Dawn of the Sacred Land

by Mark E. Tyson

  “Soldier’s Bluff! Forget it, then. We’ll have to figure out another day to spend time together. I remember a time when you wanted to be in my company.”

  “Tat, please, not the ‘no time together’ speech.” He knew he was saying the wrong thing even as the words left his lips, but he couldn’t stop himself. “My father has given me permission to bring you along. He said we can stop at Ashonda’s Pond on the way back.”

  Tatrice glowered at him, her eyes narrowing as the anger behind them festered into a rage. Dorenn stood his ground, awaiting an explosion of emotion, but to his surprise, her face softened. “Well, I don’t think we’ll have time to stop afterward for a full picnic, but it might be nice to travel with you. Perhaps we could stop beside the road for lunch on the way instead.”

  “Absolutely,” Dorenn replied, relieved. “When can you get free from the kitchen?”

  “When your mother comes back from serving breakfast in the common room.”

  “Good, that’ll give me time to saddle up Old Blue.”

  “Why Old Blue? We aren’t taking a wagon?”

  “Father has Durn slaughtering hogs; he just needs enough salted pork to get by for a couple of days.”

  “It will take more than a couple of days for Durn’s pork to cure, won’t it?” Tatrice asked.

  “He plans to buy more from Fadral the Peddler when he makes his regular visit.”

  Tatrice turned up her nose. “Pork from a peddler? Unbelievable. I never thought I would see the day when your father would buy meat from a peddler.”

  The midmorning sun felt good on Dorenn’s shoulders as he and Tatrice rode west out of Brookhaven. Old Blue trotted playfully, basking in the crisp mountain air. Old Blue was neither old nor blue; his father had never told him why he gave the horse such a strange name, and Dorenn never remembered to ask until he was riding out of town. He would have to remember when they returned this time. Tatrice rested her head against Dorenn’s back, which he liked very much. “Where did you want to stop to eat?”

  Tatrice’s breath was warm against his back as she spoke. “A nice grove of trees would be nice. When the sun reaches midday, the cool air beneath the trees will be perfect.”

  “All right, I know a spot we should reach about midday. I have often wanted to stop there, but until now I had no reason to.” Dorenn scanned the evergreens lining the meandering mountain road. A light breeze blew, and birds frolicked in late springtime escapades. Then, quite unexpectedly, Dorenn caught the hint of movement among the trees. At first, he thought it might be an elk or deer in the shadows, but he spotted it repeatedly as they rode along. It was a shadow about the height of a man from what Dorenn could tell. He began to watch for it as he rode.

  Dorenn had not seen the shadow for quite some time until about midday when he started looking for the spot he had in mind for the picnic. He spotted the shadow moving rapidly between two pines. “Tat,” he whispered, “do you see that shadow in the trees?”

  “What are you talking about?” she asked.

  “Not so loud,” he warned. “There is something out there.”

  “Dorenn, you’re scaring me. I don’t see anything.”

  He picked up the pace by lightly kicking Old Blue with his heels. The horse, already giddy from being out in the open, bolted, and Tatrice’s grip tightened. Dorenn tried to slow the horse down, but it only moved faster. He strained to look behind him to see the shadow that passed in the corner of his eye. Something large and black crossed the road behind them. Dorenn quickly realized that Old Blue was not responding to his commands; the horse was spooked. Tatrice held on tighter as Dorenn gritted his teeth and leaned forward. The air rushed in his ears, and a swooshing sound like someone swinging a rope around came from behind. On the road ahead and parked to the side, Dorenn noticed a wagon. As they neared, he made out that it was a peddler’s wagon.

  “Fadral,” Dorenn said. “Hang on, Tat, I think that wagon is Fadral’s.”

  Dorenn began to rein in the horse, pulling as hard as he could. The horse responded and slowed. He led Old Blue behind the wagon and searched the road again to see what pursued them. Nothing was there.

  Dorenn turned in the saddle and comforted Tatrice. “Are you all right?”

  Tatrice looked shaken. “What was that?”

  “You saw it too?”

  “Just the shadow of something running across the road.”

  Dorenn snuggled Tatrice in closer. “It’s gone now.”

