by Emmet Moss
I am my own man and I will do as I please.
Standing alone atop the wall, Leoric gazed back across the wide open fields of Lok’Dal hie. He imagined Kieri standing in the compound, that disarming smile upon her face. Making a silent promise to return and save the woman he loved, Leoric grasped the rope and turned away.
“Goodbye…” he muttered, stepping over the edge of the wall.
Kieri stood quietly beside Cara in the same spot where they had watched the fleeing figures cross the nearest field and head off to the west. Both women had remained standing there staring into the darkness even after the shady outlines of their friends had long disappeared from view. She had valiantly held back her tears as Leoric left the compound, but in the end, the emotion of their parting was far too painful to hide. Now that the men had vanished into the night, a heartfelt sob wracked her small frame.
Leaning on her healthy leg, Cara put a comforting hand on Kieri’s shoulder. “It’s all right, Kieri, it’s all right…”
“I miss him already,” she replied between ragged breaths.
“You know he would have stayed for you,” Cara said quietly.
Wiping a fresh set of tears from her cheeks Kieri turned towards the other woman. “Like Drake would have done for you, had he lived to see this night?”
“Yes, he would have stayed, the brave fool,” Cara eyes brimmed with her own sorrow. “And I would have sent him away, just as you did Leoric.”
“I had no choice,” Kieri shook her head in frustration. “I had no choice,” she repeated.
Subconsciously she let her hands slide over her belly, caressing the area with loving care.
Glancing at Kieri, Cara’s eyes widened. “Does he know?”
“He wouldn’t have left had he known,” Kieri replied.
“And it is his?”
A tremor of fear rippled through Kieri’s body, but her eyes blazed with passion as she proudly met her friend’s intent stare. “After Leoric and I were together, I never let Joram touch me. Even when Leoric was gone, I fought him off.”
“Good,” Cara nodded.
Putting her hands tenderly over her stomach, Kieri closed her eyes and whispered. “The child I carry is Leoric’s.”
Come all ye children, look what I’ve found,
Come find a seat, come gather ‘round.
For here is a tale of magic and might,
A tale of courage, a tale of fright.
—Author Unknown
Chapter XXXIX
Wickam, Protectorate
The town of Wickam materialized unexpectedly in the early morning mist. A lengthy drizzle brought with it a thick fog that greatly hampered Bider’s vision. Constantly adjusting his position on the mount, the young scout tried to find some semblance of comfort in the saddle. He had never been a strong rider, and his natural lack of skill, compounded by his various injuries, only hindered him further.
Four hard days of riding could take a toll on a healthy man, let alone one in his condition. Gavin had insisted they push onwards, promising a rest once they reached the town that could now be seen through the dissipating fog. The tall spire of Wickam’s Church of Arne stabbed upward, the steeple seeming to float while the base of the structure remained hidden. As with most towns, the church towered high above the earth. The place of worship and piousness reached up to the heavens and the high realms of the gods.
Reflecting on the harrowing flight from the Ca’lenbam, Bider was anxious to finally arrive at their destination. The night of their escape Gavin had returned to their tent and hurriedly gathered up what little supplies he had collected. Bider was shocked by the stern look etched on his captain’s features. Gavin Silveron had looked grim and dejected; older suddenly than his years, with deeply creased lines of worry now fixed near the corners of his eyes. Bider knew better than to broach the subject with the notoriously private man, preferring instead to busy himself with struggling to stand, a feat that had taken considerable effort in his state. The horses were tied just beyond the tent, the two animals saddled and ready for a quick departure.
The next four days had passed in a harrowing blur. Bider had only sporadic memories of the first day of travel. In a cloudy haze, he did remember a nighttime ride and foray into the Caeronwood, the forest the two riders had shadowed since their departure from the Ca’lenbam. They had slept in their saddles, stopping only briefly to rest and water the horses. Gavin had remained aloof.
Bider grimaced as he shifted once more in his saddle. Although healing rapidly, his broken ribs still ached. Sleeping with the injury was almost impossible, as every shift while slumbering brought with it stabs of sharp discomfort. His ankle was another matter altogether. Even with Gavin’s promise to have the learned healers of Dragon Mount examine the break, the young scout wondered if he would ever fully recover from the serious wound. The new guards of the Protectorate had been quite thorough while beating him.
“How long do you estimate, Captain?” he turned in the saddle.
“We’ll be there soon enough, Coren,” Gavin said, a flicker of relief dancing in his eyes for the first time on the journey. “I’ll even buy the first round if you manage to not ask me the same question again,” he quipped.
Amused by the response, Bider willed himself ever closer to Wickam.
Gavin was grateful for Coren’s excitement. The last few days had been grueling for the injured man, but Gavin knew that any delay in reaching the town would have spelled their doom. No doubt his clear message had been received, and if Gerald Armsmater’s reputation was even partially accurate, the man would soon be seeking retribution. And so, Gavin had planned on being nowhere near the Ca’lenbam when the search for his whereabouts began.
