by Dan Brigman
A rasping voice from the churned soil caught the men’s attention. “That’s not fair, Quint. I said, we’d meet in Tolsont, once you passed word to Einar of what we discovered.” He sat up against the brick wall. Unscrewing his canteen lid, Kirian took a sip while rubbing his throat. “You didn’t have to be so rough. My neck’ll be sore for days. And just forget singing for my food.” He sipped again, then screwed the lid back on the canteen.
“This,” Quint said, motioning around them, “is not Tolsont. Your friend, Melek, is a man of few words,” Quint said, looking askance at Melek with a smirk. Confused looks passed between Melek and Kirian before Quint extended his hand to Kirian. He rubbed his throat again before grabbing the extended hand. Quint hauled Kirian up, then patted him on both shoulders. “You’ve let your hair grow, young man. Those long golden strands still getting the ladies?”
“He may be a man of few words, but at least he doesn’t manhandle me,” Kirian retorted. Sourness rasped between each word.
“Don’t take my manhandling of you so personally. Like you, I must put on shows for the crowd sometimes. Come on,” he continued after seeing their confused looks, “let’s discuss. I have work to do, so I’ll make myself brief.” Before striding closer to the river, Quint scanned the plains and hills as if an enemy would jump up out of the ground. Satisfied, Quint waved them forward and slowed at each of the natural obstructions—boulder, tree, or small bush—with a hand on a sword. He then peered in all four directions, performing the same scan in the span of two breaths.
“This’ll have to do.”
“My patience is near its breaking point, Quint.” Kirian coughed, then sipped from his freshly-filled canteen. “Tell me this: did you find Einar?”
Quint focused back on the two men. “I did.”
“Good. Excellent. Where is he—” Kirian broke off. Quint’s face had a sheepish look, something Kirian could not ever remember seeing on his face. “What?” The flatness in Kirian’s voice prompted a disgusted snort from Quint.
“He is north with Saen.”
“Saen,” Kirian stated. “Saen Lorst. The inn keeper?” Quint nodded. “Then you’ve got some explaining to do, Stoutheart.” Quint nodded again. Kirian turned to Melek, his face a mask of confusion.
“Saen is an old friend. Quint, here, is going to explain why she traveled all the way here instead of being convinced at Durik’s Pass to stay home.”
“For one thing,” Quint said, his voice gruff. When he had their attention, he continued, “I didn’t meet them Durik’s Pass. Einar and Saen were halfway to Tolsont when I met them on the road.” Kirian’s befuddlement had become outlined by his scrunched brow. “They had already departed to find Ellia and the children. Oh, yes,” he replied to Kirian’s outraged gaze, “they are traveling south.”
“The children, too?”
Kirian and Melek sighed simultaneously before the shorter man said, “You are going to need to start from the beginning.” Just as Quint nodded again, Melek broke the modicum of silence.
“Considering what we’ve seen on our travels to get here, I fear for the safety of Einar’s family.”
This time Quint’s eyes cast concern, but he shook his head. “Let me begin and then you can tell me what you’ve seen.” While they offered succinct recollections of their respective travels on the road, a lone man, a beggar dressed in torn rags, passed by. Quint gave the beggar a tarnished gold coin, and they watched him hurry away out of ear shot before they continued again.
Quint murmured when Kirian finished, “If your story wasn’t as fantastic as mine, I’d be calling you both liars. Einar is to meet with his father when they reach Tolsont, and I’m not welcome, at least where they can see me.” Quint let a long sigh out at Kirian’s confused glower. “Look,” Quint resumed, “Einar and Saen are both under a great deal of stress. Seeing you and the implications of you being here will just disturb Einar’s newfound peace. You should travel back to North Sacclon. Stay there until I can settle matters with them.”
“Fine,” Kirian said. “But we can’t stay there for long. We’ve,” Kirian offered, pointing at himself and Melek, “been in the middle of the hornet’s nest for a while now.”
“I understand. You’ll need to stay somewhere other than Yabusan’s. I don’t plan on resting there overnight, but we’ll stop to eat, at least. Cities are not welcoming to me anymore.”