  “Ho there, young ones,” came a voice from the other side of the wagon. Dorenn reined Old Blue and trotted around the wagon. Fadral was strolling leisurely from a copse of trees. “I thought I saw dust on the road.”

  “Fadral, what are you doing out here? I thought you were not coming up here for two more days.”

  “I stepped up my visits due to all the activity. With the king’s men heading to the outposts, I hear the inns up here are low on provisions.”

  “Aye, I was heading to Soldier’s Bluff to find you.”

  “Ah yes, you are the innkeeper’s son from Brookhaven. The Tiger’s Head, am I right?”

  “Aye, and this is—”

  “The lovely Tatrice from the kitchens,” Fadral interjected.

  “I suppose you see her more often.”

  “Yes, indeed. How is your mistress?”

  “She is fine,” Tatrice replied.

  “And how are you, my dear?” Dorenn did not like the look in his eyes.

  “I have been better.”

  “Oh?” Fadral replied inquisitively.

  “Something was just chasing us!” Tatrice blurted out.

  Dorenn swiftly added. “We think something might have jumped out of the evergreens. It could have been anything. It frightened our horse.”

  “A bear, perhaps?” Fadral offered. “They’re out and about now, and that would explain your horse.”

  Tatrice braced to object, but Dorenn was quick to intercept her. “Aye, that was probably it, a bear.” He grabbed Tatrice’s leg and squeezed slightly. She must have gotten the hint because she said nothing.

  Fadral lifted himself onto the wagon. “We best be heading back into Brookhaven, then.”

  “Back? I thought you were coming from the opposite direction?” Dorenn pointed out.

  “Figure of speech, master. I meant we should all be on our way to Brookhaven.”

  “Thank you, but we have other business to attend to before we head back.” Dorenn pointed at the picnic basket. “We have more time now that we don’t have to ride to find you. You do have plenty of salted pork for the inn?”

  “Aye, I have overstocked my wagon for this special trip.” He paused. “I think you should put off any picnics if there are bears around. You should come back into town.”

  “Dorenn, I think he is right. We should go back into town. I would not feel comfortable trying to have a picnic out here now.”

  Dorenn studied Tatrice’s face. “If that’s what you want.” Tatrice nodded.

  Fadral motioned toward his wagon. “You two should ride with me where it is more comfortable. Tie your horse to the back.”

  Tatrice dismounted, followed by Dorenn. Dorenn caught Tatrice and whispered in her ear while Fadral wasn’t looking. “You trust him?”

  “I trust him enough. He has been out to the inn quite a bit, and he has always been a gentleman. Why? What’s wrong? I think traveling with him is safer than being alone on a horse. Especially if there is something out there, and it was no bear.”

  “You coming?” Fadral asked while climbing aboard the wagon.

  “Aye, Fadral.” He took Tatrice’s hand and patted it in hopes of reassuring her, or himself. “Go ahead and climb up while I tie off Old Blue.”

  Tatrice went around the peddler’s wagon and climbed up halfway, waiting for Dorenn to come around to sit next to Fadral. After a few moments, Dorenn appeared and climbed up ahead of Tatrice. She sat down on the edge beside him.

  “Here we go,” Fadral said as he snapped the
reins, causing the wagon to jolt forward.

  They were pulling slowly up onto the road when Fadral reined in the four horses. He turned to Dorenn. Dorenn felt uncomfortable, as if the peddler was about to grab him and throw him off the side. He braced himself. Fadral made a move toward him, and Dorenn lurched forward, pushing the peddler back.

  “What are you doing?” Fadral asked. “I am trying to tell you something in private.”

  Dorenn pushed him back harder.

  “All right, I’ll say it from here. There is a coach pulling up the road behind us. I saw it before we got onto the road.” Fadral pushed Dorenn back as well. “See for yourself.”

  Dorenn stood and leaned out to look behind the wagon. Tatrice strained to look also. The coach was drawn by four white horses with two riders flanking both sides. It rode a bit faster than Fadral’s wagon and was painted in the royal colors of gold, blue, and red.

  “They are royalty,” Tatrice whispered.

  Fadral turned to look again at the coach. “The coach is royal, but the person inside is not.”

  “How do you know?” Tatrice asked.

  “Sheyna Namear rides in that coach. She is a wielder assigned to look into the death of the highlord. They think he was murdered, you know.”

