by M. S. Verish
“Thieves do not concern me. A magic demon does.”
Rashir waved his hand. “As I said, the creature is under my complete control. You have nothing to fear.” He looked down at the tall man’s leg. “Seeing as you will be unable to ride, I will see you situated away from its cage, if that should be of comfort to you.”
Hale frowned and brought his hand to his chin. “Just how do you maintain control of a demon?”
Rashir’s smile faded slightly. “My people have means of containing magic. Our methods are closely guarded, or I would disclose them to you. You have my word that your safety is guaranteed, Lord Hale.” He walked away, pausing only at Nesif’s side. “See that Lord Hale is comfortable in the covered wagon.”
“Are there any other surprises I should be aware of?” Hale voiced after him.
Rashir did not seem to hear him, but Nesif came his way. “The Demon’s presence is a trivial matter,” the Jornoan said. “May I help you inside?”
Hale did not refuse him, nor did he thank him as he offered him a hand. Hale winced and gingerly eased himself on the seat inside, as far from the cage as he could manage. It was the surrounding canvas that enclosed him, however, that drew his attention.
“Are you comfortable, Lord Hale?” Nesif asked politely.
“I do not believe that it matters,” Hale grumbled.
Argamus and Rourke gazed in at their leader. “You are most kind,” the medoriate said to Nesif. He started to climb into the wagon as well, but the Jornoan stopped him.
“If it is agreeable, Rashir would like to sit with you in the open wagon.”
Argamus blinked. “I… Of course,” he said.
Nesif turned to Rourke, whose attention was rapt upon the cage. “We have your horse ready, Enforcer.”
Rourke started to thank him but caught himself and grunted. The three dispersed with just a glance, and the journey began. Hale had estimated a ten-day ride if they were not too leisurely. Ten days did not seem so long until the trio settled into the company of strangers. Silence had settled with them, the result of an awkward social gap that would likely ease after the first day.
Fair weather aided good humor, though as they left the milder lands of the south, the trees were tinged with crimson and gold, and the breeze grew more assertive. The dark peaks of the distant Nightwind Mountains supported the dramatic blue-gray bundles of clouds that rolled across the sky. The road they traveled was worn from merchant wagons, but passersby were few and far between until the group approached a larger town or village. Their first stop was at a small but tidy inn, where they took their midday meal in much the same itchy silence. Full bellies loosened tongues, and the afternoon melted away much reservation and anxiety. Unknown to most of them, they were watched from a lofty distance by a lone hawk—a mere speck amongst the dramatic skyscape.
*
Rourke patted his mare’s neck, grateful the horse Othenis had given him was of an easy-going nature. He was certainly not an experienced rider, but he had gone for the occasional stolen race around the corral. He and his thieving buddies used to sneak by Daniel Stormway’s pasture during the dark hours before dawn, lure the horses to the fence, and hop atop their backs. He would swear the horses had as much fun as they did, galloping from one end of the field to the other, testing the spirit and the speed of horse and rider. Rourke found he had not thought of his old friends in a long time, having been too distracted by this new turn in his life. Would they ever believe that he—the jinxed street rat—was on an important mission to steal a magic rock? Or that the White Demon was in his company?
Then again, his “friends” had banished him from their group. He had become a liability to them, a wobbly leg under the table. Already he knew he was not the same. He felt he was on the brink of change—some new and amazing development in his unlucky life. A part of him knew he was in danger, but the majority of him remembered his promises: to help his new friends by stealing the Ravenstone and to help the White Demon by setting him free. He had no cause to think back upon his old life, but even so….
Rourke stopped the affectionate pat when he realized he was being watched. Hesun was to the left of him, Arshod to the right. He straightened his back and lifted his head. “Somethin’ wrong?” he asked when they refused to turn away.
“Do not ask it of him,” Hesun said to Arshod. “You see that he is yet healing from our incident at the bar.” He gestured to Rourke’s blackened eye.
“What is a bruise to him?” Arshod argued. “Nothing but a sliver, if even.” The Jornoan gave Rourke a nod. “I was considering our set engagement.”
