by Jon Kiln
“We can’t stay here tonight though. It’s too dangerous. We’ll have to get moving.”
“Artas needs time to recover. Surely it is more dangerous for us to travel at night? Can we not stay until morning?” Ganry looked across at the innkeeper who was watching them intently. He walked over to speak with him at the bar.
“I’ll help you dispose of these bodies,” said Ganry, nodding towards the three dead ‘woodsmen’ that lay on the floor. “You can keep whatever they were carrying except for one horse, which I’ll need. My young nobleman friend here will also leave you a generous tip, by way of an apology for causing such a commotion in your establishment. Do we have a deal?” The innkeeper nodded warily. Ganry knew that he was going to have to keep watch all night. This mission seemed to be becoming increasingly more difficult with each hour that passed.
3
Ganry roused Myriam and Artas early the next morning so that they could continue their journey. As soon as the sun began to lighten the sky, they moved quickly away from the inn and the damage that they had left behind.
Artas slowed his horse to ride next to Myriam, leaving Ganry to ride a little ways ahead. He wanted a quiet word with the Princess of Palara.
“Princess, who is this man,” Artas indicated with his head toward Ganry. “And are you sure you can trust him?”
“Please Artas, call me Myriam. No formalities. I don’t know Ganry well, but my tutor Leonidavus vouched for him, and I trust Leonidavus. I’m not sure whether we can trust him though. Why don’t we ask him?” Artas quickly shook his head, but Myriam smiled sweetly at him, and raised her voice. “Ganry! Artas wants to know if you are trustworthy.”
Ganry turned in his saddle, placing his hand on his sword hilt. “You doubt my honor, boy?” he growled.
Artas raised his hands defensively. “I… no… of course not, never,” he stammered.
Ganry harrumphed and turned back around, half grinning to himself.
Myriam stuck out her tongue at Artas.
She was in a bright mood as they continued to ride along the forest trail that followed the creek westward. “Does your horse have a name, Artas?”
“His name is Orton,” smiled Artas weakly. He was still in pain from the night before, and also realized that Myriam had been having fun at his expense.
“He’s beautiful!” admired Myriam. “Ganry’s horse is called Bluebell. But I guess we don’t know what this guy is called,” she said, affectionately patting the neck of the horse that she was now riding, having liberated it from the dead ‘woodsmen’. “I think I’ll call you Oaken out of respect for your previous owner.”
“No need to pay any respect to his previous owner!” laughed Ganry. “They were oafish brutes who would have happily killed us once they were finished with young Artas here.”
“You can’t hold Oaken responsible for that,” protested Myriam. “Don’t worry, Oaken,” she said, ruffling the horse’s mane. “I’ll take care of you. We’ll make a good team.”
Artas smiled to himself. He couldn’t help but be infected by Myriam’s cheerful personality, though he was still worried about what lay ahead. “Do you know the forests of Cefinon well, Ganry?”
“No, this is not my country. The road is not safe for us though, so the forest is our best bet. As long as we keep heading west, then we are going in the right direction.” They rode on in silence for a while, picking their way along the forest trail that followed alongside the creek. Ganry spotted a few hares running about, and pointed them out to both Myriam and Artas. “Are you good with that longbow, kid?”
“I’m lethal,” grinned Artas.
“I’m not talking about hitting a target at archery practice. I’m talking shooting a moving object. Maybe even in an actual fight, a battle.” Ganry wondered if he would be useful at all to have along. “Have you ever seen combat?”
“I have often won first place at royal tourneys.”
“Somehow, that doesn’t fill me with confidence,” said Ganry, shaking his head.
“Tell us about your sword, Ganry,” interjected Myriam, looking for a way to change the subject. “How long have you had it?”
“A warrior’s sword is a very personal thing.” Ganry was always hesitant to discuss his long-sword. It was special, and rare. The types of qualities that made other men envious.
“My guess is you were a soldier or a knight of some kind,” said Artas.
