by Scott Zamek
Filby glanced around the table and suddenly became self-conscious. Reluctantly and with some hesitation, he rose and walked to the head of the gathering. “I knew your grandfather,” said Aerol. “He traveled through these lands,” and the Far Rider again pointed to the map and read. “Archaeindill, the Ancient Lands; Skaeindill, the Far Lands.” He waved his hand along the eastern edge of the map. “These are the Far Mountains. And beyond that, this blank space. We call that the Beyond Lands.”
The archivist motioned a bony hand toward the map. “Legend states that the details of the Beyond Lands will appear when the map itself is carried over the mountains. And the location of the Light will be revealed.”
“And the hidden Runes of Dunhelm change with the land and the times,” said Aerol. “New runes appear as the map moves across the Five Kingdoms.”
“Please,” said the archivist, handing Filby a pen, “write what you see.” Filby began copying the runes in as much detail as possible. Some of them were quite intricate, and it seemed the room held a breath while he wrote. After many long minutes, the archivist lifted the paper off the table and gazed upon the Runes of Dunhelm as Filby had drawn them. He analyzed the writing for some time. “It is unknown to me,” he said finally.
Aerol looked at the page. “It is ancient,” he said, turning the paper in his hand. “Far more ancient than the visible writing. This rune means forest.” He struggled with another, “and this means road. This one is something about find or perhaps location.” He stopped to take in the next few runes. He studied the art, the intricate lines. They reminded him of the map, all brought forth by simple flame, and once exposed thus, the lines would remain for many years. “This rune refers to a flame,” he continued, “and this one means death. Those last few runes, literally translated, I believe mean, death of flame.”
“Enough talk,” interrupted Ethreal, rising to her feet. “We must travel beyond the mountains and restore the Light. No discussion required.”
“Patience Ethreal,” urged President Chairwell. “We are agreed. The question is what form our mission will take.”
One of the robed council members stood. “We send the army,” he shouted, spreading his arms to the gathering. “We try again.”
“Out of the question,” declared Captain Bressard, stepping forward and raising his voice above the others. “Unless you want to leave Bridgehaven undefended.”
The table fell to a murmur again and Aerol stood. “An army will be seen,” he cautioned. “An army will be heard, and an army will be met. We cannot fight our way through the Far Mountains. It has been tried, and the failed attempt is why I stand before you as the last Far Rider.”
President Chairwell raised her hand to silence the members. “I would like to propose two separate plans of advance,” she said calmly. A few who were standing regained their seats. Some of them were already aware of the plan; it had been discussed in detail among Captain Bressard and other military officers long before the council convened. “We will send twenty hand-picked men from the council’s personal guard through the northern lands, outfitted with the best horses and equipment Bridgehaven has to offer.” She looked around the table and several council members nodded their heads. “At the same time, Aerol will guide a second group along the southern route. Where one group fails the other may succeed.”
The nearby fountain added the quiet sound of falling water to the air. Aerol put his hand on the map and turned it toward him. “I will follow the path of my fallen brethren if need be, but the map and the see-er must join me or all is for naught.”
Filby moved his eyes around the table. A few of the potted plants in the open courtyard swayed with a gentle breeze. Bridgehaven was supposed to be the end of the road for him; he did not want to travel any farther. But he realized, if the Runes of Dunhelm changed as the map traveled east, then the group would need him to read the map along the way. He reluctantly agreed to go.
“Ethreal?” Aerol looked to his friend and the gaze was understood.
“Of course,” said Ethreal. She had already made up her mind to travel onward regardless of the outcome of the meeting, and to her, the question was irrelevant.
Members were talking among themselves in a low murmur. A councilman stood. “We cannot send our best soldiers in a time of crisis,” he insisted, turning his head to address each member along the table. “We will be left defenseless in the face of what roams the land even as we speak.”
A groundswell of opposing voices rose to a peak, and Captain Bressard moved to the front of the table. “Quiet . . . quiet please.” He raised his hands against the commotion. “These twenty men President Chairwell speaks of will not affect the city’s defenses. They are but a fraction of the remaining army.”