  “A wielder here in the Jagged Mountains?” Dorenn questioned the wisdom of a wielder roaming around unchecked.

  “Some think so,” Fadral replied. “She was very fond of the highlord. Some say she was his mistress.”

  “Wielding is outlawed in Symboria; she could be put to death out here,” Dorenn reminded.

  Fadral laughed. “Now, I would pay a good wage to see anyone try to take her against her will.”

  Dorenn’s eyes fixated on the driver of the coach. He was a particularly large man with considerable girth. Not to say the driver had visited the dinner table once too often, but that he was solid, powerful and stocky. The man’s face bore a scar over one eye. At the driver’s side, on the bench and within ready reach, sat a sword so great that Dorenn couldn’t believe anyone could wield it. Beside the sword, strapped to the carriage crest, stood a wicked-looking bow of a design that struck Dorenn as more sinister than practical. It curved like a bow but tilted upward and outward like two giant black wings joined at the center. The drawstring was thick and red in color. The coach certainly appeared to be one in which royalty would travel. He had seen such a carriage before while visiting the city of Symbor. The lower half of the coach door held the same crest as the rider’s armor. The coach stopped ahead of the peddler wagon, and the driver climbed down from the carriage and lowered the coach steps. He reached to open the door as he placed his right foot on the lowermost step, extending his hand.

  Fadral halted the peddler wagon. “Watch what you say and try not to offend her.”

  A long, slender arm extended from the coach, and a gloved hand accepted the guard’s hand.

  “My lady, these are dangerous lands. It isn’t safe.”

  “Nonsense, Rodraq. I can take care of myself. Now stand aside.”

  “As you wish, my lady,” Rodraq said. He helped the woman down the steps and then stepped aside as ordered.

  Dorenn felt his stomach flutter with anticipation. The woman wore a long red velvet dress. Her hair was dark, almost black, and her skin was pale. She looked directly at Fadral’s wagon with a stern, commanding gaze, and then she cleared her throat and strolled toward them. As she neared, Dorenn was particularly taken with her eyes, which were a deep, penetrating sapphire blue. For a brief moment, her eyes met with his and she smiled. Dorenn shivered as if he had just stood up out of a warm bed on a cold morning. Her face was slightly rounded and her features delicate. Her petite nose accentuated her full red lips above a perfectly proportioned chin. He was certain, by her determined expression, that she was accustomed to getting exactly what she wanted. Dorenn glanced at Fadral, who had become visibly taut.

  “What’s wrong, Fadral?” Dorenn asked. “Try to relax.”

  Fadral muttered out of the corner of his mouth. “No noble ever approaches a mere peddler’s wagon, nor does any sorceress for that matter.”

  “I thought you said she wasn’t nobility,” Dorenn said.

  “She is stunning!” Tatrice exclaimed.

  “There is grave danger in beauty, young Tatrice,” Fadral cautioned.

  “Hail, Peddler,” the woman began. “What business do you have with these fine young folk this day?”

  “I-I-I am giving them a ride to Brookhaven. I know them both from that village. Master Dorenn’s father owns the finest inn for miles around.” He motioned to Tatrice. “This young lady is Tatrice; she works in the inn’s kitchen.”

  “Fadral, you are saying far too much,” Dorenn scolded.

  Fadral stammered, and Dorenn was aware that out of sheer nervousness, the peddler fumbled on his own words. “Forgive me, Lady Sheyna, I tend to talk too much.”

  The woman’s gentle demeanor faded. Her eyes narrowed as she contemplated Fadral a moment, and her expression descended into a soured, irritated grimace. “I prefer to be called Lady Shey, or simply Shey, if you please, my good sir. I am none too fond of the name Sheyna.” Her light disposition returned, but her tone became smug. “It sounds a bit too much like a name one would bestow on a horse.”

  Fadral’s expression changed to uneasy apprehension. “Of course, please accept my apologies, my lady. I did not mean to offend.”

  “Nonsense, my good peddler.” Her tone became warm again. “No offense taken as long as you mind how you refer to me in the future.”

  He bowed his head. “Certainly, my lady, it will never happen again.”

  “Very well,” she said, removing her gloves and turning her attention to Dorenn. “Come down from there, lad. I won’t bite you.”

