The servant bowed. “My Lord.”
King Pallan nodded to him. “Barresh.”
Barresh sped off for his next set of rounds in the camp.
A few soldiers were standing by the bench, sampling some of its wares, making small talk. One of them caught sight of a nearing King Pallan. He whispered quickly to his fellows. “My Lord.”
The soldiers all turned to greet King Pallan.
King Pallan flicked his hand at them. “At ease, at ease, gentlemen. Do not let me delay you from your treats … now, what has the good Barresh brought this day?” He came up to the bench and scanned it for things to eat. “Ah, here we are, a tarkerry.” He began eating the bright-blue piece of fruit (roughly the size of an apple) whose pulpy interior was lime-green and sweet as honey, with a tinge of tartness. Soldiers of rank were permitted to partake of the king’s bench, as it was called, as were the scribes—none of whom dared to be seen alone with such rough men.
King Pallan walked off after trading some banter with his guards. The remarkable ease with which the soldiers traded remarks with their king belied the severe distinction between the two, which in nearly every case was violated in one way or another. Still, more perplexingly, there was a stiffness to the king’s interaction with his warriors and subordinates that seemed in contradiction to the countless variances that executed, unceasingly, throughout a given day that one would almost think what formalities did persist among the various members of the displaced people were mere contrivances, vivifying at chance will, the rudiments known only by the exchangers with sparse premeditation.
He sat down under a tree and finished picking over the tarkerry. A servant brought by a pitcher of fresh water. “Thank you, Gerrit.”
“Here you are, sire. We had it cooled for you in a nearby cave, the water itself coming from a deep, clear channel in the stream.” Gerrit left the pitcher next to King Pallan, made a fast bow, and went away.
King Pallan took sips from the ewer between bites of the exotic-looking fruit. As he was about to take his last bite, the wind rustled the trees more strongly, and there was a whisper behind him, or to the sides of him, or was it before him in the wind … the whisper called his name. He froze in that instant. Putting down the tarkerry fruit, he began a survey of the trees, the bushes—the mountain. “Is there anyone there?” He swung his head over to his soldiers, who were busy laughing, chatting, and devouring the midmorning meal.
The whisper came again. “Yareth …”
King Pallan shot around to see if there was anyone behind the tree. “I am on to your game! Show yourself at once! I shall be lenient if you are truthful to me.” He got up to verify that no one was standing behind the tree. “Just grass and trees … there is no one there. How can that be? I am certain someone called out to me, almost like the wind itself.” He ran his eyes across the treetops. “The wind having a voice … but that is impossible.” He lowered his gaze, shook his head, and cast his eyes down at the ground, perplexity seizing his almost callow face. He was still holding the tarkerry in his left hand as Jaegar, Garan, and Jardarah approached.
“My Lord … we await your presence at the foot of the camp.” Jaegar peered at King Pallan for a moment, for he saw that he was troubled. “Sire, is there anything the matter?”
The three men stood before him. King Pallan raised his head very gradually.
“Sire, what troubles you?” Jaegar inched closer to him.
Jardarah looked over at Garan with concern.
King Pallan was trembling lightly. He cleared his throat, for he had trouble speaking. With a moderate stammer, he replied, “I am not sure; I guess I am alright.” He looked Jaegar in the eyes; fright for an instant filled his. “Everything is alright?”
For a second or so, Jaegar seemed not how to respond to the strange inquiry. “Yes, of course, sire; nothing is wrong. Perhaps you are just tired and need rest.”
King Pallan waved him off once, still holding the bizarre fruit. “I feel fine, I suppose; I have had plenty of rest.”
Jaegar responded softly, “Good.”
King Pallan’s unsettling daze broke all at once. “What time is it?”
Jaegar looked at him with compassion. “Time for us to meet at the head of the camp …”
King Pallan appeared somewhat embarrassed. “Right, of course, Jaegar. I was supposed to have met you, Jardarah, and Garan at the approach to the camp, in two hours. Not sooner.”
Jaegar added respectfully, “And Genray.”