President Chairwell stood next to the captain. She motioned for silence, and when all talking ceased, she turned to Aerol. “Our Watcher, Bearden, can guide you across the Border Lands. You may have your choice of soldiers.”
“I need no one else,” said Aerol. “We four will leave fewer tracks.”
Filby stood and heard himself speak. But it was as if he was inadvertently speaking his thoughts, and he surprised even himself. “I would rather Trader go with us.”
President Chairwell shook her head, then glared at Filby. “You realize the Watcher from the Quiet Lands is not trained in combat. His talents are diplomacy and observation.”
“Trader got me into this,” insisted Filby, “and I’m not going anywhere unless he comes along.” He looked at Trader. President Chairwell looked at Trader. The Watcher nodded.
“Very well,” said Chairwell, “Bearden will accompany the soldiers. Captain Bressard, who will you need?”
The captain stood, back rigid, as if at attention. “I’ll take Lieutenant Lockley . . . and Sergeant Broadhurst. I’ll choose the rest of the men when I confer with the sergeant.”
President Chairwell glanced around the table. “Anyone have anything to add?”
The council sat in silence.
“Then we will reconvene tomorrow and work out details. This meeting is adjourned.”
FIVE DAYS passed in Bridgehaven. There seemed to be an urgency to the preparations, and it made Filby a bit uneasy; he was reminded of the temporary nature of his stay. Soldiers were selected, equipment was gathered and prepared, plans were made for the route east. The committee sent for the best horses in the land, and they were fitted out with leather saddle bags. Weapons dangled from every loop and strap. There were axes and bows, swords and daggers and spears.
Filby was in no hurry. He spent time walking among the city’s many gardens, dreading the day he would be forced to abandon civilization once again. One spot near the edge of the city drew much of his attention, where Bridgehaven’s stone wall was overgrown with vines and a small creek formed a hidden corner rarely visited. A poplar tree grew there, shading a stone bench, and Filby often brought a mug of tea and passed the day reading in the shade.
Filby didn’t mind spending days in his room either. He was treated like a guest of honor, and food flowed through from morning to night: eggs benedict with crispy bacon and paprika; green salads with ruby red tomatoes and pitted olives; roast chicken served on a spit; and wine and ale and wedges of Farthing cheese accompanied by fresh baked bread. He often watched the morning brighten over Bridgehaven’s stone wall, the blue-tiled fountain bubbling away below his balcony, cup of cardamom in his hand and sun-glow warming his face.
Trader arrived on such a morning, bearing news Filby had long expected. “We leave tomorrow,” he announced. “I’ve been going over plans with the others.” Although not like his home territory, Trader knew the Border Lands well enough, and planned to guide them as far as the boundary with the Forest Lands. “I will still accompany you after that,” he assured Filby. “But my knowledge of the outlying districts is limited. Aerol will have to take over from there.”
A knock on the door and Aerol strode into the room. Ethreal was with him. Their weatherworn clothe
s made it look as if they had already seen a day’s ride on the dusty plains beyond Bridgehaven’s walls. “The council finally relinquished the map,” said Aerol, as he set the document on the table and began unfolding the faded vellum. Filby watched as the map revealed itself yet again—ancient brown ink formed into far-off places. Mountain ranges, rivers, valleys and forests, all spread out before him, and he tried to visualize what lay ahead. “We will take the southern route.” Aerol pointed at the Great Plains beyond Bridgehaven. “With any luck, we will reach the Far Mountains before the winter snows.”
“And beyond the Far Mountains?” asked Filby. He couldn’t help notice the large blank space Aerol referred to as the Beyond Lands.
“No one knows,” answered Aerol. “Few have ventured there, and fewer have returned. Your grandfather among them.”
“Am I interrupting?” Captain Bressard stood at the door. Two men in military uniform stood behind him. “We thought we might take one last look at the map. The copy our people made doesn’t seem to be completely accurate.” Bressard walked over to the map and unfolded his copy, then began to compare the two. “Forgive me.” He stopped and motioned to the two soldiers with him. “This is First Lieutenant Lockley, and Sergeant Broadhurst. They will be joining me on this mission.”
