Seth shot a quick response of, Come to join the battle of wits and words? and at the same time replied aloud to Adrina, “I know what I have been told and read.”
Valam’s timely laugh in response to Seth’s words caused Adrina to bead her eyes and flip her long dark hair over her shoulder. At times it seemed she and Valam competed for Seth’s attention. “Well then?”
Oread was but one of the fools in the game. To truly understand you must go back to the First Age. The time of Ky’el, the titan who led men, elves, and dwarves from the bonds of slavery. These histories I know as I studied many of the ancient texts regarding your kind.
“Did titans and dragons truly rule the skies?” Adrina asked excitedly.
It is said titans and dragons shared the skies of Over-Earth with the Eagle Clans of old, and together they ruled the sky kingdoms.
Valam said, “Back to Ky’el.”
“Yes,” agreed Adrina. “Our history of the great titans is very different.”
Ky’el was a titan, but a very different sort. Dangerous to some, a genius to others…
Adrina saw movement out of the corner of her eye, turned, saw Myrial waving to her from the stairs. Valam saw Myrial as well and whispered, “Go,” to Adrina.
She excused herself and turned away. “News from Emel?” she asked excitedly as she walked down the steps with Myrial. Myrial nodded and the two hurried off.
The nameless rogue prodded Vilmos along, turning him this way and that with careful pressure of the cold blade applied to the small of his back. Whenever Vilmos tried to resist, the rogue muttered under his breath, “Only Nyom strays,” as if Vilmos understood what that meant.
Eventually the rogue led Vilmos to an alley where another waited, clad in dark leathers and a hooded mask with two slits in it for the eyes. The two rogues then guided Vilmos into the darkness, maneuvering him around unseen obstacles, finally coming to a place where a door of sorts stood. Vilmos couldn’t see the door. He only heard the noise of its movement as it creaked open.
After entering a dimly lit room the rogue with the blade prodded Vilmos from behind to raise his arms while the second searched him. The hooded one stripped Vilmos of his cloak and, after a brief struggle, his boots.
“Human?” muttered a raspy voice, the voice of the figure with the blade.
Soon afterward strong hands pulled Vilmos’ arms painfully behind his back. They bound his hands harshly with a thin rope that cut into his skin as he attempted to resist.
As shock settled in Vilmos froze. Void of thoughts, too awestruck to react, his only recourse was to wait. He didn’t think they were going to kill him, or he thought—hoped—they would have already done the deed.
The one with the blade spoke again, “Human slave, from where did you come?”
He didn’t say a word. He sensed a third figure watching—judging—from the shadows. An unconscious shiver built within him. His legs shook with nervous tremors. He bit his cheek against his jaw until he felt warm blood flow across his tongue and trickle down his throat.
“Slave, speak when spoken to!” The sharp blade sliced into his back.
Vilmos fell to his knees, stood, and remained silent. He understood the words though they were in a language different from his own. It was then that he realized the language spoken was that of the dark elves. He knew the rogues were not of that race for he could smell the stench of their fleshy hides, a stench that even their cloaks and masks could not hide. The rogues were goblins, servants of the dark elves.
“Check his tongue,” said the second goblin. “His master may have removed it…”
Strong hands pried open Vilmos’ mouth. He saw shiny eyes from within the slits of the goblin’s mask. He thought about biting down but didn’t.
“Tongue and no branding. He must be a rebel spy.”
“Slave or spy?” the goblin behind Vilmos said, clear impatience in his voice.
The figure in the shadows of Vilmos’ mind spoke. “Neither,” he said in the language of those who held him.
“Neither,” laughed the goblin standing in front of Vilmos. “Human, you are one or the other. There is nothing else here. So which one are you? Off with it, don’t try my patience. I haven’t much to strain.”
Vilmos winced as the blade sliced along the small of his back. He was afraid but the figure in his mind kept him standing tall—tall and nearly naked in the frigid night air.
