The Alterator's Light

by Dan Brigman

  Clouds to the west, high in the atmosphere and dominating the skyline, floated, beckoning either a slight dampening or an overeager thunderstorm. Kirian caught Melek glancing upward from time to time with no hint of quickening their pace. Only once toward mid-morning when Kirian muttered a complaint about their slow pace did Melek answer.

  “We’ll not tire the horses. They’ve been respectable enough to give us their backs. We’ll not shame ourselves by making them move faster than necessary. Besides, we’ll be in Lyrstra this evening.”

  As Kirian spurred his brown forward, he gripped the mane to keep from falling over a long path of loose stones. The dappled red craned his neck to nuzzle the brown. Kirian opened his mouth to speak but Melek’s wide yawn forestalled any of Kirian’s words. When Melek lowered the hand to cover his mouth, he said, sleepiness infusing the words, “Kirian, I’m tired. I need some sleep and your prattling on has kept me awake at every step. I know you’re concerned about Einar, but we won’t get there any quicker.” He looked at Kirian and he took in the man’s eyes. “Will you let me sleep?”

  Kirian could only nod and kick his horse forward. Redness on Kirian’s face threatened to match Melek’s mount. I’ll be damned if I let him see. Until Sol reached its zenith Kirian kept watch as best as he could. With Melek atop the red, it followed Kirian without fail. Even crossing the constantly rolling Molston Hills meant no distraction for the bright-eyed mounts, ever twitching their long-bristled tails at flies. The black insects landed, causing muscles spasms where they bit, all with little notice from the horses. Without a hat or trees to block Sol’s light, Kirian’s constant squinting brought with it a headache. Just as Kirian’s hundredth thought of stopping for a rest at the top of one of the near endless hills, he caught sight of another small grove near the Whiterush.

  He kneed his brown to the direction and heard clopping behind him. In less than ten minutes, Kirian slid off the mount and patted Melek’s leg. A glinting arc of light stopped Kirian’s hand. Another inch and Melek’s dagger would have been firmly embedded in Kirian’s hand.

  With closed eyes, Melek muttered, “It’s not a good idea to touch me while I’m sleeping.” A wide yawn swallowed much of what followed, yet Kirian made out, “I tend to overreact. Slightly.”

  “Yes, well, I know that now,” Kirian replied dryly. “Time for lunch, if you can keep your eyes open long enough. Just a few hours out from Lyrstra, now.”

  “Sleep will hide my hunger,” Melek said. A gentle snoring replaced any words which may have followed. With his chin buried deep into his chest, Kirian paused long enough to ensure the huge man would stay put.

  “If you fall, I’m not loading you back into the saddle,” Kirian mumbled, as he tied the brown with the only rope either companion had to a mature pin oak. Kirian sighed and within minutes he crouched at the edge of the Whiterush. Ripples, caused by unseen fish lunging for water striders and dragonflies, kept Kirian’s attention while he ate a meal of goose jerky and goat cheese. He sipped from his canteen between bites, but even that could not hinder the bitterness. The river’s muddiness gave off the odor of dead and decaying fish. A ripple forty paces north in the middle caught his attention while he finished a third piece of jerky. The smooth-flowing Whiterush, at least at this resting point, allowed for the almost flat south-moving surface to reflect clouds, the penetrating cerulean sky, and ribbons of gray-black smoke. The small rounded river rocks crunched under Kirian’s boots as he stood, his head turning northward.

  “What is that?”

  Not expecting an answer, Kirian put a hand up to block some of the glare of light reflecting from the river’s surface. Far in the distance, streamers of smoke billowed upward and to the east. Diagonal lines of gray-black eventually smoke dispersed into the quick-moving cloud wisps. By the time Kirian counted at least thirty different streamers, he turned back to the horses two hundred paces away in the grove. Melek still slouched, chin deep into his chest.

  Each churning crunch of the river rock brought unwanted thoughts. A city burning. Dead children, women, and men. Livelihoods gone, forever. Nothing good.

  “Damn his sleep,” Kirian mumbled before he yelled, “Melek wake! Wake up, you big oaf.” Kirian readied to yell out again, but Melek’s head whipped up, a hand on a dagger.

