“So it begins,” the ogre growled and stopped the wagon. “Look to your own safety, Fredrik. The Dark One is spreading his hate for the Elders among your people in the hope of turning them against one another.”
The only sound was that of the horses shaking their harnesses as the sergeant stared in disbelief and fear. “So the rumors are true,” he whispered. “The Scarred Mage still lives.”
“Yes, and to answer the question you were too polite to ask, the Ancient One has sent me to give this message to the King. Be not afraid, Fredrik. The Eyes of the Deluti are returning to the world, and will give those chosen, the power to defeat him.”
Sebastion snapped the team back into motion, his unease growing with the un-natural quiet around them. Turning at the next street, which according to Fredrik, led directly to the West gate, his fears were realized. A crowd of men with swords and clubs filled the street, blocking the gate.
“The Eyes watching over us be. Faith be having, Sergeant,” the ogre murmured, and moved the wagon slowly forward.
***
With a wary glance at the horse, Navon struggled to his feet, surprised the two men actually helped him. The young man on the horse said something to the men which initiated a heated discussion. This gave Navon a chance to catch his breath and notice things he hadn’t seen before. The horses and men were covered in soot just as he was, and the stains on their clothes appeared to be blood. The approach of a rider-less horse drew his attention away from the men, and put an end to the discussion.
The leader studied Navon for a moment before speaking. “Untie hands, you not run, yes?”
The newly arrived horse stood next to the leader, and Navon felt the intense scrutiny of three sets of eyes. Surrounded by horses and standing in the middle of a wide open plain, the idea of trying to run hadn’t even entered his mind.
“You have my word. I will not run.”
At a nod from the young man, they removed the rope from his wrists. The older man leaned in close and whispered, “I watch you.” They returned to their own mounts as the new horse moved to stand next to Navon.
“Come. Much work to do. Our brother, Moshere, carry you.”
He mounted in the same manner as the others, by grabbing the mane and then swung his leg up and over. The group turned and headed back in the direction from which they had come. Navon was an experienced bare-back rider, and soon realized even an inexperienced rider would have no problem staying on this horse. Moshere moved in a way that prevented Navon from feeling off balance. He could only shake his head at the distinct impression the horse was pleased at his thought.
From the higher vantage point, Navon could see that the terrain was not as flat as he first assumed. They traveled across gently undulating hills that hid the main group from view until they crested the last rise. From this height, Navon could see the group had been working systematically across the burned out plain, gathering and butchering the dead animals caught by the fire. The others greeted them with joy and what sounded like some good natured banter. The work never slowed, and it appeared that everyone, including the horses, had a specific job to do. He also noticed that no women were in the group.
Navon was left astride his horse along with the leader and the old man as the rest of the men left to join the work in progress. The young man pointed to a group of horses dragging what looked like several large sleds towards a number of large beasts lying in a rough circle.
“Come. Not happy work we have.”
Puzzled by the leader’s words, Navon had no choice but to follow, once again reminded of the fact he was not in control. As long as he remained mounted on the horse, he went where the horse took him.
Once they reached the circle of burnt, adult beasts, he understood what the leader meant. The beasts had formed a protective barrier against the flames in an attempt to protect the lives of two calves. Unfortunately, without a mother to suckle, they would die regardless. Their pitiful cries touched something inside Navon’s heart. The memory of the death of the large beast that morning filled his mind.
The three of them slid off their horses and approached the circle of animals. Navon stretched out his hand to stop the old man when he saw the knife in his hand.
“No… Wait... Please.”
The two men shared a questioning look, but shrugged their shoulders and watched as Navon slowly approached the circle of bodies. The calves were huddled against the blackened body of the one who had probably been their mother. Two of the adults had fallen practically on top of the calves, pinning them inside the circle. They continued to cry while their fear filled eyes watched Navon grab the head of one of the beasts and pull it to one side. The presence of un-burnt grass under the calves was a testimony to the effectiveness of the adult’s efforts.
Once a path was cleared, and with no more understanding of what he’d done earlier with the beast who had saved his life, Navon opened his spirit to their fear. In the same way he had learned from Moonlight, he projected a feeling of safety and caring into the calves. They ceased their crying and carefully stood, their eyes locked on him as he backed away from the others and sat on the blackened ground.
They followed, brother and sister, lay down on either side of him, and continued to gaze into his eyes. Navon filled their spirits with a feeling of peace and images of green fields with the presence of a cool spring breeze. The acrid smell of smoke and the stench of death disappeared as their spirits frolicked in the sun and rose higher and higher, while he gently drew the life from their bodies.
After a final goodbye, emptiness filled his spirit until he felt Moonlight fill it with her love for him. The little bodies now lay peacefully in his lap as his eyes flew open and the full force of his anger at the senseless killing of innocents focused on the two men who he felt were responsible. Fortunately for them, the sorrow over what he’d just done overwhelmed the anger as Navon buried his head in soot covered hands.
