by Dan Brigman
The hills posed a dangerous journey for those careless few not watching their step while wandering its expanses. Limestone, white sandstone, red granite, and shale had eroded away over the centuries to form steep cliffs of jagged rock. Kirian knew several paths which allowed him to skirt the most dangerous stretches of the rock cliffs. Where he could, he traversed inside small rifts and valleys throughout the hills to avoid slipping off the cliff sides. Short red cedars and white oaks, with an occasional short-leaf pine, covered most of the hills like a protective blanket for those wanting to stay hidden from prying eyes.
Once in the Hills, always hidden. Kirian smiled as he remembered that old saying’s myth. Those assassins caught up to me at the last opportunity possible. I still can’t believe they caught up to me without horses. I must be getting old.
By midafternoon Kirian had stalked several miles throughout the barren hills. He had not seen another soul, and his horse traveled tirelessly through a slow and sure pace with each hoof. Going up and down these ancient hills can be treacherous to all but the most sure-footed horses, so Kirian felt satisfied in the choice of horse he had made in Molston. Truthfully, I had few options, as I had not planned on leaving my home so fast, he thought ruefully. An opportunity had arisen to make a large amount of money with no questions asked, but he soon realized that his safety was in question. The knowledge held a higher price than the coins. Once he realized his danger, Kirian and Quint fled to their trusted horse master to obtain worthy steeds. He had one last good steed for the hills, and Kirian bought it with no thought of the price. Quint took the other without a second thought.
Never mind, Kirian thought glumly. That cannot be changed. He shook his head and suddenly remembered focus was completely necessary in this section of the hills. Kirian gently patted his horse’s neck; he realized the mount had not forgotten to watch its own steps. This Hustian is a smart one. A horse bred and raised in his terrain must be. I will have to thank Giald when I get back to Molston. Kirian noticed the stallion’s coloring several times already. A dull red intermixed with a tinge of gray allowed the horse to camouflage into nearby rocks with little difficulty. Giald’s eye was always sharp for detail in times of stress. I had more pressing issues to concern myself with than the color of my damned horse. Kirian spat with the thought of his life being threatened by greedy men with kukris.
Time and weather had heavily eroded this section of the hills. Rock and light vegetation covered the hillsides, but in the small rifts between the knolls nothing more than loose rocks lay. Pale green lichen covered many of the rocks, which brought a slight smile to Kirian’s lips. A few dozen paces in front of him a large pool of water shimmered. A cedar tree grew directly out of the cliff side and over the pool. Probably a pool from a ripper, he thought distastefully. Kirian had seen flash floods wash out entire rifts with amazing speed and destruction. He would have never believed in the ferocity of a violent downpour until many years ago. Lightning had struck close to his camp in the middle of a horrendous cloudburst. His two horses spooked, had slipped into a rift, and the rain swept them away. The next morning, he had found nothing but one of the two horses and that one had a broken neck.
Kirian dismounted and let the Hustian stallion drink from the pool. While he stooped to gather lichen, the beast slurped in deep draughts. Before picking any of the lichen, he offered a brief prayer to the gods for the blessing they had provided him. Lichen such as these were extremely rare in his wanderings. He knew the type by the color, but he did not know the name.
The lichen’s pale green color made it difficult to notice unless a person stood almost on top of them, and they almost always grew in the rifts. A ripper won’t even budge this stuff. Kirian munched on a handful while gathering a large pile for the horse. Within a few moments the stallion had its fill of water and moved to the pile. It ate noisily while Kirian sat back on his haunches. He carefully rolled his treasure and stored as much as he could into his saddlebags. He had discovered years ago that lichen provided much more energy than hay or grass. The horse’s endurance always lasted much longer from rolled lichen than it ever did from hay or oats. He closed his eyes, listening to his surroundings. The horse’s chomping overwhelmed any other sound nature could produce, but Sol’s late afternoon rays warmed Kirian enough for a smile of satisfaction.