“Yabusan’s is the only decent place,” Kirian whined.
Melek ignored him and offered, “I’m glad I’ll meet Einar and Saen soon, but I don’t want to deal with the taint of a city for long. Fear takes hold quickly when humans gather in large numbers.”
Quint squinted up at Melek. “It’s the people, here, who have the taint. And it’s not all of them, thankfully.”
“I know Einar and Saen will be pleased to see me, especially knowing what is going on in this city,” Kirian interrupted. Pleasantness had replaced the whining tone.
Quint coughed, catching the other two men’s attention. His tanned face reddened, as he rubbed the back of his neck. Melek and Kirian stared at him for a breath before Melek stated, a dryness accentuating each word, “You haven’t told this Einar or Saen why you traveled so far to retrieve them?” The words held nothing accusatory, just a simple statement of fact.
“Has a blight-spoken taken your senses?” Kirian’s voice reverberated across the river’s water.
Quint’s face shifted to anger. “Kirian. Keep your voice down.” A hand rested on a sword hilt and his jaw tightened. “Perhaps, you’ve forgotten what I just recounted to you. The man has lost has family. The last thing he needs to know that a Blighter is searching for him, and quite possibly one of the most powerful that’s ever lived.”
“Still doesn’t matter,” Kirian replied, his voice tense yet softer, his eyes on Quint’s sword hand. He knew what that meant. They locked gazes for a moment before Kirian harrumphed and threw his hands up. “You should have told them. Considering what Einar is, he deserves to know.” Kirian glanced down and relief washed over him. Quint had released the sword. Kirian absently nudged a loose stone with his boot tip. “So, we could be out of North Sacclon tomorrow evening.” When Quint nodded, Kirian continued, “As long as Melek agrees, we will wait at the River’s Bounty until we hear from you or the other two. I hope it’s not long because that place is a dump.”
Both men looked up at Melek. He scratched his scraggly beard and said, “I agree. Besides, I can finally get this bush trimmed while we wait.”
Quint replied, “Maybe a clean-shave?”
Melek shot Quint a stare that would have wilted stone.
Quint paled and Kirian erupted in laughter before patting Melek on the shoulder.
“Thank you, Melek,” Kirian said between laughs, as all three paced to their mounts.
26 — Peril and Purpose
Einar and Saen settled into an uncomfortable silence as they closed upon the small, yet thriving town. Despite their worries, curiosity tickled their minds; neither companion could recall exactly when they had last seen the town. Certainly, several years had passed, and the town’s people had wasted no time in the meantime. The un-walled town radiated, in a nearly-perfect circle, outward from a large island mound in the center of the Vespow River. From their vantage point, only the huge grain silos along the shoreline blocked a small portion of the river’s far shore. The exactitude of the Lord Mayor’s planning over the past fifty years was known not only in Sacclon, but as far away as Serad and Amak, or at least Einar had overheard from merchants stopping at the Pass.
Planning under Lord Mayor Jhason Fhal and his famed architects and commanders brought North Sacclon’s militia to the forefront of the realm, even to rival the relatively new Guardians in discipline, if not in size. Nine watch towers, at least fifty paces high, had pointed roofs of gray slate. Locals had quarried the stone from the nearby jagged hills of the Veinriven Mountains. Flagpoles pointed skyward from the top of each tower; each held billowing flags dyed gold. An
embroidered white symbol on the cloth was blurred by the wind, yet all three companions knew the symbol without looking closely.
Many of other numerous and squat one- and two-story structures comprising the remainder of town also had the same gray slate shingles. Einar recalled that nearby clay pits had offered local brick makers and layers a ready source for the bricks; most of the buildings had brick walls in striking contrast to all the structures they had seen north of the town. Two massive water mills stood on opposite sides of the island and appeared to be hunched over the town’s smaller buildings, in anticipation of their incessant work grinding sacc, corn, and other grains. Despite the distance, Einar and Saen could hear the river pushing the mills’ wheel steadily. Well-greased axles still moaned under the weight.
