“Magic tears things apart, it destroys! It destroys everything!”
“Don’t be so hasty in your judgment!” Xith was almost angry; he had to calm himself before he continued. “Magic is only evil if the person using it is evil. Those of weak mind are easily overcome by the greed for power and too much power can be an evil thing. This is why you will learn to control the gifts you have been granted. This is why you must learn patience. Great power in unskilled hands is useless; great power in skilled hands can shape mountains.”
Vilmos shook his head. He watched Xith but in the back of his mind he saw dragons battling in the sky. Somewhere in the dark corners of his mind he knew what it was that they fought over and it was this thing that terrified him. He shouted in a booming voice, “But he will return!”
“The dark one is a myth, a legend.” Xith carefully shaped the truth. “He is not real. He is real only in our imaginations. The legend was created long before the Blood Wars… Maybe he existed at one time, long, long ago. I don’t know for sure. No one does, but I do know he does not now exist. Now his existence is only through lore and myth, perpetuated by those who wish to control. They are the true evil; they are what we should fear. For it is they who manipulate such things to their own ends, using it to justify all that they do.”
Xith continued, although Vilmos had stopped listening to the words. “During the time of the gathering they will try to destroy us to prevent the coming… Yet a few, a very select few, have used the myth for the good of all. They have turned it around. They use it to prepare us for what the future will bring and this is why we study the histories. We must learn from the past and when the time comes we must be ready so that we do not repeat it.”
Xith rambled on, speaking words he should have never said to Vilmos, but for a reason unknown to him he spoke anyway. Vilmos half listened but couldn’t shake the images from his mind. “But if magic is not evil, why is it forbidden? Why do the Priests of the Dark Flame destroy magic?”
Xith collected his thoughts. “It is to prevent the corruption the future will bring. You must learn to use your magic to its fullest. You must learn to master it before it masters you.”
“What?” asked Vilmos not understanding as the images in his mind’s eye faded, leaving him confused.
“Remember,” said Xith using the dominating nature of the voice, “the fate of all the lands will one day rest in your hands. You must believe, Vilmos. Believe because you have to believe and because you want to believe. He does not exist. You must believe and remember only this. You must be ready for our journey to Under-Earth. Forget all else…”
Chapter Three:
An Unexpected Discovery
Vilmos and Xith departed Jrenn with a protected caravan bound for the Free City of Solntse. For days afterward, the unchanging sun beat down upon them. Xith’s skin, unnaturally weathered and dark, proved to have better tolerance for this than Vilmos’ fair skin, which was now burned by the sun and wind.
The sound of dozens of feet and hooves crunching the stones of Great Kingdom’s High Road echoed in his ears. A steady gale coming out of the mountains to the north carried the dust of the Barrens across River Krasnyj. The handkerchief tied around his nose and mouth did little to keep out the dirt, and as he ran his hand across his cheek the gritty film made him long for a hot bath and clean clothes.
Sunset was near and more than anything he wanted to hear the caravan master call out the final stop of the day. The ten garrison soldiers that protected the caravan were the only ones on horseback. While two stayed at the fore of the caravan and two to the rear, the others clustered near the carriage ferrying a lady of some standing in the Kingdom. He caught glimpses of her pale face from time to time through the carriage’s white lace curtains.
He was surprised when the city of Solntse came into view and even more surprised when the caravan reached the city before nightfall. As they passed under the walled city’s outer gatehouse he watched the gatekeepers who stood watch, certain that at any moment they would unloose volleys from their readied crossbows. But once they were safely within the city’s protective walls, his thoughts and attention turned to the grandeur of the streets and buildings spread out before him.
Xith held Vilmos by the scruff of the collar to ensure he watched where he was going while he was gawking, and gripped the collar tighter suddenly to pull him away from a brightly clad female who was beckoning for him to follow her. Xith sighed; Vilmos didn’t know that this was where his journey to the destiny that awaited him would truly begin.