The smile disappeared as quickly as it had formed. Kirian suddenly felt a presence close by; he heard a discreet movement, something seemingly unnatural. He could not consciously understand how he sensed the presence, but he was aware, nonetheless. Perhaps the slight, almost imperceptible change in the wind or the abrupt fluttering of a small covey of quail twenty paces away had caused a heightened mindfulness of his environs? I’ll probably never figure it out, he thought with a sigh.
A horrid thought then came to Kirian’s mind. Gods, Kirian thought resignedly, the Horselords are watching me right now. Why am I not dead? Kirian jumped up, causing the horse to snort in fear. He drew one of the kukris in a blur, as he leapt over the pool in one bound. Kirian barely managed to grab the reins before the horse reared up. He felt himself rise from the ground and saw a large hoof come precipitously close to his head.
“Woa, boy! Woaaa!” Kirian yelled. As he hung a foot above the ground, he knew the beast grew more upset with each passing second.
He opened his mouth to try to calm the horse again, yet before he could utter a word, a sharp snap echoed off the hillside. A puzzled look crossed Kirian’s face; he could not place where the sound came from. Then the air in his lungs rushed out, leaving him gasping for breath. Grabbing his forehead, Kirian shook his head to clear the fuzziness away. In a flash, he realized his hands no longer held the kukri or the reins. One hand grasped for anything solid as he staggered into the pool. His toe had caught on a rock, tripping him up. Kirian blinked his eyes to focus, but he saw only bright splotches of light dancing across his field of vision. Catching his breath, Kirian heard the horse squealing in pain.
“What in the name of the gods is happening,” he sputtered bitterly under his breath.
His voice sounded elsewhere, as if the words came from someone else’s voice. Kirian heard another sharp crack and felt his entire body shudder. His head struck the compacted soil near the pool and rebounded. Groaning pushed past Kirian’s lips. He knew now he was going to die. From what seemed to be far off, he heard a splash before something blunt smashed against his head.
“What should we do with him?” asked the large man.
His size was massive even for his people, and with the unkempt beard and hair, his appearance aroused fear within those who did not know him. Arms covered with long scars from wounds in battle, he wore no armor; he had never needed any in the past. The huge man glanced at his companion who stood over the fallen outsider. The man’s companion stood at least a head shorter than him. That did not lessen his companion’s ferocity when striking with the greatsword he held placidly in one hand. The huge sword extended nearly the length of his companion’s entire body. He appeared not to be paying any attention, as he focused intently on the body. Only a fool would think Loken did not stand ready to kill if needed.
“Loken, what should we do with him?” the man repeated in forceful tones.
“Gods. I don’t know. I didn’t expect to find him anymore than you did. I suppose we should take him back to the village ‘cause we can’t have him come back here with more outsiders. Look, Melek, can you carry him? Your mighty arms never had a problem lifting pipsqueaks like him.”
Pipsqueak, huh? Kirian thought amusedly. While the men spoke, Kirian feigned unconsciousness. He dared not open his eyes, for he knew they examined him as he lay there. He did not think much time had passed since his last bout with consciousness, but he could not be sure. I wonder if these brutes would listen to reason. The men of Olst usually do, and their accent seems to be south Olstian. Gods, you are a humorous lot!
“Boys, I am no enemy,” Kirian said, his voice low and with eyes still closed. He heard a swor
d coming loose from its scabbard, and Kirian hoped the men would keep him alive long enough for him to utter another sentence. A heartbeat later he felt the edge of a sword against his throat. He swallowed and felt a drop of blood well up on his neck. They don’t fool around, he thought grimly.
“Who are you, and why are you in our country?” the one called Loken abruptly stated. At least they didn’t cut my throat immediately, Kirian thought wryly.
“I could probably talk a bit better without you trying to shave me. Although I could use a shave—” The blade dug deeper, interrupting anything else Kirian would have said.
“Aye, that may be true, but why should I trust you?” asked Loken matter-of-factly.
With a smirk Kirian casually replied, “Did you not see the horse I came with? If you are men of Olst, as I assume you to be, then you should know the consequences of attempting to ride someone else’s horse, especially a Hustian stallion.”
