by Emmet Moss
Forged by the Dwarven smiths, the crafting of its polished black wood and steel tip was a technique that few had knowledge of. It was the most guarded secret of the descendants of the noble families of Old Caledun. Little was known about the weapon, other than its famed resilience and distinct ability to maintain its sharpened edge at all times. The spears were easily distinguishable, even from afar. The glossy black shafts could be seen twirling lazily in the grasp of some of the soldiers, while others had the weapon prominently displayed in uniquely woven slings attached to their saddles.
The Dwarves of Alerond, far less in attendance, maybe two score, were also easily identified from a distance. The thickly bearded men of Alerond rode clustered together near the middle of the column, the shaggy coated Sheves grunting in constant complaint. In sharp contrast to the light armour of their companions, the smaller, barrel-chested men wore their heavier metal armour with ease. Bider was reminded of the Fey’Derin Sergeant, Eör Rockfar. The officer had always been the first to quell any one boasting about their strength. The veteran Dwarf was easily the strongest man in the company, except perhaps the massive Ossric McConnal.
As Gavin and Bider gained ground on the war party, a small contingent of men broke formation and galloped in their direction. Their intent unknown, Bider carefully loosened the straps binding his crossbow into place. One could never be too careful.
It took only a few minutes before the Drayenmark vanguard had crossed the empty plain, pulling up their mounts mere paces from the two Fey’Derin. They silently gave way to one man in particular, a mounted soldier who calmly surveyed the two travellers before waving away two large men who rode nearly at his elbow.
Surprisingly, it was Gavin who spoke first. Gracefully dismounting, the Fey’Derin commander briefly inclined his head towards the lead rider. “It has been many years since I’ve seen you Prince of Caledun,” he said solemnly.
“I’m not sure my father would have taken kindly to a visit from one of the few men to have ever lectured him on policy and lived to tell the tale,” the young man answered grimly.
“Caolte and I were merely answering the question your father had put forth, my lord. I trust, then, that your sire is well?” Gavin replied.
A brief flicker of sadness crossed the man’s face at the question. “He is well, although with each passing year the fevers come with greater frequency. I trust Lord Burnaise remains as spry as always? I can’t imagine that able man not being at your side…” the prince replied with a smile.
Lord Burnaise…? Bider wondered.
“Much has transpired these last months, my lord. If you would put aside your father’s decree on my presence here, my companion and I could benefit greatly from some assistance. I have much to speak of,” Gavin said quietly, the words obviously meant for as few ears as possible.
Frowning, Kaimon Rhone studied Gavin for a moment before nodding and dropping lightly to the ground.
The Drayenmark prince made an immediate impression. The youthful heir to the long abandoned High King’s throne was taller than most men, his brown hair tied back in the usual fashion of his people. As he dropped to the ground from his grey stallion, Bider was struck by the grace of his movements. His stride was purposeful and efficient; Kaimon Rhone wasted nothing in each step. For a moment, Bider was reminded of his own companion. Gavin often walked in the same manner, but the Fey’Derin captain did so with far less confidence, if that was even possible.
Here was a man who would have been a great thief, the scout thought to himself, amused by the idea.The heir to a broken kingdom… a thief.
Kaimon wore leather armour dyed black, and unlike the men in his retinue, he carried a sword strapped across his back rather than a Drayen Spear. Casting a swift glance towards the man’s mount, Bider did recognize the feathered tip of the Drayenmark weapon poking out from one of his horse’s saddlebags. The only trappings of rank and lineage were simple and humble. A small patch, identical to the standards that fluttered in the wind, had been sewn onto his armour, and a golden chain glinted in the afternoon sun, the light sparkling as it caught the small figure of a hawk in flight.
As Kaimon approached, his hand unconsciously rose to the necklace, his fingers nonchalantly twirling the crafted bird. Once close, Bider was also struck by the prince’s striking grey eyes, very much like the hawk painted on the Rhone family banners.
Grasping Gavin’s outstretched arm in a traditional Drayen grip, Kaimon turned and waved forward another member of the small squad. “Kalen, come here,” he called and then turned back to Gavin. “My father’s sentence only makes your life forfeit in his lands. Here upon the Plains you may speak freely. I, for one, never agreed with him on matters concerning you and Lord Caolte.”
“Caolte managed to dig his own grave far before that day, but I offer my thanks to you and your borther.” Gavin answered. He gripped the newcomer’s arm in similar fashion. “You have grown, Prince Kalen,” he added with a smile.
The family resemblance between the two brothers was uncanny. One seemed to be nothing more than a second version of the other. Bider knew the two princes were almost five years apart in age, but they could be nothing other than brothers when placed side by side. The younger Kalen, already tall despite having a few years still to grow, carried himself in much the same manner as his older brother, if somewhat less assured.
“And you, Gavin, there is pain hidden behind those eyes,” the Drayen prince said. The familiar manner in which all three men spoke to one another brought up further questions for Bider concerning the captain’s background and history. Already a Koriani weapons master, here lay evidence that the young commander had also spent time in the Drayenmark holdings to the east, a territory heavily guarded by its troubled ruler.
