by Emmet Moss
Alessan and C’Aelis continued down the rough mountain trail. The path had scarcely been used in some time and was in serious need of repair. Carefully picking their way through the loose rocks, the sun descended behind the nearby peaks as they reached the inner courtyard.
On the large stone steps of the temple stood a tall man dressed in an immaculate white robe. His head was shaved, and he stood with his arms folded carefully over his chest. While the stance wasn’t hostile, it certainly wasn’t welcoming.
C’Aelis never faltered as they approached the man. Bowing expertly, he stopped at the bottom step and focused his gaze on the monk. Time passed, and a continuous silence prevailed over the courtyard. Alessan realized that the two men were probably conversing in the same way that C’Aelis sent his thoughts to him.
“Your arrival is highly unusual and yet not as unexpected as you might think,” the white-robed monk finally broke the silence, bowing in the direction of the Gorimm with deference. “You are both welcome to Scholaris. Our knowledge is your knowledge, your knowledge is ours,” the man intoned.
Fidgeting uncomfortably, Alessan bowed awkwardly and smiled. “Thank you for opening your home to us. I am honoured.”
With an approving smile, the monk looked to C’Aelis. “You did not mention that your companion was so well spoken. You do your family proud.”
Alessan beamed.
They were led through the large double doors of the temple. Every room they passed was bare and austere. The materialistic comforts of the greater world were not missed within the walls of Scholaris. Only what was necessary could be found in each chamber, be it a plain wooden bed or the simple utensils found in the kitchen.
Catching Alessan’s thoughts, C’Aelis interjected. The monks of this place don’t believe in frivolities. They are a very simple people, focused solely upon their task of gathering knowledge and compiling the histories of Kal Maran. They consider even our accoutrements wasteful and impractical. Our clothes and supplies only serve to distract us from the true meaning of our lives, or so they believe.
Alessan studied everything in sight. Of the other residents of Scholaris, they saw only two. One, a short thin woman wearing a light blue robe passed them without even a glance; the second, a man wearing a charcoal grey robe smiled as they passed him a hallway, the man’s eyes glinting mischievously in the torchlight.
Be wary of him, C’Aelis warned. He represents Declavis, the God of Thieves. Don’t ever forget that each of these monks has taken on some of the characteristics of the gods that they worship.
They were led upstairs and into a small bedchamber containing two small wooden beds, each with one thin wool blanket. The rest of the room was devoid of any furnishings, with the exception of a small chamber pot.
“The vault will not be accessible until the morning. Until then I urge you to spend time meditating in silence before retiring for the evening. I will have Brother Tarius bring up a small repast for you, but I do insist that the bowl and spoon be returned to the kitchen before the evening is done.” The monk spoke with complete seriousness.
“Thank you,” Alessan smiled, afraid that he might insult their strange hosts. Nodding, the man bowed slightly and backed out of the small chamber, closing the door firmly behind him.
It is quite astonishing that Scholaris has not changed since I last visited. With the upheaval that rampaged across this land over the last two hundred years, these monks remain frozen in time. They have neither aged, nor changed in any discernible way, C’Aelis said, the footsteps of their host receding.
“How many times have you visited? And what exactly did you say to gain us admittance?” Alessan asked curiously.
Unbuckling his backpack and carefully folding his cloak, C’Aelis smiled warmly. If I told you all of my secrets, Alessan, how would I get you to stay with me? Tomorrow you may learn far more than you ever could have imagined. Within the vaults of Scholaris lie the answers to all the questions ever asked. Figuring out where to look is the difficult part.
“Is it really as wondrous as you’ve led me to believe?” Alessan flopped down on to his hard bed and stared up at the ceiling.
Better, C’Aelis replied, and somehow Alessan knew from the man’s tone that he spoke the truth. But for now, we need to rest our weary bodies and replenish our strength. After supper we would do well to take our host’s advice and sleep. Tomorrow will be a long day.
Although he took his companion’s advice to heart, it would be a long while before sleep finally consumed him. And even then, Alessan’s dreams were dominated by visions of thousands of books and a never-ending chamber of knowledge.
The means of forging the famous Drayen Spear is a closely guarded secret. It is held by the Dwarven smiths who were commissioned to fashion the weapon long ago.
—Lord Devonshire, ‘The First Book of the Old Blood’
Chapter XLI
The Drayen Plains, Protectorate
Gavin and Bider’s short trek through the foothills of the Karipaal mountain range brought back a flood of memories to the young Fey’Derin scout. It hardly seemed possible that less than a year earlier, the Fey had ridden through this very same countryside. That trip had been a celebratory one after the recent successful defense of Garchester.
That so much had changed since that time seemed incomprehensible.
Now, with the Code broken and Garchester in the hands of the enemy, Bider’s world was suddenly fraught with peril. The Fey’Derin and their skilled captain were now marked men, fugitives in a world that had once been orderly, if not always fair. The Mercenary Code of Conduct had been created and amended over the years so that no one man could easily take control of large portions of old Caledun. For over two hundred years it had served its purpose, but now things had gone terribly awry.
“How did we not see this coming?” Bider asked, the two men guiding their mounts through a tangled mass of broken boulders.