Although Coren’s body was healing rapidly, he was still concerned about the young scout’s psyche. The Eagle Runner had been very close to Orn and he had yet to broach the subject of the man’s unjust death. Gavin had also chosen to remain silent, at least for the time being, regarding the hangings he had witnessed at the Gathering. The reaction of the crowd, so bloodthirsty and frenzied at the event, had rattled him more than he wanted to admit. That so many people saw nothing wrong with the coup that had left so many men dead, was unsettling in and of itself.
Did no one truly realize that Gadian Yarr’s play for power in the south was only the beginning? The powerful councillor from Imlaris would not be content with the cities comprising the Protectorate. His nomination of a general and subsequent fielding of an army only promised more bloodshed.
Shrugging off the troubling thoughts, Gavin attempted to focus on the present. Although everything had progressed as planned these last four days, an unsettling event that had transpired while camped beneath the protective cover of the Caeronwood had left him uneasy.
Taking shelter in the forest after the overcast sky threatened a heavy downpour, Gavin set up camp and left Coren to rest as he went searching for a source of fresh water. Discovering a stream only a few hundred paces into the woods, he bent down to fill their canteens, his hand coming to rest on the forest floor. A sudden shudder spread through his fingers, and he was inexplicably drawn towards a small clearing.
He walked quietly among the trees in the small grove, marveling at its beauty. A small pond in the center of the clearing caught his attention. Lightly brushing the surrounding trees with his fingertips, he meandered through the copse. As he neared the water, his hand brushed up against an immense oak tree towering hundreds of feet in the air, its branches thick and strong, the leaves lush and green.
Abruptly, a bright flash blinded him and he stumbled to the ground with a sharp cry. A terrible vision suddenly filled his mind. It was as if he was seeing through the eyes of some creature; the beast moving with great speed through the trunks of a forest. The heavy pounding tread of the creature’s gait sent shivers through Gavin’s spine. Ragged breath
ing accompanied the vision, the sound inhuman and terrifying. Suddenly, the scene faded from view and he found himself lying on his back along the water’s edge.
Instinctively, Gavin knew he had been warned. Something followed them; something with an undeniably sinister intent tracked the two Fey’Derin. Without pause and without a word of explanation, he had packed up the camp and helped a groggy Coren back into his saddle.
This wasn’t the first time that he had been warned by a dream. After leaving the confining borders of Dragon Mount some years earlier, Gavin had periodically experienced the same phenomenon. He believed it must be something inherited at birth, a characteristic that revealed some sort of bond with the land of Kal Maran. He also suspected that two other men were also unwilling recipients of the same trait.
With the first destination of their journey north in sight, Gavin was relieved. His earlier apprehension dissipated as the number of leagues they travelled increased. He was satisfied with their progress as they soon passed from the outlying farmers’ fields on to the rough cobblestone streets of the trading town.
Situated along one of the major trading routes in the south, as well as being a natural hub for the northernmost villages and towns in the Protectorate, the town of Wickam had shown continued growth over the years. The two men rode nonchalantly down the main thoroughfare, and after passing a number of smaller taverns, settled on a large three-floored inn named The Brimming Tankard. Tethering their steeds out front, Bider waited patiently as Gavin entered the establishment in order to make arrangements for their stay.
A short while later, both men sat across from one another smiling contentedly as they enjoyed long pulls from nearly overflowing mugs of ale.
“You know, at this very moment, sir, I can almost pretend that I don’t look and feel quite terrible,” Bider laughed.
Downing the last of his first mug in one long swallow, Gavin grinned. “That might be true about the feeling, Coren, but Sergeant Shade has always said you look terrible, even in the best of circumstances.”
“If you weren’t buying, Captain, I’d take affront to that!”
That evening, after a long and very restful sleep, Bider found himself sitting quietly near the common room fireplace with long pipe in hand. Blowing lazy circles of smoke across the room, he sipped at another large mug of the dark homemade brew the owners of the Tankard boasted was the best in the region.
Gavin had disappeared sometime during the afternoon, leaving a hastily scrawled note stating that their funds were low and needed to be replenished. Knowing the captain to be resourceful, Bider still couldn’t imagine what the man might have in store to remedy that predicament. With Captain Silveron, it was best not to imagine too little, lest you be surprised.
Time alone gave Bider the opportunity to organize his own thoughts. The town of Wickam had struck a melancholy chord within him, and dealing with the flush of memories was something he preferred to do on his own. While travelling with the Fey’Derin, he had passed through many villages, towns, and cities, but only a few reminded him of his shameful past.
Raised in the streets of Green Bend, a fair sized town situated a short ride from the northern port city of K’oral, Bider had never known his parents. He was an orphan and had lived with various families and in some orphanages. Each home blurred together to form muddled memories of hungry nights, cruel bullies, and feelings of intense loneliness.
He had started thieving for no other reason than to feed himself. At least that was how he had justified his actions… at first. Working on the docks at the local wharf, he led a punishing double life that had connected him with far too many of the wrong type of person. It was his mounting greed that had cost him his employment at the docks, although truthfully he had been paid very little. It was his also his greed that had led to him being found by Captain Silveron and Orn Surefoot one fateful autumn evening.
