Banner Lord

by Jason L. McWhirter

  They were halfway across when Kivalla suddenly noticed something dire. “Jarak, look, the rope!” Their escape was so frantic that no one had even thought about the oil soaked rope that was connected to one of the pilings on the dock. A dock that was now a firestorm. Everyone glanced back and saw that the rope was burning, the fire licking up its length.

  Cat looked down river and didn’t like what she saw. Several hundred paces down river were a series of rapids where the water crashed into a jumble of large rocks and boulders spanning the width of the river. If the rope broke the boat would crash into the rocks and be torn to pieces, and they would likely drown in the freezing embrace of the turbulent water. “Jarak! If that rope breaks we will be crushed!” she shouted.

  “Pull harder!” Jarak yelled.

  Serix, Endler, and Aldgar grunted as they strained to push with all their might, lifting the long poles and replanting them as quickly as they could. But the boat was moving at a snail’s pace.

  “We are not going to make it!” Orin shouted.

  Kivalla was looking about frantically, trying to think of a way to stop the inevitable. Looking up at the rope passing through the metal rungs he came up with a desperate plan. “Brant! Come here!” he said as he stepped closer to the metal structure that housed the steel rungs that secured the rope. “Stab your sword through the rope sideways, so the flat of the blade will be flush with the rung when the rope breaks.”

  Brant looked at him unbelievably. He wanted him to ram his sword through the rope so that when the rope snapped, the pressure of it sliding through the rung would press the flat of the blade against the metal loop, stopping it from sliding through. Then the boat would swing through the water, the rope hopefully held in place by the sword, until the boat crashed against the opposite shoreline and they could jump free of it. “The pressure is too great! The sword will break!”

  “It will not! The Kul-brite will hold! Now do it!”

  Brant looked at Jarak who also looked skeptical. But what other choice did they have? If the rope broke, which they knew it would, then they would be crushed against the rocks. Everyone except the Gyths wore armor, and if they ended up in the water they would sink to the bottom like stones.

  Looking back Brant saw that the fire had now completely consumed the dock and the rope had burned along its length five paces over the water. It would snap at any moment. He took the tip of his thin sword and placed it a hair’s length away from the slowly moving rope just behind the first rung. Kivalla nodded, his eyes frantically looking at the rapids. Brant then used his enhanced strength to shove the razor sharp steel through the rope.

  And that was when the rope snapped. The boat jolted and the immense weight of the raft pulled the rope tight as the current took it. The flat side of Brant’s sword slammed against the metal rung and held. Everyone held their breath and gripped the railing as the sword vibrated under the pressure, the boat swinging through the water like a pendulum. They were quickly approaching the opposite shore.

  “Hold on!” Aldgar shouted as the boat bore down on the grass and snow covered riverbank. They gripped the railings, while continuing to hold tightly to the reins of the mules and horses. The last thing they needed was to have the frightened animals leap into the water, especially the mules that carried the Kul-brite chests.

  They hit the bank hard but everyone managed to stay on their feet. The bank was covered in long grass and shrubs, their tops poking out of the snow. The next problem was to get the horses and mules up the bank. “Everyone off!” Serix yelled.

  “Get the mules first!” Jarak ordered.

  Everyone jumped off the boat as it shuddered in the current, Brant’s sword miraculously still holding it in place. Brant, who was the strongest, grabbed the reins of the mules to pull the beasts up the slippery bank while Jarak, Aldgar, and Endler helped push them. The animals, more frightened of the water than anything else, attempted on their own to struggle up the bank, their hooves tearing up snow, dirt, and grass in the process. After what seemed like an eternity, they finally made it to the top, filthy and exhausted.

  Brant then jumped over the railing and back onto the boat. He pushed more energy into his arms and legs and gripped the hilt of his sword. He pulled hard to retrieve it but nothing happened. The pressure of the boat pushing the sword against the metal rung was so great that he couldn’t move it. “Aldgar!” he shouted up the bank. “Come here!”

  The big Saricon slid down the bank and jumped over the railing. “What do you need?”

