Avempartha

by Michael J. Sullivan

  After another day’s travel that left her drowsy, Arista was at the Pickering’s camp, hiding from Bernice. The two boys shared an elegant, single-peak tent of alternating gold and green stripes, which they pitched at the eastern edge of the main camp. The three sat out front under the scallop-edged canopy held up by two tall wooden poles. On the left flew the gold falcon on the red field of the House of Essendon, on the right the gold sword on the green field, of the House of Pickering. It was a modest camp compared to most of the nobles. Some looked like small castles and took hours for a team of servants to erect. The Pickerings traveled lightly, carrying everything they needed on their stallions and two packhorses. They did not have tables or chairs and Arista sprawled in a modest gown on a sheet of canvas. If Bernice saw, the old woman would have a heart attack.

  Arista did not mind. She thought it was wonderful to lie back and stretch out under the sky. It reminded her of Summersrule when they were kids. At night the adults would dance and the children would lie on the south hill at Drondil Fields counting the falling stars and fireflies. It was all of them then—Mauvin, Fanen, Alric, even Lenare—back before the Pickering’s sister became too much of a lady. She remembered feeling the cool night breeze rush over her, the sensation of grass on her bare feet, the vast spray of stars above, and the faint melody of the band as it played Calide Portmore, the Galilin folk song.

  “And there, see the large man in the green tunic? That’s Sir Gravin; he’s a quester. He does most of his work for the Church of Nyphron. You know recovering artifacts, slaying monsters, those kinds of things. He’s known to be one of the greatest adventurers alive. He’s from Vernes, that’s all the way down near Delgos.”

  “I know where Vernes is, Fanen,” Arista replied.

  “That’s right, you have to know all that stuff now, don’t you?” Mauvin said. “Your high exulted ambassadorship.” The elder Pickering offered an elaborate seated bow.

  “Laugh now—just you wait,” she told him. “You’ll get yours—one day you’ll be marquis. Then it won’t be all fun and games. You’ll have responsibilities, mister.”

  “I won’t,” Fanen said sadly.

  If not for him being three years younger, Fanen could be Mauvin’s twin. Both had the dashing Pickering features, sharp angled faces, dark thick hair, bright white teeth, and sweeping shoulders that tapered to narrow, athletic waists. Fanen was just leaner and a bit shorter and unlike Mauvin, whose hair was always a frightful mess, Fanen kept his neatly combed.

  “That’s why you need to win this thing,” Mauvin told his brother. “And, of course, you will, because you’re a Pickering, and Pickerings never fail. Look at that guy over there. He doesn’t stand a chance.”

  Arista did not bother sitting up. He had been doing this all night—pointing out people and explaining how he could tell by the way they walked or wore their sword that Fanen could best them. She had no doubt he was right; she was just tired of hearing it.

  “What is the prize for this contest?” she asked.

  “They haven’t said yet,” Fanen muttered.

  “Gold most likely,” Mauvin replied, “in the form of some award, but that’s not what makes it valuable. It’s the prestige. Once Fanen takes this trophy he will have a name; well, he already has the Pickering name, but he hasn’t any titles yet. Once he does, opportunities will open up for him. Of course, it could be land. Then he’d be set.”

  “I hope so; I certainly don’t want to end up at a monastery.”

  “Do you still write poetry, Fanen?” Arista asked.

  “I haven’t—in a while.”

  “It was good, what I remember at least. You used to write all the time. What happened?”

  “He learned the poetry of the sword. It will serve him far better than the pen,” Mauvin answered for him.

  “Who’s that?” Fanen asked, pointing to the west.

  “That’s Rentinual,” Mauvin replied, “the self-proclaimed genius. Get this. He’s brought this thing, a huge contraption with him.”

  “Why?”

  “He says it’s for the contest.”

  “What is it?”

  Mauvin shrugged. “Don’t know, but it’s big. He keeps it covered under a tarp and wails like a girl whenever the wagon team bounces it through a rut.”

  “Say, isn’t that Prince Rudolf?”

