by Scott Zamek
The river was swift but shallow. The horses snorted from the frigid water as their hooves splashed along the moonlit rocks. From the riverbed, the sky showed clear above, unobscured by trees; stars arched over the land like a silver dome sealed shut at the round edges of the world. The white stallion leaped the far bank in a blink, while Trader’s black-maned bay struggled to gain the top.
Ethreal was pleased with Trader’s choice of campsites, backed by the river and sheltered on all sides by forest; an enemy would be hard pressed to catch them unaware, as long as they watched the trees carefully during the night. Filby slid off the side of Ethreal’s horse and arched his back; a stiffness ran from his neck all the way to the bottom of his feet.
“Help set camp,” said Ethreal, steadying the reins. “I will ride the tree line on the far side before sleep.” She galloped off into the night, her stallion’s white mane glowing with moonlight then becoming lost in dark trees.
“Help set camp . . . build a fire, do this, do that.” Filby looked over at Trader. “Am I a Meadowkeep errand boy?” He reluctantly untied the saddle bags and began unfurling bedrolls. Trader was not listening; bent over a tinder box, he soon had a fire crackling and a pile of wood stacked at the edge of the clearing. The Watcher lit a pipe with a glowing piece of kindling, then leaned back in his bedroll. Filby let out a deep breath and set a pot of tea at the edge of the fire. He remembered Cruizat, who had packed the tobacco and the tea and the blankets, while he tossed on more logs. A cheerful fire was blazing by the time Ethreal returned.
“Anything?” asked Trader.
“Tracks. Many horses—on the far side of the wash.” She dismounted and slid her saddle to the ground.
“Farmers use this land to graze their horses,” suggested Trader. “There’s no telling who those tracks belong to.”
“Even so, we must be wary tonight.” She knew a large fire served a cross-purpose. They could see any potential enemy approach camp, but it was also possible for an enemy to see them from a great distance. There were no signs of immediate danger in the valley, however, so she satisfied herself with a cup of tea and rolled out a blanket in the shadows at the edge of the clearing. She did not intend to sleep.
Filby leaned his head back on a rolled-up shirt and covered up with his cloak. He watched Ethreal, who was wide awake listening to the sounds of the night. “Why don’t you ever travel west?” he asked, his eyes blinking with sleep.
“What?” Ethreal looked into the trees and turned her head only slightly.
“You said you never travel west. Why not?”
“My services are not required in the Quiet Lands,” she said, and would say no more.
FILBY AWOKE to a flurry of activity. Trader had already packed all the gear and Ethreal was atop her horse waiting to depart. “Move quickly Redmont,” she said sternly. “We will make Bridgehaven before the day is out.”
An overcast sky fell to the gray horizon, dark clouds moving slowly overhead as Trader led the way east. The road bent slightly north, descending gradually through a thin valley. Small villages began to appear, and Trader seemed to know them as if each was his own home town. The village of Hillsdale could be seen to the west, its many thatched roofs poking up from a wide meadow. To the south, a round lake bordered the road with small wooden fishing docks jutting from the shore. They tramped over a wooden bridge, along a trickling stream, then rose out of the valley to a crossroads and turned east through Market Town, nothing but a few empty vegetable stands and storefronts sitting idle in the gloomy light. “Once a month,” Trader assured them, “this town is packed with people who travel from all over the countryside with crops and produce and wares to sell.”
The road continued east out of the valley toward a high ridgeline. Falling away to their left, a sweeping pastureland was dotted with farm houses and brown, wooden fences, where a few horses and sheep grazed on tussocks poking up from the close-cropped fields. The town of Northingham spread out to their right, its cobblestone streets and painted fences surrounded by perfectly manicured lawns.
No rain fell, although the sky remained overcast the entire the day. It was late afternoon by the time they reached the ridgeline, and the road snaked along the crest like a crooked string. An overlook appeared where the road began its long descent into a vast plain ahead. Ethreal stopped her horse and dismounted, then walked to the edge of the bluff and gazed down upon the valley. Trader and Filby followed closely behind. “The Great Plains,” said Ethreal, looking to the east over a boundless and dead-flat expanse of grass and scrub. She glanced at Trader. “Can you see anything?”