Huh? Rourke waited for clarification, trying not to look confused.
“You remember our fight, do you not?” Arshod asked, an eyebrow raised.
“Yeah,” Rourke said.
“I was thinking we might have an opportunity to proceed tonight,” Arshod said. “Rashir wishes to camp beside the road. We will stop before dark to prepare dinner. That will be our time.”
“Fine with me,” Rourke said, though his heart pounded with the quick beat of those stolen rides in Daniel Stormway’s pasture. How would he weasel out of this scenario? Could he? He stared ahead to where Argamus rode with the Priagent in the wagon, though the medoriate never looked back his way. Rourke glanced behind him to where the covered wagon rolled along, knowing Hale was somewhere beneath the canvas. Hale had gotten him out of trouble in the bar; he might have an idea how to avoid this fight. Hale would not grow as angry as Argamus if he should happen to explain just how he got into this predicament. Feeling slightly relieved in his decision, Rourke let out a deep breath.
“I have bet money on you, Enforcer,” Hesun said with a grin.
Rourke of the East Freeland Enforcers managed a weak smile, his stomach now tied in a hangman’s knot.
When the sun was riding atop the treeline to the west, the travelers veered into an open field a short distance from the road. Rourke immediately headed for the covered wagon, approaching his leader, who looked relieved to be out in the open air. As quickly and as quietly as he could, he explained his situation.
“So whatcha think I should do?” Rourke whispered.
Hale eased himself to the ground, where he stretched out his ailing leg. “I would guess you’ve already considered your options.”
Rourke took a breath. “Fight or not fight?”
“If you think of an excuse not to fight….”
“I’ll be a coward.” The brute’s shoulders slumped. “What if the sword don’t work? Or what if it works too good, and I kill ‘im? I can’t do this, Hawkwing.”
The tall man whacked Rourke across the shins with his walking aid. “Hale.”
“Sorry. I can’t do this, Mr. Hale.”
“The sword will act defensively so long as you act defensively. Two important pointers: stance and breathing. Your stance gives you balance. Your breathing keeps your head and lungs clear and your energy strong.” Hale held his gaze. “No, this is not a good idea, but since you are committed, you must face this the best way possible.”
“I wish I could give you the sword. You know how to fight. In the bar, you—”
“Rourke.”
“Yeah, I know—I’m s’poseta say I fought our way out.” Rourke sat down across from his leader. “But I know the truth. I’m just really glad you found us when you did. I don’t know how you did, but—”
“Rourke.” Hale closed his eyes and rubbed his brow.
“What?”
“I knew the tavern.”
“You been there before,” Rourke said. “I get it. Never thought you’d hang in those places, Hawk—Mr. Hale. It was really crowded and dark, and the ceiling was like this low—” He held his hand just over his own head.
“Yes,” Hale said quietly.
“Sumthin’ wrong?” Rourke asked. Then his eyes widened. “You know, there was a painting in there. By Lorth, it looked just like you. I mean, the guy looked a lot scarier, with his big hands, wild beard, and�
�”
“It was me,” Hale said. He looked to where Argamus was already sipping from a cup, chatting with Rashir as the fire was constructed and camp made. “This must stay between us.”
Rourke could tell Hale was deadly serious. “Yeah, I swear it,” he said.
“Sometimes we get lost,” Hale said. “We end up walking a path we never intended, and we become strangers to ourselves. ‘Talon’ was the stranger. He was angry, alone, and utterly miserable, and so he fought. He fought well, because his anger was all he had, but he knew he was being exploited. Every fight brought in money, but he never saw any of it. He was blind to everything but his sorrow, though in his heart, he knew this path was wrong.”
“So what’d he—you—do?” Rourke asked, incredulous.
“Nothing. I could not dig myself from the hole I was in, and I could not face a day sober. Soon I forgot who I was. One day, there was a fight, and everything changed. This was not a planned fight; it happened in the street, late at night. Much of it I don’t remember, because I blacked out. When I woke, I found my attacker beside me. I did not check, but in my heart, I knew he was dead. I walked away, and I knew I would never leave that moment behind me.”