Filby was struck by the difference in their uniforms. While Captain Bressard seemed to be donned in a full-dress uniform—with a gleaming sword and pressed waistcoat bisected by polished brass buttons—Lockley wore a more simple tan shirt bearing one tarnished insignia on his collar. He was a bit taller than Bressard, and his features seemed hardened to the elements. The sergeant was even more weary looking. Not tall, but perhaps the widest man Filby had ever seen, with thick arms and a flat, bull-dog face.
“Are your men ready?” asked Ethreal. “It is a long journey to the mountains.”
Bressard hesitated for a moment, as if wrestling with a decision. When he finally spoke, his voice was emotionless and unwavering. “Our mission is not to make it through to the mountains,” he said, standing straight. “Our mission is to draw as much of the enemy north as possible, so the map and the see-er have a chance to make it through to the south.”
Ethreal looked on in anger. “A suicide mission,” she said, an edge of disdain in her voice.
The captain stood silent.
Ethreal turned to the sergeant, “do the men know?”
“Yes mum,” replied Broadhurst, standing rigid. “They volunteered.” Aerol lowered his head in disgust. Filby glanced from Ethreal to Trader to Aerol, waiting for someone to dismiss the whole idea.
“We do not require any diversions,” snapped Ethreal, a slow anger rising. “Don’t do us any favors—we can make it through on our own.”
“I’m afraid it is not your choice ma’am,” said Captain Bressard calmly. “This has been decided by the council and we have our orders.”
“You can’t agree with this,” said Ethreal, turning to Aerol.
“Forgive me for interrupting ma’am, but it’s not his say either,” asserted Bressard. “He is not a military man. He has no control over the army.” The calming waters of the fountain suddenly seemed far away to Filby as he contemplated the soldiers’ mission. Was his task that important? He wished he could stay in Bridgehaven forever and forget about far away lands and maps and military missions.
“Then I will go to the president,” insisted Ethreal.
“It won’t do any good,” said Lieutenant Lockley. “We volunteered and we’re going, whether the council sends us or not.”
“And besides mum,” added Broadhurst. “We don’t plan on dyin’.”
Bressard stood almost at attention, staring at no one in particular but off into space. “These are the elite,” he said, straightening up proudly. “The best that the surrounding districts can field. We will have a copy of the map—the best horses, weapons, and supplies.”
“But you will not see the runes,” protested Filby. “You will not know the location of the Light.” He could not suppress a pleading quality to his voice. Aerol stood in silence, resigned to what seemed inevitable.
“That is where reconnaissance comes in,” answered Bressard, pulling down on his waistcoat. “We will search and gather information once we are over the mountains. You may have the map, but we have the numbers, and we are trained soldiers. Let fate decide which group has the better chance.”
BRIDGEHAVEN seemed to shrink behind them as Filby glanced back upon the city. Tall spires and watchtowers looked like matchsticks poking above a distant stone wall. Balconies and blue fountains and eggs benedict gradually faded in Filby’s memory with the rhythmic rocking of his horse and the slow cadence of hooves against the solid terrain of the Great Plains. Ahead, and to either side, spanned a flat expanse extending beyond all horizons. Clover and dollarweed and thick grass blanketed the valley, but bare spots of hardened dirt remained, causing the land before them to resemble a patchwork quilt. A few brown-gray rabbits nibbled in the fields, and now and then a pheasant would flush from a low hiding place in the brush.
Their last hours in Bridgehaven had been a frantic time. They packed extra food, checked their weapons and water, and made a few other final preparations. The city turned out to watch them leave as Aerol’s group, alongside twenty mounted soldiers, tromped along the tile roads and out through the East Gate. The twenty-four riders continued as one for a few miles, then parted ways, and Filby watched the dust cloud to the north slowly disappear over the horizon until he and his three companions were left alone on the boundless plain.