Einar pointed in wonder to the road ahead. The road traveled straight south through the hills instead of skirting around, which had been the normal route in previous years. He noticed a black spot on a hillside where the road entered, then disappeared, which could only be a massive tunnel. Initially focused upon the hillside, a rhythmic clinking noise ahead of them drew the companion’s eyes toward Quint. As Slant trotted ahead, his metal horseshoes glanced off the stone roadway. The roadway extended nearly twenty feet wide and was completely level with the surrounding field’s brown and black dirt. The wintersacc stood high, seen for hundreds of paces west. The waving golden-brown grains flitted in the slight wind to stop only at the true roadway, which formed two perfect ribbons of stone. One traveled directly south toward the tunnel and one slightly curved into town. The roads in town had been carefully surveyed as even their straightness and consistent width held the companions’ attention.
Saen whispered, “I’ve heard of Lord Fhal’s leadership capabilities, but even Valen would be jealous of just the last few years’ progress.” Einar pondered that once remotely impossible thought; even the Lord Chancellor regarded Valen’s integrity higher than any other Lord Mayor, Einar remembered hearing once. As Einar glanced at Saen, her smirk softened his incredulity.
Einar replied, equally quiet while looking at Quint, “I never believed my instructors, as I’ve spent far too little time here, but they always told me that Fhal used Alteration to enhance as many aspects of his civic responsibilities as possible. Last time I was through here, they had just started on the third tower.” Waving at the road, he continued, “And this roadway still wanted to suck your boots off in the springtime after winter melt combined with the rains.”
A loud cough brought the companion’s attention ahead. Quint, still atop Slant, stood at the intersection. A post with numerous wooden signs stood at the road’s intersection. The signs held the names of all towns north and south of North Sacclon. They glanced upward at Quint. A plain glint of frustration brushed his face before he said, “Now that I have your attention, please keep quiet.” The request, more of a demand, brought a smile to his lips as the two stood watching, albeit struggling to remain calm at the request. “There is at least one detachment of Guardians here.”
“Ten is not so bad,” Saen murmured. Despite her outward calm, her voice wavered.
“It is when you don’t want their attention.” He paused before letting out a long sigh. Einar continued, “Trust me. These Guardians have been more than a nuisance for several years now.”
Quint looked down at Einar, “See, Saen, and you told me your friend has no sense. To think I almost believed you.”
“I never—” Saen began but muttered the rest under her breath before a hand on her shoulder calmed her rising ire.
“Come Saen, let’s see how Quint does.”
Quint nodded in unhesitating appreciation. He spun Slant back to the town not even a quarter mile away, according to the sign. Quint stayed just two paces ahead of the two companions, in the middle of the road. The curious smoke plume—white and gray—had lessened in intensity since their first glimpse, and the building which had once stood near the stone path lay in smoldering ruins. Within a few minutes all three caught sight of several guards standing in a semi-circle while one stood in front speaking in lurid, yet indistinguishable words to one black-armored man: a Xavad Guardian. The golden-tinted plain leather armor of the town’s guard stood in stark contrast to the Guardian’s black chainmail.
Even from their distance, all three companions made out the emblem of Sacclon emblazoned on the guard’s armor. The simple bared hand grasping a sheath of sacc would be known to anyone in the province. And from the look of the chainmail-donned man, the conversation held nothing Einar or Saen wanted anything to do with. Numerous town dwellers watched the display with reticence; all the people, except the solitary Guardian, stood covered in soot. Several held wooden buckets seemingly forgetting they still grasped the rope handles. Slouched shoulders and tired eyes matched the work they had just finished. Only the sergeant, based on the insignia painted on the leather armor, seemed willing to interject, despite disgust lining many of their faces.
The lone man’s chainmail, although black, lustered as only a careful hand could provide. Curiosity lined his gray-tinted face as the man attended to the sergeant. The Guardian held a black leather helmet under one arm. The other hand rested on the hilt of one of his two shortswords belted on either side of his waist. Another sword’s hilt poked up from behind the man’s back. His thick, graying hair had been cut short. Enough so that no one could grab it, Einar thought. The Guardian’s pale face held few wrinkle lines, but his nose had been broken at least once.
