by Emmet Moss
Stone shall be my home, my protector, my savior.
Strong shall be my sword, part mind and spirit.
Serve the border, shall I, with full commitment.
Defender of lives, and livelihood, have I become.
Leave no man.
Leave your fears in your past.
I will show courage and loyalty. I will be true to my command.
I am a keeper of the Wilds, a warrior, a comrade.
I am a borderman, and I fear no evil.
Since the fall of the last High King of Caledun, those words had been faithfully spoken aloud whenever the men of the Iron Shield gathered together. The oath spoke to the bonds of brotherhood that existed between the proud men of the borderlands. Many had ill-favoured backgrounds and some had once given up hope on a life that had treated them so poorly.
Leoric sighed as he delivered the final few words, closing his eyes as memories of his own past rushed through his mind. He tried to shake away those old feelings, long since buried, and hopefully forgotten. Could he ever really leave his old life behind…? He took a moment to compose himself, and turned his attention towards Marshal Aram and the words his commander was shouting.
“— threaten our borders. The savages flaunt their newfound freedom and strength. They tread in our fields; they walk to the very gates of our homes. It is time we showed them the true mettle of the Iron Shield. It is time they feared the bite of northern steel. Once more, we shall ride into the Wilds, and claim territory that the enemy has occupied!”
A resounding cheer erupted from those assembled. Leoric was always impressed by the Marshal’s skillful rhetoric. His manner of speaking did much to sway the men. To a new recruit, it must have seemed as though the soldiers of Darkenedge had long sat idle behind their walls of stone, biding precious time against the slow approach of the goblin hordes.
And yet, here instead was a man of action, a leader who would no longer tolerate the insults and attacks on the courage of his troops. Despite his old age, it often appeared as though he was leading his men out into the Wilds for the very first time. Leoric stifled a small chuckle. It would not do for his sergeant to see him laughing at any officer, let alone the commander, but it was difficult not to when you knew these patrols were a monthly excursion. Even during the harsh winter months, the men of Darkenedge left the warm confines of the keep to patrol and raid the goblin settlements to the east.
“Shouldn’t be our company that’s called today,” whispered a man to his left.
“We fought this summer, but I’m not sure Gadey’s men are at full strength yet after the casualties they suffered in that blasted ambush,” Leoric returned with a nod.
“Aye, you might have the right of it, but I still believe Captain Pont’s company would be up before ours.”
Leoric shrugged. “Makes no difference anyways, Wilt. If we don’t go out this month, we’ll be out when the weather turns. Would almost be a blessing to patrol the forest edge now, rather than when the snows are deep.”
“You know me, Leoric, I’m never in a mood to go out and get killed by a savage, snow or not,” Wilt replied.
Leoric turned his attention back towards the front and listened as the senior captain detailed the watch reports for the past month. He didn’t realize someone was calling his name until a hand fell hard on his shoulder.
“D’Athgaran, are you deaf?” Sergeant Alleran hissed in his ear. “There’s a lad from the Watch offices whose been calling your name for a bloody minute. Pay attention, or the next time I’ll box your ears like you’re a child!”
“Aye, Sir,” Leoric responded sheepishly. He caught the eye of the man seeking his attention. The junior officer he had spoken with that morning motioned him over. When a Watch supervisor sought you out, one would be better served not to be found.
“Sorry to bother you D’Athgaran, but it looks like we’re short two on the roster. The cold weather lately has a few men off their feet with the grippe. I already pulled Caleb out of his covers earlier this afternoon, and I’m afraid you’re next on the replacement roster,” the young officer said apologetically.
“You can’t pass me over this time? I barely had time to eat before the general muster was called.” Leoric asked.
“Sorry, soldier. Take a few minutes and visit Ferngold in the kitchens. Tell him I sent you and he’ll set you up real nice for doing us this favour. Understood?”
