The Light of Endura

by Scott Zamek

  Farms began to checker the land again, and long green pastures bounded by weatherworn wooden fences. But when he reached the far side of the low-lying fields, the road split into a fork not mentioned by the barkeep. Filby stopped and looked both ways. “Damn merchants . . . barkeeps, their all the same. Never listen to a merchant.”

  A wooden sign pointed to the right, Parsons Hollow, toward a darkened lane and the earthy scent of watchful pines. To the left stood broken meadow and fenced-in crops of thick corn, a much more welcoming path, but no sign marked the way. Filby pulled out the hand-drawn map from his pocket; it showed neither the town nor the fork in the road.

  “Hmm . . . the left fork looks brighter.” He stood, hand on his chin, studying the map as if it would suddenly show the way. He stood for some time, looking left along the quiet field of corn, then right into the shadows of the pines, until gradually, emerging in the distance, he heard the sound of a rickety cart teetering down the left lane. Filby could just make out the overladen bed piled high with bales of dried and dusty hay, like a top-heavy ship rocking back and forth on an uneven sea.

  The cart slowed, easing to an unsteady halt next to a moss-covered oak tree at the crossroad. “You look a fright, sir,” the driver offered, “if you don’t mind me saying.”

  “I’ve been out in this dreadful weather all day and all yesterday. I’m not used to being on the road for so long.” Filby didn’t know why, but he felt the need to explain his appearance. “By any chance, do you know how far to the Old Mill and Way Tavern?”

  “Just follow this road—runs right into it. Can’t miss it, another fifteen miles or so.” He eased the old draft horse as it nudged a few feet forward. “But you’ll never make it by nightfall. You’re welcome to bunk with my farmhands for the night—the misses cooks up a fine dinner.”

  Filby was tempted, but he couldn’t shake his worry of Trader. Where had he gone? Why did he leave? He worried for himself as well. What would happen if he got caught out on the road by thieves? And fifteen miles seemed very close compared to the journey of the past few days. The end of the road was near.

  He waved his thanks to the farmer and continued on in silence, the sun riding low and tepid in the west. A slow, steady rise carried the road onto a barren hilltop, where verdant pasture stretched beyond sight to the north. He was looking across new lands for him, as he had been since Fallow Meadows, into the shadows of the east; to where a ribbon of trees stood hazy in the distance and at last the wooded banks of the Meltwater could be seen twisting through the depths of the wide valley. He walked onward into a line of frayed clouds moving west to darken the sky; onward until the land became marbled with thin shadows and his feet turned cold with the waning sun. Dandelions covered Filby’s descent into the glen as daylight faded, some yellow, and along the thin strip of grass between wagon tracks, white puffs sent seeds into the air with every step. The valley floor darkened quickly, but the dim glimmer of lanterns flicked on where the shadow of distant trees parted on the horizon. “The tavern,” Filby muttered, and quickened his pace.

  Night fell, and Filby lost sight of the road, but he could barely make out a thin ribbon that seemed no more than a deer path stretching onward. That was his road, and even if he strayed, the small flicker of light up ahead served as a guide against the pressing darkness. A sharp yellow moon rose above the Meltwater, and the valley showed a ghostly glimpse of life, of fading light, where wildflowers of all kinds reflected the slightest tinge of color, and green grass became a deep purple mat pressed over the faded land. The call of cicadas rose to a pitch, while a crisp wind wound down from the north to cast a few brittle leaves from late-summer trees.

  The valley road rose up and fell down through small groves of darkened oaks, past a small pond, and on through a twisted hedgerow. The forest ahead became one dim and looming wall, where a wide beacon of light cut into the shadows. Filby made for the light, and it grew brighter, until a thatched roof poked through the gloom, and a clearing slanted down toward the sound of rushing water. For the first time since nightfall Filby could see more than a few feet into the darkness; he could see the high wooden fence at his shoulder as he walked along, and behind the fence, a brown horse and a shaggy old bay snorted at his footsteps. And there, the yellow tavern windows. A wide landing stood on the Meltwater, where two glowing lanterns were fixed atop deep-seated wooden posts and a ferry was held fast with thick ropes. Beyond, the swift-running river sent glistening peaks here and there through the reaching blackness.

