The Innkeeper's Son

by Jeremy Brooks

  She turned and looked at Sim and for a moment their eyes met. Then suddenly she pointed behind him and shouted. “Sim!”

  Just then one of the closest creatures to her took advantage of her turned back and struck at her with a giant pincer.

  “Enaya!” Sim shouted only to see Givara throw Enaya out of the way.

  Suddenly Prianhe jumped in front of Sim with both swords swinging, and Sim barely managed to avoid getting run through the chest.

  “You didn’t think it would be that easy, did you?” Prianhe grinned as though victory was an afterthought.

  Behind him, Sim saw Enaya kneeling over Givara’s limp body. The fat boy and the soldier had killed the last of the Water Wood creatures. Givara suddenly sat up, saved by Enaya's healing and they briefly embraced before Maehril came and took Enaya by the hand and dragged her over to Farrus. Light began to glow around them both, growing stronger and brighter.

  Prianhe struck again, forcing his attention. They began to trade blows, moving back and forth in the dance of swords. With each parry and counter, Sim’s confidence grew. Prianhe was strong and impossibly fast, but Sim quickly realized that they were equals. The longer they fought, with neither gaining a clear edge, the more desperate Prianhe became. He started trying poorly timed feints and wild strikes that left him open to Sim’s quick controlled counterstrikes. Twice Sim cut him near the ribs, then once more on his hip.

  Prianhe bared his fangs and snarled, “Who are you?”

  Then Prianhe lost his footing in the slick grass, falling awkwardly face first. Sim pounced, catching him in the arm with a quick thrust. Prianhe quickly rolled to his side, and got to his feet just in time to defend a strike at his head.

  Suddenly a sound echoed across the entire landscape. It sounded like a million children singing one perfect harmonious note. Sim turned to look at the cause and was blinded by a white light so pure and true that he thought he might weep for the sheer joy of it.

  A sword plowed into his chest. Just as in the vision, Sim had been distracted by a sound giving Prianhe the chance to strike. Driven by desperation and the last few ounces of strength he had left, Sim brought his own sword up into Prianhe’s gut, driving it right up to the hilt. Prianhe’s evil yellow eyes held the same mixture of pain and disbelief that Sim was certain dwelt within his own eyes. Together they sank to the ground clutching the weapons that were impaled within their bodies.

  Sim lay there in the grass staring into the yellow eyes of Desirmor's monomach. A snarl of discord slid off of Navan Prianhe's face as he died.

  Slowly, Sim closed his own eyes and welcomed the beckoning need to sleep. As the cold darkness closed in he swore he saw Enaya’s tear filled eyes, glistening like sparkling sapphires, begging him not to go.

  ******************************************************************

  Farrus began to move softly at first. Then he suddenly pitched forward, violently gasping for air. Enaya stared down at him in shock. The man had been dead. She was certain that he had been dead.

  Only moments before, she had used what little strength she had left to heal Givara, almost certainly saving her guardian from death. Then, before she had time to think, Maehril was dragging her toward Farrus and filling her with a power she’d never dreamed existed. She felt like the sun, infinitely powerful and bursting with an energy that could never be consumed. She’d felt the Creator's touch cleansing her soul. And now she was watching Farrus sit up, brought back from the dead.

  Maehril tugged again on her hand. There was desperation in her kind hazel eyes. Enaya looked around and gasped. Only a few feet away, Sim lay dying on the ground with a sword in his chest.

  “No!” she cried, crawling to him on hand and knee. “Sim!” She grabbed his head and pulled him against her chest. Tears flowed like the rain that dappled the land around them. “Sim! Please wake up! Please!” she shouted desperately.

  A bony old man with a leathery face came and knelt down beside her at Maehril’s behest. He regarded Sim with a grim shake of his head. Enaya felt his hand touch her shoulder.

  “Ya need to let him go, Missy,” the old man tried to tell her gently. “Maehril can fix him, but we have to get that sword out of him first.”

  Reluctantly, Enaya let go, gently resting Sim’s head back down in the wet grass. The old man rolled him over and carefully pulled out the sword. Enaya’s stomach lurched as she saw the fresh blood pouring from Sim’s open wound.