“Yes, Sir,” he replied dejectedly. Waving briefly to his sergeant, Leoric turned towards the keep and headed in towards the kitchens. Muttering silently to himself, he knew that within moments, all the heat from his bones was bound to seep back into the cold stones of the Crow’s Tower.
The night watch, even at the best of times, could be long and hard. There were periods during the summer when the blistering temperatures threatened to exhaust the sentries on duty. Leoric had never been so lucky. By mid of night, the winds from the north were howling and tore forcefully at the heavy cloak that he held desperately close to his body. Biting snow stung his frozen cheeks, and his fingers had long since gone numb.
He rarely thought of anything but the inviting warmth of a hearth when faced with such elements, but try as he might to dissuade them, old demons scurried through his mind. Visions of his lost daughter and wife refused to grant him peace of mind. Such nights crept up out of the darkness only a few times each year, but arise they did.
He made vain attempts to bury the hardships of his old life, a life he now pretended never existed. He avoided speaking about his family or past with any of the men at the keep. A good borderman always respected a man’s silence. One never questioned the reason a man came to the Iron Shield, and for that Leoric was grateful. Only he knew that Darkenedge had saved his life. If only it could have saved the lives of those he had so desperately loved.
Lost deep in thought, he failed to notice the arrival of two heavily cloaked men.
“Foul weather indeed, D’Athgaran,” grunted the taller of the two visitors. “What say you to some warmth and a few hours of sleep?”
Leoric turned towards the soldiers. Even in the snowy darkness he could make out the sharp-nosed features of Edan Alleran.
“Sergeant?” he sputtered.
“Come on. I need you rested in the morning. You’ve got one free pass on sentry duty this cycle, so you had best enjoy it. Trent here is going to take your place. He’s from Pont’s command,” the stalwart sergeant motioned towards his companion.
Still confused, Leoric followed the officer. “I don’t understand, Sir? Sentries never get the night off.”
“They do when their company leaves in the morning. Can’t have tired men patrolling the Wilds now can we, soldier?” the tall veteran grinned.
Ebin Longshackle… Saron of Elmen Vale… Murran Blackwood… Fallon Birch…
— ‘Sorrow’, Lumber Grieving Tribute
Chapter VI
Oakfeld Patch, Northern Council
Master Praxxus, you don’t understand. It’s not that I don’t want to bring you into the Aeldenwood, it’s just that, by law, I cannot,” Alessan pleaded.
Corian Praxxus would hear no arguments as he was determined to visit the legendary wood, whether anyone agreed with him or not. For the first time since meeting the merchant, Alessan detected a stubborn edginess in the man’s voice; one that hinted at his true nature. He understood then that this was someone who rarely failed to receive what he wanted, or demanded, for that matter.
“The Lumber’s Guild set the law, sir. Only Guild members have permission to enter these woods. Only the southern King’s Road can be used by outsiders and that lies twenty leagues to the southeast. What you ask is simply not possible,” Alessan explained once more.
“And what measures are in place that would stop two men from wandering under the eaves of the forest?” Corian retorted.
> “Well… none I guess, but we would be in violation of the Lumber Code.”
“The same Lumber Code that gives the people of Briar the right to ignore you because of the body you were born with?” hissed the man from Innes Vale.
Pushing back his wooden bench, Alessan stood up and started walking away. “This conversation is over, sir. Don’t pretend to know what I feel. You insult me no less than do those fools who sit at the far end of this hall,” he replied in anger, and directed a cold stare towards the merchant.
What bothered Alessan was not the merchant’s choice of words, but the fact that his own thoughts had, on occasion, mirrored those of the businessman. More often than he cared to admit, he had bitterly cursed the laws of the Lumbers and all they represented. Being an outcast had taken a larger toll on his confidence than he was ever willing to admit.
“You know as well as I, Alessan, that you dream of walking under the boughs of that forest as much as I do” he said. “I apologize for my lack of tact, lad. Now come, let’s discuss our little adventure.”
