by Guy Antibes
“I know of a sorcerer who is no friend of the tower. He might teach you a few tricks, at least enough to know how much power you have. Merciful gods! I’ll talk to him about teaching you some defensive spells as well.”
“You have your own personal wizard?” Vish asked.
“Most of us know someone. The Tower is not for everyone and it doesn’t hurt to have a sorcerer on your side.”
“What about my father?”
“He has a division of battle sorcerers, not all of whom are trained just for war.” Fenakyr wiped his greasy hands on a damp towel. “Now we must talk about the hunt. These events are very dangerous. Some of your brothers have been killed in the forest by animals and inadvertent spear throws. To minimize the accidents, stay away from the front of all of the action. There will be less of a chance to be struck by an errant throw.”
“I don’t know what you mean?” Vish said.
“Accidents happen where there is a large group of excited hunters. They will strike at anything and the spears can go this way and that way and end up sticking those who are innocently riding along.”
“Oh, I see. I’m smaller, so I should stay in the back,” Vish said, nodding.
“Right.” Fenakyr’s eyebrows rose a bit. “There’s a good mind underneath all of that black thatch on top of your head.” He smiled and Vish was happy that his father had chosen Fenakyr to help him.
Drums began to beat and the hunters began to stuff food in their mouths before they left the table. Vish hid more food on his person. He didn’t want to go hungry in the forest.
A groom handed out wineskins as the men took to their mounts.
“I’d like water,” Vish said and received both a wineskin and a blue wineskin that carried water. He took them and found his horse. Where the others were prancing and whinnying, the old mare patiently waited as Vish struggled to mount unassisted. Once he did, he secured his skins and put his purloined food into an empty saddlebag. He got into one of the lines where the spears were being handed out.
Fenakyr didn’t get a chance to tell him how to use one during the hunt, but Vish had a general idea and found Fenakyr waiting where the hunters took to a road leading out of the meadow and back into the forest.
Vish spotted his father, now dressed in the armor that he noticed on the cart, plunging into the forest. No one else wore protection of any kind.
“Let’s join the hunt!” Fenakyr’s eyes lit up with excitement where all Vish felt was a hollow stomach carved out by anticipation and fear.
He still didn’t feel comfortable on top of the massive mare among all of the trees and had no idea what to expect. His mind rang with the reception of the knife and his conversation with Fenakyr. Too many things to think about. He’d try to focus on hunting.
Vish noticed groups of hunters beginning to split off. He followed Fenakyr down a path away from the one his father and the largest group had taken. Soon only a few hunters rode with him. One of them had to have been one of his brothers.
“There’s a boar!” Fenakyr said and two men peeled off in pursuit of the sounds of something crashing through the undergrowth. Now only Fenakyr and his stepbrother led Vish.
His new friend led them down a faint game trail for some time. Fenakyr held up his hand.
“Here is good enough,” Fenakyr said. “Look around you, boy. Now that you are separated from the herd.” Vish did not like the man’s grisly laugh. His nature had quickly turned from good to grim.
Vish knew then that Fenakyr was no friend. The forest gave up no sounds except for the faint calling of birds. He looked up at the shards of sunlight that found their way past leafy sentinels. He had no one to protect him. He turned his head towards his brother. “What is your name?” Vish said.
“Astyran, for what it’s worth to a dead boy.” His brother’s face didn’t contain anger, but distaste as if Vishan’s image soured his mouth.
“Why me? I’m much younger than you.” Vish raised his spear, but Fenakyr quickly knocked it from his hand.
“Astyran might replace your father. He’s a bit ahead of you in line, but fellow princes are always a threat.”
“Eighteenth,” Astyran said, answering for Vish. “Someday you will want to replace me and that won’t happen… now.” The older prince looked at Fenakyr, who nodded.
Both of them plunged their spears into Vish’s arms from both sides. Vish screamed and felt the mail stop the spears from piercing further. He fell off of his horse to the ground below. His mind reeled from pain and the shock of Fenakyr’s betrayal. Where was loyalty? Vish wailed in despair and then decided to play dead.