“Yes, a long time ago I served the Emperor Fontleroy. I led his legions into battle. This sword has kept me alive.”
“Where did it come from? It’s such an unusual design.”
“It was forged by the Grimlock, high in the Limestone Mountains.”
“My father has a Grimlock blade,” said Artas. “He never talked much about it, except that it had a strange unpronounceable name. All Grimlock blades are apparently ancient. Was it created for you?”
“No, smart ass” said Ganry, shaking his head. He scratched at his growing beard. “I may seem old to you young-uns, but I’m not that old. This sword has been in our family for generations. It’s name in the common-tongue, depending on the scholar you ask, translates to either Wind or Storm. I’ve always just called it WindStorm.”
“I like it!” clapped Myriam.
The winding trail that they were following brought them within sight of a small wooden cabin, nestled in the forest.
“Wait here.” Ganry dismounted from his horse and walked cautiously towards the cottage. He knocked at the door, and after a few minutes, it was opened by an elderly man. Myriam and Artas could see Ganry talking with him, eventually waving them forward. “We can eat here and refresh the horses.”
The old man prepared a simple meal of bread and cheese. He had a long white beard and wore a strange looking conical hat. He was affable, generous with the food, and welcoming to the strangers. Myriam liked him instantly. He pottered around his small kitchen, bringing refreshments to the table. Myriam saw that his home was well-kept, though there were many strange jars. She wondered what they contained. Finally, the old man sat at the table and joined them.
“This is very kind of you,” said Myriam, thanking the man as he tore the bread into pieces.
“It’s nothing, child. We don’t often get visitors as special as you,” he said, his eyes sparkling.
“Oh, we’re not special,” deflected Myriam. “We’re just traveling through, heading back to our farm.”
“My dear girl, you’ve never set foot on a farm. And neither has your noble young friend here,” he looked pointedly at Artas. “Well, you all seem a long way from home.”
“You are very perceptive old man,” cut in Ganry. “But enough questions, the less you know about our business the better.”
“Indeed, these are troubled times…” nodded the old man sagely. “Kingdoms are in turmoil, and a princess has gone missing…”
Ganry and Myriam exchanged a worried look.
“Relax,” the old man continued. “Who am I gong to tell?” His eyes sparkled. “In fact, I have a gift for you.” From his pocket he pulled out a thin silver chain and held it out towards Myriam.
“Oh! It’s beautiful,” admired Myriam. “But honestly, I couldn’t accept it, you really don’t need to give us anything.”
“Take it,” insisted the old man. “Silver will help keep you pure and help ward off those that seek to harm you. Silver shimmers in the sun and shines in the light of the moon.”
“It sounds like magic!” gasped Myriam as she allowed the old man to place the chain into the palm of her hand.
“Child, magic is a word that people use when they are unable to explain what they are seeing and feeling.” The old man watched closely as Artas secured the chain around the neck of Myriam. “Objects can have power though, if we let them. If we believe in them.”
“Thank you,” said Myriam, tracing her fingers lightly along the silver chain that now hung around her neck.
“Time to go,” announced Ganry firmly, standing up and pr
eparing to leave.
“Safe travels children. My door is always open to you.”
“You are too kind, thank you,” said Myriam. “What is your name?”
“Barnaby,” smiled the old man kindly, with a half bow. “I am known as Barnaby of Bravewood.”
4
“Do you think he is a wizard?” asked Myriam, looking back over her shoulder at Barnaby who was watching them ride away.
“There’s no such thing as wizards,” scoffed Ganry.
“What do you think he meant by the power of this silver chain then?” Myriam ran the fine links of the chain between her fingers.
“He’s just a lonely old man making up stories. Pay him no heed.”
“Well, I think it’s all very mysterious. I like the idea of being a bit magical. It would be so much easier if I could simply cast a spell on uncle Harald and release my family from the dungeon.” Tears began to roll down Myriam’s cheeks at the thought of her family being held captive, possibly already dead.
