Mantle: The Return of the Sha

by Gary Bregar

  Bella and Lizabet had broken off from the men to talk about each of their adventures, if that’s what they could be called—adventures. They each told their story, and they each withheld parts of it.

  The experiences for both of them sometimes seemed as though telling of them would spoil a joyous occasion. Lizabet told Bella of the butterflies in the Hidden and the moss that would help them, but left out the slaying of the Locks and how they had gotten lost in the forest. And she was quick to tell Bella that she would talk more of her being a sha at a later time. There were still too many things about that that she didn’t understand herself.

  Bella, likewise, told of her rescue and Zander’s use of the fairy staff, but left out the parts of the story when she had been sure that she would be killed.

  It was when they were embracing once again, before rejoining the others in the war room, that the sky began to darken. They heard the yelling of men coming from outside the walls of the post, and others within the post were now running across the courtyard not sure where to go.

  Bella and Lizabet ran into the main building and sprinted up the stairs to the war room, where Zander went to Bella at once.

  “You should not be here,” Zander said.

  “And would I be in less danger in my quarters?” Bella asked. “It is but morning, and we are surrounded by scorching heat and the dim light of dusk,” she said. “No…I should be beside my husband—at the side of my king.”

  She said this with such a tone of authority that Zander was helpless to contradict her.

  “Very well,” he said, frustrated.

  Bella gave the slightest nod of approval as she and Lizabet stepped to the far side of the room.

  Turning back to Cergio, Zander said, “I believe they will be here soon. If they are leaving Narciss now—and I suspect they are—we might have two days to prepare.”

  “Three if luck is with us,” Brask added.

  “I agree, but we do not know their traveling speed,” Cergio said. “We should prepare as though they will arrive tomorrow.”

  It was then that King Cergio turned to King Zander and looked him squarely in the eyes.

  “What would you have us do, Zander?” he asked, seeming to offer Zander the lead.

  “I would have Forie foot soldiers lined up along the border eight men deep for as far in both directions as they can reach. I would place Forie archers behind them to make the first strike once the Skites charge—as I expect will be the case. Bore armies on Noble Horses will take the lead, with catapults set toward the front of the line to offer additional cover. The munitions of the catapults will be charmed to provide added distance.”

  “I believe that to be as fine a plan as any—aye, so I do,” Cergio said somberly.

  And he did believe that. Although his own men would be first to see battle, it was the Fories who mastered archery. His men were more adept at using swords and hammers.

  Cergio turned to his own commander, General Felipe Gaspar, whose expression revealed that he was also in agreement.

  “Carry out the orders, Gaspar,” Cergio instructed, “and tell your captains to begin moving troops at once. Work with General Brask, and if your captains should come across men with grumblings about the arrangement, tell them they will answer to me.”

  While the two kingdoms were friends and allies, Bore soldiers could be brutish and arrogant. That was what made them so effective, but it also meant that they might not get along well with Forie soldiers, who Cergio expected might be softer around the edges.

  He would never say such a thing to Zander, but in all likelihood he would be correct in his thinking. Unlike the people of Bore and Tongar, the Fories relied heavily on magic to aid in their everyday lives. Bore and Tongar had a good deal of magic as well, but life in Bore was very different than that of Forris. The Fories were pampered to some extent, and Cergio knew it. He also suspected that Zander knew it as well.

  “Well, shall we get started?” Brask asked General Gaspar.

  “Aye, let us set this thing loose,” Gaspar replied.

  Zander and Cergio looked at each other. They both knew that it would be the Skites who would set things loose. At the border, they could only wait.

  ****

  When the waves came, King Ekkill called for his admiral to summon the waters. Although they didn’t know it, the seas had risen in response to Menagraff’s reincarnation.

  However, the Tongars were not without charms of their own. The very ships that now traveled the Lost Waters, as well as those holding at the Red Islands, were constructed to withstand gale-force winds and the waves that accompanied them.

  Tongar ships were constructed tall and wide, most rising three levels above the surface of the water, and each level exposing small windows where cannons would be placed. They were constructed using wood from the Tongar Forest, which was light, but strong as iron. Each wooden board was painted with a clear liquid created from the blubber of non-elder whales. It went on as a clear liquid, but as the ship was placed in the water, the liquid turned the ships a light blue that would camouflage against the water and sky, making the ship nearly undetectable from even short distances.

  The bow of each ship was curved to a dynamic point, as one would expect, but each bowsprit created a perfect sphere that illuminated on command, lighting the waters that surrounded them.

  King Ekkill’s ship was the same as the others, but larger. While the others flew only the banner of Tongar, the king’s ship flew the banner of the king over the Tongar banner.

  When Admiral Arvin Clausen was given the order to summon the waters, he went to the forecastle deck at the front of the ship and stood for a moment. The wave that was currently building in front of them was rising to a height of over five hundred feet and would surely destroy the first of the fleet, including Ekkill’s own ship. But the king stood firm at the helm, expressionless, knowing that the sea would not harm them. Nothing in the Kingdom of Tongar can be more reliable than the sea.