“I want his knife,” Astyran said.
“No, it will identify him if he is found after the forest scavengers have had their fill,” Fenakyr said. Vish heard sounds of leather and harness. “There. The bridle has been removed. We’ll toss it just off the trail. The boy didn’t know how to ride and somehow removed the bridle in a panic and the horse threw him.”
Astyran snorted. “No one will believe that.”
“Do you care? You’ve just killed your brother. Now make yourself visible somewhere else. A few people saw me with the boy, but only a certain someone knows I befriended him. You must leave here. Quickly!”
Vish heard two horses depart. He waited for a few more moments and opened his eyes. The old mare stood, head down, munching on a clump of grass. They had taken nothing from the horse but the bridle. He sat up and stifled the scream that would bring his enemies back.
Oh, how his arms hurt! The pain extended out to his hands and into his chest. His arms continued to bleed from both sides, dripping from his hands. He pushed back towards a tree trunk and struggled to a standing position. What had he read in his stories about battles and warriors? Clean wounds first and then bind them. He remembered reading about men pouring wine over the wounds.
He staggered to the mare and, with agony robbing him of strength and coordination, managed to pull out the wineskin and pour it over his upper arm on one side. The first drenching nearly made him faint. Now he knew what to expect as he grit his teeth and drenched himself with the wine again on the other. The pain filled his mind and yet he didn’t have a choice if he were to survive the day.
Vish pulled out his knife and cut strips out of his wine-soaked shirt and tied the cloths to both of his biceps with one hand and his teeth. He moved slowly and winced with every move. His head began to spin and he had to lean against the horse for a bit. He hoped his efforts would stop the bleeding.
The rest of the wine would go back into the saddlebag, but Vish had developed an awful thirst. His desire of water nearly hurt and the waterskin would only let him drink so much. He leaned against a tree observing the mare, which had by now found another clump of grass.
He looked up at the saddle, so far in the air. He saw a rock that he hoped he could climb that would help him get up on the horse. How could he lead the horse without a bridle? He took an apple from his saddlebag and struggled to cut it into a few pieces.
“Here, lady,” Vish said. His arm screamed at him as he held out the apple. The horse looked up and gently took the apple from his hands. She looked him in the eye for a long time. Vish’s triumph nearly made him smile.
“More.” He struggled to the rock and climbed up. The horse came up to him and took the next piece, but she faced him. He couldn’t mount that way. He held out the last piece, gritting his teeth from the pain, so that she would have to walk past him. That worked.
Vish let out a sigh of relief as the mare took the apple and moved as Vish grabbed the saddle. His arm protested, but he jumped up on the saddle. His arms felt like they could fall off at any time, so he just sat in agony for a bit. He struggled, but treated himself to more water and a lump of crushed bread, anything to give him some strength.
For once, he wished for a sorcerer’s power to extricate himself from his predicament. The horse waited for another apple, but with none coming, she found yet another clump of grass. Vish just
sat on the saddle and wondered if he should have just taken off through the forest.
He heard a rustling in the bushes and grabbed his knife. By now he could barely grip it and put it back. He wouldn’t risk dropping the dagger and dismounting and mounting again with his wounded arms. He nudged the horse with his knees and to his surprise the horse began walking down a faint path.
Vish looked around the forest. He had no idea where the hunt had gone. He only knew, that when he found the sun that he could head back in the general direction of the imperial city. The mare didn’t know the way either, but she became more responsive to Vish’s knee nudges. After what seemed like hours, they emerged from the forest.
The vast farmland that surrounded the city didn’t give him a location, but he knew the city to be in the opposite direction of the forest. On he went. The sun’s waning light told him he’d be losing his direction soon. He finished off the food in his saddlebag after a bout of excruciating pain grabbing the provisions. The water had long been gone and Vish would save the wine until later in the evening. As the day’s light abandoned him, he noticed a faint brightness in the distance. He pushed the horse forward with his hips and the mare continued to amble on towards the light.