  Bleary-eyed Melek spun his head toward Kirian’s gaping run. From twenty paces away, Kirian pointed to the north and shouted, “Look!”

  Melek turned to stare, confusion a mask Kirian had never thought possible upon the ever-vigilant Horselord. Melek released his grip on the dagger’s handle and placed the hand above his brow.

  Kirian skidded to stop near the brown and asked before mounting, “Do you see it?”

  A slight nod prompted Kirian to follow up, “Let’s go then. We have no time to waste! Either we skirt around or help put out the fires.” Melek’s reddened eyes blinked in long intervals, his breathing in deep inhalations and exhalations.

  The Horselord drew out each word, Kirian gritting his teeth with each pause. “We’re twenty miles out, Kirian. Whatever started that many large fires will not be anything we need to tend to. It’ll be ash by the time we reach it.”

  Fire blazed behind Kirian’s eyes. Ice lined each word. “Lyrstra has many children. Fathers and mothers who protect them. Perhaps you’ve thought the world ended when your people slaughtered each other. But that was your world. I can’t, and you certainly can’t, help that now. My world and their world,” Kirian said, pointing again, “needs help. Your world, now.” The last words, whispered, rang in Melek’s ears. His eyes had narrowed and shimmered in the sunlight.

  “I’ll follow,” Melek mumbled after a few deep breaths, as if he hoped they would help his obvious fatigue. “But I sleep for two hours. If you wake me before, then whatever we face, you will have only one loud-mouthed fool to deal with, as tiredness will have slain me.”

  “Agreed.” Nearly before Kirian finished the word, Melek gripped the red’s mane and let sleep do its work.

  Kirian smiled, despite it all, and led the mounts north along the implacable Whiterush.

  Sol had ascended to its apex when Kirian spotted the tops of Lyrstra’s low buildings. The streamers of smoke they had seen hours earlier widened with each passing hilltop. Despite Kirian’s urge to spur the horses into a gallop at each chance, he glanced at the sleeping form and relented. I need him rested, not dead.

  The rolling hills rose higher to the east and west forming a wall of brown and red soil blotted with occasional mature red cedars, shrubs with short, bristling thorns, and tufts of deep green grasses. Palm-wide cacti no higher than the horses’ hooves dotted rock-strewn glades permeating many of the hillsides. Each hoof dug into bare soil for purchase. Other than the cedars, nothing to hide behind. Despite the seeming ease, Kirian scanned ahead for signs of tracks, human or otherwise. Only the occasional red-tailed fox or gray squirrel caught his attention long enough to disregard it as a threat.

  Across the slow-moving Whiterush, Kirian saw a near-perfect symmetry between the alternate sides of the Molston Hills cut by the ancient river. The still air offered little help against the waxing heat of the winter morning. The smell of smoke, faint yet perceptible, hung in the air. Despite the myriad blazes, the distance carried no sound; the horses’ occasional stamping broke the silence.

  Kirian adjusted his jacket and shirt before muttering, “I’ll have to check a calendar in Lyrstra. It’s got to be spring by now.” Kirian wiped his brow and let the free hand drop when he reached the last high ridge before the descent to Lyrstra less barely a half-mile further north. All he could do was grip the brown’s mane.

  “I thought it’d be bad, but not this bad,” Kirian said, nearly yelling, hoping the words would wake Melek.

  “Fine job getting us here,” Melek voiced through a yawn, his eyes still closed and head down. “I’ve not slept that well atop a horse in months.” Kirian heard Melek sniff, a noisy deep inhalation, before he followed with, “Smoke?” His eyes opened
to slits and his voice strangled at the sight.

  The once-burgeoning trade village lay in near-ruin. Fire billowed from almost all the wooden structures. The heated air carried the smoke upward thousands of feet until dissipating. Few of the buildings stood close to another, yet fire had spread from building to building as if connected by a fuse. They could see several people rushing around the edges of town. Their frenetic movements held no discernable purpose, but they did not flee. Kirian and Melek exchanged an uneasy glance until they both turned back. Their attention riveted to the sight for several moments until a small black ribbon of movement along the Molston Road leading away to the northeast diverted their eyes.