Quietly, and with surprising tenderness, the men approached and carried off the two calves. Navon didn’t care where; they were now just empty husks of meat. The sound of the others as they arrived, and began the process of butchering roused him out of his reverie. He rose and ran to help several men who struggled to position one of the larger beasts. Nothing was said of what he’d done for the calves, but furtive and sometimes fearful looks followed him the rest of the day.
Work proceeded at a feverish pace since the meat would not stay fresh for long in this heat. Several small boys were just as busy as the adults, making sure that everyone paused for a moment to drink a cup of water from the small barrels they had strapped to their backs. Even so, the heat began to take a toll on Navon until the leader appeared at his side with a strip of water soaked cloth, and showed him how to wrap it around his head. The relief from the sun was welcomed and Navon smiled his thanks. The young man merely nodded and turned back to his work.
The majority of the meat had been cut into strips and hung on racks above smoking fires by the time shadows stretched long, and the sun was a golden disk floating just above the horizon. Navon was given a blanket, a bowl of stew with a chunk of bread, and a cup filled with a bitter tasting drink that, surprisingly, left him feeling refreshed. Following the example of the others, he rolled up in the blanket and immediately fell asleep. Today had felt like the longest day of his life.
Navon woke to the presence of Moonlight in his mind, concern for each other foremost in their shared rapport. He tried to convey to her that he was safe, and that she should continue to stay away, undetected. Her presence faded when the older guard, from yesterday, approached carrying two steaming mugs. He sat up while the other settled to the ground on crossed legs and handed one of the cups to Navon.
“You work hard. No complain. Maybe not thief.”
Navon met his gaze and nodded in thanks. “Maybe not thief.”
The wrinkles around the old man’s eyes deepened, and the corners of his mouth twitched as he nodded in return. “I named Jamar, and young le
ader named Lodorn. He son of Maudwan.”
As they worked yesterday, Navon had realized the fire must have been planned. The group was too well organized to take advantage of a random event. His anger at the loss of life from the day before, returned as he swept his arm out to indicate the surrounding land, and picked up a handful of ash covered soil.
“You set this fire on purpose. So many animals died, and now there is nothing left for the survivors to eat. Why?”
Jamar listened carefully to his words, and stared off into the distance before turning his attention back to Navon. “Old and weak die. Young and strong live. Rain come soon and grass grow tall. This is right.”
They were interrupted by the arrival of one of the boys and a colt who was loaded down with a basket of bowls and several pots wrapped in skins. The boy filled two bowls from one of the pots, and after a short bow to the elder, handed a bowl to each of them. He and his horse quickly moved on to the next group, and repeated the process.
The old man kept his attention focused on Navon and asked the question that had been on everyone’s mind since yesterday. “You take away life of little ones. How?”
The amulet resting against Navon’s chest began to chill as if to remind him to be careful how he answered. He already suspected that Jamar would see through a lie, so the basic truth would have to suffice. He returned the old man’s intense look with one of his own. “It’s just something that I can do.”
Holding his stare a moment longer, Jamar nodded and turned his attention to the bowl in his hand.
They ate in silence as Navon savored the thick porridge, particularly the sweet taste of the blueberries mixed throughout. The boy soon returned to collect their empty bowls, and another ran by gathering up Navon’s blanket.
The sound of a horse approaching from behind drew Jamar’s attention, but Navon didn’t need to turn around. Somehow he knew it was Moshere, the horse who had carried him the day before. He turned around and after a short bow, tried to project his thanks to Moshere in the same way he did with Moonlight. The horse nodded in return and turned so Navon could mount.
Jamar’s eyes became hard once again as he regarded the pair. “Mystery, you Na-von of Roddell. Never a brother demand to carry slave. You trouble maybe, and I like trouble not.”
Navon could only shake his head at Jamar’s retreating back and thought, “Neither do I, Jamar. Neither do I.”
Chapter Ten ~ On To Seaside
Gilfor breathed a sigh of relief after crossing the bridge, and the town of Vinebridge receded in the distance behind him. Distinctly uncomfortable wearing the uniform of a lieutenant, he’d felt sure someone would stop him and demand an explanation. But the Princess’s plan appeared to be working perfectly. Everyone made way for him, and no attempt was made to impede his progress. Even the guards at the town gates waved him through.
This was pretty heady stuff for a young man recently come up from the country. He felt a momentary regret for the loss of his comrades, especially the sergeant who had taken Gilfor under his wing. He eased his mount back down to a walk as the sudden pain of guilt, of being the only survivor, forced his eyes closed until the ache subsided.
You fool, you wouldn’t have survived either if the Princess hadn’t healed you, Gilfor berated himself. She had entrusted him with an important mission, and he needed to keep a level head. Someone wanted the Princess, and everyone with her, dead. If he didn’t play his part perfectly, he would join his fellow guardsmen in death, and the Queen would never know the truth.
A mile or so outside of Kiplar, the terrain took on a familiar cast and brought back memories of his walk along this road a little over a year ago. A young man away from home for the first time, he had searched for somewhere to change into clean clothes before approaching the capital city in hopes of finding a job. He still marveled at his luck in becoming a Queen’s Guard. Slightly more overgrown, the path into the woods remained visible.