Vish ended up at a farmer’s cottage in a small copse of trees that dotted the landscape. He called out.
“Help! I’m wounded.” Vish could barely speak.
A youngish man walked out onto the small covered porch. “Merciful Gods,” the man said as he ran to Vish.
His destination reached, Vish slipped easily into unconsciousness.
~~~
CHAPTER FOUR
~
VISH OPENED HIS EYES AND LET THE FIGURES THAT CHASED HIM with swords fade into the dark mist of expired dreams. He blinked the images away. The orange flicker of firelight painted the ceiling of wooden planks. The fire made the room so hot, so very hot.
A man’s face, lightly bearded, looked at him, spoiling his view of the ceiling. “I am Peleor and you are?”
“Vishan Daryaku.” Should he have been so honest? The man might rob him. He made a move to get up, but a wave of weakness pushed him back down on an uncomfortable bed.
“Ah, a son of our great emperor. You had to be a high ranking noble.” He rubbed his beard and felt Vish’s forehead.
“I’m going to have to cause you more pain, Vishan Daryaku. Your wounds weren’t cleaned out properly and have begun to fester. The wine spilled on them might have stalled your inevitable fever,” the man said. “I am going to put you under with a spell. It will deaden some of the pain, but not all.”
Vish nodded and wondered why the man would wear all those clothes in a sweltering room. He screamed as sharp pains leapt from the ache he felt before. The man was stabbing his arms with hot needles and bathing his wounds with molten metal. He kept screaming until the man withdrew and then, as the pain lessened, he returned to sleep and dreamed of more visions of men trying to kill him.
Vishan awoke to light against his eyelids. He open his eyes and shut them again as the light of the sun pierced into the darkness of the house sending pain like tiny shards of glass into his eyes. He blinked some more. The heat of the cottage had gone. He felt cooler despite the fire that still burned in the fireplace.
“You are better, young Daryaku,” his rescuer said. “I have some broth for you to drink. I think I removed most if not all of what was beginning to fester in your wounds. I can only wonder what happened to you.”
Vish tried to speak, but could only produce croaking sounds. The man spooned some broth into his mouth and his body responded to the food.
“Thank you. More please,” Vish managed to say, as the man finished.
“Why not?” he smiled and gave Vish another helping.
“I can speak better now.”
“Reward me with your story, that’s all I seek. You carry a remarkable blade.”
“My father, the Emperor, gave it to me yesterday.”
“No he didn’t.”
“He did too!” Vish managed to bring up as much indignation as his weak condition permitted.
“Three days ago, your father gave you this knife,” the man said. “You have been asleep with fever and then with my spell as I worked on you with my meager healing powers.”
“I forgot your name,” Vish said.
“Peleor, a sorcerer of sorts.”
“I first thank you for saving me, Peleor,” Vish said and then related his entire story to the man.
The man smiled. “How do you know that I am not in league with this Fenakyr creature?”
Vish shrank into the covers and realized that he only wore the bandages wrapped around his arms and chest. “You would have killed me,”
“That might have been true, were I a different kind of man. I sense power in you, Vish. Why didn’t you use it to save yourself?”
He still had power? Then he remembered Fenakyr’s suggestion. “I don’t like the Tower and would like to find a sorcerer to teach me enough to defend myself.”
“Ah! A sensible statement,” Peleor said. “What if I taught you?”
“This is too far from the city,” Vish said. “My mother wouldn’t let me ride out here for secret lessons.”
Peleor waved his hand. “I have lodgings in the city. I make a poor farmer and work for a number of merchants crafting their goods.”
“Do you just have to snap your fingers and they appear?”
The sorcerer shook his head. “Nothing is that easy. I can shape pots from clay and make glass from sand. I need the raw materials first and then I tap into the nexus to do the work. It is menial, but I enjoy the creativity and it keeps me fed and clothed. I can hang on to my family farm,” he waved his arm across the house, “barely.”
“I can pay or my mother will,” Vish said.