The Watcher trained his eyes along the far horizon, turning his head left then right. “Many riders, heading north to the Whiteshear River.” He turned toward Ethreal, and his face suddenly hardened. “Brown cloaks. Faces hooded against the sun.”
Ethreal looked to the ground, stunned. “Halfwraith.” She was unable to hide her astonishment.
“Halfwraith?” asked Filby, looking one to the other. No response came, and he suddenly sensed a change in his companions. There was the outward stance of bravado, both standing defiant against the light of the fading day, but deep within the nuances and inflections of Trader’s voice, Filby thought he could hear the creeping presence of another emotion, of fear.
“They are wretched souls who shun the light,” answered Ethreal, finally looking up from the valley. “They are the army of the darkness, from the land beyond the Far Mountains.” She was beset by a look of confusion. “But this far west?”
“We must cross the plain to reach Bridgehaven,” said Trader. “They block our way.”
Ethreal scanned the valley, searching for a way across or a way to make a stand. “We can take position on that far ridge. Well placed arrows and your sword may be enough.”
“Two cannot defeat ten,” answered Trader. He analyzed the scene before him. “If we go around—skirt the edge of the forest, the outer edge of the plain. It is longer, but we avoid contact.”
Ethreal shook her head. “We still must break into the open at some point. We cannot avoid a fight.”
“We use the edge of the forest,” insisted Trader. “I know a path—they will not see us until it is too late, and then it’s a dead sprint toward Bridgehaven. They will never catch us—we will be too far ahead.”
Ethreal hesitated for a moment as she surveyed the geography around her. She knew that Bridgehaven was a mere ten miles east, on the Whiteshear River at the far edge of the plain. If they could travel the forest for only half that distance, it would be enough. “Redmont?” she asked, looking to Filby.
“I’m for the forest idea,” said Filby. “Definitely.” He had been mortified throughout the entire conversation. Especially when he heard the word “fight.”
“Lead on, Watcher,” conceded Ethreal, extending her hand toward the valley.
Trader led them back below the ridge, hidden from the valley, where he found a goat track leading south. They continued along the lee side of the ridge for several miles before it slowly gave way to a set of low, rolling hills. Another mile, and a thick forest appeared in the distance. They made for the forest on the west side of the hills, still hidden from the Great Plains, until they reached the edge of the trees. Thick underbrush rose up under the canopy, and Trader scouted around the forest bed, finally finding the thin deer path that he knew bore east.
Filby sat on the back of the white stallion, watching as they moved inside the forest rim. The valley was just out of view to the north, but every now and then Filby saw glimpses through thick trees where the path neared the edge of the Great Plains. It showed as a wide field of seamless green extending beyond sight, but his view was always too brief and obscured to notice any detail. He saw no sign of horsemen.
The path began to weave through a bed of rocks and exposed roots. Cliffs appeared, rising from the forest floor like ancient ruins. The deer path butted up against a rock ledge, then turned left onto the open plain. Trader stopped at the edge o
f the forest and looked out upon the vast, unbroken expanse. “Anything?” asked Ethreal.
“They are there,” answered Trader. “One mile west—bearing this way. We must hurry lest they see us. The Whiteshear lies five miles east.”
Ethreal dismounted and tightened her bow against her back. “One mile head start to travel five. It can be done.” She reached into a saddle bag, pulled out a fistful of arrows, and added them to her quiver. “Take the stallion,” she said to Trader. “Get the see-er to the city gates. I will follow on the bay.”
“If you are overtaken? You cannot fight ten servants of the darkness alone.” Trader reluctantly dismounted, then climbed atop the white stallion to the front of Filby.
“We shall see, Watcher.” Ethreal swung onto the bay and gave a forwarding cry, then sped onto the plain in a dead sprint east. She had acted fast; Trader and Filby were left watching as a trail of dust rose into the air along the open plain, heading toward the Whiteshear River. Trader finally spurred the stallion to follow. Filby wanted to protest the plan, had wanted to say something throughout, but instead clung to the saddle and gritted his teeth, unable to bring himself to speak.