“What brings the two of you this far west?” Gavin asked. “Now is not a good time to be travelling the Protectorate,” he added.
“Lord Blackhelm is long overdue, and Lord Där, Alerond’s present emissary, is troubled by his absence. No word has been sent or received ere last summer from the west, and even my father begins to wonder at the state of affairs here in the south. My brother and I were anxious to leave the often suffocating world of a prince and decided to use this opportunity to travel with our war bands. By your vague comments though, I fear events have occurred that place us all in danger,” Kaimon replied.
“I’m not surprised that word hasn’t been received from Alerond, but from as far back as the summer? That is definitely not welcome news,” Gavin frowned.
“Come then, we’ll make camp here this evening,” the young prince interrupted. “We can meet with Lord Där immediately as the men prepare the evening meal. I have a feeling you have much to tell.”
“That I do…” Gavin whispered.
That night, camped under an incredible display of stars, Bider found himself blissfully ignoring the ordeal of the past week. The Drayenmark were an incredibly generous people once you had been accepted within their fold. Gavin and Bider were welcomed with open arms once they had received the approval of Kaimon and his younger brother, Kalen.
Captain Silveron retired to a secluded spot immediately upon his arrival. Accompanied by the two princes and a grey-bearded dwarf, the four men conversed for hours, all four deeply concerned by the present state of affairs.
For his part, Bider had insisted on helping with something, even in his present condition. He spent some time preparing the cooking fires alongside a few friendly men. With the sun setting and the soft light of dusk waning, Gavin and the others rejoined the rest of the column. Kaimon had asked the captain to repeat his telling of the terrible events of the Ca’lenbam. Both parties listened in shocked silence.
Now, hours later, Kaimon and the Drayenmark soldiers lit an immense bonfire and began to dance the night away in revelry. Bider thought they were an odd people, the Drayenmark, to so easily put aside the unsettling news of that evening.
But as Gavin quietly explained, to dwell upon that which could not be affected this night was to waste an otherwise glorious evening. Bider begrudgingly succumbed to the idea, although it wasn’t easy.
Large slabs of elk meat roasted on large metal spits near the flames, carefully monitored by a small group of proud cooks. The men took turns singing songs, their deep voices carrying far into the cool nighttime air. Even the far more reserved Dwarves seemed to relax and enjoy themselves.
Taking a large bite from a piece of the tender meat, Bider was content to let the savoury meal settle his rumbling stomach. Accepting a large jug of spirits, he washed the meat down with a mouthful of the scorching liquid the Dwarves had provided. The dark spirits burned all the way down his throat, but also warmed his stomach. Spying Gavin across the camp through the flames, the scout watched him as he carried on a conversation with Där, the Dwarven diplomat. The small man’s thick chest heaved in response to whatever the captain was recounting, his beard bouncing as a roar of laughter tumbled from his mouth.
The Dwarves, he found, were an interesting lot. Far more reserved than Eör Rockfar, they did, however, laugh heartily at almost everything, even the most mundane of events. When one of the Drayen soldiers had fallen over dead drunk and lit his leggings afire, it took long moments before the powerful men from Alerond could stop howling with laughter. Granted, the fire was small and easily smothered, but still did those men laugh. Bider found their good humour infectious, and so did many others present.
Even Prince Kalen was untroubled, much to the approval of his mild- mannered older brother. The boy, for Bider knew he could nary have seen more than sixteen summers, seemed more embarrassed than anything by his brother’s gentle barbs, but remained good natured. Gavin had mentioned privately to Bider that the youngest prince was known to possess a temper akin to his father’s.
After finishing his meal, Gavin stood up and walked into the bright glow of the firelight. There was something about his stern gaze and upright bearing that tugged at the Fey’Derin scout. Bider had seen the pose often, especially when the captain was about to address the company. Here at this time, in such a perfect setting, it was as if Gavin Silveron held more power and authority than even the Rhone Princes.
Raising his hand for silence, Gavin deflected the numerous barbs and crude comments thrown his way by the boisterous group. Finally, as the heckling subsided, he walked around the fire and approached both royal siblings. It was in perfect silence that the Fey’Derin captain approached the two men.
With a respectful bow, Gavin addressed them. “My lords, I feel that under these unfortunate circumstances, Coren and I can offer you little in repayment for the generosity you have shown us this evening. I ask of you instead for permission to sing for the two of you. It is a gift that pales in comparison to the great service you have done to bolster the spirits of two tired travellers.”
“Have you forgotten that I have heard you sing, Gavin Silveron? How long ago has it been since you played in my father’s hall?” Kaimon asked with a knowing smile.
“I’ve lost track of the years,” Gavin replied sadly.
“Well, what you offer is more than enough. But sing not for us, Captain Silveron, sing for all who gather around the fire this evening,” the clansman replied. “We would be honoured.”