“Hey… come on…” soothed Artas. “We have to stay strong. If we give up hope then there will be no chance of them being rescued.”
“You’re right, thanks Artas,” said Myriam firmly, wiping the tears from her face. “Sorry. It just all got a bit too much for me for a moment there.”
“Shhh!” hissed Ganry, pulling his horse to a stop. “Listen!” Artas and Myriam halted their horses and strained their ears to try and hear what had caught Ganry’s attention.
“Is that dogs? Barking?” asked Artas, trying to catch the distant sound that seemed to be carried on the breeze.
“Hunting dogs,” nodded Ganry.
“Hunters?” asked Myriam. “Do you think that they’re hunting us?”
“It’s hard to tell,” replied Ganry. “We can’t take any chances though.”
“Do you think we’re safe on this trail?” Artas shifted nervously on his horse. “Should we move deeper into the forest?”
“I don’t really want to lose sight of this creek, or we might lose our bearings. I’m guessing that they’re out near the road somewhere, but if they’re looking for us then we have to expect that they’ll start to push into the forest eventually.”
“If we can’t get to the road, where will we find shelter tonight?” asked Myriam.
“We’ll have to camp out. Let’s try and pick up the pace while we still have daylight, and then we can look for a clearing to make camp.”
The three horses moved briskly along the forest trail, the travelers keeping any conversation to a minimum. They needed to stay alert for any sign that the hunters may be drawing closer, or that they were on their trail. As the light of day began to dim and evening began to fall, Ganry found a clearing in the forest that seemed a suitable place for them to spend the night. Myriam secured the horses while Ganry built a fire. Artas soon returned with a couple of ducks that he had shot down by the creek.
“We’ll have a feast in no time,” smiled Ganry, pulling out one of his knives to begin preparing the ducks, skewering them onto a stick so that they could be roasted over the hot coals from the fire. “We’ll need to set a watch. We’ll take it turns,” he said to Artas.
“I can take a turn too,” volunteered Myriam.
“Okay,” nodded Ganry. “That way we’ll all get a few hours sleep.”
“No, Princess, you can’t stand watch,” objected Artas. “It’s not right. I will take your watch for you.”
“That’s very sweet of you Artas, but we have a long journey ahead of us, and we all need to keep our strength up. I can take my turn on the watch. I promise that the minute a twig snaps or owl hoots, then I will wake you both up.” Artas reluctantly agreed and they focused on slicing off pieces of the roasting ducks.
Ganry took the first watch while Artas and Myriam slept. The forest was quiet. It was a still night, dark beneath the canopy of the trees, the stars hidden somewhere above. Ganry stared into the glowing embers of the fire, poking it gently with a stick to keep it burning. He was annoyed with himself for having gotten into this position, putting himself at risk in a fight that had nothing to do with him. He hated to admit it, but he felt protective of Myriam, the Princess of Palara. She was around the age that his own daughter would have been had she lived.
Ruby. His daughter’s name had been Ruby. So full of life and love, Ganry felt sick at the memory of her loss. She had been taken from him while still so young. He liked to think that Ruby would have been as strong and as independent as Myriam was proving to be. He had grown fond of Artas also. The young nobleman was so innocent and naive in the ways of the world, but with a strong sense of honor, duty, and loyalty. Despite his teasing, Ganry could see that Artas’s bow skills were impressive.
He smiled wryly to himself. Here he was, an old worn out warrior, traipsing across the country trying to keep these two kids out of trouble. He pulled out his sword, WindStorm, and began to polish it gently, the light from the fire flickering in reflection along the blade, making it seem almost as if it were alight; a sword of flame, ready to burn its enemies to ash.
Ganry returned WindStorm to its scabbard. There would be time enough for fighting, for battles, and for bringing enemies to justice. He always hoped that one day he would find peace, a quiet corner of the world where no one shouted for war, where no one was gripped by greed. Yet whenever he felt that he was getting close to that moment, something would drag him back into action, back into the fire.