  “Take a pole and go to the rear of the raft! When I tell you to, use the pole to push the boat forward against the current!”

  “I will not be able to move the boat. The current is too strong.”

  “I don’t need you to move it. I just need you to relieve some pressure. Now hurry!”

  Aldgar grabbed one of the long poles and pushed it into the water until the tip hit the bottom of the river. Looking back at Brant he waited for his signal.

  Brant gripped his sword hilt again and pushed a massive amount of energy into his arms. “When I pull, be ready to jump off.” Aldgar nodded. “Now!” And Brant pulled on his sword with all the strength he could muster as Aldgar pushed hard on the pole, using his own great strength and weight to relieve some of the pressure.

  It worked and Brant’s blade jerked free, the sound of his Kul-brite steel scraping against the metal rung an ear-piercing screech. As soon as the boat was free it jerked hard and began moving downriver. Brant used his enhanced power and jumped over the railing to land hard against the riverbank. Aldgar’s escape over the railing was not so graceful, but he was able to get half of his body on the bank as his legs floundered in the water. Brant reached down and helped him drag himself up the bank. Together, they joined the rest of the group along the river’s edge. They all stood, watching in the cold, as the large raft dipped and bobbed in the turbulence until it crashed against the rocks, breaking apart and slowly disappearing down the river.

  Jarak looked at Kivalla. “You saved us. Well done.”

  Kivalla nodded, but said nothing, thinking about the men on the other side of the river who had just sacrificed themselves so they could survive.

  Chapter 7

  “Which route should we take?” Cat asked. Everyone was now mounted and ready to depart. Looking across the river they could still see fire and smoke rise into the air. They had no idea how long it would take the Saricons who were hunting them to find a way to cross the river, but they wanted to be long gone before they did.

  “I don’t think we should risk the forest road,” Kivalla said. “There are too many unknowns with the Varga. It’s too much to risk just for saving three days.”

  Jarak was nodding his head in agreement, and by the looks on the faces of the others they agreed with Kivalla. “I agree,” Jarak said.

  “Will we be returning this way?” Brant asked.

  Jarak looked at Kivalla. He had obviously not considered what route they would take back into Dy’ain. Kivalla took his cue and spoke for him. “No, we will travel northeast around Marast Peak and skirt the Heyrith Forest. When we get to the Devlin Range we will take the eastern route along the north fork of the Pelm River. It will be a little longer but now that the ferry dock has been destroyed, the bridge north is the only way to get any army into Dy’ain.”

  “I may part with you at that time,” Brant added.

  Jarak was shaking his head. “I don’t think that is a good idea, Brant. It is too dangerous.”

  “I’m not asking,” Brant said, his stern face set. They all looked at King Jarak, wondering how he would respond to such insubordination. The king’s face was equally stern, but he said nothing. Brant relaxed his tone a bit. “I mean no disrespect, but I want to see my friend. I will meet up with you in Dy’ain. I don’t think it will be hard to track an army. I will find you.”

  “Fine, do what you must. Let’s go,” Jarak said as he glanced back over the river. Everyone felt his concern and needed no
further prodding. The group rode off into the cool morning air, trying to get as much distance between them and the little town of Loral as possible.

  ***

  Lyra stood near the mass of bodies, her expression one of irritation. The three Dygon Guards, one mortally wounded, had lived up to their fearsome reputation, killing all but three of the Tongra’s personal guard. In addition, one of the Gyth arrows had found the neck of their Schulg tracker, killing him instantly. The dock and ferry had been completely destroyed and now there were only eight members left in their party. They would have to find a way to cross the river and somehow find the king and his companions with no tracker. It was fortunate that she could still track the seeking stone. She felt it close, heading north. Where are you going? she thought, pondering all the likely reasons why King Jarak would leave Dy’ain and head north.

  “Lonas, go into town and find me a good map of Corvell,” she ordered. The Gyth nodded and left. “Kedrick, take these Kul-brite blades and procure us a boat. We need to get across this blasted river.” Kedrick did as he was told.