  Admiral Clausen stood on the deck a moment longer before raising both hands. He closed his eyes and yelled words into the wind that few would understand. They were words of the Old Travelers, and they carried over the wind and into the sea itself.

  Once the verbal command had reached the waters, a moaning sound came from the sea that sounded like deep thunder. The ship began to move backward as the ocean beneath them shifted, sending underwater currents at the oncoming waves. The currents cut the waves from below, forcing the upraised water to curl under itself, folding into a white-water gush.

  This went on for nearly a half hour, until the sea became calm once again. Ekkill wasn’t sure what had caused the wave, but he knew that it had not originated from the sea itself. It had come from land. When word came from the rest of his fleet that sat at the Red Islands, he was relieved to hear that, in the shallow waters, they had avoided the waves altogether.

  He had also received word from King Zander that the war would likely begin within two days, but he commanded his fleet to continue on toward the fight nevertheless. He would not sit out the fight if he could be of use, and he suspected this would not be the only battle fought—not by a long shot. They would push on.

  The Battle in Front of the War

  ALTHOUGH IT WOULD turn out to be four days before they would arrive, it was on the third day that they could be heard coming. The rumbling of the Skite army was, at first, only heard by the keen ears of the horses, but as the day pushed on, the rumbling sound became audible by everyone who stood on the border—a border that would soon be a frontline in battle. The men were anxious, to say the least.

  Both Kings Cergio and Zander went along the lines of their troops, rallying them and promising them a victory that they could not possibly guarantee.

  On the night that the rumbling of approaching Skite soldiers had begun, it was late when Zander knocked at the door of Lizabet’s quarters. When she bid him to enter, he found her and Dorian sitting at the small wooden table in her room. The
light crystal that Lizabet had brought with her was in the center of the table, casting light over the small space easily.

  When the king entered, they both stood from their benches immediately upon seeing that it was him. He was standing in the doorway and was grasping the fairy staff with his left hand. He smiled at the sight of them (he did that often now). Lizabet and Dorian had been virtually inseparable since arriving at the post and their friendship brightened Zander’s outlook each time he saw them.

  “Majesty, what brings you here at such a late hour?” Lizabet asked with a tone of slight panic. What has happened to Bella now? she wondered.

  “Dorian, please give us the room,” Zander said.

  “Yes, Majesty, of course,” Dorian responded as he walked through the door, closing it behind him.

  “Is Bella all right?” Lizabet asked, once Dorian had left. She needed to be sure before they went any further.

  “Yes, she is fine. She is resting and while I worry for her safety, I believe we will make it through one more peaceful night before battle. Although it seems the days aren’t much brighter than the nights anymore.”

  “Then, are you all right?” she asked.

  “Yes, as well as I can be, under the circumstances,” he replied. “I come to you about another matter. What, if anything, can you tell me of your newfound abilities as a sha?”

  “There isn’t much to tell, as I do not know much myself. But it is coming to me quickly. It’s as if I’ve come of age somehow. Do you understand?”

  Zander understood what she meant. After all, it reminded him a great deal of being crowned king when he was still fairly young. He hadn’t understood all of that either—not really, but he had learned quickly.

  “Yes, I think I do understand,” he said.

  “Have I told you of the butterflies in the Hidden?” she asked.

  “Dorian told me of them. He told me what they said, and how they helped you, as well.”

  The king’s time had been increasingly limited lately, for obvious reasons, so Lizabet had not been able to tell him everything that had happened along their journey all at once. She mentioned pieces as she could, that was all. Apparently Dorian had been asked about their travels, as well.

  “Majesty, I sometimes feel as though I am being instructed,” she said, taking her seat once more. “It’s as if I’m being handed knowledge by way of instinct, or maybe intuition. Whatever it might be called, it comes on strong at times.”

  She stopped speaking abruptly as if she meant to say more, but had thought better of it.

  “What is it?” Zander asked, taking his own seat at the table.

  “I told you of the Locks…the Locks that we killed in the forest?”

  “Yes, you told me that you had no choice but to confront them. What of it?”

  “I felt a rush of joy when I took its head,” she said. A tear began to form at the corner of her eye. “For all of the smiles that I supposedly spread like white fire, I felt joy at killing him!”

  “Lizabet, my dear,” Zander said, “you had a rush of energy. It is what kept you alive. It was your instinct to defend yourself, and the joy you felt was not for the death of the Lock—you had won your life. It was the joy you felt for living another day. That is all.”

  “It felt different somehow, as if another part of me was just beneath the surface,” she said. “I believe that the feeling should be taken seriously, but I also believe that I will understand it myself in time.”

  “Lizabet,” Zander said, taking her hand in his, “I am not sure how this battle will play out, but I am sure that you have a role in it. Yes, I have instincts, as well.”

  “What can I do? I am not a fighter by sword.”

  “I do not know, and I don’t expect that I will. I believe you will know when the time comes, if that time should come at all.”

  “Is that why you’ve come to visit me? To tell me that I might have a role to play?”

  “Yes, but there is more.”