  “Where?” Arista popped her head up, moving to her elbows.

  Mauvin chuckled. “Just kidding. Alric told us about—your misunderstanding.”

  “Have you met Rudolf?” she asked.

  “Actually I have,” Mauvin said. “The man has donkeys wondering why they got stuck with him as a namesake.” It took a second then Fanen and Arista broke into laughter, dragging Mauvin with them. “He’s a royal git that’s certain, and I’d have been plenty upset if I thought I was facing a life kissing that ass. Honestly Arista, I’m surprised you didn’t turn Alric into a toad or something.”

  Arista stopped laughing. “What?”

  “You know, put a hex on him. A week as a frog would—what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” she said, lying back down and turning onto her stomach.

  “Hey—look—I didn’t mean anything.”

  “It’s okay,” she lied.

  “It was just a joke.”

  “Your first joke was better.”

  “Arista, I know you’re not a witch.”

  A long uncomfortable silence followed.

  “I’m sorry,” Mauvin offered.

  “Took you long enough,” she said.

  “It could have been worse,” Fanen spoke up, “Alric could have forced you to marry Mauvin.”

  “That’s really sick,” Arista said, rolling over and sitting up. Mauvin looked at her with hurt, surprised eyes. She shook her head. “I just meant it would be like marrying a brother. I’ve always thought of you all as family.”

  “Don’t tell Denek,” Mauvin replied, “he’s had a crush on you for years.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Oh, and don’t tell him I told you either. Uh—better yet just forget I said that.”

  “What about those two?” Fanen asked abruptly, pointing toward a massive red and black striped tent from which two men just exited. One was huge with a wild red moustache and beard. He wore a sleeveless scarlet tunic with a green draped sash and a metal cap with several dents in it. The other man was tall and thin with long black hair and a short trimmed beard. He was dressed in a red cassock and black cape with the symbol of a broken crown on his chest.

  “I don’t think you want to mess with either of them,” Mauvin finally said. “That’s Lord Rufus of Trent, Warlord of Lingard, a clan leader and veteran of dozens of battles against the wild men of Estrendor, not to mention being the hero of the battle of Vilan Hills.”

  “That’s Rufus?” Fanen muttered.

  “I’ve heard he’s got the temperament of a shrew and the arm of a bear.”

  “Who’s the other guy, the one with the broken crown standard?” Fanen asked pointing at the other man.

  “That, my dear brother, is a sentinel and let’s just hope this is the closest either of us ever get to one.”

  While Arista was watching the two men, she saw a silhouette appear against the light of the distant campfire—very short, with a long beard and puffy sleeves.

  “By the way, I want to start early tomorrow, Fanen,” his brother said. “I want to get out ahead of the train. I’m tired of eating dust.”

  “Anyone know exactly where we are going?” Fanen asked. “It feels like we are traveling to the end of the world.”

  Arista nodded. “I heard Sauly talking about it with the archbishop. I think it is a little village called Dahlgren.”

  She looked back trying to find the figure once more, but it was gone.

  Chapter 7: Of Elves and Men

  Thrace lay on the margrave’s bed in the manor house, her head carefully wrapped in strips of cloth. Her hair was bunched and snarled, blond strands slipping out bet
ween the bandages. Purple and yellow bruises swelled around her eyes and nose. Her upper lip puffed up to twice its size and a line of dark dried blood ran its length. Thrace coughed and mumbled but never spoke, never opened her eyes.

  And Theron never left her side.

  Esrahaddon ordered Lena to boil feverfew leaves in a big pot of apple cider vinegar. She did as he instructed. Everyone did now. After last night, the residents of Dahlgren treated the cripple with newfound respect and looked at him with awe and a bit of fear. It was Tad Bothwick and Rose McDern who saw him raise the green fire that chased away the beast. No one said the word witch or wizard. No one had to. Soon the steam from the pot filled the room with a pungent flowery odor.

  “I’m so sorry,” Theron whispered to his daughter.