He was extraordinarily lucky to have been found alive. Refusing to concede to the demands of the insular thieving guild, he had avoided the vindictive thugs for days before an unfortunate encounter in an alleyway brought about a vicious beating. They warned him that if he deviated any further from the strict order of the association, he would eliminated. That meant nothing more than a slit throat and a never-ending sleep at the bottom of the river.
Yet for some reason, Gavin Silveron had perceived something in the small thief that even Bider himself could not understand. And so, he had been spared, and had vowed to spend the rest of his days standing dutifully at the side of the man who had seen fit to grant him a new life.
With the memory of that difficult time, came the flood of emotions associated with the unjust passing of Orn Surefoot. It was the old scout who had been his constant strength, helping him adjust to life with the Fey’Derin. Throughout his somewhat tumultuous training, it was Orn who stood up to defend the young recruit thrown into their midst. Bider found it impossible to believe the grumpy veteran scout, a master at his chosen skill, was truly gone. That the man had seemingly banished his demons, walking sober in his last few months, made it all the more difficult to accept.
Wiping a hand across his teary eyes, Bider glanced about the room. It was rare that he showed such emotion, and yet Orn had been his greatest ally and would be sorely missed. Bider decided that if ever a chance were to arise where the newly proclaimed General of the Protectorate was within reach, nothing short of a miracle would stop him exacting revenge. Orn Surefoot deserved a better fate, and Bider would be damned if Gerald Armsmater was never held accountable for the murder of his friend.
A smattering of applause eventually commanded Bider’s attention. With a heavy sigh, he tried his best to push aside the painful memories and focus on the present. As the mild applause faded, he squinted in the smoky lantern light of the Tankard’s common room and could barely contain his surprise when he recognized the man sitting comfortably on stage, black lute in hand.
By all the gods ... do we know nothing about this man? Shaking his head in disbelief, he listened to the haunting melody.
In whispered words and shadowy voices,
the wind speaks of a tale, long in the telling.
Of a fallen place, wondrous to see,
so beautiful to behold.
Of a land now forgotten, a history never known,
An elder race, the true people of old.
In darkening light, she stands alone,
the broken heart of a land far gone.
Towers crumble, only shattered stone,
She remains my one true home.
Entranced by Gavin’s performance, Bider caught himself holding his breath. He realized how little was actually known by the soldiers of the Fey’Derin of matters concerning their captain. To have hidden such talent...
His parentage had never been spoken of, his previous life among the Silveryn Mages only recently revealed, and yet Bider knew that he would die for the man without a second thought. Something in the way he looked at you, that confident gaze that conveyed a genuine respect and belief in your abilities. Granted, for many of the men of the company, Gavin had saved them from a life of shame, but that wasn’t the only reason the Fey’Derin followed the grey-eyed man.
In silence, Bider watched his captain perform for most of the evening, the crowd encouraging the visiting musician. Gavin possessed obvious talent and proceeded to show it. Although apparent that he was out of practice, with a few songs behind him, Gavin confidently hit his stride. From brooding melodies, many unfamiliar to the patrons, to fast moving jigs, the songs had the Brimming Tankard jostling with delight.
“If you don’t mind me asking, sir, where did you come across that bit of skill?” Bider ventured, the two men sitting quietly at a small table near the fire. The inn had wound down for the night, and the two Fey’Derin mercenaries were among only a handful of patrons still awake.
Gavin shrugged. “You’ve hear
d much about the Koriani?”
“I guess I have,” he answered. “They’re the soldiers of the Silveryn Order, men and women who excel in the art of combat. I was there when you fought your duels, sir.”
“And that is where you’re wrong, Coren,” Gavin replied with a knowing glance. “The Silveryn Mages don’t simply have elite soldiers in their employ. Rather, for the most part, my childhood was spent studying the natural world and learning to read and write. We were introduced to various disciplines, one of those being music. I took to the lute quite quickly,” he said with a wistful smile. “Back in those days, life was much simpler.”
“And the military training?” Bider asked.
“Oh, we trained every day, be it sparring or conditioning, but it wasn’t given any more focus than the arts. We were expected to excel in all disciplines, and failure was not an option. Once older, some of the more intelligent students became scholars, whereas the majority joined the ranks of the Koriani.”
“At what age?”
“I had seen thirteen summers when I won my first bout in the Order. I beat a man by the name of Kilian Sanford. He’d been a proud member of the Koriani for over thirty-five years when I defeated him. He’d once been ranked as a Koriani Eighth. It was unfortunate that he fell so low, as he did possess adequate skill.”
“Incredible...and you were ranked?” Bider pressed, happy to have caught his commander in a very forthcoming mood.
“I left Dragon Mount the eve of my friend Brynne’s bout to achieve Koriani Second. At the time I had already broken my ties to the Order, much to the chagrin of many,” he replied with a frown. “They couldn’t understand why I would give up my so-called position of honour. I was Koriani Third when I departed, and I’ve never regretted leaving.”