Nodding graciously, Gavin retrieved his lute and rolled over a larger piece of firewood to use as a stool. Perched on the stump, he ran his fingers lightly across the instrument. The resulting series of notes rang clearly out into the night air and an expectant hush settled over the assembly. Leaning back while enjoying another hearty mouthful of strong spirits, Bider listened with rapt attention.
“The Long Way Home,” Gavin announced, the words bringing a holler of approval from the Drayenmark.
Long have we wandered, two souls on their own,
In a world of darkness, of nightmares, of dreams.
We once walked, the stars were our guide,
How long has it been, since we’ve been home?
For the long way is often alone,
but if I gave you my life, would it take you home?
For the long way has passed you by,
but if I gave you a smile, would it take you home?
In days gone by, the world gave us her strength,
The grass, the trees, the wind, and the air.
We gave her love, she showed us her soul,
How long has it been, since we’ve gone home?
For the long way is often alone,
but if I gave you my life, would it take you home?
For the long way has passed you by,
but if I gave you my love, would it take you home?
As his fingers played across the strings of his lute, Gavin sighed happily. Over the years, he had never lost his passion to play music, only the time and privacy that were often required. He wasn’t lying when he told Coren about the source of his teachings in the halls of Dragon Mount. It was one of his few fond memories; Brynne had played the flute back then, and they had often found themselves in the gardens of the fortress whiling away their days with song.
While he played, the world seemed to recede from his vision and every distracting thought ceased. His teachers had often commented on his connection to the songs he played, impressed by the emotion his voice evoked. It had never matched Brynne’s crystalline sound, but together they blended as one.
Guilty thoughts about the Koriani woman he had left behind haunted him. Danys Ford held the key to his troubled heart, but there were still times that Gavin wondered whether Brynne still held sway over his soul. To think about both women was too painful to endure. Banishing these burdensome thoughts, Gavin returned to the solace and security of the music.
With a renewed intensity, he let the emotions of the song flow through his hands. With his eyes closed, he sang the last chorus line, his quivering voice adequately holding the final few notes with confidence.
“For the long way is often alone,
but if I gave you my life, would it take you home?
For the long way has passed you by,
but if I gave you my soul, would it take you home?”
The song was incredibly sad and yet tinged with a note of hope. It would be the first of many songs that evening. Having recently seen Gavin perform, Bider was still no less excited and awed than anyone else in attendance. It remained such an oddity to see the graceful sword master play the lute so skillfully and with such passion. That the man had kept his talent so well hidden these last few years was almost the greater surprise.
The revelry lasted long into the night, with more food and plenty of spirits passed around the blazing fire. Dawn had already begun to lighten the darkness by the time Bider limped and staggered towards the small tent he and Gavin were sharing. The captain was slumbering near the warmth of the fire, and Bider could barely recall the last hour or so.
With the world spinning from the excess of spirits consumed, the young scout collapsed in a heap. Although he was bound to feel the ill effects of the potent Dwarven liquor the next day, for the time being he could barely move, let alone be bothered by such consequences. With the sun nearly peeking out over the edge of the horizon, Bider slept.
Oblivious to everything, the camp slumbered.
Winter howls, the Wilds uncharted.
Of hurried step, and fleet of foot, Eyes watch, they wait,
As hunters stalk by night.
—Unknown
Chapter XLII
Goblin Territories, The Wilds
Leoric leaned against the rough bark of the oak tree, his muscular shoulders slumping wearily despite his valiant effort to conceal his fatigue. The others needed their rest more than he did, and so he bore the burden of the first watch.
Looking at his slumbering companions, he could see the lines of exhaustion on
Benoit’s face even as the man slept, albeit fitfully. Of the four men, it was the scholar who had suffered the most. The harried pace of the previous two weeks had left the naturally quiet man even more morose, but this was also true of the other men. They had all retreated within themselves as they journeyed through the merciless terrain of the Wilds.
Even Angvald, the towering Kaleenian with his steadfast strength and endurance, had struggled these last few days. The lack of food played a role in their recent lethargy, as the game had been scarce and their means far less sophisticated than any of the men would have liked. Fortunately, they had been able to scavenge wild berries and cayan roots, both meagre but sustaining sources of nourishment.
Leoric allowed his thoughts to wander. As always, his musings were dominated by visions of Kieri. His memories of her every smell, every sound, and every movement were unable to alleviate the horrible ache in his heart. His mind was still under assault by the experience of his captivity, and with that came the recollection of Joram’s savagery and of the Shalo’k Mines...
Those scars ran so deep that Benoit had recurring nightmares of the place. Auric, Angvald, and Leoric would take turns rousing the man once he started whimpering. Benoit was haunted by the eyes; the dead eyes of those still trapped in that infernal place. Leoric couldn’t blame him. Those very eyes haunted his own dreams.
Rubbing the numerous aches in his neck, the borderman sank to the ground. With no fire lit, he grudgingly pulled on an extra tunic in an effort to ward off the chill of the wet and unseasonably cool day. Refraining from closing his eyes, even for the briefest of seconds for fear of succumbing to his fatigue, Leoric reflected on the events since the night of their escape.