Several times he stepped around men who simply stopped dead in their tracks in front of him. Once he bumped into one, almost causing a ruckus, and Xith dragged him quickly away. Finally, Xith gave him an ultimatum, “Follow me and do only what I do. Or I’ll leave you in the street to fend for yourself!”
Vilmos took the threat seriously and did exactly as Xith said. This allowed Xith to relinquish his firm grip on his collar.
They passed through the central portion of the city with its high, three-story structures reaching into the sky and then made their way to the city’s southernmost sector. Most of the buildings in this area were saloons or “rest houses” as Xith called them. The heavy smell of whiskey and perfume wafted out onto the street to assault their nostrils. Along with these odors came the sound of music and laughter, singing and even brawling, coming on a puff of air as patrons would enter or exit.
Vilmos would sneak a quick glance inside as doors swung inward or outward; the sites within often amazed him: men drinking tall tankards of ale or slugging down small glasses of this or that, Vilmos really couldn’t tell what. Women sitting on men’s laps or dancing happily.
A large crowd was gathered off one of the side streets they passed now. Shouts and the clashing of blades filtered to his attentive ears. His mind filled with glee and he tried to dart toward the fracas. He would have made it cleanly away too, if Xith didn’t snatch at his collar, latching onto a clump of hair instead. With a shriek, Vilmos stopped.
“Don’t stray,” said Xith. “Perhaps tomorrow we can return.”
“Tomorrow they will be gone. The square will be empty. I’ve never seen a real brawl.” Vilmos looked dejected. His eyes grew sullen.
“I assure you that tomorrow they will be in that same courtyard from sunup until sunset. And that is not a brawl.”
“But I would rather watch today—”
“Quiet!” said Xith.
The avenues they walked along gradually grew narrower and the saloons and shops became dingier and dirtier. Xith took on a slower, more aware gait as a feeling of unease filled his mind.
Vilmos noticed this, and instead of peering into the places he passed he clung close to Xith and watched his surroundings with wide, wary eyes. Unconsciously, he clinched his fists to the ready, not that he really knew how to use them, just that he felt more secure.
Xith stopped in front of a large, squat inn and motioned Vilmos to follow him inside. Vilmos cast his eyes up and down the building’s rough outer face, looking hard at the shattered windows and the dilapidated shutters; the run-down place had definitely seen better days. “It isn’t that bad on the inside,” said Xith patting Vilmos on the back.
When Vilmos stepped inside, he knew he had been right. The interior was in as poor a shape as the exterior. At least the last place they had stayed in had been somewhat pleasant inside. Vilmos looked about unhappily.
“Don’t worry,” said Xith, “we’ll stay here just long enough to get the additional supplies we need and that’s all.”
“Here?” stammered Vilmos in disbelief.
“Believe me there are worse places to stay and you’ll find that the rooms are actually quite nice. Trust me.”
Xith got them a room, which wasn’t actually quite nice, but at least it was clean.
“See I told you to trust me,” said Xith swatting Vilmos on the head. “Besides we can stay here cheaply and without drawing attention to ourselves.”
&
nbsp; “Why? Is there someone watching us?”
In the midst of formulating a list of all the things they would need for the journey ahead Xith didn’t offer Vilmos an immediate response. After a time he said, “Stay here, I have to attend to a few things. I’ll be back.”
Several hours passed. Vilmos waited patiently. His thoughts wandered and a cataclysm of images swam before his eyes. He saw the days with Xith and how dramatically his life changed. He couldn’t truly understand why this was all happening to him but he tried. Everything was moving so fast and the little boy inside him was crying out to go back home to see his mother and father, but another voice within told him he could never go home, would never go home again.
With eyes unfocused and thoughts jumping to and fro, he stared blankly at a wall. Eventually this inward reflection slowed and fell silent as he slipped into a light sleep. He awoke a short time later when Xith returned muttering loudly to himself. He caught pieces of what the shaman was saying and to him it sounded as if Xith was having an argument with himself about money and thieves.
