachable ember. And would Dorak’s illusion stand the test? Focus on the immediate first, he told himself.
With a deep breath, Plax forced his mind to stop creating questions, and forced his feet to match Dorak and Tyrin’s hurried pace deeper into the heart of Longwood.
***
Vargas’s cold nose and incessant whine brought Balinor up from his deep slumber like a shot. He looked about with glances like arrows. The sun was just coming up. It smelled like there had been a heavy dew but no rain. A
lain was deeply asleep. His kit was where he had left it, all buttoned up and—He didn’t remember buttoning up his side pouches. He never did. Balinor jumped up, pulled on his boots and dashed outside. Both horses were gone and, his gut twisted with recognition, so was Alain’s sweet little sister, Edrie.
“Get up, Alain!” Balinor shouted. “We’ve been had.”
Alain stumbled into view pulling on his tunic and rubbing his eyes. “What? What is it?”
Balinor looked at the tracks that led north. “Your sister drugged our tea. And she’s taken off with our horses. Better check our gear ‘cause I’m betting she took more than that.”
“By the One,” Alain grumbled. “You sure?”
“Either that or some evil spirits did it.”
Alain lowered his head. “My fault. After so much time. Thought I could trust her.”
Balinor shrugged. “Too late to change that now.” He tore through his pack. “At least she left us some of the rations.”
“Why both horses?” Alain mumbled as he began to check his own pack. He opened his saddlebag. “The coded messages. They’re gone. The code breaker, too.”
Balinor bit his lip. “No. When she showed up I hid the key and the most essential messages just in case. If they got into the wrong hands—”
“You let some stay here so she could take them? Your Duke, Wyntress, Stronn, Koppinger, they’ll all be exposed,” Alain concluded.
Balinor smirked. “Not likely. Complex stuff with just part of the codebreaker.”
Alain’s eyes widened. “You have the codebreaker somewhere else?”
Balinor nodded. “Hidden in my belt. I’ll show you later.”
Alain whistled. “Glad you were thinking ahead.”
Balinor looked east across the plain. “Maybe she’s not too far off. Probably can’t handle our horses all that well, especially mine. Kinda stubborn and attached, that one is.”
“You think so? She was quite the rider when she was young. I just don’t know why she’d turn on me after everything we’ve already lost—”
“Loss makes people crazy sometimes,” Balinor replied.
“We can’t exactly follow her on foot, can we?” Alain’s voice strained against despair.
“She’s gone the other way, and we’re a fortnight or more from Wyntress Keep now.”
Balinor stood tall and peered far down the beaten grass of Edrie’s trail. “I’ve got my ways,” he said. “You get everything packed up and, if she’s not far, and I bet she wasn’t too keen on riding in the dark, I’ll be back soon enough.”
“You can’t just run after her,” Alain stated.
“No. That’s true, I can’t.” Balinor grinned, whistled at Vargas and pointed at the trail. “Find,” he commanded.
Vargas barked once and bolted down the path. Balinor tossed a grin towards Alain and jogged lightly into the grassland.
***
Plax could hear the clear clash of elven swords long before the spiraling stairs emptied him onto the duelling platform. He froze when he saw Kirsten locked in combat with a taller dark-haired elf who thrust his orders as swiftly as his blade. She was using a lighter saber for this fight. The Fahde was nowhere to be seen.
“Wrist loose, blade to the front. When the tip is up, your guard is up. Square your shoulders. Head up. Keep moving your feet.”
“I’m trying,” Kirsten parried a series of blows. She attempted a lunge but had to jump to avoid a slash across her legs.
“Don’t let me move you around. Think ahead and move me,” the experienced swordsman instructed.
Tyrin nudged Plax to take a seat on the bench near the trunk. He sat down between the forestwardens, his eyes transfixed by the combat. Tyrin leaned close and whispered, “She is being taught by Cinn, our Second Warden from the Salt Isles.”
Cinn spoke tersely, “A nervous enemy will give away their next move. Watch their eyes.”