“I spoke with the officers of this very possibility,” Gavin frowned. “But as much as we discussed the prospects of a coup, we were far too complacent. Even Duke Berry, a man who I would never wish to confront on the political scene, didn’t believe such a feat was possible.”
“Because of the money involved?” Bider asked.
Gavin shook his head. “It had nothing to do with money, Coren; it had to do with the army.”
Bider considered the statement. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”
“Gadian and his followers always possessed the means to fund a large summer campaign. They did it often enough in the last decade as proof, but it’s an entirely different logistical endeavor to supply an army,” Gavin answered. “Unlike a brief summer or fall contract, to field an army means feeding them all year round.”
“But why doesn’t he just hire out the mercenary companies he needs each year?”
“A paid army brings with it loyalty, or at least a sense of loyalty through its stability. Garchester, for instance, won’t become a settled city for a long period of time. Duke Berry was extremely popular among the common folk, and they won’t soon forget this coup. To quell an unruly city takes soldiers, and it’s a task the regular mercenary companies are ill-suited for. With his new Protectorate Army, he will have enough loyal soldiers to garrison his new acquisitions,” Gavin finished.
“Then what real hope do we have?” Bider asked worriedly.
“Well, the one thing that most disturbed me at the Gathering was the apathy shown by far too many of the other companies. I fully expected a far greater number of captains to take offence at the newly dictated mandate for the South, and yet apart from a half-dozen leaders, most companies signed on without a fuss. Instead of a long list of allies to contact, our friends are few.”
“So we’ll head north then, to warn the Northern Council,” Bider nodded.
Gavin thought differently. “Heading north
wouldn’t be my first choice of action. I would prefer not to leave my allies alone if Gadian Yarr does choose another target for the summer. We have longstanding friendships with both the Sisters of the Sword and the Delan Fere; alliances I’m loath to break. Duke Berry has also treated us well, and he’ll be in sore need of help after losing his city.” An ominous look crossed his face as he added a final thought. “There is also the matter of Gerald Armsmater ...”
They rode silently for the next league or so, Bider taking the time to properly digest the information received from the usually tight-lipped captain. The two men continued to wind their way through the rugged countryside, travelling in a northerly direction along the eastern edge of the Caeronwood.
Where the Protectorate would strike next couldn’t be predicted. Bider knew that as forthcoming as Gavin had been, the captain wouldn’t speculate further without first consulting with his Fey’Derin officers.
How the company fared was another matter altogether. Gavin remained hopeful that Lieutenant Burnaise was still leading the men through the forest, striking for the northern base camp and then Dragon Mount.
Two days out of Wickam had unfortunately brought little reprieve in the matter of his injuries. Although his ribs were far less tender than a week earlier, the nagging aches and stabbing pains continued. His broken ankle remained his greatest concern. The pain from that wound was ceaseless.
Having spent the last two years of his life training in the art of tracking and scouting, Bider was extremely nervous about the condition of the wound. A scout with a limp was far less useful, and could even be a liability in a tight situation. He hoped that Gavin’s promised healing by the Silveryn mages would be helpful.
Riding for the better part of each day was by no means helping the matter. A man in his condition should have remained in bed for weeks. That Gavin, still battered himself after his battle with the Sciloc, saw fit to keep them moving northward, spoke to the seriousness of their situation.
Since leaving the town, the spring rains had finally eased their assault upon the land, and the bright sunshine had greeted them throughout most of their journey. Warmed by the rays of the sun, it was easy to forget the ordeal that they had only just left behind. Despite the unwelcome mud, Gavin and Bider had made good time, crossing some distance into the Karipaal foothills by the end of the first day.
Although Gavin sensed no immediate danger in the vicinity, he refused to tempt fate a second time. The captain was relieved that no harm had come to any of the innocent townsfolk in Wickam. Bider suspected that the man wanted no further deaths weighing on his already burdened conscience.
The pair passed the northern edge of the Caeronwood a few short days later. Angling a little northwest, Gavin led them out into the Drayen Plains — a place sheathed in blood and betrayal. It was on these plains that the future of a kingdom had been decided. Here the armies of the High King Darion Lordares met their defeat through treachery, and the fate of Old Caledun had been sealed.
It had been mid-autumn when the news reached the ears of King Lordares that a large force of disgruntled peasants had started to revolt. Over the years, the prolonged wars in the Iron Shield had drained the economy and many in the land also feared an invasion from the Wilds. With the north in a panic, sudden raids from rebel groups left the southern cities cowering in fear. Faced with enemies attacking the country from within, as well as the prospect of a goblin invasion, the king was left with few choices.
A week before the Festival of Solstice, the majority of the king’s forces were ordered from the capital city of Magnach. The monarch traveled with them, hoping to quell the dissidents in the realm by meeting with them. He feared there would be great bloodshed if he himself did not arrive to hear the people’s grievances.
The discussions held between both sides were promising, and the thousands of disgruntled peasants, all of them descendants of the Old Blood, were surprised by the honesty of their king. They came to the realization that they had been intentionally fed lies, leading ultimately to their rebellion under false pretenses. It was then that the undercurrent of a dark plot was exposed; but by then it was far too late.