“What’s wrong?” he asked excitedly, cueing in on “thieves.”
“Bloody street thievery I tell you. The prices here are worse than I’ve ever seen and it cannot bode well.”
“Prices for what?”
“Horses among many other things.” The bags Xith was carrying fell to the floor with a loud clank as he dropped them. He sat down, pulled off his boots, emptied their contents unceremoniously onto the floor, then lay back and closed his eyes, yawning mightily. “I tell you. In all my years I’ve never had to pay these prices. It’s like the merchants can smell winter on the air and they know that soon afterward the supplies will dry up. In winter, I would expect to pay such prices, but not now—it is too early.”
Later that evening Xith and Vilmos ventured out to the streets. The streets after dark looked more ominous to Vilmos. The people he passed, both male and female, appeared to be in somber moods, and were darkly clad with long flowing capes or large collared cloaks. Flickers of light and the outlines of people speaking in muffled voices loomed in the alleyways, but thankfully the dreadful portent was absent as they entered a nearby pub.
The atmosphere of the small pub was light and happy. Xith ordered gruel for two and they sat waiting. Vilmos watched the patrons come and go. He studied the clothes they wore and the weapons they carried, yet his main interest was in catching pieces of what they were talking about as they passed.
As he ate gruel and black bread, his attention remained on a man who sat in the corner, his back to the wall, opposite the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. The man, obviously a fighter of some sort, wore a roughly hewn chainmail shirt with heavy leather underings and an odd branks.
From time to time, he could see the man’s hands, which were covered in a mailed half-glove that left the thumbs and forefingers exposed. Taking inventory of the man’s weaponry as he had the others, he had seen the great sword slung crossways over the man’s back—even now he could glimpse the jeweled hilt—and an auxiliary blade of considerably smaller size sheathed in his belt.
Of the woman, he could only see the long black hair and sometimes he’d catch a glimpse her face. She had come in separately from the man and all eyes in the place had been cast upon her as she crossed the room, but when she sat down with the broad-backed warrior everyone returned to their own business—everyone except him. He couldn’t look away.
A hue of somber amber, the dress the woman wore was elegant. The dress had lace at the top that swelled around ample breasts and flowed down her arms in an open and obviously revealing fashion that caused him to blush and avert his eyes until she passed in front of him. She possessed no weapons, save for her intoxicating, cold gray eyes, which were down turned.
He watched the two as they sat still, neither uttering a word. The man from time to time would grind his teeth against the iron bit in his mouth or twist his mailed fist into the table. The woman sat still, her head turned away, as if she was suspended in time. He pitied them, though he did not know why.
As the pub’s owner delivered a second round of gruel and black bread, he turned his eyes away from the couple but, as the fish to the lure, his gaze returned shortly afterward and he stared openly as he ate. He wondered what the couple’s story could be and when finally he could no longer hold his tongue in check, he asked, “Those two. Is it odd or is it just me?”
Xith didn’t have to look to see whom Vilmos was talking about; he knew. “The warrior is an indentured man and the woman is of the street. You should concern yourself with other things.”
Vilmos didn’t think that, though. He saw another story, especially in the man’s eyes.
The meal finished, the drink consumed, Xith and Vilmos returned to their rented room. Vilmos was quiet for a long time, content to sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the wall. This puzzled Xith, as he hadn’t seen Vilmos like this before and he didn’t know what could be wrong. He asked several times what was wrong, but Vilmos didn’t respond.
“Are you sick?” asked Xith. “You haven’t said a word since we ate. Usually you are teaming with a hundred different questions.” Xith paused to collect his thoughts. “Forget about the two. We can’t do anything for them.”
The subtle directing of the voice stimulated Vilmos’ subconscious. Again, Xith knew of a secret yearning.