  A placard swayed as if breaking an eerie silence, the clinking chains keeping in tune with a thin squeak of crickets rising from cattails along the river. Filby could barely read the words: The Old Mill and Way Tavern. This small little circle of light, however dim, however dreary, seemed a breath of hope against the pressing night, a promise to the end of cold hikes and rainy days and wet clothes. Filby edged open the heavy door feeling as if he had achieved some sort of finish line, and slowly, gently, the warmth from inside washed across his face. He could see the tavern was small, but a large fireplace encompassed much of the far wall, wrapping the entire room in a smoky glow. Deeply polished cherry made up the tables and ran along the bar, but the place was completely devoid of customers. Only a portly bartender wearing a white apron and puffing on a long pipe stood behind the rail.

  Then, as Filby’s eyes adjusted to the light, he made out another lone figure sitting in the shadows at the far end of the room. “Filby!” Trader turned in his barstool and rose to his feet with open arms. “I’ve been riding up and down the main road all day looking for you!”

  Filby sat down with Trader at the bar, next to the blazing fire. “I came by the wagon track that bends away to the north.” He leaned his elbows on the bar, exhausted, and found it an effort to speak.

  “A good thing,” said Trader in a low voice. “There are some unsavory characters traveling the main road to Bordertown, and more than a few may be in search of us.”

  “But why are they looking for us? What happened to you in Bordertown?” Filby was tired, confused, and cold. Once again he had many questions, and once again food and sleep outweighed curiosity.

  “They are looking for us because they want that map you carry, my friend. Although most of them do not know that is the reason. Someone has put a fair bounty on our heads—yours and mine.” Trader lifted his mug of ale, then turned to the bartender. “Cruizat, can we get a mug and a plate for Filby here?”

  “Of course,” said Cruizat, and poured Filby a glass. “My best Maderna—been savin’ it for a special occasion.” Filby had not seen Maderna since leaving his cabin. It was not his usual fare, but he drank heartily nonetheless. His hands began to warm, and the pang in his stomach faded.

  “As far as what happened to me in Bordertown,” said Trader, “let’s just say I tried my best to keep you safe. Better we discuss what to do next.”

  The barkeep swung through the kitchen door with a plate of roasted chicken and placed it in front of Filby. “One thing’s for sure,” said Cruizat, giving Filby a stern look, “you can’t head west. I’ve seen more unsavory characters come through here on their way to Bordertown than I have in thirty years.”

  “Cruizat’s family has owned this place for more than a hundred years,” said Trader.

  “People know me as the bridgetender, even though the bridge washed out years ago. We use that flat-bottomed raft to ferry people across the river now.” The fire crackled and snapped, sending an ember onto the oak floor. Cruizat moved out from behind the bar and added a log to the hearth, then began poking the embers with a fire iron. “Don’t worry,” he said, looking over his shoulder, “I closed the place for the night. You’re safe here.”

  Filby was listening, absorbing everything that was said, but for the moment he was more interested in roasted chicken and carrots and potatoes with butter and parsley. Memories of cheese sandwiches and cold, rainy nights were slowly fading away.

  “I’d like to take you to Bridgehaven
,” said Trader. “One hundred miles east in the next district. There are people in the city who can protect you and they may have some ideas.”

  Filby sat in thought for a moment. He sipped his Maderna.

  “I don’t see any other choice,” said Cruizat.

  “Nor do I,” admitted Filby. “But right now I need some sleep—I haven’t slept right in two nights. Then I want some explanation about maps and runes and my grandfather and whatever else I can remember when my wits are about me in the morning.”