“I’ll bet he’s a slave,” the goblin standing behind him said, “or else we wouldn’t have been able to sneak up on him.”
“Yeah, that’s it. I am a slave.”
“I hate slaves… kill him,” said the cloaked goblin behind him, turning to leave.
“Wait!” shouted Vilmos desperately, “Wait, I’m no slave. I’m a spy, honest.”
The goblin, seemingly interested, asked, “Really?”
“Yes, yes, I am,” Vilmos said with a laugh, half bemused, half about to cry. The shadow walker in his mind screamed out in alarm to silence him.
“I don’t know,” said the second goblin as he stood in front of Vilmos and pranced nervously back and forth. He lunged out. The blade ripped into Vilmos’ side. “He doesn’t look like a spy, doesn’t bleed like one.”
The shadow walker forced Vilmos to his feet but couldn’t stop terror from gripping his thoughts. Hands tied behind his back, nearly naked with two dark figures poking and prodding him, he felt utterly helpless. A discharge of warm urine flowed down his leg yet he said firmly, “I am neither slave nor spy.”
“Overstep your bounds and you shall finish as Stranth,” the first goblin said. “I shall have the truth of it.”
Vilmos swallowed his heart back down his throat as the second goblin pulled the long, slender dagger from its sheath again. He did not cringe away from the blade or the cold death he saw in the other’s eyes.
The goblin held the dagger close against his throat, staring into his eyes, hesitating, seemingly, only for the sheer joy of the agony it caused. With one hand the goblin pulled his hair back and pressed the blade tighter with the other.
Vilmos never wavered the direction of his gaze. He held it fixed, wild, wide, glaring at the one who would kill him. An image, a flicker of something, in his eyes forced the would-be killer to back away. The goblin dropped the dagger as if it had stung him and backed away from Vilmos trembling, bumping into the wall behind him as he went, groping wildly until he found the adjacent corridor before running from the room shouting.
The hooded goblin behind Vilmos whispered to the other who stood in the shadows before he hurried after his companion. Only the final words carried to Vilmos’ ears, “He’s the one.”
“It is you,” the figure said stepping from the shadows, the voice not harsh but soft. He caught Vilmos, twisted him around, unsheathed his sword. Then he sliced through the air in a series of fluid motions that were almost too quick for the eye to follow.
Vilmos, his hands freed from the restraints, gulped and gasped at the air. He tried to speak, found no words.
“It is you but not you,” the warrior said, “I knew you would come back.”
Puzzled Vilmos stood quietly for a time. He stared incredulously at his mysterious benefactor. The large armored tower seemed hardly a man at all, more a hardened mountain of stone and metal than a man. He was hard pressed to gaze past the chained plate to see the face, yet as he did recognition came in an instant. The brankened collar, the iron bit, the face chiseled as if of solid rock—it was the warrior from Solntse. But how and why?
His thoughts raced. “Where’s Xith? Can you take me to him?”
“I serve Shost and my masters,” the other answered.
“Take me to him.”
The warrior’s puzzled look matched Vilmos’ now. “I have been waiting for you. You are home. Shost awaits.”
“Home?” He was even more confused. The one who walked in the shadows of his mind watched but didn’t speak.
“Is it time?” the warrior asked.
> “No,” Vilmos said flippantly.
The warrior frowned, sheathed his weapon, then walked away. Vilmos followed the warrior into the dark hallway.
Chapter Three:
Slipping Away
Seth stared at the prince. “I still don’t understand why I should learn. I mean if I had ever needed to use such weapons, I am sure I would have been taught. Members of the Brotherhood rarely learn to use weapons, even then only for personal edification.”
“Then you shall learn for personal edification and because I think it is a good idea. I need the practice as well,” Valam said. “Besides we have an entire day to pass. We cannot leave for the south until the weather breaks.”
Seth glanced out into the courtyard and at the heavy downpour. The timing of the storm couldn’t have been worse. Long hours of heavy rains were flooding the trails, making them nearly impassable. He hoped tomorrow would be a clear day, a day to begin a journey. He even cast a prayer to the Mother to ensure it.