  Melek held a hand up, shading his eyes, then said after a moment’s focus, “A contingent of armored men. All wearing gray and white armor. Can’t tell the type. Several others, though, all of whom are in front of the line are wearing different-colored armor.”

  Kirian peered ahead, too, and replied, “Your vision is crisper than mine. See any civilians?”

  Melek shook his head. “None in the line. All of them seem to be working to put out the fires.” He paused while scanning the decimated village, then continued, “We’ll need to bypass the town. I can’t tell from here if there are any soldiers. Seems to be a Guardian mixed in there with some men, I assume, covered in black cloth. Unless, Kirian, you’re willing to forestall your mission to help a few villagers?” Melek’s gaze shifted to the soldiers marching northwest.

  “No, I’m not,” Kirian replied before swallowing. “However much I hate to admit it. Einar is my priority now after we seek Arstle. I hope Quint has contacted Einar by now. Besides, we can’t take a chance encountering any folks who may be working for my master.”

  Melek whipped his head back around to Kirian. “What is that supposed to mean?” Kirian noted that one of Melek’s hands floated over a dagger hilt.

  “Calm down, big man,” Kirian offered, his hands up palms forward. “I’ve forsaken those people. I worked for Arstle first and foremost, but sometimes other jobs filled the gaps. Arstle’s not exactly a rich man, although he should be considering his age and his predilections for saving. I took some money from Jonathan Stoutheart to find rogue Blighters and report back to him of their whereabouts.”

  Melek lowered the hand back to the red’s mane, but his face held contempt which grew with each passing word.

  “Money from that bastard,” Melek muttered.

  “Yes, but not any longer. While I’ve broken my contract, he doesn’t know that yet.” Kirian’s smirk lingered under Melek’s withering gaze.

  “I’ve not met this Stoutheart, but from what I’ve heard, he doesn’t take kindly to those who don’t honor their oaths.”

  Kirian nodded, then replied, “You’ve heard right. I don’t plan on telling him anytime soon. He’ll just assume I’m still out looking. It’s been weeks since I’ve seen him.”

  Melek’s contemptuous demeanor remained as he shifted his gaze northward. “You’ve really put me in a tough spot. Now I’m trying to stop what destroyed my village only to find another village sacked by these people.” He waved his hand toward the departing line of soldiers. “On top of all that, you’ve got some brutal general giving you orders.” Melek paused. “Why exactly did you take on a contract from such a man? Has fear taken hold and pulled your reason away?”

  “It’s much too long of a tale to tell now,” Kirian offered before sighing. “Know this—I should have never let Quint go alone. I had hoped we could distract those who followed us by splitting up.”

  “Who is this Quint?”

  “An old friend. You could even say family. You’ll never meet him, if we keep standing here gaping—”

  Just then, an explosive blast reached their eyes before the concussive sound wave spooked the horses. Blocking their eyes against the fiery ruin’s glare, Kirian and Melek focused on the point. A mill at the southernmost border of the village, with a massive waterwheel, lay in ruins. Wooden pieces had been thrown upward and what remained of the wheel floated on the river, bobbing at the water’s pressure. Buildings nearby the mill had exploded as if a giant had kicked them absently.

  The explosion had blown apart the people who had been scurrying around the village attempting to put out fires. Kirian cringed at the sight of a person’s torso laying on one of the still-whole wooden buildings. A few people could be seen stirring twenty paces away, their clothes smoking. Little else could be seen from the distance, but even from their vantage point Melek and Kirian noted some of those survivors struggled to stand, at least those who could. One had both legs blown off, and several others looked around aimlessly for missing arms, hands, or feet.

  “Even though it sickens me even saying this, Melek, we must move. If I stay here any longer, I’m going to try to help those people.”

  Melek swallowed, then said, “Agreed.” He spurred the red to a trot. Kirian followed within a pace, purposefully keeping his eyes fixed on their destination.