Rourke gaped at him. “What happened?”
“I turned myself in,” Hale said. “And I spent many long days in prison. Time was all I had to think about my life. I would have faced the gallows, but it turned out my attacker had been a criminal, and they decided to let me go. That was the second time I met Bill. He helped me to begin again.”
Hale looked up and nodded at the approaching Jornoans, and Rourke bit his lip. “If they intend a friendly bout, then you should not have much to fear. Please do not injure yourself…or them.”
“Easy for you to say,” Rourke mumbled, and he went to meet Hesun and Arshod.
They led him away from the camp, to a lightly wooded area. Hesun stood apart from them and folded his arms.
“He will moderate,” Arshod said with a smile. He drew his sword, and Rourke drew his.
Stance and breathing. Don’t hurt anybody. Don’t get hurt. Aw, Lorth. Rourke kept his feet spaced, and held the sword in front of him, as he had seen Hale do once before. He felt balanced. And he was breathing—last he checked.
Hesun made a grand gesture to commence the fight.
Arshod started to move, and Rourke moved too, trying to keep his opponent opposite him.
Arshod made a sudden jab, closing the distance between them. Rourke awkwardly leapt back, though he need not have worried. His arm reached out and parried the blow. Arshod smiled and drew back. “You move like a spider tangled in his own legs.”
Rourke shrugged. “’S just how I fight.”
Arshod came at him again, with a side blow, and Rourke’s arm lifted and moved to where it needed to be, the clang of metal against metal ringing through the evening air. “Why not try a move, Enforcer? Or do I intimidate you?”
Hawkwing said to be defensive. No bloodshed. “I’ll move when I’m ready,” Rourke said.
Arshod seemed to be losing patience, though he maintained a fair demeanor. At once he came at Rourke with a series of quick thrusts and slashes, and each time, Rourke’s sword miraculously deflected every blow. Maybe I can handle this, the brute thought, gaining confidence. This time, he moved in first, and Arshod was forced to defend. The Jornoan held his own, though he did so with more grace and skill that spoke for years of training.
Back and forth they went, and Rourke was beginning to learn that his magic weapon did not bestow upon him any gift of endurance. It also had no sympathy for unconditioned muscles. How do I know when it’s over? He took a breath and watched his opponent warily. Arshod seemed to be assessing him, deciding where and how to strike. I can’t back down now, but I can’t keep this up, either.
The Jornoan gave a shout and engaged in a new bout. Arshod was relentless, but his attack turned to defense when Rourke decided to meet him with just as much vigor. The Jornoan began to retreat as Rourke gained the upper hand, and with a cry of his own, the brute gave a mighty strike. The air stilled in that moment, the magic blade driving forward toward its intended target. It was a horrible moment—a moment when Rourke was certain that he had made his first kill.
Arshod’s sword lifted and caught Rourke’s blade, the force behind the deflection spinning the brute away. His world reeling, Rourke caught his breath as he started to feel the hilt of his sword slip from his grasp.
“I have you, Enforce—” Arshod’s victory line was left broken, just as his final move was foiled. His lunge met open air as Rourke impossibly evaded the attack. Arshod stumbled forward. Rourke’s sword pulled his body hard, avoiding the tip of the blade. Still spinning, his arm twisted over his back, nearly dislodging his shoulder as the flat of the blade smacked the top of Arshod’s wrist, dropping the sword from his grasp. Rourke’s cry was mistaken for triumph as Arshod took a step back to gape at him.
Hesun held up his arms. “It is over,” he said. “The Enforcer wins.”
Arshod bowed, cradling his wrist. “I cannot fathom how,” he admitted. “You do not fight like any other.”
Rourke turned his grimace into a tight smile. “Ya did alright.” He patted Arshod on the arm with his free hand.
The Jornoan returned a grudging smile. “I must confess that I did not entirely believe your stories,” he said. “It is with new respect and some apology that I must reconsider the truth.”
“’S alright,” Rourke said. “You probably got good stories too.”