“Meet me on the western balcony overlooking the garden. The hall just beyond it is perfect, secluded and quiet. I’ll see an old friend to procure weapons. It won’t take long.”
“You harbor hopes in these competitions?” Seth paused, continued in a voiceless whisper, Tell me, will the winner of this competition gain your trust or true friendship?
Valam bowed through an apology. “The competitions are hard to forget, even with all that is ahead. We won last year. After a decade of defeat, we won. Geoffrey of Solntse lost to Captain Brodst of the Kingdom in the final match. If only you could see the games, the competition fields, you would understand how much this means. Do you know how many disputes have been settled on a field with just two combatants instead of hundreds or thousands?”
Seth probed Valam’s mind seeking understanding but didn’t find anything that made sense of the matter. East Reach had no blood sport. He saw only futility in men facing each other and dying on bloody fields.
Seth stared out into the rain-filled courtyard. He was becoming disillusioned. The delays were aggravating and the ceaseless bantering of the kingdom council was frustrating. He longed for East Reach, to feel his will mixing in with Queen Mother’s thoughts, all the things he might never see again.
“Emel?” asked Adrina excitedly as she followed Myrial down the stairs. “You must tell me everything.”
Myrial didn’t say a word; she only gripped Adrina’s hand more tightly as she led the princess along the dark hallway.
“The orb?” Adrina asked when she could no longer endure the quiet.
Myrial faced Adrina. “Emel, the caravan. We must hurry or we’ll be too late.”
Myrial hurried along the hall, pulling Adrina behind her. Adrina followed close, partly because the twisting corridor was unknown to her and partly because the darkness frightened her.
Everything frightened her now, yet it seemed she had never been so alive or so free. The past was a terrible thing to drag with you wherever you went, she knew that now and it felt okay to let go. Jumping from the wall was her way of letting go, letting the past slip away from the present.
She didn’t forget. She would never forget. But now she could accept that she was alive and her mother was gone. She no longer felt the guilt of every waking breath, the heavy sense that everything in the world around her was dead and dying, the desire to slip away from life.
“Adrina,” repeated Myrial, holding out a hooded cloak. “Put this on.”
Adrina saw that they were near a guarded doorway. Heavy bars and thick iron doors on either side of a small space created a secured antechamber. It was a guard post and on the other side of the guard post she saw the strong light of the day. This surprised her because she thought she knew every pathway in Imtal Palace.
She put on the cloak, fixed the hood about her shoulders. Its thick cowl partially hid her face.
Myrial moved out of the shadows, nodded to the guard inside the post. He unlocked and opened the heavy iron door. The grinding of rusty hinges as the door opened sent a chill down Adrina’s back.
When they were inside the chamber the guard closed and locked the rear door. Moments later a different guard unlocked and opened the door to the square. As they passed through the outer door Adrina looked up. The bowmen at their posts high above looked down at her as she followed Myrial into the street.
The market was bustling with activity. As it was getting late in the day, bargain hunters were out and merchants were competing with song to attract them. A young girl stopped in front of her, looked up at her with wide eyes. She held out her hand, touched the top of the girl’s head as she passed by. Myrial turned to look back; eyes filled with worry told Adrina to hasten her step.
Her heart beat faster now. She had thought that she was the impulsive one and not Emel. Why was he doing this? she asked herself, and to take the orb without asking… It didn’t make sense. Why now? Why would he do this when she needed him the most?
One corner of High King’s Square was reserved for caravans. It was to this place that Myrial hastened. As they approached Adrina could see the carts and the liners going about their work.
A large caravan train was assembling. The job of the carts, apprentice coachmen, was to prepare the coaches for passengers and care for the horses. The liners took care of the supply wagons, packing the goods that would be carted off to faraway markets, checking tents and other supplies needed on the open road, caring for the work horses, mules, and other pack animals. Every action of the carts and liners was watched by those who had endured their apprenticeship and become journeymen in their own right.