The stallion overtook Ethreal quickly. Trader looked back and called as he passed. “The dust!” he cried. “They have seen us!”
Ten swift riders, ten single-minded halfwraith, tore east along the open plain.
Trader and the white stallion opened a wide gap in minutes. Ethreal could see their trailing dust leading off into the distance toward a rising city on the horizon. She urged the bay onward, hooves a blur against the ground. A froth rose around the saddle. A straining breath followed.
Ten angry steeds drove down on Ethreal. Four hundred yards. Three hundred. Ethreal could see the city three miles to the east. Stone walls and city gates.
The white stallion challenged the wind. Filby could see the city wall, the stone bridge across the Whiteshear leading to fortified city gates. Trader hunched tight against the whipping mane and bore down with his arms at every stride. The Great Plains gave way in a blinding rush.
The driving beat of hooves descended upon Ethreal. She urged her horse onward, her long hair flowing with the wind. A froth covered the bay’s neck and trickled down below the saddle. He faltered, stumbled. An arrow sped by and stuck in the ground ahead, then was gone in the race forward. Still the wraith gained.
Ethreal raised her eyes to see Trader a mile in the distance. The white stallion far outpaced anything on the open plain. They already neared the bridge.
Ethreal nudged the reins as another arrow flew. The fastest of the wraith came alongside and kept pace in a desperate race. Dust filled the air. Ground was but a spinning haze. Ethreal unsheathed her sword. One wraith alongside. Two wraith. She swung and struck and one foe fell.
The white stallion galloped across the bridge as the city gates opened. Trader pierced the city walls and unsheathed his sword. He gave a cry to arms.
Nine wraith encircled Ethreal, galloping and slashing as they advanced. She fought off glancing blows, then felt a searing pain. Blood flowed from her leg, spitting red as she rode. The bay gave a last, desperate burst, then stumbled to the ground in a froth. Ethreal rolled into the dust, then rose and bore her sword to the enemy.
Ethreal parried a blow, and another, then sent a wraith to the ground. A horn sounded beyond the city gates. Forty riders issued forth, swords drawn in a pounding charge. Eight wraith wheeled and fled in the face of the oncoming tide. Ethreal watched, straining to catch her breath, as the cavalry sped past her in a swift rush of wind and pursued the enemy to the edge of the Great Plains.
BORDER LANDS
F ilby stood on the balcony watching the morning sun rise over distant spires, where a warm light glanced off rooftops and watchtowers guarding the city. A fountain made of turquoise tile bubbled away below his window. The plaza itself was paved with tiles, but larger than those in the fountain and glazed to an ocher sheen. Perhaps a dozen stucco-white balconies faced the center, and through the rising mist of the fountain, Filby could see the residents of Bridgehaven out on their balconies eating breakfast, smoking pipes, and otherwise enjoying the morning air. The cup of cardamom tea in his hand steamed a little scent of home into the air, and that, along with hot water and soap and fresh, clean clothes made Meadowkeep a secondary thought on this particular morning.
A knock on the door brought Filby back into the room. A soldier stood at the threshold, dressed in a tan uniform with two yellow stripes on the sleeve. “The council meeting, sir. They will be gathering in about half an hour—I just came to remind you. I’ll be back to show you the way if you don’t mind.”
“We can go now,” said Filby. “I’d like to stretch my legs anyway.” Much as he enjoyed the view, Filby was anxious to see Trader and Ethreal again, people he knew, and he wanted to get this council business out of the way as soon as possible.
“Very well.” The soldier led him out onto the plaza, along an open street bordered by ornate balconies carved with finials and flowers and animals of the Great Plains. All of the roads, Filby found, were composed of the same glazed tile, and they were all broad and clean and maintained to perfection. They walked through an archway made of grained marble and into an open-air garden flanked by pillars cut from gray and green stone. A conference area was set up under the sky, where a large oak table was surrounded by tropical plants dripping dew into the soil. A high fountain jetted and churned with the sound of falling water.