  “Jerron,” the old man said to a fat, homely looking teen standing beside him, “the rope is still tied off over there. We could use some of the fruit.”

  Without a word, the young man sprinted off toward the cliff’s edge. Then he grabbed hold of a rope that draped over the edge and began climbing down.

  Suddenly Maehril was taking her hand again. This time the young girl grabbed hold of the gem around Sim’s neck, and instantly, white light started to pour into her hand. It filled Maehril completely and then seeped into Enaya's arm. She felt it flood into her body, encapsulating her in its intrinsic puissance.

  The world dissolved into an ocean of pure white. Her conscious mind began to drift along in the torrential current as a voice cried out in a language she didn’t understand. Somewhere, as she floated in the white abyss, she could sense that Sim was nearby. She called to him searching the endless sea of white for a movement or a sign of his existence. For many desperate moments, nothing stirred. Then she heard a faint whisper. It was Sim's voice weakly calling to her from beyond. She let her body drift toward his voice, sweeping her arms like a swimmer in the ocean until she saw a body floating listlessly in the whiteness ahead. She screamed his name, but he didn't stir. His body drifted along limply. Enaya fought against the current with nothing but pure will, until she was by Sim’s side.

  “Wake up, Siminus!” she cried, shaking him. Over and over she tried to wake him, but nothing happened. Then she looked up and saw Maehril standing there on the other side of him. Behind her stood a stunning woman in a white gown, with flowing blond hair and eyes of the purest blue. Maehril bent over to Sim’s ear and whispered, but the voice belonged to the woman at her back.

  “Come back, Siminus. Come back to us.”

  Suddenly everything shifted, and Enaya was back in the real world sitting over Sim. The driving rain had stopped, and the black clouds above had given way to a sky on the verge of twilight. She looked up and saw Givara standing behind her. The former queen, her best friend, reached down and put a firm, reassuring hand on her shoulder. Maehril was leaning on the bony old man for support, watched carefully by the old soldier and the chubby boy. She was hungrily eating a small yellow fruit.

  Enaya wiped away the tears that stained her cheeks and looked down at the young man she’d found at an inn in the tropics. He was the world's last hope, a soldier of light, the one destined to end the reign of King Desirmor. She took his hand in hers and felt him return her grip. Relief washed over her. He was alive.

  Sim coughed several times and sat up slowly. He looked at Enaya, and a small smile broke across his lips. She grabbed him and hugged him tightly, feeling the tears coming in another unstoppable wave.

  “I thought I’d lost you,” she whispered to him softly into his ear.

  “You saved me,” he answered, stroking her hair tenderly.

  She pulled back and looked deeply into his beautiful green eyes.

  “Maehril’s the one that saved you, Siminus. It wasn’t me.” She wished it had been though.

  “You’re wrong, Enaya. Maehril couldn’t find me in that white abyss. It was you that found me. You found me so that Maehril could bring me back.”

  Enaya kissed his cheek and smiled. She wanted to put her arms around him and never let go.

  Suddenly his face became serious.

  “We have to find, Nehrea,” he told her.

  She nodded in agreement. Nehrea was the Collora. The prophecy made it clear that she was necessary.

  “You don’t understand, Enaya,” Sim said, grim
ly. “We can’t stop Desirmor without her.”

  “We’ll find her, Sim. I promise,” she said.

  “Have a bite of this,” the chubby teen said, handing a fruit to both Sim and Enaya.

  “What is it?” Sim asked.

  “It is the fruit of virtue,” Givara answered. “Aizzesh’s tree lies in a cave beneath us.”

  Enaya bit into the fruit anxiously. The taste was wonderful. As soon as she finished the last bite, a feeling washed over her so powerfully, she fell against Sim. Her hurts melted away with her weariness. She felt invincible and capable of anything.

  “Where are we?” Sim asked.

  “This is my home, Sim. We’re in Merrame,” Enaya replied.

  “How did we get here?” Sim asked, rising to his feet. He absently felt at his chest.

  “You must have brought us here,” Enaya answered.