  ***

  They had found the Red City on the seventh day. The trek had been uneventful, for which they were thankful. They had made good time, departing early in the morning and riding late into the evening. There was no sign of further pursuit from the Saricons, and the only other people they passed were travelers and traders. The road that flanked the forest was easy to traverse as it followed the path of the Dundel River, its headwaters far away at Marast Peak. The snows had lessened, the temperature rising a bit the further north they traveled. By the time they reached the Red Bridge, as it was called, there were only a few inches of snow dusting the ground.

  The city of Elwyn, as well as the bridge that crossed the Dundel River, had gotten its nickname from the huge red stones from which it was constructed. The stone was unique to Marast, the quarry from which the stones came was located on the northern side of Marast Peak, one of the many tall peaks of the relatively small mountain range against which the city had been built.

  The group had never seen anything like it. Instead of square towers and fortifications, Elwyn was surrounded by thick walls of red stone with giant spires three times the size as the biggest tree they had ever seen. Everything had been constructed of the unique red stone, the white flags of Marast fluttering in the wind in stark contrast. Over eight cyns ago the Vulls, a violent tribe from the north, had taken control of the lands north of Layona. The leader of the Vulls was a chieftain named Rayth Marast. The Kingdom of Marast was thus established and his family had ruled those lands for many cyns. In fact, it was Rayth’s grandson, his son's son, who had built the red city, which at that time was called Vulkahn. However, three cyns ago another chieftain, this time from Palatone, had become increasingly powerful. He had united the nineteen tribes and with his combined forces had defeated House Marast, forming his own new kingdom. His name was Belwar Elwyn and he had changed the city's name to Elwyn to honor his family and tribe, a tribe that had traditionally been mercenaries and who had continued that tradition. The founder of this new kingdom had died over two cyns ago and his grandson now ruled the lands of Marast, continuing his grandfather’s mercenary tradition, which brought much wealth to his kingdom. His name was Syrak Elwyn and they would be meeting him soon enough.

  They crossed the big stone bridge and soon found themselves staring up at the great red walls of Elwyn, the giant peak of Marast jutting high in the distance behind it. It was a clear day and the vivid blue of the sky was the perfect backdrop to accentuate its beauty. The gate to the city was made from a rare wood from the northern forests, red in color like the stone, and in the center, etched onto thick sheets of steel, was Elwyn’s tribal sigil, a rearing horse silhouetted in front of Marast Peak. Starting at the west side of the bridge, and reaching all the way to the great city, was a sprawling town built of more red stone. It was about the same size as the inhabited area surrounding Cythera, but the architecture of their homes was much different. They were simple in design, small rectangular buildings devoid of extravagance. The walls of the homes were constructed of stone and wood over which a mixture of ground red stone and clay was spread, which hardened in the sun. The roofs were made from thin layers of the ubiquitous red stone and the doors and shutters were constructed of the same red hardwood, contrasting with the black steel of the hardware. The road meandering through town leading up to the city was also paved in a flat red stone, creating a somewhat monotonous landscape.

  There were many people about, as one would expect in a large town and city. The people of Marast were dark haired like the Dy’ainians, but their skin was reddish like the color of the stone that surrounded them. Their clothing, bright and colorful in shades of purple, orange, and blues, contrasted sharply with the monotone color of their town. Most wore fur-lined coats dyed in the same bright colors, with matching hats and accessories. Their group was recognized immediately as foreigners, especially with the two Gyths and Aldgar. The curious stares of the townsfolk followed them as they made their way to the city. Their stares were not hostile, but they weren’t friendly either.

  The big gate was open, flanked by a guard on each side, each wearing leather armor stained red, the center of their chests embossed with Lord Elwyn’s family crest. They carried long bladed spears, short infantry swords, and wore bright blue capes of wool. The guards allowed the people to move in and out of the gate like a parade of ants, but when their group tried to enter, one of the guards stepped before Jarak, halting him.

  The guard said something to the king in Marastian, but Jarak did not understand. Kivalla was riding next to him and he spoke the language. “Greetings,” he said in the guard’s own language. “Do you speak Newain?’ he asked politely.