With most of the An’Darim guarding the young heir, the king and the Drayenmark were ambushed on the Drayen Plains. Betrayed by those councillors he had once trusted, the king’s small force had nowhere to run. These plains saw the Queen fall prey to the murderous blades of their enemies and the near destruction of the king’s entourage. The peasants were shown no mercy; slaughtered to almost every man, woman, and child, an entire generation of Drayen folk were annihilated.
Protected by a few elite An’Darim, the king won free, retreating quickly to the safety of his walled city, but little hope remained. In four short days, the city of Magnach was overrun, the king assassinated and the land of Caledun sundered into dozens of city states, all vying for power and influence. The time of Kings had passed.
The Plains themselves looked no different than any other. Wide open grasslands stretched from horizon to horizon, the only break to the flatness coming from the hills to the east where the old cities of the Silveryn Order lay nestled. Large herds of Drayen elk ranged across the prairie land, the animals grazing on the countryside even throughout the winter months. The temperate climate of the south allowed them to dig and graze even during the harshest times of the year.
For six days Bider and Gavin travelled steadily north, seeing no living thing on the Plains apart from these animals. With supplies running low, Bider now scanned the horizon line with anticipation. Although far from mobile, the scout was sure that given the opportunity, his protesting stomach would spur his weakened body into action. With his hand on his forehead, shielding his vision from the bright sun, Bider waited. If he had learned one thing as a Fey’Derin, it was patience.
“Definitely riders,” Bider pointed to the northeast. “Easily more than a company, maybe even two.”
Gavin nodded and studied the long column that lay off in the distance.
“Any chance you can make out those banners?” he inquired. “The last thing we need is to cross paths with men who owe their loyalty to the new Protectorate.”
The column was still far off, but if the two Fey’Derin travellers had spotted them in the open spaces of the Drayen Plains, it was a sure bet that the column’s scouts had done the very same with their position. Another day had passed and still little was seen roaming the land. Bider had spotted the riders though, the scout spying a small smudge on the horizon. He had rapidly assessed that it was the dust stirred up by a swift moving group of mounted troops.
As they breached the distance, Bider realized he had been only partially correct. Even from this distance it had become clear that among the horses also trotted the smaller stout mountain Sheves or ponies.
The sturdy animals were notoriously stubborn, shaggy, and with voracious appetites. They were also not native to the mainland of Kal Maran. The Dwarves of Alerond, upon fleeing their ancestral home far across the ocean to the west, brought the animals with them. The Sheves were used exclusively by the Dwarves of Alerond and their presence in that convoy was no longer a question.
As they waited, Bider breathed a sigh of relief as the bothersome winds relaxed and allowed the numerous standards to be displayed. “That’s clearly the Drayenmark hawk and the black mountain tower of Alerond.” He sent Gavin a questioning look. “We’re short on supplies, sir, they may be able to provide help,” he offered.
“Is that hawk gold or silver, Coren?” Gavin squinted into the sun. “Gold, sir,” Bider answered after a momentary glance.
“Any particular reason why you’d ask that, Captain?”
Gavin pursed his lips before replying. “The gold standard is reserved only for members of the royal family. If Serian Rhone, or even his sons, are travelling about the northern countryside of the Protectorate, they’ll soon be dead men. Once word reaches anyone connected with Ga
dian Yarr…” the Fey’Derin captain left the ending unspoken.
“Then our choice is simple, is it not?” Bider said, spurring his mount into action.
“As long as it isn’t Serian Rhone, we should be fine,” Gavin replied quietly.
Pulling up, Bider turned painfully in the saddle. “Why?”
Gavin waved his hands in defense. “Serian Rhone and I aren’t exactly friends…” he grinned mischievously, spurring his mount ahead and angling towards the large column.
Shaking his head with some frustration, Bider could do little but follow.
As they remained somewhat removed from the campaigns of the summer, Bider had never seen a Drayenmark war party. The Old Blood refused to follow the dictates of the Mercenary Code, operating in a far different fashion than Bider was used to. For starters, the Drayen soldiers numbered well over four hundred, almost double that of most companies. Serian Rhone had, on occasion, sent smaller armies to assist in certain battles, namely those that involved city states that refused to show loyalty to the ruling councils of each area. In the Protectorate, very few of those cities remained under their own rule, the most prominent being the southern free city of Delfwane.
The men were dressed in simple brown leather armour with no visible signs of their allegiance displayed besides the numerous standards that snapped in the wind. They were all mounted, and each man looked at ease in the saddle. These were all men who knew how to ride. Their hair was adorned with a variety of feathers and ties, creating a mosaic of colour Bider found somewhat difficult to follow. It strained one’s eyes to have your senses assaulted by so much vibrant colour. Many of the men were tall and lean and their faces were clean-shaven.
But despite physical differences, they all appeared to be kin, or they at least displayed a unity in both movement and overall appearance, including the weapon each man carried. The Drayen Spear had a famous reputation in Caledun. There was a familiarity in their features that reminded Bider of Caolte Burnaise. The resemblance was striking.