King Pallan winced a degree. “Right, Genray. What time is it?”
“The hour approaches eleven.”
King Pallan started perceptibly. “Blast. I’ve forgot, through and through! Ah … let us go, I suppose.” He wolfed down what remained of the tarkerry. As he munched on the soft fruit, he wiped his hands hastily on the bark of the tree he had used beforehand as a backrest. With a brush or two of his hands together, he said very quietly, “Let us go.”
A flash of contentment passed over Jaegar’s countenance. “Right, My Lord.” He pointed the way with his extended arm.
King Pallan kept his head lowered, doubtless discomfited from his odd behaviour and for forgetting a meeting with his soldiers he had himself assigned the time for.
Genray met them on the way to the threshold of the camp.
“Genray.”
“Good day, My Lord! Hope all is well with you, sire.”
“Well enough, Genray. Well enough, I should think.” He gave the warrior a reassuring look, sprinkled with admiration and glee.
“Right, My Lord!” Genray came alongside Jardarah.
King Pallan and his men came to the edge of the camp. The campsite was busy with last-minute preparations for the journey to Vadaal.
“The people are in earnest …”
“Yes, I can see that, Jaegar. That is good.” King Pallan mumbled to himself rather quietly, “It is doubtful I deserve it.”
Jaegar seemed unsure if he had heard his king utter something. “My Lord?”
King Pallan quipped, rather flippantly, “Indigestion, Jaegar.”
Jaegar’s evident confusion in the matter lifted by swift degrees. He remarked, chortling, “Right, My Lord!”
“Let us go … remain as quiet observers. Do not alarm the folk. If you see something amiss, report it to me, quietly. We will address it straightaway.”
Genray, Jardarah, Jaegar, and Garan all answered, “Yes, sire.”
“Good. Let us proceed.” He gestured for them to begin the survey of the camp.
The men began touring the camp in close trail to their king. Men, women, and children crisscrossed their path as they hurried to finish their tasks for the looming quest. There was a nervous excitement to the air, dancing to the anticipation and worry of the political runaways that seemed unlost to the soldiers and their unorthodox king. There were countless utterances of ‘My Lord’, ‘Sire’, ‘My Good king’, ‘Good day, King Pallan!’ from the people, King Pallan taking them all in stride, his expression lightening in fair degrees at his bustling followers. In all, there was a resilience to the people that manifested in subtle ways—one might think they could almost move and settle at the whim of their king, and if necessary, fend off any attack, even with simple kitchen utensils. The grittiness of the Paladians, their smeared faces, the stringiness of their hair, and the beauty and dignity imbuing all was a source of confidence and pleasure to their moribund king, a man filled with contradictions.
Coming to the end of the camp, King Pallan’s only words to his lead soldiers were: “We leave tomorrow.”
Jaegar tapped his chest with the palm of his right hand. “Yes, My Lord. We shall be ready …”
King Pallan nodded to him and headed off for his tent, where he was to spend the rest of his night in quiet ease, the dreams of the strange lake not returning, in their place the joyful reminiscing about innumerable games of gavan with Barrow and Jaid in the soft cradle of Paladia’s pre-cataclysmic, tranquil countryside.
As dawn broke the subsequent day, the camp was alive with activity. The time to depart the mountains had arrived. There were no more preparations, no matter how trivial; all that remained was to assemble, and then to start on the course decided by their king.
Within an hour or so of daybreak, the Paladians had amassed into one large group before the council. King Pallan appeared minutes later with his lead soldiers. All was ready.