Glancing around the meeting hall, carefully avoiding ‘Sorrow’ while doing so, Alessan gauged the reactions on the faces of the Lumbers who sat nearby. Not one of the men had even turned an eye in their direction. As far as these men were concerned, a greedy merchant and the town’s ba’caech were of no interest. Why he might have expected anything different, Alessan could not say. Maybe a small part of him fervently hoped that someone actually cared.
Letting his shoulders slump forward, he mustered up some semblance of a smile and rejoined Corian at the long table. “Alright, I’m listening.”
Corian Praxxus was right about one thing in particular; there was no doubt in Alessan’s mind that he yearned to walk in the Aeldenwood. Lumber blood flowed through his veins, and the same passion and love of the natural world lived within him.
To the south, growing larger by the year, loomed the immense mass of trees. As a child, his father would bring him on occasion to the forest’s edge. A few times, Darren Oakleaf had allowed Alessan to explore inside the boundaries of the forest, always cautioning his son about the dangers lurking within the deeper recesses of the wood. How many times since his father’s tragic passing had he dreamed of returning to walk amongst those ancient trees?
Early that day, they had left Oakfeld Patch on foot and had set out to the north. When he was certain that they had not been followed, Alessan turned and guided them eastward. Before long, they had reached the edge of the wood. Towering above them were trees that soared higher than the eye could see. Corian showed none of the apprehension that Alessan tried desperately to hide. Full of questions and eager to touch anything at hand, the portly merchant headed immediately to the edge of the forest.
“Unbelievable, lad. Simply incredible!” Corian exclaimed as he ran his hand along the trunk of a particularly gnarled tree. “Strange to think that such majestic creations evoke such terror and unease among your people.”
“You act as though you have no trees in the Vale, Master Praxxus,” Alessan replied.
“Oh we have trees, but none such as these. The Vale is lush and green, but relatively boring,” he replied. “The S’Kairn mountain ranges are beautiful in their own way, but rather barren. Now these trees are truly a wonder to behold!”
Making their way a little further south, the unlikely duo headed deeper into the shadowy gloom of the Aeldenwood.
Alessan sat down heavily on the edge of a small stream. Kneading his cramped muscles, he breathed a sigh of relief as the soothing pressure washed away some of the pain. He was determined not to show any weakness in front of the merchant. Surprisingly, he found himself warming to the big man’s open and boisterous commentary. He was drastically different from the usual citizen of Innes Vale, and for some strange reason, the favour he garnered with Corian Praxxus had become quite important to Alessan. Although he could detect something darker lurking beneath the big man’s jovial nature, Alessan understood better than most how to maintain a suitable façade. He did so each and every day.
They had walked the better part of a league into the forest when they came across a cheerful stream, upon whose banks they now rested. Corian was off a ways, happily following the noisy little brook as it wound its way further towards the heart of the mighty forest.
Leaning his walking stick against the nearest tree trunk, Alessan bent down, cupped his hands, and dipped them into the frigid stream. The shock as the cold water splashed across his face was exhilarating. Tiny rivulets of the icy liquid continued to slide down the small of his back as he wiped his face dry on the hem of his travelling cloak. Shaking his head to clear the dampened hair from his eyes, Alessan rose to his feet and immediately locked eyes with a strange figure across the stream.
For a moment he thought his vision deceived him; but after wiping his eyes with the back of his hands, the man was still standing there upon the banks. He was unlike any man Alessan had ever seen; deeply tanned, but with a strange greenish tint to his skin that matched the foliage surrounding him.
His long hair was white, almost silver, and cascaded a fair ways down his back. A few colourful feathers, much akin to those that the Drayenmark used, were woven within the locks. His body was slim and slightly taller than Alessan, who barely reached above five lengths. His fingers were long and slender, and his wrists were covered with an odd collection of wooden bracelets. He was dressed in a brown material that looked like leather, but something about the way it settled against his skin seemed out of place. There was a jagged tear in his cloak near the shoulder, and he was favouring the left side of his body, cradling that arm against his body.