  “I can travel?” Sim asked.

  “It’s the only explanation,” Enaya told him.

  “When we travelled with Beck, everyone had to touch him. I wasn’t touching anyone,” Sim said.

  “You’re not a trival, Sim,” Farrus explained. “You are capable of wonders.”

  “You emptied a lake,” Givara added. “I’ve never seen power like that.”

  “Lady Relador?”

  Enaya looked up and recognized Mueller, the Captain of her grandfather’s guard.

  “Mueller, it’s good to see you,” she said.

  “My Lady…your grandfather,” Mueller sounded as though the words were caught in his throat. “They seized his estate.”

  Enaya nodded sadly. “And my mother?”

  “I can’t say for sure, my Lady, but she wasn’t at the manor,” he answered with his head down.

  Sim took her hand and gave it a squeeze.

  “What do we do now?” he asked.

  Enaya looked out over the ocean and sighed. Another storm was gathering far away, over the horizon.

  “We keep fighting, Siminus,” she told him. “And we don’t stop, until the world is free of darkness.”

  Epilogue:

  The sweet smell of ocean spray, greeted Captain Herrist Roderick as he stepped out onto the deck of the Imagene, a traegger bound for Carleton harbor. He had heard the lookouts call of land sighted ahead and wanted to see his homeland. It had been two years since last he’d seen Carleton, shimmering on the coast of Caramour like polished ivory. He missed his home desperately. He missed his wife.

  It had been two years of deployment guarding the coast of the Kal’ Treddin Ice Lands from the wild Surdes. The beasts were always trying to escape their icy prisons and swim across the Orynth Sea to the Northern shores of Fandrall. Captain Roderick had had enough. He couldn’t wait to dip his body into one of his wife's healing herbal baths and taste her wonderful cooking.

  As the traegger sped toward the shore, Roderick noticed an embargo of Imperial ships lined up in front of the harbor entrance. A further study of the city revealed plumes of smoke billowing into the sky all over the city. Though they were still pretty far away, it looked as if the docks were overrun with people.

  Something was wrong.

  Roderick looked up at the helm and spotted Captain Rousley. The heavyset man had once commanded an Imperial vessel, but since his retirement had taken a post captaining the Imagene.

  “What say you, Captain?” Roderick called up.

  Rousley regarded him grimly. He didn’t like the looks of things either.

  “Looks like an embargo, Captain Roderick,” he replied.

  “Have you heard anything?”

  “Not yet.”

  As the traegger pulled close, a small vessel came out to meet them. Roderick eyed a man he knew on the boat. It was Admiral Flethersham. Roderick had served under his command many years ago.

  “No ships allowed in Carleton harbor,” a young ensign called out.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Captain Rousley asked.

  “The island of Caramour is under quarantine, sir,” the ensign answered.

  Roderick went to the edge of the ship and addressed the Admiral directly.

  “Admiral Flethersham, I am Captain Roderick. I served under your command in the Gulf of Aeres.” Roderick offered a proper salute.

  “Captain Roderick, I remember you well,” the Admiral answered with a controlled officer’s inflection.

  “I am on leave after a long deployment. Carleton is my home. My wife runs an inn near the docks. Why is Carleton under quarantine?”

  Admiral Flethersham shook his head sadly. “A plague, Captain. All of Carleton seems to be infected.”

  “A plague, sir?” Roderick looked again at the docks. No wonder they were overrun. People were trying to get away.

  “If you’d like, Captain, there is room aboard my vessel. You know these waters better than I. Perhaps you could be of some use to us,” the Admiral said.

  Roderick looked out again on his homeland. Rage and panic twisted his stomach into knots. He wanted to save his wife. Surely Hisha had managed to avoid the plague. She was incredibly adept at healing. She was probably doing anything she could to help.

  “I appreciate your kindness, Admiral. If you would allow me a moment to gather my belongings?”

  “Of course, Captain Roderick,” the Admiral answered.