Peleor folded his arms. “I’ll have to think about it. I think it’s time to take you home.”
The sorcerer bundled his ripped and bloody clothes and mail shirt into a ball. He gave Vish one of his own white shirts that he swam in.
“Here.” Peleor presented the dagger to Vish. “I took the liberty to use it to craft some bandages. It is an amazing weapon. I’ve never seen the like. Ropponi steel, if I’m not mistaken, but made into a Dakkoran-style weapon. The dull sheen is…” Peleor shook his head in awe.
Vish hobbled like an old man to his horse. Peleor helped him into the saddle and handed him very heavy reins. Vish wondered where they came from.
“I have more than a few sets of tackle. This was for a plough horse, long ago sold,” Peleor said as he mounted a much smaller pony. He looked up at Vish. “That is a warhorse worthy of an emperor… in the recent past. She’s a bit on the old side, but I think her mild disposition helped save your life.”
“She did.” Vish reached down and patted the horse’s neck. His arms complained, but nothing screamed at him except for a pulling at the wounds.
Peleor led the way. He rode through untilled fields until he came to a road. Vish could see the towers of the city in the distance. He had come far from the forest and thanked the gods that the groom told him that his horse could be directed by knee pressure, another thing that saved his life. He would have to find some way to reward Sulm for insisting on the mail shirt. They didn’t take long until they merged onto another road with more people.
It took them some time to reach the Imperial Compound. The stable master sent a groom to the palace to notify the Emperor that his son still lived. Vish wouldn’t wait for a reply and let Peleor help him to his home.
“Vishan!” His mother ran down the steps and hugged her son.
“Please,” Vish said, pushing his mother away. He had little more strength left. “I’m wounded.”
His mother looked up and down the compound. A few people had stopped to gawk.
“You’ve injured yourself. Come in.” She said loudly and looked at Peleor. “You helped him?” she said much more quietly.
The sorcerer nodded.
&n
bsp; “You may come in for a reward.” She hustled Vish up the steps and into the house.
~
Vish and his mother disappeared into the house, leaving Peleor to examine the entry hall all by himself. He’d seen the inside of noble homes before. It was always for an offer to take up a nefarious task. He’d never accepted because he’d never been interested in a life of crime or politics.
A mirror. He stood in front of it and looked at his wild, dark brown hair, hazel eyes and newly trimmed beard. Perhaps the beard’s trim made the Princess more comfortable than a farmer’s typically bushy face. He didn’t think the princess of the house would invite him in, but perhaps talk from the neighbors… the royal neighbors.
He smiled and began to pick up ornaments and examine them. Perhaps he could remember the patterns well enough to copy them for his clients. He hurriedly put one down as he heard footsteps.
“Vish claims you saved his life. Thank you.”
Peleor had enough presence of mind to bow before a princess. She was a beautiful woman, some years older than he, but still desirable in his eyes.
“I am Princess Yalla, eleventh wife to the Emperor.”
“My name is Peleor. I am an unattached sorcerer. The Tower and I did not see eye to eye. I manage the remnants of my family’s farm outside of the city. It became a beacon for Vishan when darkness fell and he needed a place to rest.”
She led him to a sitting room. Peleor knew he didn’t belong in such a place, but he sat where she told him.
“What happened?”
Peleor looked at Yalla. The truth or something that Vishan might come up with? The truth, he decided. He related Vishan’s story. “He collapsed as soon as he reached my home. I took him in. His wounds had begun to fester, but I let him sleep for a day while I changed his bandages. He woke a bit and I found more debris in the wounds that had to be removed. I would guess two thrusts, one from each side. Vishan said his assailants used spears. They both pierced his arms all the way through and made wounds on his chest. You can see the paths of the weapons on his mail shirt.” Peleor said, pointing to the ball of bloody clothes. “The shirt saved his life, not I.” He paused while the Princess collected herself after his grisly description. “The boy withstood a great deal of pain while I worked and, finally, he slept another two days. This morning after a good meal, I brought him back. He’s probably asleep by now.”