Adrina knew enough about caravan trains to understand what she saw. But such a large caravan train wasn’t without its masters, so where were they? With a file forming and the train nearly ready to leave the city the caravanmaster and his coachmasters should have been mounted and watching. Their brightly-colored robes and matching turbans would be hard to miss, so it seemed that the masters weren’t about.
She grabbed Myrial by the wrist. The girl stopped, turned. “Where is it bound for?”
“The Territories,” Myrial said, her voice a half whisper. “We must hurry.”
Myrial started walking. Adrina followed. They passed beyond the lines of wagons. Adrina saw an eye-catching tent near the far wall of the square. The tent, like the robes of the masters, was brightly colored and stood out from the others around it. “The carvanmaster’s?” Adrina asked.
Myrial indicated agreement, and continued. The only problem was that the area between them and the tent was filled with hired blades and guardsmen who busily practiced their trade despite the lateness of the day. Adrina heard clashes of steel on steel as blades and guardsmen paired off in mock combat. But that didn’t bother her; it was the scraping of blades on whet stones that gave her goose bumps.
Clearly the caravan’s protectors knew something that the rest of the caravan’s crew didn’t. Otherwise they’d be packing gear, preparing for the journey.
Myrial didn’t slow her stride or veer off course. She made a straight line for the entrance to the master’s tent—like she’d done this before, and somehow Adrina didn’t doubt that the girl had. She knew Myrial wasn’t as quiet and meek as she pretended. She was a real fighter. Her life had toughened her and little frightened her, truly.
Cold, tired, and barefoot, Vilmos collapsed into a stall of the tiny stable. For a time it would be a refuge from the harsh streets of Beyet Daren. He had only been a step behind the warrior but had found only an empty corridor when he had raced into the hall. A fading voice in his mind had told him to find Xith and he had tried, but he didn’t know where to go or how to begin.
Exhausted, sleep quickly found him. Surreal images played in his dreams. He heard voices, saw masked faces. But the masks could not disguise what was underneath. He knew them.
The shirt and pants he had stolen did little to keep him warm during the cool night. At first he wriggled deep into the hay-like bedding on the floor of the st
all to keep warm. As morning approached an acidic rain came, the rainwater pouring into the stable, bringing with it the stank smell of the city.
He awoke shivering, his eyes wild and unfocused. It took several long breaths before the vivid night dreams faded beyond the edges of his conscious thoughts. A noise followed by harsh voices startled him. He ran as fast as he could from the stable, slipping in the thick brown-red mud of the yard, nearly landing on his backside.
He escaped through an alleyway, and wandered aimlessly through empty streets with a vision in the corner of his eye that he could not shake. It was the image of a warrior. The image brought memories yet the memories were not his own. They were another’s.
Thoughts of the warrior and the lady swept him from conscious concerns. The lady’s beauty created a spot of light in his mind that overcame the darkness and chased his inner demons away.
His bare feet covered in dried mud, his hair matted and wild, Vilmos aroused to the world around him. He stood in the middle of a thruway. Under-Earth denizens were all around him, single-mindedly going about their business.
As if through another’s eyes he saw the dark elves. Their gray skin, dark hair, and pointed ears were unmistakable to the one that walked in the shadow of his mind. He saw the goblin servants of the elves. With thick green skin, large muscular bodies, and upturned canines, he suddenly understood why they were such fierce fighters.
Mixed in with the crowd were human slaves. Vilmos was surprised to see how many slaves the dark elves kept. The slaves, covered in dirt and reeking of disease, walked more like animals than men. Most were shackled and chained as they walked through the streets. A few like Vilmos, however, walked freely. These free humans were the ones Vilmos watched and followed.
The city seemed so large that he felt hopelessly lost. He shook the rain from his hair, wrung the moisture out of his pants and shirt, and emptied his pockets onto the ground as he walked. The last pocket had a stone in it, a small round pebble no bigger than his thumb.
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