Hadara finished his speech. “And now, my good people, the time has come for us to depart this place.” His eyes pivoted upward toward the trees and sky, making a quick sweep of them. He resumed. “It has been decided, by you, the people, that we ought to continue our search for the Stone of Ayren.” He paused for a moment. “I am in accordance with this.” Giving a slight turn to his associates, Olish and Yarek, he said, “As are my fellow scribes. We believe the journey—quest—to be of a necessary one. Our people, all Paladia, are counting on us … about this there can be no doubt! Still, they are under the harsh reins of a marauding king, a monarch who knows no limits to depravity of mind or heart. Our course is a noble one. Like all who flee tyranny, we will possess justice one day; man cannot take this from us. Neither warlock nor ogre. Nor the duplicitous. We are all tired and hungry, and worn, but it is in precisely these times, I should think, that the measure of a man or woman is determined. Remain vigilant. Love and protect one another. By keeping our heads and using our minds—our natural inquisitiveness—we will find, eventually, I am sure, the stone we so desperately seek, and with it, we will restore our kingdom and appease the ones who cursed it, and drive back the vermin who overtook it …” He fell silent and gave his captive audience a slow scan. He then stepped back to make room for King Pallan, who took his place in front of him.
King Pallan looked at his people with muteness. After many long moments, after the crowd of escapees had become so quiet that even a chance breath could be perceived, he said, “It is time to go. We have had our time among these woods … upon this mountain. The journey before us is a dangerous one; I would be untruthful if I said otherwise. To a castle we will head … in the land of Vadaal. A foreign land to be sure, for not one of us has ever been to it—not your lord and king. They may reject us or hate us, but we have our own dignity, a dignity unique to Paladia, and there is none who can take this from you or me. And what shall we find at this castle? A relic. And what is this relic that we seek?” He put his head down a few degrees. “I do not know … but it is worth questing for. It may guide us to the stone …” He paced for a bit before them. “The Valley of Kreven is largely unknown to us; there could be many dangers in it. I assure you, some of the best warriors our people have nurtured are here with us. Though an enemy may threaten or attack, in times to come, we will emerge victorious.” He paced briskly up and down before the sizeable assembly. “You must believe this—in your hearts. If you do not believe you can, you will have already failed, and they who seek our lives, our property, will prevail. Ours is the righteous course, the noble course, the necessary one; it is for our people that we venture in these strange lands. It is for our homes, our lands, our livestock, our very sanity that we endeavour to recover the gem. To find it, we must. To uncover its sepulchre, we will! The stone is ours.” He surveyed them momentarily with a look of severity. “Y-e-s, that is right, what we seek was once ours—Paladian. Your ancient ancestors once administered it … the Stone of Ayren. And for this reason, for the notion of ownership, we will recover it from those who made off with it. They will be punished … these transgressors. And the rightful heirs to the stone will once again possess it!” He threw up his right arm, his hand in a fist, and pumped it once, vigorously, as his eyes jumped from one escapee to another.
There were shouts and cheers among the escapees, the displaced dissidents of King Ibren’s wretched power.
After the camp had quieted down, King Pallan made one last entreaty to his followers. “I beg you all not to be afraid; I mean, it is alright to be afraid.” He scanned them quickly. “We are all afraid; I say, do not let it get the best of you, to seize you, to overwhelm your sense of peace and your place within this camp. We are here for each other, and we, though vagabonds, live for our people. Our mothers, our fathers, brothers, sisters—the like. Friends and neighbours … the time is now. The time for us to rid ourselves of these woods has come. Let us seek what it is we have set our minds and hearts on—to find the Kaiper Stone of Ayren. To find it!” His last words echoed through the woods.
The camp became very silent.
King Pallan turned to his scribes. “Assemble the people into a single column. My leads, on the journey out, will accompany the Forward Vanguard. Have Conrad’s bugle brought to me, and his dog …”
The scribes bowed to him.
In the period of half an hour, the Paladians had formed a single column at the rear of the former campsite, at the threshold of an intersection of woodland pathways. At the front of this regiment, an amalgam of civilians and trained warriors, was the Forward Vanguard, with Jaegar, Jardarah, and Garan, temporarily. Qellan, with Percival on a leash, and her son Edyl next to her, along with several other children of the displaced, were also at the forefront of the column.
A soldier appeared with Conrad’s bugle.
King Pallan nodded to him to take his place.
The warrior, carrying the bugle dutifully, took up his position to the left of the Forward Vanguard.