  Filby’s room provided just enough space for one small cot and a night stand. The lantern outside, above the teetering tavern placard, sent a gentle light through his window, and every now and then he heard the horses below whinny and snort. He peeled off his damp shirt and lit the candle next to his bed, then crawled between the thick, wool blankets. A lingering chill in his limbs slowly faded away, though the last nip in his toes persisted well into the night. Maps, thieves, traveling merchants . . . Filby wondered about such things, until the sound of crickets slowly melted into sleep and dreams of Meadowkeep.

  MORNING brought scattered gray clouds with a north wind, but blue skies in the west promised fair weather. Filby awoke late, and found Trader and Cruizat already sitting at the bar eating eggs and thick slabs of ham. “We must leave today—this morning,” Trader announced gravely, as Filby sat down. “The road is becoming more dangerous with every passing hour.”

  Cruizat brought out a plate of eggs and set it in front of Filby. “And I’ve had odd-lookin’ travelers knocking on my door all morning. I can’t stay closed forever—it’ll look suspicious.”

  “Can you at least fill me in on where we’re going?” asked Filby. He set his elbows on the bar and looked at his peppered eggs, then picked up his fork and took a mouthful. “Why Bridgehaven?”

  “There will be time enough for questions as we travel,” replied Trader. “Suffice to say the city is safe, and you will be safe within its walls.”

  Filby stared at his eggs, looking dejected. He wanted to travel west, back to Meadowkeep—not east. “You don’t have to walk, at least,” said Cruizat, hoping to cheer Filby up a bit. “Trader bought my two horses in the corral.”

  Filby glanced at Cruizat and raised his eyebrows in curiosity. How could Trader, a traveler who looked like a weary vagabond, afford horses. “Horses cost a lot of money,” Filby blurted out, then instantly realized the statement was probably a bit rude.

  Cruizat shrugged. “Hawkins always did have a fat purse,” and he cleared away some plates and disappeared into the kitchen.

  “Here,” said Trader, placing a rolled-up cloak on the bar rail. “It will keep the weather out.”

  Filby unrolled the bundle to find a sword and scabbard inside. He became alarmed, then indignant. “I’m a farmer,” and he slid the sword back across the bar.

  “You don’t have to use it,” said Trader. “But it would be wise to wear it . . . just in case.”

  Filby ate his eggs in silence. He did not want to talk to Trader or Cruizat or anyone else east of Meadowkeep. There, things made sense—things like gardens and proper fences and wary constables. No one carried a sword in Meadowkeep. People were civilized.

  Filby finished breakfast and rose from the table without a word. He found a wash basin and scrubbed away the dust and sweat from two days on the road, then put on a pair of hiking boots Cruizat had set by his door the previous night. They fit almost perfectly, although the right one pinched his toes a little. The cloak wasn’t bad either, and though a bit large, Filby knew it would keep out any rain they might encounter on the way to Bridgehaven.

  Cruizat and Trader were already standing by the horses in the corral by the time Filby emerged from the washroom. The mounts had been fitted out with saddle bags, and Cruizat gladly supplied food, ground blankets, and other supplies for the road. “It is time,” said Trader, as he grabbed the reins and led the horses out of the corral and down to the Meltwater. The flat-bottomed raft floated them to the opposite bank, where they set out east, Filby on the all-brown mare and Trader atop the bay, a sturdy brown stallion with a black mane.

  Trader led them from the cobblestone road onto a dirt lane headed toward the sun. It was a compromise between the main road and smaller wagon track, and Trader deemed it to be safe. The valley fell behind them as they rose out of a band of forested land bordering the Meltwater and onto higher hills covered green with pasture and wildflowers. Their thin dirt road wandered around rolling prairie, now and again intersected by country lanes and cropped fields, a few cows and horses grazing at leisure in the midday sun. Trader would periodically point down a cobbled crossroad as they passed by and say, “That’s the road to Norrich,” or “Follow that lane and it takes you to the tiny village of Borgensher. They make marvelous cheese at this small shop . . .”