  *******************************************************************

  Governor Errick Cantor paced his personal chambers in a panic. Everything had come undone. His perfect plan to indenture Lady Relador as his wife had come unraveled. His favorite consort, Nehrea, had impudently aided in her escape. Navan Prianhe had all but told him that he alone would be held responsible for the disaster, and any hope he had of gaining the king's favor had all but vanished. He would be lucky to survive the king's judgment for his failure to recognize and detain the fugitives. Worse still, the king might allow him to live stripped of his titles as a commoner, perhaps even as a slave.

  It was a nightmare. Weeks had passed now since Lady Relador’s daring escape. A few days after her escape word had come that they were located somewhere in the south, near the Water Woods. Every last member of the Imperial army contingent in Nal’Dahara, and over half of his personal guard had been dispatched to aid in their capture. Since that night, he had yet to receive word. If he believed in the Creator, Cantor would have prayed that the criminals were captured without further incident. However, he had met Lady Relador, and he knew she wouldn’t go quietly.

  Zola, his new top consort, knocked on his door and entered on his command. She was a divine beauty, tall and blond with perfect legs.

  “Lieutenant Davold has returned, your Excellency. He has requested an audience.” She was careful to keep her eyes on the floor and to speak with the proper obsequiousness. Unlike that whore, Nehrea, Cantor was confident Zola would never betray him.

  “Send him in, Zola.”

  Davold entered the room looking ragged and road weary. His face was covered in grime and his uniform was dirty and frayed. Over his shoulder he carried a burlap sack.

  “Lieutenant, you look terrible. What’s happened to you? Did you find Nehrea?” Cantor wanted nothing more than to get his hands on her. If he decided to let her live, he would mercilessly torture her every last day for the rest of her life. The thought alone of her endless screams made him slightly aroused.

  “Nehrea disappeared, Governor,” he answered wearily.

  “And the others. Was the mission successful?” Cantor took a seat on a lounge bench at the foot of his bed.

  “It was a disaster, Governor. Hundreds of soldiers were killed. I lost almost all of my charges. The fugitives emptied the lake on us. Their trivals had power beyond anything I’ve ever seen. Then they up and disappeared.” The Lieutenant spoke with the hollow inflection of a man that had seen the limits of his own capacity for fear.

  “And what of Baneur Deuseau and Navan Prianhe?” Cantor could feel the blood draining from his face. The situation had become worse.

  “Gone,
my Lord. When we were able to regroup, I led a contingent back to the cabin where the fugitives were staying. Everyone was gone. As to their current whereabouts, I can’t rightly say.”

  “Very well, Lieutenant. Get yourself cleaned up. I’ll expect to see a full report on parchment by tomorrow afternoon. Am I clear?” Cantor felt vacant and hopeless. He was certain to be forced into slavery now.

  “There’s just one more thing, Governor,” Davold said. Cantor quirked a brow at him. Davold went to a desk set up against one of the far walls and removed a tattered old book from the burlap sack. Cantor walked over to take a look. “It’s about your hobby. I thought you might find this interesting,” Davold told him.

  Cantor allowed a select few of his most trusted people to know about his private pursuit of blood sorcery. Davold had been with him for many years, and his loyalty was assured.

  “The cabin where the fugitives stayed was full of books. Thousands of them, actually. I’ve ordered my men to begin transporting them back to the palace. This particular book caught my eye.” Davold bowed his head and left Cantor alone in his bedroom with the book.

  Cantor flipped the delicate pages with mounting glee. Perhaps not all was lost. He took a seat at the desk and began to read. He stayed awake for most of the night, feeling for the first time in many days, that all he dreamed to achieve was once again nearly within his grasp.

  ********************************************************************

  The oarsman paddled the long boat to shore against the churning tide of Altrega’s rocky eastern coast. Durg eyed the shores of his homeland like a crying babe returned to his mother’s arms. It had been a long journey. A difficult journey. The tropics didn’t agree with his kind. He hated the heat. He despised the sun. Durg yearned to feel hard rock beneath his feet. His stomach cried out for some unblemished quartz or a hunk of sweet pumice. The rocks on that cursed island had been bland and unsatisfying. He was desperate for a good meal.

  The long boat struck dry land and his men hopped out and began pulling the boat ashore. Several more longboats came aground beside him.