  Zander stood up from the bench and walked back to the door where he had left his staff leaning against the wall. He took the staff in his right hand, and walked back to Lizabet, who had also risen from her seat.

  “Lizabet, did I ever tell you how this staff came to me?”

  “Yes, Majesty, you told us at supper on the first night of your visit to Terra. I believe you were directing your tale to my sister, but I was listening nonetheless.” She smiled at him knowingly.

  “Your memory is better than mine,” he said. “Jacobi, himself, delivered it to me for the fairies. It was quite an honor.”

  “Why do you talk of the staff now?” she asked, confused.

  “The fairies are a secretive bunch, Lizabet. One never knows what they are up to, and we can only count ourselves lucky that they work for good rather than evil.

  “I believe that they have been a bit deceitful with their gift.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that, although the fairies gifted this staff to me, it was never intended to be mine.

  “They knew, Lizabet—they knew that you had come—or knew that someone had come, anyway. I do not believe that this staff has chosen me as its rightful owner. Although I do not expect that it would be owned by anyone.”

  Lizabet now understood where this was leading, but she would let him finish. She didn’t want to influence the king on the matter in any way.

  “When I hold it, and use its light,” he continued, “I feel almost as though it is an object that has been borrowed. I can feel it, constantly reminding me that it belongs to someone else—that it never belonged to me.

  “And I believe that the only reason that it helped save our lives in the Outlands was because it did not belong lost in the wilderness forever either.”

  He held the staff out toward Lizabet, who began walking toward him.

  “Please take the staff—hold it. If it belongs with you, you will know.”

  Lizabet stepped closer and took the staff with both hands. Zander, who was closely watching her, saw Lizabet’s eyes swirl with white for an instant, before returning to normal. It looked like clouds passing over her eyes.

  The staff lit up beneath her hands and the light spread out in all directions until the full length of the staff was glowing white light. And it was white light. The light itself was somehow clean, without glare, giving no reason to squint against it.

  Lizabet began to whisper words in a language that Zander had never heard before. Her whispering seemed to have an echo to it, but he realized that it was an illusion. The way that Lizabet was saying the words was causing the echo. The echo was the accent of the language.

  When she stopped speaking, the light in the staff dimmed.

  “What is it?” Zander asked anxiously. “What language were you speaking?”

  “I was speaking to the staff in the language that it chose to speak,” she said in a whisper. “It has been waiting for me, and thanks you for protecting it. I then welcomed it.”

  When the silence became long, Zander said, “And then…what else is there?”

  “That is all. I felt as though it would not often speak freely, though. Thank you for recognizing what it was telling you. It somehow feels like being reunited with a friend. Isn’t that odd?”

  “No,” Zander said beneath a smile, “I don’t think it is odd at all.”

  Lizabet’s eyes lit up as she said, “It feels like the moment when Dorian arrived at Obengaard after all that time.”

  She was actually relieved when she could compare the feeling to something. She wanted to share as much of it with Zander as she could. After all, it had given him comfort for a good amount of time and he was now giving it up.

  “Majesty—Zander, I cannot possibly take this from you without giving something in return. Surely, there is something that I can do.”

  “Lizabet, it was never mine to bargain with,” he replied. “It always belonged to you—it was simply misplaced.

  “Please, it is
yours and you should have it.”

  “Thank you from the bottom of my heart,” Lizabet said, “I will never forget this.”

  She stepped closer and stretched up to kiss him on the cheek.

  “Thank you.”

  Once they finished their embrace, Lizabet asked, “What do you suppose it is that the Skites want?”

  Zander was stunned by the question. He hadn’t considered what the Skites wanted—not really, only that they represented evil. And wasn’t that enough?

  “I do not know for sure, but I can offer you what I believe,” he replied.

  “What is it that you believe, then?”

  “Menagraff may be a king in his own right, but he is not the king of Skite—not really. If he is a king, he is the king of all evil. He is concentrated evil.

  “For centuries, we have enjoyed peace. Nobody ever fought. Evil has been suppressed and good has been allowed to flourish. It has flourished a bit too well, it seems. The world is out of balance, and without evil there can never be measurable good. The oracle told me that, and I believe that I am beginning to understand.

  “Anyway, there are so many levels of good that one experiences in a lifetime that the experiences that land at the bottom tend to seem bad although they are not. Good is measured against evil.”

  He looked intensely at Lizabet now.

  “What is it—why do you look on me in such a way?” she asked.

  “I believe that early on, when Menagraff began his return, it was because the scale of the world had tipped too far in the favor of good. Menagraff was the method that the Father of Nature chose to balance our lives.

  “But it seems that Menagraff was set to overcorrect the scale to the side of darkness and evil. That is where your role began. You are here to balance it once again.”

  Lizabet sat staring at him. She suddenly felt the weight of the world resting on her young shoulders.

  “Menagraff will be determined to keep the scale tipped in his favor, even if he doesn’t fully understand why—and I believe that he might not. The key flaw in his plan is that, if he were to eliminate all good, he would have no purpose—like good, evil is also ranked on many levels. On what level would he rule from in a world such as that?”