“Makes no difference,” the man called Melek instantly answered.
Kirian had not yet opened his eyes, as his imagination already conjured horrible images of what was going to happen to him. He knew these men would slay him without provocation, as was their right to do so in this province. He could smell the stink of the men despite their distance from him. They are definitely Horselords. The sun beat down on his face, and his head ached more than the day after a hard night’s drinking.
“Look, I was almost killed a few days ago. I sought sanctuary in your lands so that I could preserve myself and the fine horse over there; that is, if he’s still alive.” He heard grunts of anger and shifting feet. He felt the blade shift and begin to go deeper. Blood ran profusely from his neck. Damn. Is this it?
“How dare you accuse us of killing a horse of Hustian breeding. Before I kill you, what do you have to say, so that I can pass your words to my master?”
“Master Arstle taught me some of your ways.” Kirian felt his pulse weakening. He tried to open his eyes, but he did not have the strength even for that. He heard a dull thudding in his ears. Is this the sound of death?
Loken gave Melek a quick glance and threw his greatsword to the ground. His cut was deep and appeared to be mortal. “You damn fool! Arstle must not be as wise as we thought, if he taught one like this.” Melek watched Loken rip part of his cloak then drop to his knees in the hard-packed soil. He saw a sheen of glistening sweat cover Loken’s face, as total concentration came over him. He put the rag over the wound and applied pressure to it. Melek saw nothing but wasted effort on the fallen man, but he waited patiently for Loken’s orders.
“Cut some more bandages! He’s soaked through this meager binding already,” barked Loken.
Dropping to his knees, Melek unsheathed his dagger, and cut part of his brown tunic, which was emblazoned with a massive white horse rearing up on its back legs. “You know, my mother is going to be mad about this,” Melek muttered glumly, thinking about the repercussions of his actions. “She gave this to me on my day of honor, and I know she spent a lot of time on it. Here I’m tearing up a gift from her for some trespasser.”
“Your mother would rather see this man live than worry about some clothes. As it stands, he is going to be lucky. The trip back home is not far, but not too friendly to those wounded. We’ll use his horse to carry him. I know how much you would rather do that job, though.” Melek’s eyes grew large with anger and he peered at Loken, who was ready to defend himself. The smirk on Loken’s face dissipated Melek’s sudden flair of anger.
“You know I hate that, Loken,” grumbled Melek.
“Just trying to lighten the mood. I fear we’ll lose this man. If that happens, Arstle will have our hides in the pot, if we see him anytime soon. Personally, I’d like to see my boys grow old before they see me to the grave. Go get that horse and hobble it. We are going to stay here the night. His wound must not open any more or we’ll be burying him before Sol sets.”
Melek stood and walked to the stallion, which stood contently where he had last seen it. The horse’s dull red and gray coat shone in the late afternoon sun—his saddle still tight on his back with the leather saddle bags in place. The leather reins hung limply down from his head. Melek moved within ten paces of the horse, and the mount did little more than stare at him. Melek slowed his pace over the packed soil and raised his right hand to the height of his chest. Melek chanted in a low murmur, sounding like a young foal nickering for its mother. The horse’s ears pricked up, tail swishing in curiosity.
“Gentle, boy,” Melek murmured repeatedly until he stood within a pace of the horse’s head.
The horse stood firm and stared into Melek’s calm brown eyes. Even at this position he had to look up at the horse’s features. The shoulders of the animal were half a head shorter than Melek’s height. Melek relaxed his breathing and continued murmuring to soothe the animal. He watched the stallion’s eyes relax noting that its breathing had calmed to normal. He paced forward and slowly grabbed the reins. As Melek gained a firm grasp on the reins, he patted the horse’s head. He murmured a calming wordless mantra into the horse’s ears. Within moments, Melek moved to the saddle and put his foot into the stirrup. He looked at the beast’s eyes while gauging the stallion’s disposition. When he noted no hint of fear or anger, Melek pulled himself up onto the saddle.