The three companions reached earshot of the sergeant’s ongoing monologue, and the Guardian’s gaze briefly passed over them. Einar thought the Guardian’s eyes, dark brown and nearly black, lingered a full breath longer on him than Quint or Saen. The eyes held an oddness Einar could not place. The Guardian’s quick smirk upon seeing Einar disappeared when he looked upon on the other two, confirming Einar’s suspicion.
The Guardian turned back to the sergeant when the officer yelled, “Look at me when I’m talking—"
The Guardian’s eyes narrowed to cut off whatever else the sergeant had to say.
After a palpable hesitation, the Guardian replied, his voice clear and sharp. “I have heard enough. This man,” the Guardian’s empty hand pointed at a figure lying in the middle of the road five paces away, “assaulted me.” Saen’s gasp brought Quint’s head around, but Einar kept focused on the discussion.
“That may be true, Guardian Sao Thaos,” the sergeant began then stopped to take a deep breath. Einar noticed his bald head, crisscrossed with scars, belied the relative youth of his face. “But do you have witnesses who can back up what you are telling me and my men?”
He pointed with his thumb behind him. All eyes, including the three companions’, turned to Guardian Thaos. His eyes had widened in seeming disbelief, yet he moved only enough to grasp a sword hilt; the sound of Thaos’s knuckles cracking caused the sergeant to lick his lips furtively. The crowd stood staring, waiting for the man to respond, and only the sound of popping lumber within the ruined building and the still-popping knuckles could be heard. Those who stood near the scene did not move, either for fear of attracting attention or simple fascination. Anyone approaching to either side of the tableau turned to find a new destination.
Einar blinked, and as his eyes opened, Thaos had released the grip on his helmet and moved. Einar could only see a blackness blurring toward the seemingly-frozen guard. Before the helmet struck the ground, Thaos’s short blade gleamed in the setting sunlight and stopped just short of digging into the man’s neck. The second shortsword poked at the man’s armpit. Blood began seeping from the sliced skin, soaking his golden undershirt, and the man stood glaring into Guardian Thaos’s eyes, not daring to look down. The guard’s bared teeth and wide eyes belied any hint of hiding any fear.
The three town guards, still standing behind the sergeant, jumped at Thaos’s act. Within a breath all grasped their own shortswords; before the blades cleared an inch of the sheath, the crowd, focus riveted to the scene, heard the
gray-haired man’s sharp voice.
“Stop! Or you will be swearing in a new sergeant. Do not test my—”
The Guardian’s words fell away. A dimming darkness enveloped the area, as if thick clouds blotting out the sun had moved in unnoticed. Everyone, including the Guardian, glanced upward while the gray-haired man pushed his blades toward the sergeant. The sergeant’s neck wound deepened, and blood flowed in rivulets down his neck; the shirt under the leather armor soaked the blood. As Thaos turned his eyes from the sergeant, blazing light flashed along the street between the Guardian, Einar, and Saen.
A short blade of pure whiteness struck twice, once at each of the two swords still held outstretched at the sergeant’s body, and they flew backward into the charred timbers. The blade of light stopped in front of Thaos’s eyes, the tip only a hair’s width from the bridge of his nose. Grayish-black eyes stared outward and focused. Rage intermixed with hate, intensifying with the realization of what he looked upon.
Einar stood smirking and Saen moved closer to his side. Even from the corner of his eye, Einar could see the tautness at the edge of her lips. A collectively-held breath released when the sword-bearer said, with no hint of arrogance, “You are quick, dog of Xavad. But you will never be quicker than me.”
The wind shifted and streamers of wood smoke tailed over to the two men, partially shrouding them in a faded grayness. Even through the thick smoke surrounding Quint and Thaos, Quint’s sword pulsated with light, and the darkness concurrently deepened. Einar thought he saw the edges shimmering, and for a moment the sword became nearly all that he could see. Thaos’s eyes had shifted to the blade, and the hatred and rage had narrowed to something Einar had not thought possible with one of the black-clad Guardians: fear.