He dismounted and cautiously led the horse along the path, hoping no one had claimed the abandoned cabin he’d found last year. The fact he had to push through the thick undergrowth was promising.
The last year had not been kind to the cabin. Part of the roof now lay inside on the wooden floor, but the walls still stood. The corral appeared solid enough to keep a horse from wandering. The spring rains had made sure the water trough was full, and lush green grass covered the area. The horse should be satisfied until someone could come and retrieve him.
Gilfor carefully eased open the gate, and led his horse inside where he removed the tack and gave the horse a quick rubdown. He replaced the bridle with a halter he fashioned from one of the reins. He found a dry corner inside the cabin to pile the tack, and after changing out of the lieutenant’s uniform, covered everything with brush. If all went well, someone would be sent to recover the horse and tack before they were discovered.
He grabbed a fallen branch and swept the path in an attempt to erase their prints as he made his way back to the road. A quick check to make sure the road was clear; he stepped out, polished boots now scuffed. Satisfied, he hurried toward the capital, a small travel bag over his shoulder.
Even though the Princess gave Gilfor exact directions to the correct inn, he wandered up and down several streets, glanced into a few windows before apparently choosing an inn at random. The hazy interior revealed only two tables were occupied. A table against the wall, furthest from the others, caught his eye. Hiding his bag under the table, suddenly afraid he would say something wrong; he waited nervously for the innkeeper to approach.
The portly, bald headed man looked him over and nodded. “I’ve a bit of stew left, and a half loaf of bread I’ll let you have for a tenpiece.”
“I’ll take it,” Gilfor replied. “How much for a pint of Red River ale? I’ve heard it’s old but sweet.”
The only reaction from the innkeeper was a raised eyebrow. “I’ll see if there’s any left.”
If he’d said the words correctly, a pigeon would soon be winging its way up to the Palace, and Master Horshall, the old arms-master, would make his way down to the inn. All he could do now was wait.
The young guardsman sat nursing his second ale when a hooded figure leaning on a staff, appeared at his table without a sound. “Put on your cloak if you have one, and if not, keep your head down and walk next to me.”
They left the inn, and turned to walk along the line of store fronts, now closed up for the night. After several blocks, the voice of the stranger whispered, “At the next corner, act like you’re going to run and then flatten yourself against the wall as soon as you turn the corner. We’re being followed.”
Gilfor did as ordered, and sprinted around the next corner, followed closely by the hooded man. Faint footsteps could be heard hurrying towards them. The figure he hoped was the arms-master casually stepped out of the alley and confronted their pursuer.
“I do not take kindly to being followed,” growled the voice from inside the hood. “Why don’t you take that ugly face of yours back up to the Palace, and tell your master the next person I catch following me, dies.”
Gilfor could see nothing except the old man, but the un-mistakable sound of a sword leaving its scabbard didn’t need to be seen.
A deep voice chuckled, “Well now, old man. That’s awful big talk, considering I have a sword and you have a stick. They told me to follow you, but they never said I couldn’t cut you up a little for fun.”
Apparently, the thug with a sword had never faced an arms-master wielding a staff. Three moves and it was over. One to disarm, a second left him gasping for air, and finally a blow to the side of the head. Gilfor rushed out to help the old man drag the body down the alley and sit it up against a barrel.
Gilfor was awestruck. “How did you do that?”
“A sword is only good for one thing, young Gilfor, and that is to kill. A staff can accomplish the same thing, but I have yet to face someone with a blade who I couldn’t disarm and knock out.”
“
You know my name?”
“Of course. I know the names of every man in the Queen’s Guard, especially the ones assigned to protect my Princess. Come, we will be safe now back at the inn, and you can explain to me why you are here and not at her side.”
***
Embarrassed, Floanne pulled away from the Lieutenant’s chest and rushed over to her mistress, prepared to kneel before her. Instead, Sofia pulled her maidservant into an embrace which initiated another flood of tears. The Princess whispered words of comfort until the sobs quieted once again.
Noting the traces of sheer terror that still lingered in the corners of Floanne’s eyes, Sofia held her at arm’s length. “Are you hurt?” This close, she didn’t need to ask about the amulet. It was like a presence felt, but not seen.
Floanne shook her head, and then nodded in the direction of the dead sorcerer. “That man, Harlo, stopped the others from killing me back at the barn. Did he have to die?”
“Yes,” Sofia answered simply.
Ronald, who had moved to peer out of the door, returned. “We must leave, and quickly. I don’t look forward to trying to explain the presence of a body.” He gently led Floanne back to the wagon. “Sorry, Floanne, I don’t have time to explain everything to you right now. From now on, you are a wealthy merchant’s daughter, and we are two mercenaries hired to escort you to your new husband.”
He assisted her up onto the driver’s seat, led the team out into the corral, and shut the door behind them. Sofia tethered Ronald’s horse to the back of the wagon, and then mounted her own as he joined Floanne in the wagon. A flick of the reins, and they left the stable behind. Even traveling slowly to avoid attention, they soon reached the southern gate and a lone guard.
The Pain of Compassion Page 10