Mystified, Alessan turned his attention to the stranger’s face. Sleek white eyebrows matched the man’s hair, and an elongated jawline with high cheekbones gave him the enlightened air of a noble. Even from a distance, Alessan could make out a strange, complex tattoo that surrounded the man’s left eye, trailing down most of the cheek. It countered his refined look, and conveyed a wilder, savage edge to his overall appearance.
But it was his eyes that held Alessan transfixed.
Two uncommonly vivid green orbs stared at him. They held Alessan paralyzed, no matter the expanse of space that separated the two men. They shone like precious jewels, pure emeralds of indescribable beauty.
Alessan was frozen with indecision. It was as if the entire forest was waiting on the reactions of the two men facing each other. He noted the sudden absence of sound, the clarity of the water, and how the surrounding trees seemed to defer to the strange being, their wooden limbs bending as if to bow. And yet, still did Alessan’s gaze return to those stunning eyes.
I drakan’is or in burin.
Alessan swore that no word had been uttered aloud. The strange sounds seemed to have materialized from within his mind. Suddenly terrified, he tried in vain to will his body into motion. He felt panic rising within his stomach, churning uncomfortably, and his heart frantically beating within his chest. His breath began to catch in his throat, and yet still no sound issued forth from his lips.
Kar indin Caledun.
Trying hard to suppress the crashing wave of terror threatening to overwhelm him, Alessan shook his head apologetically as he tried to reply. The words stretched out impossibly from his mouth, but he was finally able to speak. “I don’t understand. Your words make no sense to me.”
A brief flicker of knowing crossed the man’s features. Raising his hands slowly, his lips moved as if muttering something under his breath. For a moment, the paralyzing fear lessened in Alessan’s body.
A tortured soul you carry, came the voice inside his head, clearly understandable. I beseech you not to worry, you are in no danger. I seek only the High King of Caledun.
“There is no High King, and only a shadow of the former Kingdom of Caledun remains,” Alessan replied, confused by the topic of conversation. “Where once the king ruled the
re are now only trees, and so it has been for two centuries.”
The High Seat of Magnach, Caledun?
The words expressed a touch of desperation. An overwhelming sense of sorrow was suddenly conveyed through the simple thought and an unbearably deep pain struck Alessan’s body without warning. He was whelmed to his knees, his eyes watering and his heart dangerously aflutter.
“There is no Caledun, please…” Alessan heard himself plead from far off, “stop the pain.”
The agonizing throbbing ceased immediately. Clutching his chest while gasping for air, Alessan was surprised by the light touch of hands upon his back mere moments after the numbing ache had struck. The figure crouched at his side, an embarrassed and worried frown written plainly across his visage. His eyebrows were deeply furrowed, causing lines to crease the man’s forehead. The jewel-like eyes stared at him intently.
I beg your forgiveness. I had forgotten how powerful my peoples’ skills could be to a human. Rest child, for I would have no harm come to you.
The light touch of the long greenish fingers transmitted a feeling of warmth to his ravaged mind and body. The healing flow traveled quickly through his entire frame, cleansing the remaining spasms of pain that had ricocheted through his insides.
“Who are you?” Alessan managed to utter.
My people call me C’Aelis and I seek the king.
“I’ve told you, Caay-liss,” Alessan repeated, his tongue tripping clumsily over the strange pronunciation of the man’s name. “There is no true king. Besides the duke in Glenvale, there is only the self-proclaimed king, the mad Serian Rhone of the Drayenmark. And he is king in nothing but name.”
Aaah…the Drayenmark, mused the voice. Are they still the keepers of the truth?
“Keepers of the truth?” Alessan frowned. “The Drayenmark are clansmen, nomads who roam the eastern wildlands.”