  The coughing and mumbling had stopped and she lay still as death. He held her limp hand to his cheek, unsure if she could hear him. He had been saying that for hours, begging her to wake up. “I didn’t mean it. I was just so angry. I’m sorry. Don’t leave. Please come back to me.”

  He could still hear the sound in the dark of his daughter’s cry cut horribly short by a muffled crack! If it had been a tree trunk or a thicker branch, Theron guessed she would have died instantly. As it was, she still might die.

  No one but Lena and Esrahaddon dared enter the room that Theron filled with his grief. They all expected the worst. Blood had covered the girl’s face and her father’s shirt by the time they arrived at the manor. Skin white, lips an odd bluish hue, Thrace had not moved nor opened her eyes. Esrahaddon had whispered to her and instructed them to take the girl to the manor and keep her warm. It was the kind of thing one did for the dying, making them as comfortable as possible. Deacon Tomas had prayed for her and remained on hand to bless her departing soul.

  In the last year, the village of Dahlgren had seen so many deaths. Not all were by the beast. There were the normal accidents, sicknesses, and in the winter, wolves hunted the area. There were also some unexplained disappearances. Often attributed to the beast, they could just as likely have been the result of getting lost in the forest or an accidental fall in the Nidwalden. In no more than a year, over half the village’s population had perished or gone missing. Everyone knew someone who had died, and nearly every family had lost at least one member. The people of Dahlgren had grown accustomed to death. He was a nightly visitor, a guest at every breakfast table. They knew his face, the sound of his voice, the way he walked, his peculiar habits. He was always there. If it were not for the mess he left, they might neglect to notice him altogether. No one expected Thrace to survive.

  The sun came up, casting a dull light into the room where Theron wept for his daughter. The last of his family was leaving him. Only now he realized how much she meant to him. Thoughts came, uninvited, to his mind. Time and time again it was she who always came for him. He remembered the night the beast attacked his farm, when he was coming home late. Only she had braved the darkness to search for him. It was Thrace, a young girl, little more than a child, who traveled alone halfway across Avryn, and spent her life savings to bring him help. Then last night, when his stubbornness kept him at the farm, she came to him in the darkness, running alone through the forest, ignoring the dangers. There was only one thought in her mind—to save him. She succeeded. She had deprived the beast of his flesh, but more than that. She had pulled him back into the world of the living. She had ripped the black veil away from his eyes and freed his heart from the weight of guilt, but the price had been her life.

  Tears ran down his cheeks. They hung on his upper lip. He kissed his daughter’s hand leaving a wet spot, an offering, an apology.

  How could I have been so blind?

  The even constant breaths his daughter took slowed with each inhale, less frequent, shorter than the one before. He listened to their descent, like the sound of footsteps receding, walking away, growing fainter, quieter.

  He clutched her hand, kissing it repeatedly and rubbing it to his wet cheek. It felt like his heart was being ripped out through his chest.

  At last, the regular pace of her breathing stopped.

  Theron sobbed. “Oh, god.”

  “Daddy?” He jerked his head up. His daughter’s eyes were open. She was looking at him. “Are you alright?” she whispered.

  His mouth opened but he could not speak. His tears continued to flow, and like a barren bit of land seeing water for the first time in years, a smile of joy grew on his face.

  ———

  Swift clouds moved across a capricious sky as growing winds and the portents of a coming storm marked the new day. Royce sat on the rock ledge where the cliff met the river and the spray of the falls dampened the stone. His feet and legs were soaked from a morning spent trekking through the damp forest underbrush. His eyes stared out across the ridgeline of the falls at the promontory rock and the towering citadel that sat tantalizingly upon it. He thought that perhaps there might be a tunnel running under the river. He looked for an access in the trees, but found nothing. He was getting nowhere.

  After almost two days, he was no closer to his goal. The tower still lay out of reach. Unless he could learn to swim the current, walk on water, or fly, he had no chance of traversing the gulf that lay between.

  “They’re over there right now, you know,” Esrahaddon said.