  The guard shook his head. “No, who are you and what brings you to Elwyn?”

  Kivalla didn’t really want to converse in Marastian; he wanted Jarak and the rest to be able to understand what was being said and take part in the dialogue. “I am Kivalla Der’une, scholar and advisor to the King of Dy’ain, the man to my left. Those behind us are his guards. We come seeking an audience with King Elwyn.”

  The guards face was impassive. He glanced up at Jarak and back to Kivalla. “The King of Dy’ain is much older.”

  Kivalla sighed. “He was, you are correct. But he is dead now, and his son, King Jarak Dormath, is now the ruler of Dy’ain.”

  By this time a few other guards had walked over to them from inside the gate, sensing a possible confrontation, or perhaps it was just curiosity as they had done nothing hostile. One of the guards stood out from the others. He wore a gold cuirass of scale mail, the scales in the shapes of leaves. It was beautiful armor and Kivalla figured he must be an officer. The man’s hair was jet black and pulled back into a tail. His eyes were steel gray and they appraised them quickly. “What do we have here?” he asked the guard that was questioning Kivalla.

  “Sir,” the guard said as he bowed his head slightly. “This man claims to be traveling with the King of Dy’ain.”

  The officer looked at Kivalla. “You speak Marastian?”

  Kivalla nodded. “I do. I speak many languages. As I told your guard here, I am scholar and advisor to the King of Dy’ain. It is required that I know many things.”

  “I see. And this man,” he said, looking at Jarak, “is the King of Dy’ain.”

  “He is,” Kivalla answered.

  “Perhaps you would prefer I speak in Newain,” he added, changing to Newain and looking up at Jarak. “Greetings, I am Kitah, captain of the gate guard.”

  Immediately Jarak perked up, finally being able to understand what was being said. He was beginning to lose his patience but had decided to remain calm, putting his trust in Kivalla. “Greetings Kitah, I am Jarak Dormath, King of Dy’ain, requesting an audience with King Elwyn.”

  Kitah appraised him for a few moments, as well as his companions, before he spoke. “I mean no disrespect, but can you prove who you are? We do not allow mere
travelers to meet with King Elwyn, as I’m sure you understand.”

  Jarak reached up and begin to unbutton the fur lined tunic that covered his armor, pulling it open to reveal his cuirass, the chest plate embossed with his new banner, shining brightly in the afternoon sun.

  Despite his customary and practiced control, Kitah stepped back in surprise, his eyes wide. “Kul-brite,” he whispered. “You wear Kul-brite armor.”

  “I do,” Jarak replied. “And this ring is my signet ring.” He took his ring off and tossed it to Kitah. The warrior caught it easy enough and inspected it, having barely recovered from the sight of Jarak's armor. Seemingly convinced, he handed the ring back to him.

  “King Jarak Dormath,” he said, bowing his head. “Will you please follow me? I will take you to see King Elwyn. If you will leave the horses my men will see they are taken care of.”

  “That is kind of you,” Jarak said. “But the mules must come with us.”

  Kitah looked back at the mules, his expression blank. “Very well.”

  The guards took the horse's reins as everyone dismounted, while several more guards were summoned from inside the gatehouse. They then ran off, probably to bring word of their arrival to King Elwyn.

  They followed Kitah and five other guards through the inner city. It appeared much the same as outside the gate, the walls and structures built of the same strange red stone. The main road meandered uphill, rising in elevation as they went deeper into the city. Elwyn was uniquely designed, laid out in terraces, creating layers of structures at different elevations. The crowded city bustled with activity, and like outside the gate, they were objects of curiosity that drew many stares. Others, however, seemed more accustomed to seeing foreigners, and simply ignored them as they sold their wares or purchased products from the many shops that lined the street. Finally they came to the inner palace, located at the highest level. The base of the king’s palace was higher than the top of the wall surrounding the city. In fact, from where they were standing, they could look out at the sprawling city below them and over the wall to the snow covered grasslands beyond. It was a beautiful view.