“But why?” said Vilmos. “What could make someone so miserable? I could see pain on both their faces.”
“He is a debtor. Once caught in the cycle, it can never be broken.” Knowing something else was wrong, Xith fixed Vilmos with a discerning eye. Vilmos was referring to more than what he was talking about. He was also talking about himself, though he was not fully aware of this. “Tell me what is really bothering you, Vilmos?”
Vilmos shook his head. He heard Xith, but in the back of his mind he saw the warrior poised with the great blade at the ready. Vilmos called to the warrior but the warrior ignored him and walked away.
Chapter Four:
Return to Imtal
The walls of Imtal were ahead in the distance but this didn’t improve Emel’s demeanor. He was frustrated, angry and tired. When the garrison troops left Imtal they had numbered in the thousands. Now, those that returned—the survivors—numbered in the hundreds. How did one explain such a thing to the King? How did one explain such utter failure, followed by more failure? How did one explain losing the only good things to come of the Battle of Quashan’?
Emel did not envy his father this day. Ansh Brodst was sure to be stripped of his title as King’s Knight Captain and the land grant that had gone with it. Emel himself, promoted in the field to Fourth Captain, Imtal Garrison, doubted the promotion would stand.
No, those returning would surely be cast out of the city and sent to the wild outposts: High Road, Serant, Reassae or worse: the territory outposts from which few ever returned.
Emel hung his head in shame as they passed within the protective gates of the city. He wished this day would end and didn’t see how things could get any worse.
Fortunately, it was well into the evening and no one turned out to greet the returning soldiers. Even the heralds upon the walls had the good sense not to call out to mark the return.
The clatter of hooves and boots echoed along Imtal’s cobbled streets for some time as the group slowly made their way toward the central district. Soon Emel could see torches lighting the way to the parade plaza within High King’s Square. Even in the darkness, he could see the faces of the soldiers around him. Their expressions, once sad and grim, turned upward. Smiles replaced tears and, sometimes, tears of joy replaced frowns. It was good to be home regardless of the circumstance, and he knew this as well.
Just as the relief at being home faded, the group reached High King’s Square. There, a miraculous sight awaited them. The square, save the central parade route, was filled to overflowing with Imtal’s citizens, and the streets beyond the square were filled as well. The lines of peopl
e went on as far as he could see.
A sense of purpose returned to the group’s actions. Soldiers walked with their heads up, digging their boots into the stones as they marched. Riders sat true in the saddle, reigns in one hand, the other hand up in greeting.
Emel maneuvered Ebony within the ranks until he rode beside his father. He reached out and clasped his father’s arm, grinning broadly. “It’s a homecoming I never thought I’d see!”
“And I as well,” said Ansh Brodst. “But this night isn’t over.”
Impulsively Emel looked over his shoulder at the carriage behind his father. “Two dead elves won’t please his majesty, that is for sure.”
“Dying, not dead. Keeper Martin and Father Jacob are doing their best to see that the elves at least survive the journey to its end. After that, who can say.”
“Dying, not dead,” corrected Emel.
“I will release the company until the first day of the new moon so that they may be with their families. What is unspoken is that officers are not granted this leave.”
“Yes of course, father, I understand this.”
“Your duty will be to work with the other captains to restructure the garrison and put these battle experienced soldiers into positions that best serve the Kingdom. Such experience is valuable, and it will be expected of you to make tough decisions in the name of the crown.
“Each of the fallen will need to be put to rest in the eyes of their families. You will take your share of the black sheets. You will get no special favors, you understand?”
Emel slowed Ebony’s pace as the group prepared to stop. “I understand completely.”
“No Emel, you don’t understand,” said Ansh Brodst as he raised a hand to command the group to a halt. “You earned the rank of captain in the field. Now you must earn the respect of those who know nothing and care not of your deeds. Don’t take this lightly, or you will meet your end with your belly gutted in an empty field.”
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