  Filby wondered how Trader could possibly know every detail about the smallest towns, and began to suspect his guide was embellishing a bit. But his curiosity lay elsewhere. “You said you would explain a few things.” Filby’s voice was coarse from the rainy nights out in the open and the early morning start, and he felt as if he was grumbling. But an explanation was long overdue. “What did my grandfather have to do with all this, and what exactly is that map supposed to be?”

  Trader laughed. “Choose one question at a time. The answers may be longer than you suppose.”

  “My grandfather,” answered Filby, flatly. He suddenly felt insignificant, the subject of jest. In fact, he felt as if someone, though no one in particular, had been laughing at him since he pulled out that dusty old chest from his closet all those many days ago.

  Trader rode along easily, jiggling the reins of his bay and moving his head from side to side with wary glances. “In order to understand your grandfather, you must first understand that the Light of Endura, what you call the Eternal Flame, actually does exist. It lies beyond the Far Mountains and its fate determines the fate of this land. If the Light fades, the land fades. If the Flame is extinguished, darkness encompasses the world as it was in the age when men were afraid of the night and fire was not yet known.” The bay shook his head and whinnied. A small rise squeezed the road thin where white elms bent over the path. The wind rose from the west, and the sun faded behind a torn cloud. “Your grandfather was a Far Rider—an ancient league of men sworn to protect and defend the Light. That sacred duty has been passed down through the ages to men such as your grandfather and others throughout the land.”

  A stream crossed the road, where a hand-hewn covered bridge arched over polished rocks and trout pools. The sound of hooves echoed against wood walls as the horses clomped along. “But there is a problem,” said Trader. “The Light has shined undisturbed for centuries, and the history became stuff of myth and legend. The Far Riders disbanded, faded into the dim distance of time, so that a very few exist today. And even they are disappearing.”

  “Disappearing?” Filby was beyond confused. “Like my grandfather, you mean—killed?”

  “It is true, some of the older Far Riders have been assassinated. I think for fear they will return and take up the cause. But in your grandfather’s case, I believe they were after the map. No—when I say disappearing, I mean they disappeared beyond the Far Mountains. Perhaps a dozen Far Riders have ventured over the mountains in an attempt to restore the Light. None have returned, and the Light still fades. Only a handful remain.”

  A light drizzle fell from dark clouds, and the day grew dim. Trader and Filby flipped up their hoods and cinched their cloaks. “That’s why my grandfather was never home,” sighed Filby, while he fumbled with the straps on his saddle bags, closing them against the rain.

  “Your grandfather was the only man in many generations to have traveled beyond the Far Mountains and returned.”

  “And found the map. He found it beyond the mountains, didn’t he?”

  “It is a thing of legend, and those in Bridgehaven know much more than I. Surely it is a key piece to finding the Light of Endura and
successfully venturing beyond the Far Mountains.”

  “And what of you in all this?” asked Filby. “What does a merchant from Meadowkeep have to do with such things?”

  The road pointed straight ahead through a thick grove of alder trees. Low clouds gave a burst of thunder, and rain angled down with the rising wind. A densely forested valley pressed in on the road as the day grew dark. Trader paused on the path, rain drizzling off his hood. “Quiet,” he whispered, and raised his hand. He turned his head, listening. “Something watches from the forest.” He scanned the trees and snapped straight in his saddle. “Make haste!” Trader urged his horse to a trot and Filby followed. Muddy rain conjured fog in the ditches and swales along the road. A shape suddenly appeared through a thin mist, blocking the way forward. “Stay close,” and Trader unsheathed his sword. At a full gallop, he unleashed a glancing blow and a shrill cry rose through rain. The way was clear. “Hurry!” called Trader as he galloped ahead.

  Filby rushed behind, his steed’s chestnut mane bent back in the wind. Rain pelted his face and clouded his eyes. He glanced back; many shapes had overtaken the road behind—dozens of them, loping and clawing their way forward in an awkward sprint. Were they men? Filby could not see clearly. They looked gray and bald and almost naked, white hair like wire pointing at odd angles. And they seemed shorter than a man, but wide—noticeably wide. Even in the rain.