  “Me?” Dorenn asked as a sharp pang of fear gripped him.

  “You are the only lad sitting on that wagon, are you not? Come down here and let me get a good look at you.”

  Dorenn stepped down from the wagon. He stood face-to-face with Lady Shey. She took his chin in her hand, turning his face from the left to the right. “Oh yes, I believe you to be Dorenn Adair, are you not?”

  Dorenn froze, swallowing hard. He desperately wanted to ask her how she knew his name, but he could not speak.

  “Well, lad?”

  “Aye, my lady, I am he.” Dorenn was thankful his voice had returned to him.

  “Splendid.” Her blue eyes narrowed as she looked at him. “But I shouldn’t call you lad, should I? You look as strong as a bull.” She boldly squeezed his arm. “I assume you train with a sword, being from Symboria?”

  “Aye, my lady, I train with Swordsman Grint five days a week, sometimes more.”

  “I thought so.” She looked intently into his eyes, and after a long moment, Dorenn wanted to bolt away from her. Surely she had no business with him. Her gaze seemed to enter into his soul, and he started to feel a bit lightheaded, like he might faint. Still, he got a vague feeling of familiarity, as if he had seen her somewhere before. He dismissed the notion.

  “Have you a master, then?” she asked pointedly.

  “A master?” Dorenn repeated. “What do you mean, my lady? I do not serve anyone but the king of Symboria and his kinsmen.” He paused for a moment. “And my mother and father, of course.”

  Lady Shey laughed. “No, not that sort of master. I mean are you apprenticed?”

  “I do not officially apprentice to a trade, but I mean to be an innkeeper like my father—”

  “Oh, by Fawlsbane’s beard, I know you are not this dense,” Lady Shey interrupted. “I mean, do you apprentice to a wielder? Have you any training?”

  Dorenn flushed immediately, first with shock and then with abject anger. “NO! Certainly not!” He spat the words.

  “Take care, boy,” Rodraq cautioned as he gripped his sword hilt. “You address a lady.”

  Dorenn lowered his eyes. “Forgive my outburst, my lady, but in these parts, wielding is outlawed. You
had better look out for yourself while you are visiting. I mean no disrespect, but I know my countrymen.”

  Lady Shey grinned, and Dorenn was unsure of the source of her amusement, only that it infuriated him. She was flippant with the danger he warned.

  “Forgive me, young Dorenn, but where I come from a wielder is a person of great power, responsibility, and honor. I suppose the War of the Oracle, fought on your soil so long ago, has somewhat spoiled that notion.”

  “Oh? Where do you come from?” Dorenn blurted out without thinking the question through.

  Lady Shey glared at him for a moment and then smiled pleasantly. “I come from a vale not far from here. In Symboria, I might add.” Dorenn ignored Rodraq as he gripped his sword again.

  “The Vale of Morgoran?” Tatrice asked.

  Lady Shey’s amused demeanor momentarily abated. “It isn’t polite to ask so bluntly, my dear, but you are correct.”

  Rodraq drew his sword.

  “For the love of the kings, put that away!” Lady Shey commanded. Rodraq sheathed his sword. “And go wait up by the front of the coach; I am quite safe, I assure you.” Rodraq reluctantly turned and stormed toward the front of the coach.

  Tatrice sank back. “I apologize, my lady.”

  “Aye, young lady, I come from the Vale of Morgoran. What do you know of it?”

  “Only that Morgoran Cleareyes is said to live there, doomed to predict the future forever.”

  “It is true Morgoran Cleareyes lives there and that people believe the mad ramblings from his lips are visions of the future; however, nothing he has said has ever been known to come to pass.”

  “My lady,” Rodraq shouted from the front of the coach, “night will fall by the time we travel to Brookhaven. We must go.” Lady Shey’s eyes turned skyward, and she squinted before looking back at Dorenn. “How far is Brookhaven from here?”

  “About a quarter day’s ride, my lady,” Dorenn answered. “It will not be dark, but it will be close to twilight.”

  “Very well, Rodraq,” she answered back. “Make ready to move out.”

  “Aye, my lady,” he responded.

  “You say your father has an inn?” Lady Shey asked Dorenn.