“And there will be time enough to tell them over dinner,” Hesun said, looking over his shoulder toward camp. “Come. Our light is fading.”
*
The fire fed new life into the travelers as food and drink were passed liberally around the circle. Hesun had found no reason to keep the recent battle to himself, and while Argamus and Hale sported reluctant smiles, Rashir and his brothers were more than intrigued by the skills of Rourke of the East Freeland Enforcers. It was, surprisingly, Arshod who spoke the highest of the brute’s victory.
“I cannot say how he made that final move but for an unseen spirit of expert swordsmanship,” Arshod said.
Hesun nodded his agreement and held up a coin. “I am grateful to that spirit.”
There was laughter all around but for Nesif, whose voice silenced them. “I wish I could have borne witness to this amazing feat.”
“Do not worry, brother,” one of the lot said. “For all the Enforcer’s boasted skill, you have never been bested.”
“Do not say that,” Nesif said quietly.
“She does not count,” Hesun said. “She was a devil—not of this world.”
“And she is gone. We are better for it,” said another.
“Enough.” Nesif silenced them again. “We will speak no more of Captain Xiuss.”
“So we have mighty swords in our party,” Asmat said. He glanced around the ring. “What use are swords in the Haunted Forest?”
“Do you expect resistance?” Nesif asked. “I did not think you placed faith in ghosts.”
“Yet we have a demon,” Asmat argued.
“But even he bleeds,” Arshod said.
“Yes, but Veloria is another mystery—a timeless tale with enough legends to fill a tome,” Rashir said, and all heads turned to him. “Do not forget that we seek the enchanted waters of a stream that grants life eternal. What sort of life, do you think, is fed by such a stream?”
“Fairies,” Rourke blurted. He was grateful the darkness hid his blush.
“Dragons,” Arshod said with a nod. “They are said to guard the boundaries of the forest.”
“Dragons burn forests,” Hesun said. “Unicorns guard it.”
“The trees guard themselves,” said another. “They uproot and walk as men.”
“Ridiculous!”
“Is it?”
“Wait.” Rashir lifted his head. “We have in our midst an expert of magic and lore—a Medoriate from Mystland.” He patted Argam
us on the back, and the wizard nearly choked on his wine. “What lore have you heard of the Haunted Forest?”
Argamus straightened. “Well, you might speak of pixies and the like, but as I understand it, the forest is ruled by immortal spirits of Light. The Ilangiel.”
“Elves,” Rourke said.
“Call them what you will.” Argamus waved his hand. “They wander the woods, giving life to all within it. They are said to be as old as the world itself, having taken form in the Beginning.”
“I know of these ‘Ilangiel,’” Rashir said. “Their touch is said to heal any wound or illness.”
“Indeed.” Argamus turned to his pipe and did not say more.
“It is incredible to me,” asserted Hale, “that no one has seen one, yet so many miraculous abilities are attributed to such creatures of folklore.”
“Because they hide in the forest,” Rourke said.
“Does your opinion differ from your leader’s?” Rashir asked him, though his gaze remained upon Hale. “Do you believe in elves and unicorns, Enforcer?”
Rourke looked down at his empty plate.
“There is no shame in it,” Rashir assured him. “We would not be on this journey if we did not believe in the enchanted stream.”
“I do,” Rourke admitted. He looked up to find a wry smile pass and vanish from Hale’s stern face.
“So again I ask,” Asmat said, “what good are swords against magic?”
“You spent hours ‘training’ that demon,” Hesun said. “It better be of some good!”
Laughter rose with the flames again, but conversation soon quieted as the meal ended and weariness settled with the night. Arshod kept first watch, and Rourke once again found himself in the Jornoan’s company.
“I, too, believe in the spirits of the forest,” Arshod admitted to him. “It is why we have the demon. Rashir believes it to be a creature of Shadow, and therefore able to oppose the Light of the Ilangiel.”
“Have you seen it do magic?” Rourke asked.
“I have seen it call in a great storm,” Arshod said. “The very one through which you rode when you first arrived.”