King Pallan came up to Jardarah, Jaegar, and Garan. Inspecting his two senior officers for a brief time, he then came by Garan, who looked ahead vacantly. He raised an eyebrow. “Hmm … new attire, ay, Garan?”
Jaegar’s and Jardarah’s faces turned red from holding in laughter.
Garan did not seem rattled in the least by his foster king’s observation.
King Pallan looked the man over. “Curious, that I have not seen you dressed so before. And your sword—you carry it behind your back.”
Garan nodded as he gazed forward, emotionless, at the trees and shrubs. “Yes, My Lord—the sword—I carry it this way into battle. It is easier for me to unsheathe in case of conflict. My dress. I do not understand.”
King Pallan made the faintest smirk. “Your boots, your gloves, this”—he rustled the half-cloak Garan was wearing—“cloak you have on. Tassels?”
Garan’s expression turned to genuine concern. “Do I offend my lord, by wearing such apparel? I shall dress out of it straightaway—”
King Pallan interrupted him. “Not at all, my good soldier; not at all.” He lifted his eyebrows as he suppressed a grin. “I was just pointing out that I had not seen you dressed in such a manner before—and your sword, its placement upon your back.” He made a cheeky wink over at Jardarah and Garan, who trembled more strongly from inner laughter. He took a few steps away from them and scanned ahead. “Right, then. Suppose we ought to be off …” He pivoted around. Coming over for a moment to Qellan and her son, he gave each of them a warm smile, then patted Percival on the head. He stood up and asked loudly, as if he had somehow forgotten, “Where is my bugle man?”
The soldier pinning Conrad’s trumpet against his side with his right arm called out, “Right here, sire!”
King Pallan approached the conscript as he put on his gloves. “Very good, Calland.”
“Right, sire!”
King Pallan made a quick survey of the silvery, tarnished musical instrument. “Good.” He paused. “Would you?”
Calland stiffened by many degrees, arching his back almost to the point of breaking. He gave a salute to King Pallan, who stepped away, nay, nearly jumped away, from the soldier.
Calland swung the bugle to his lips. After taking in a gulp of air, he blew. A horrendous noise resulted.
King Pallan started as he groaned.
Calland continued playing, a type of reveille, if one could call such a loose cacophony of notes such a thing.
King Pallan held his ears, but not before rather hastily signalling for the column to begin down the trail.
And so, they were off. The group of refugees headed in a westerly direction for a time. This, however, was deemed unwise. Consulting their maps, King Pallan, his soldiers, and his scribes agreed, after several arguments, that they ought to head east until coming to a gap in the land, a small valley, that was unnamed. This course they took for several hours, but the landmarks they should have encountered never appeared. Stopping by some running water, the group then took some light refreshments, while King Pallan’s leads bickered with each other regarding the right course to follow to Vadaal.
“No, I say, it must be that a way!” Jaegar’s temper flared.
“Nay, knave! I tell you it is more to the west.” Jardarah brought his face closer to Jaegar’s, who imitated the former’s boldness.
The raging conversation went unheard by the people, for King Pallan had brought them out of earshot of the expeditionaries, so as not to cause scandal. The reality was, they had little idea about what direction to head, other than heading back north, which would likely return them to the prior campsite.
Olish cut in, somewhat rudely, “A fair course, indeed! Pity our leads have no bloody notion where to lead us next!”
Jaegar stormed over to the thin and feeble scribe. He said gruffly, “You scribes ought to know in which direction to head; after all, you provided the maps.” He then made a false gracious smile at the rattled scholar, adding patronizingly, “Now, if you would be so kind as to point the direction we humble, mind-numb warriors should follow, then by all means, my wise and seasoned Olish, please do provide us the way, and we shall be ever so grateful for your direction and wisdom.”
Olish snarled, though it was a faint and comical one.
King Pallan shook his head as his eyes rolled once and his head tilted to the sky.
Hadara came between the incensed warrior and his colleague. “Now, now, gentlemen, I am sure there is a more civil way this can all be sorted out, ay?” He glanced at Jaegar, then at Olish. “Hmm?”
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