  After twenty minutes, Kirian and Melek had not spoken a word, but they stood at the edge of a ford across a narrow unnamed tributary leading to the Whiterush. The ford had been built less than a mile east of the village many years ago, yet anyone traveling south or north used it when the ferry needed repairs or if a traveler simply did not want prying eyes. The ford’s wide white, black, and brown stones had been rounded by centuries of passing water lay in plain view from the shoreline. Two burnt orange posts with large oaken signs offered easy orientation points. The white words on the companions’ side had been recently been repainted with “100 miles to Tolsont” with a simple white arrow pointing to the north. Several other smaller towns—Iveness, Vesper’s Point, and North Sacclon—had been painted on smaller signs, all without a mile designation, but with a north-pointing arrow.

  Melek scanned the ford, barely twenty paces long, for a few moments, while Kirian glanced ahead.

  “The Lower Plains of the Fallen will offer no cover,” Kirian said to break the silence. “We will be out in the open for days. Anyone will see us.”

  “Yes, but that works in our favor,” Melek retorted.

  “How so?” Kirian wondered.

  “We will see them, too.”

  Kirian nodded, feeling foolish. “Of course.” Kirian turned toward the brown as he felt his face flush. He scanned south and offered, before coughing to release the tightness in his throat. “I don’t see anyone following us.”

  “You can be sure someone has seen us,” Melek said. “We’ll have a tail before the day’s end.”

  Kirian shrugged and turned when he heard splashing. The red’s hooves thumped against the stones with each step giving off a plop-thump. By the time Melek pulled up on the other side, Kirian had reached half-way, soaked by each splash of the mount’s steps.

  “Now, we ride!” Melek shouted when the brown’s front hooves reached solid ground. Kirian could do little but catch up.

  The mounts carried the two companions over the next two days with no issue. Cold rain persisted for an hour on the second day. The dry, thawing ground had soaked up the moisture, leaving the road north without a hinderance. Melek resorted to his adopted taciturn demeanor, only giving any sign of emotion when he flourished and threw a dagger at a young doe, which was strangely unafraid of the mounts or their riders. Melek’s yell of success cut off as abruptly as it began when the deer did not instantly drop. The deer had stumbled fifteen yards before finally succumbing to the wound. Melek dismounted near the struggling creature, whispering thankfulness for its life and that it would preserve their lives to reach their goals. With one swing of the greatsword, Melek ended its suffering.

  That evening, their stomachs growled while they waited for the meat to finish cooking over the small fire. The campsite near the Whiterush River remained quiet as they finished the meal and sipped water gathered from a nearby stream. The water, even boiled, tasted like dirt.

  “We’ll need to bypass Tolsont and continue traveling north,” Kirian s
aid, mainly to himself, while he stared into the flickering flames of their miniscule campfire. Few trees dotted the plains, and the silver maple they slept near had failed to drop many dead branches over the winter.

  Melek nodded as he chewed on a strip of deer meat, staring upward at Einmyria and a sky riddled with stars. The horses knickered less than ten paces away, their heads down nipping at the high brown grass and winter wheat. The first few days had been rough for the mounts, not having been used to carrying people on their backs for any distance. Melek’s words and careful attention alleviated their plight, Kirian noted when he turned to the horses. Large silhouettes were all he could make out, and they never needed hobbling once Melek finished his nightly ritual.

  Melek’s voice brought Kirian’s gaze back to the fire. “I’ve only been there once. It’s pretty but it stinks. So, I’m fine going past it. Where is Arstle’s current place?”

  “West of Vesper’s Point. We’ll have to take the ford near Tolsont and travel on the west side of the Vespow. His shack was about 10 miles in from the river and almost in the mountains.”

  “Good,” Melek replied. He bit into the venison strip again, swallowing a drink of water, then stood.

  “Is a watch necessary?” Kirian asked. “We’re days from anywhere, and I’ve not seen a thing—no abnormal tracks and no sign of anyone.”

  “You’ve not been looking.” Melek’s dryness took Kirian aback.

  Is he joking? His mind muttered an incredulous curse, and he took a deep breath before catching Melek’s eyes. “What does that mean?”

  Melek shrugged, holding his palms down toward the fire. “You’ve either been asleep while riding or Arstle didn’t teach you well.” Melek stared at Kirian while continuing, “Before you get upset, know that one person follows us. I can’t make out if it’s a female or male, but the person is doing a fine job of staying out of sight.”

  “So how did you see our follower?” Kirian offered, his incredulity plain upon his face. “I’m open to learning new ways of perceiving my environment.”