The stallion now waited for instruction from Melek, as he maneuvered the reins into position. Melek nudged the horse forward. The stallion reacted without hesitation and walked slowly toward Loken, who had watched the entire scene.
“I don’t know how you do it, Melek. I have tried to speak to the horses, but I usually pay for my conversations with a hoof to the shin. You must be blessed by the Ancients. No other person I know can do such things with those beasts. Even the masters are surprised at your talent.”
Melek’s face took the color of the horse, and he waved his free hand at Loken. “I wish you wouldn’t talk about it. I don’t know how I do it—I just do it—I sense the beast’s feelings. I can’t explain it to the likes of you.” Loken watched Melek’s face shadow over with embarrassment and shame as he spoke. Melek jumped when he noticed Loken’s eyes on him, now shining with respect. Melek quickly dismounted and hobbled the horse. The small water hole would mean easy watering for them.
Conversations lulled while the men hurriedly made camp close to the horse and the fallen man. Melek gathered stray bits of firewood and Loken prepared the evening meal by skinning the rabbits they had hunted earlier in the day. With Melek’s fire, the gathered water soon boiled, and the rabbit meat stewed along with the spices Loken placed in the water. Melek’s mouth watered while he patiently waited for the stew to reach Loken’s satisfaction. Saying nothing, he stared into the small fire, watching flames dance along the bottom of the black pot. Loken glanced occasionally at Melek, and he knew not to disturb Melek when he had that look.
Loken sliced a few wild vegetables he had found earlier and threw them into the pot. “It’ll be ready in a bit,” he offered. Melek’s blank stare showed he did not even notice the comment. While they waited, Loken pulled out a long wooden pipe. After filling it with a dark tobacco carrying a pungent odor of black earth, he grabbed the end of a glowing stick from the fire and placed it in the pipe’s bowl. A long and deep draught of smoke soon filled Loken’s lungs; he visibly relaxed as he stood looking down at Melek.
“Would you like to try some of this fine tobacco?” Loken asked softly.
After a few long moments, Melek did not respond, his face still held an unbroken stare. Loken shrugged his shoulders and looked up to the sky. The waning crescent moon had already risen in the early evening. “That moon is not going to give much light tonight,” Loken thought aloud just as his concentration was broken by a stifled groan from the fallen man.
3 — The Meeting
As Einar stepped outside of the empty home, the brisk winter air threatened to rip his cloak from his shoulders. He quickly clasped the steel pendant of the runic shape symbolizing life and death at the
nape of his neck. The two wavy lines, intersecting diagonally at their exact centers, reminded Einar of the gift his wife had given to him many years ago after he passed the final test of the Alteration path. The pendant outshone even the altered signet rings bestowed upon him when he had passed. The memory of her, with a proud smile while she gave him the pendant, offered a sad reminder of how much had changed over the years. Bliss had eroded into something he could not recognize.
Refastening the pendant more securely, Einar wrapped the cloak around his body to stifle the heat-leaching winds blasting out of the nearby Blackwind Peaks. Aptly named, he thought while peering in the direction of the peaks. A continual shroud of thick white and gray clouds covered the tallest of them; those summits had not been seen in many years. The simple village he thought of as home stood as a resupply point for those who desired to shorten their trip to the southern capital city of Tolsont. Travelers’ trips, of course, passed through those unforgiving peaks to the west to Amok or Tloffia.
Einar’s position as an Alterator in the village of Durik’s Pass remained as tenuous as ever. Most of the villagers suffered him only because no other person with his talents would waste their efforts here. The village’s remoteness kept all communication with any major city at a minimum, which did not help the prospects of the town finding someone better. So the villagers made do with Einar, which did not bother him in the least. His family and the study of Alteration had been his passion for so many years that ambition had all but completely diminished since his masters sent him here. Not many of the villagers really understood his powers, and as such, respect for him and his chosen path held a lackluster place in the community. Of course, the lingering memories of the war and subsequent peace did not help alleviate their aloofness. To many, Einar was nothing more than an eccentric borne out of that war. Even he could not readily believe how swiftly the fading occurred. Why should I expect others to remember?