  Royce had forgotten about the wizard. He had arrived some time ago, mentioning only that Thrace survived, that she was awake and looked to make a full recovery. After that, he took a seat on a rock and spent the next hour or so staring across the river much as Royce had done all day.

  “Who?”

  “The elves. They’re on their side of the river looking back at us. They can see us I suspect, even at this range. They are surprising like that. Most humans consider them inferior—lazy, filthy, uneducated creatures—but the fact is they are superior to humans in nearly every way. I suppose that’s why humans are so quick to denounce them; they are unwilling to concede that they may be second best.

  “Elves are truly remarkable. Just look at that tower. It’s fluid and seamless as if growing right out of the rock. How elegant. How perfect. It fits into the landscape like a thing of nature, a natural wonder, only it isn’t. They created it using skills and techniques that our best masons couldn’t begin to understand. Just imagine how glorious their cities must be! What wonders those forests across the river must hold.”

  “So you have never crossed the river?” Royce asked.

  “No man ever has, and no man is ever likely to. The moment a man touches that far shore, he will likely fall dead. The thread by which the fate of man hangs is a thin one indeed.”

  “How’s that?”

  Esrahaddon only smiled. “Did you know that no human army ever won a battle against the elves before the arrival of Novron? At that time, elves were our demons. The Great Library of Percepliquis had reams on it. Once we even thought they were gods. Their life span is so long that no one noticed them aging. Their death rites are so secret no human has ever seen an elven corpse.

  “They were the firstborn, the Children of Ferrol, great and powerful. In combat, they were feared above all things. Sickness could be treated. Bears and wolves could be hunted and trapped. Storms and droughts prepared for—but nothing, nothing could stand before the elves. Their blades broke ours, their arrows pierced our armor, their shields were impenetrable, and, of course, they knew The Art. Imagine a sky darkened with a host of Gilarabrywn. And they are only one of their weapons. Even without all that, without The Art, their speed, eyesight, hearing, balance, and ancient skills are all beyond the abilities of man.”

  “If that’s true how come they’re over there and we’re sitting here?”

  “It is all because of Novron. He showed us their weaknesses. He taught mankind how to fight, how to defend, and he taught us the art of magic. Without it we were naked and helpless against them.”

  “I still don’t see how we won,” Royce challenged. “Even with that knowledge, they still s
eem to have the advantage.”

  “True, and in an even fight we would have lost, but it wasn’t even. You see, elves live for a very long time. I don’t think any human actually knows how long, but they live for many centuries at least. There may be elves right now watching us that remember what Novron looked like. But no people can live that long and reproduce quickly. Elves have few children and a birth for them is quite significant. Birth and death in the elven world are rare and holy things.

  “You can imagine the devastation and misery it must have been during the wars. No matter how many battles they won against us, each time their numbers were fewer afterwards than before. While we humans recovered our losses in a generation, it would take a millennium for the elves. They were consumed, drowned if you will, in a flooding sea of humanity.” Esrahaddon paused then added, “Only now Novron is gone. There will be no savior this time.”

  “This time?”

  “What do you think keeps them over there? These are their lands. To us it seems eons ago, but to them it is just yesterday when they walked this side of the river. By now, their numbers have likely recovered.”

  “What keeps them on that side of the river then?”

  “What keeps anyone from what they want? Fear. Fear of annihilation, fear that we would destroy them utterly, but Novron is dead.”

  “You mentioned that,” Royce pointed out.

  “I told you before that mankind has squandered the legacy of Novron, and it has done so at its own peril. Novron brought magic to man, but Novron is gone and the magic forgotten. We sit here like children, naked and unarmed. Mankind is inviting the wrath of a race so far beyond us they won’t even hear our cries. The elves’ ignorance of our weakness and this fragile agreement between the Erivan Empire and a dead emperor is all that remains of humanity’s defense.”

  “It’s a good thing they don’t know then.”

  “That’s just it,” the wizard told him, “they are learning.”

  “The Gilarabrywn?”

  Esrahaddon nodded. “According to Novron’s decree, the banks of the river Nidwalden are ryin contita.”