5
It was deep in the night when Ganry woke Artas to take his turn on the watch. Artas rubbed his eyes to try and clear his head, propping himself up by the fire. He had only slept fitfully, disturbed by dreams, his imagination fueled by the fear and uncertainty of the world around him. Ganry wrapped himself in his cloak and turned his back to the flames.
Artas looked across at the sleeping form of Myriam. While they had played together as children, he had not spoken to Myriam for years. They moved in different circles and the life of a royal princess was sheltered and protected—even from nobles such as himself. Getting to know her better as they traveled on this journey, Artas was forming a deep bond of affection for her, like a sister, reinforcing his loyal belief that she was the rightful heir to the throne of Palara and his commitment to keeping her safe.
The fate of his own family continued to plague his thoughts. Their arrest had been sudden and unforeseen. It was difficult to know how brutal Duke Harald would be in eliminating the King and his supporters. All that Artas could do was to hope that they remained alive, to hope that somehow they would be reunited. The night went slowly by, Artas lost in his thoughts as he stared into the glowing embers of the fire.
A twig cracked in the darkness. Artas reached for his bow. Then, silence. He remained alert, fearful that someone or something was watching them. The horses became restless. Their movement woke Ganry. Artas brought his fingers to his lips, indicating the need for silence.
“Do we have company?” whispered Ganry.
“I don’t know,” replied Artas quietly. There was a sound, then the horses became unsettled. Something is not right.
“Wake Myriam,” instructed Ganry, firmly gripping the hilt of WindStorm. Artas gently placed his hand on Myriam’s shoulder and she quickly stirred, heeding his signal to be quiet.
“It could be nothing,” reflected Artas.
“It’s better to be safe than sorry,” said Ganry. The three travelers sat beside the fire, their backs to each other, peering out into the darkness. “What animals live in Cefinon Forest?” Ganry asked Artas as the night lay still around them.
“Deer mainly. There are some bears in the mountains.”
“What about animals that would move at night?”
“Foxes. Occasionally wolves. Stoats and weasels. That kind of thing I guess.”
“Yes… a fox would be curious enough to investigate us, before deciding that we were too big to bother with. Wolves would have moved quicker to attack the horses. Just to be on the safe side, let’s all
stay awake for the remainder of the night. Daybreak can’t be too far away.”
Eventually, the morning sun’s rays began to emerge through the gloom of the forest. They saddled up the horses and resumed the journey along the trail beside the creek. Artas couldn’t shake the feeling that they weren’t alone.
The sound of barking dogs broke through the stillness.
“Let’s pick up the pace,” urged Ganry. “They aren’t on our tail, but those hunters are getting closer.”
After several miles of hard riding, the trail that they were following led them towards a large house. Ganry pulled to a stop just on the edge of the clearing. “Who would live out here?”
“It looks like some sort of estate,” observed Artas. “Should we just avoid it and keep going?”
“We could do with some grain for the horses as well as some food for ourselves,” mused Ganry. “Why don’t you go and see if you can find anyone, and what sort of reception you get. Myriam and I will remain concealed here. Do not reveal your identity, we have no idea where the loyalties of these people might lie.” They watched as Artas slowly rode his horse Orton into the grounds of the estate and out of sight.
“Do you think those hunters are chasing us?” asked Myriam while they waited.
“We have to assume that they are,” nodded Ganry. “If your uncle has put a bounty on your head, then we have to assume that everyone is chasing us—even people that you may think are our friends. We’ve no idea how long your uncle has been planning this coup.”
“I wish my father had talked with me more about the affairs of state,” sighed Myriam. “Any time that I asked questions, he said that I was too young and that he would tell me everything when I was older. I know a lot about romantic poetry and music, but not much else. Nothing that is of any use to us right now.”
“You never know when you’ll need some romantic poetry.”