Kirsten slashed high, forcing Cinn to lean back and reduce his reach. She dropped low and swung a leg in an arc that knocked her opponent off balance. Hopping up quickly, she lunged and thrust—and found Cinn’s blade resting against her neck.
The two stopped their combat, nodded, and took up positions to begin another bout. Cinn smirked a little, as did Kirsten.
“Don’t get so excited about the kill,” Cinn stated. “A seasoned warrior lets others make the mistakes.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she responded. “Don’t rush into my mistakes.”
Cinn chuckled grimly. “That’s wiser than you know.”
Heavy footsteps on the stairs ended the contest. Stepping into view was a bearded elf in dark leathers, twin blades at his hips and a fine recurved bow across his back. A quiver thick with white shafted arrows hung low along his side.
Plax felt his blood chill when he saw him, and vomit rose in his mouth. It was the one person he dreaded seeing again. His father, Ballok.
Ballok sneered at Kirsten and Cinn. “The war party has been waiting for you, half-breed, and you mock the seriousness of our task by wasting your time playing with your cousin?”
Cinn’s expression tightened. “She is ready.”
Kirsten glared at Ballok. “That’s right. I’m ready for whatever you have planned.” She crossed to the far side of the platform where Dria sat quietly.
Plax gasped as he watched the young loremother reach into a thin chest by her feet and withdraw the Fahde, its white crystal gleaming once more. She wiped at her eyes, handed the blade carefully to Kirsten, and whispered briefly into her ear.
“That stays here,” Ballok interrupted. “We’ll not risk that sacred blade falling into the wrong hands.”
Kirsten finished strapping the scabbard into its new position along her back. “No. That’s happened once before and it won’t happen again. The Fahde stays with me.”
Ballok stepped towards Kirsten and raised his hand. “Your insolence is unforgivable.”
Cinn’s blade materialized between Ballok and Kirsten. “Stand down, First Warden,” Cinn insisted.
Dorak stood and cleared his throat. “If we fight each other, we have already lost.” Kirsten stuck out her chin and returned Ballok’s glare.
Ballok cast a withering look at Cinn and lowered his hand. “You’ve taught her some spirit at least,” he announced. “Even a fool’s courage is better than nothing.”
Dorak stepped towards Ballok and traced a glyph of peace in the air that sparkled golden and faded fast. “The forestwards and healers shall await your return, First Warden. Do what you
must and return. The greatest threat is beyond the camp. flying far and wide.”
Ballok grumbled. “One threat at a time.” He poked a finger uncomfortably close to Kirsten’s face. “Get your ass over to the war party, and never challenge me again.”
“Go,” Cinn said firmly. “You will remember everything you need when the moment demands it.”
“Be safe,” Dria added, her eyes wide and misty.
Ballok hurumphed and stomped towards the stairs. Kirsten squared her jaw and followed.
Plax reached out to grasp Kirsten by the sleeve as she passed. She stopped, confused.
“What’s going on? Who’re you?” she snipped.
Plax blushed. “It’s me. I’m okay. Grumm saved me.”
Kirsten froze at the sound of his voice and the name of Grumm. She tossed a glance over her shoulder towards Ballok and then leaned in. “Plax?” she whispered. “That’s really you?”
“Yes,” he mumbled. “I needed to be sure—”
Kirsten grabbed Plax and squeezed. “Thank the One. Don’t ever be that brave again.” Plax fumbled for a reply.
A rough hand landed on Kirsten’s shoulder. “I said get going,” Ballok rumbled. Then he looked past Kirsten and let his eyes fall disdainfully upon Plax. “Never seen you before.” Then his eyes narrowed and he sniffed. “You stink like the sweat of horses.”
Plax’s head pounded. His voice crackled as his reply stumbled out. “
Horse—horsewarden.” He could manage nothing more.
Ballok stared for a moment then laughed. “Horsewarden? You? Not even enough whiskers to wipe up the cream from your mother’s teat.”
Dorak rapped his staff perilously close to Ballok’s foot. “Manners,” he insisted. “He is our guest.”
Ballok looked down upon Dorak and Plax. “Horsewardens are warriors, born and bred. I can already smell the piss in his pants. This one has no spine for a fight.”