Filby looked to the east; the road extended perfectly straight toward the rising sun. If not for an occasional town or hill or grove of cottonwoods, the endlessly flat route would have been numbing monotony. The sun rode high toward late afternoon, and the small hamlet of Tinsdale appeared to the left, where thatched roofs poked above low, green hills. A slight rise dominated the south side of the road, home to the villages of Humbold and Butterfield. The towns all fell under the protection of Bridgehaven, and Trader was familiar with them all, although his descriptions lacked the detail he had relayed when back in his own Quiet Lands.
Trader led the way for two days through the sameness of the Great Plains. Filby often took up the rear, watching Aerol’s majestic black horse dwarf all but Ethreal’s white stallion. Trader had called it a Frasian, bred and trained in the lands to the north for speed and stamina. Seventeen hands high, thick tail and heavy mane, Filby barely had to tilt his head downward to see the heavily muscled shoulder work back and forth as the Frasian ambled alongside.
The third night out, they camped in the cool evening of the open plain. Aerol started a small campfire with sticks gathered from a nearby grove of juniper trees. Trader stood tall and rigid, staring toward the horizon. “Riders,” he said. “Many—headed this way.”
Aerol stood from the fire. Ethreal joined Trader by his side, straining to see what only a Watcher could make out. “Brown cloaks?” Ethreal’s hand tightened around the hilt of her sheathed sword.
Trader thinned his eyes. “Men of Bridgehaven, I think—cavalry.”
A veil of dust gathered on the Great Plains, swirled in the evening breeze, then sent a dark streak across the setting sun. Twenty riders galloped into camp in a flurry, kicking dirt into the fire as they pulled hard on their reins. “You will see no enemy this close to Bridgehaven,” one of the riders stated. “We have been patrolling the area for days. Killed a few halfwraith yesterday—the last of the ones that chased you into Bridgehaven I should think.” Three stripes adorned his shoulder, and his uniform showed the tan dust of the plains.
“What of Captain Bressard and his men?” asked Aerol, splashing a last ounce of tea from his mug onto the sizzling campfire.
“They are a heavy day’s ride to the north,” said the sergeant. “Making soldiers’ time. A hard ride in formation every day has brought them close to the Forest Lands.” His horse kicked up and whinnied, sending a ripple of tamping hooves through the wai
ting cavalry. “Anything you need? We’re trying to make the stables of Humbold before nightfall.” Aerol thanked them and they were off as quickly as they came, tromping a cloud of pulverized earth into the fading twilight.
A northerly wind scattered the last whisper of daylight into reds and pinks in the western sky. Filby nudged the pot of tea a little closer to the embers and unfurled his bedroll next to the fire. Trader and Aerol did likewise, while Ethreal unrolled a blanket in the shadows and remained vigilant against the night. A milky sky rose, casting shadows beyond the firelight. One of the horses nickered at flickering shapes in the darkness.
MORNING DEW remained on the grass well after sunrise, a curling fog clinging to low spots in the valley floor. Aerol began to climb a slight rise, the others riding single file behind, where a grove of trees butted against the road to the north and a small lake to the south. Clouds began to gather around midday, sending the sky pale; the sun became like a halo hidden behind a thin gray curtain. A sign appeared at a crossroad pointing five miles south to the town of Timberdale. Aerol dismounted. “The forest draws near,” he said, and crouched down on one knee. “Tracks.” He looked up at Trader, who was still mounted on his horse.
“No human,” said Trader. “Troggs . . . on foot.”
Aerol scanned the road, pointing to a set of horse tracks. “And a halfwraith perhaps.”
“Or our friends the cavalry,” said Ethreal, doubting even as she said it that the cavalry would have traveled this far east, and left only one set of horse tracks.
“Perhaps,” said Aerol, as he climbed atop his steed. “We must remain vigilant.”
Small groves of trees became more prevalent as they traveled east, and the road became a two-rut wagon track. The land rose gradually into a set of blunt hills, where two small lakes shimmered to the north. A long stretch of cottonwoods darkened the right shoulder, and Aerol followed the path onward as it crooked around a large blue lake. The logging town of Woodminster lay to the north, and ahead, the village of Leatherbridge, where a wide stone bridge arched over the wild Southbend River.