Several people were sitting or milling about. Ethreal was there, and Trader, along with at least a dozen people Filby did not know. More than a few were donned in military uniform, some wore flowing white robes, and one or two wore tanned animal hides similar to Ethreal’s clothes. Filby could see that Ethreal’s wounds had been cleaned and bandaged, and even Trader’s old shoulder wound had been cared for.
A woman stood at the head of the long table, elderly and stately, perhaps sixty years old, wearing a judicial-looking robe that touched the tile floor. “Sit . . . please,” she said over the light conversation taking place around the table. “Is everyone here?” The dignitaries slowly began to take seats. Filby took a chair next to Trader as idle chatter continued to filter through the room. “Please, sit,” the woman repeated, and conversations slowly dwindled. The remainder of the congregation found chairs.
“President Chairwell,” Trader whispered to Filby, cocking his head toward the front of the table. “She’s the president and presiding member of the council.”
“I’m sorry to say,” the president began, “none of the Watchers from the outlying districts could be here today. There is currently too much activity in their areas and they could not be spared.” She motioned to Trader. “We do have Watcher Hawkins with us from the Quiet Lands and Master Bearden, the Watcher from our own Border Lands.”
President Chairwell moved her eyes around the table. “For those of you who don’t know, Watcher Hawkins has made some fairly new discoveries in his district. He has found the Map of Dunhelm, thought to have perished long ago during the last dark age.” Murmurs filtered down the table as members looked toward each other in disbelief. “What’s more . . .” She raised her arms up in a motion to quiet the gathering. “What’s more, we have one who can read the runes with us in the room today. A see-er as of old.” Voices rose to a peak then slowly faded to a murmur.
“We are here today to discuss our next course of action in light of this new information and given our present situation.”
“Which is?” asked Trader. “Remember, some of us have been away for quite some time.”
“Captain Bressard,” said Chairwell, motioning to a soldier who was standing firm against the wall. The captain stepped to the head of the table. Filby noticed the full-dress uniform, polished sword, creased pants. His pristine white hat reflected off the oak table, which was polished to a deep mahogany brown.
“As many of you know,” the captain began, speaking as if briefing a rank of soldiers, “we sent
an army to the Far Lands along with five Far Riders in an attempt to cross the mountains and find the Light of Endura. This attempt did not succeed and the army failed to return, reducing our present fighting force by seventy-five percent. The days are quickly getting shorter, and the presence of halfwraith and troggs throughout the Border Lands is increasing with each passing day. The Border Lands themselves remain relatively safe, because we patrol the area quite regularly. But we have had no word from any of the outlying districts for quite some time, and we fear the Watchers assigned to those areas are either dead or missing. Our remaining army is taxed to the limit, and cannot defend these lands indefinitely.” The captain stood erect, turned, and returned to his duty post against the wall.
“There you have it,” said Chairwell. “I would add that, to the best of our knowledge, only one Far Rider remains alive.” She glanced around the table. The members sat quiet and grim. “We are here today to discuss a future plan of action given the discovery of the map. Archivist Chambers, if you will.” An elderly man clad in a white robe rose from his chair, stepped forward, and laid the folded map at the head of the table as if he was handling a fragile antique.
“Aerol, can you step up here,” said the president, as she helped unfold the map.
“Aerol,” whispered Trader, leaning in toward Filby. “The last of the Far Riders.” He was another dressed in timeworn leather, tall and unkempt, looking as if he had come from a long ride on the plains.
The archivist gently unfolded the map. “We have submitted it to the proper flame,” he proclaimed loudly, projecting his voice to the far side of the room. The map appeared in full, spread out along the table. What was once brown lines and a few runes, now showed great detail: mountain ranges and rivers, marked borders and ancient writings.
Aerol gently moved his fingers along the surface, showing a sense of respect, almost awe. “These are the writings of the ancient times, before the first darkness. Here are the names of the five ancient kingdoms. Telequindill,” he read from the western edge of the map; “the Quiet Lands.” He moved his hand west to east. “Burindill, the Border Lands . . . Jengrindill, the Forest Lands.” He stopped and looked up. “Is the see-er here? Come up here Redmont.”
