The Light of Endura

by Scott Zamek

“Come, we must go,” urged Filby.

  “I cannot—I am too weak. You must leave me.”

  “We did it before,” said Filby. “In the dark forest. And we can do it again.” Filby once again bandaged his friend’s wounds. He lifted Ethreal to her feet and she leaned on him heavily as they walked across the temple floor, past the pools of blood and crimson-stained marble, and past the lifeless body of Sergeant Broadhurst, and out onto the marble stairs. They walked by the last of the Far Riders, his body lying on its side, sword still in hand. His eyes were open, looking up, as if he was gazing at the stars in a clear night sky. They walked down the long marble steps, past Eyebold, the last of the Watchers, who had overseen the Far Lands in times of need. They walked out onto the withered plain, where Filby found a horse left by the enemy cavalry. He helped Ethreal up, and Filby climbed up behind, then he nudged the horse to the west.

  A gentle sun peeked out behind dark clouds as they rode toward the Far Mountains. Filby knew it would be a long and winding way, full of deserts and mountains and wild rivers, perhaps danger, but he knew he could do it, and he was not afraid. He would ride the long road back to Meadowkeep.

  MEADOWKEEP

  S eason upon season, the golden boughs of the old oak trees shed their leaves along the Westing Road. Filby often sat on the porch of his log cabin watching the travelers ride by just beyond his northern fence. He saw no more strange riders, but mainly traders and merchants headed for the Sanguine Sea, or the odd hiker toting a canvas backpack—no doubt feeling adventurous so far from the cobbled streets of Meadowkeep. Since his return, Filby mostly stayed at home and tended his garden, occasionally venturing into town to trade his vegetables at the local market, but he preferred traveling in the opposite direction. He often walked to the northern border of Mack’s farm, to the fork where the road bent around Fallow Meadows. He always took the right fork, toward Bordertown, before looping around from his afternoon walk back to his secluded cabin. He sometimes walked northward, through the fallow pasture bordering the Westing Road, where the land was overgrown with underbrush and saplings and young forest. Sometimes he continued through the adjacent woodland, and on through the pathless marshes to the banks of the Meltwater River. There he sat upon the sandy shores and watched sailing ships pass by on their way to and from ports on the Sanguin Sea.

  Filby often thought of his distant cousin while he watched the ships, who had recently returned from overseas, his hold filled with a mysterious black powder that the residents of the Quiet Lands used to make fireworks. People of Meadowkeep spoke of such things over a casual sale at the fish market, or a draft at Mackleroy’s Tavern. Elsewhere in the world—away to the east, in kingdoms that were only names on maps or distant whispers to the villagers of Meadowkeep—some talked about the last Far Rider in the land, the only living soul to have traveled beyond the Far Mountains and returned, or so the tales were told. He dwelled in the lands far to the west, they whispered, near the shores of the Sanguin Sea, though many thought the tales to be nothing but fancy—bedtime stories for children.

  The people of Meadowkeep knew nothing of such things. To them, Filby was that strange townsman who lived on the edge of the district and spoke of odd places to the east. Though Filby had learned to keep his travels to himself, which gave him very little to talk about, and made him dread days like this—his weekly trip into the center of town for supplies.

  Filby stiffened himself and threw a saddle on the swift horse that had carried him across five lands, wondering if the townsfolk would ask him yet again where the wild-looking steed hailed from. He tampered down his long driveway, past his grandfather’s sturdy gate and across the hand-hewn wooden bridge, on down the cobblestone lane to Trapper Tavit’s ranch, then along the Great Meadow and the shoulder-high stone wall and another fair few leagues to the outskirts of Meadowkeep. There, Constable Morton was waiting, keeping a wary eye at the town gate.

  “Filby.” The constable was smoking a long pipe as he leaned on the gate, and barely looked up.

  “Constable Morton.” Filby waved and exchanged pleasantries with the constable, but today he was destined for the fish market near the town fountain, and he wanted to conclude his business as quickly as possible. He nudged his horse along the thin cobblestone streets, past the merchant shops that lined every main street and side road. Then he came upon the open-air stalls, where fishermen and their portly wives stood behind wicker baskets full of trout and halibut and tarpon fresh from the lines or nets. Filby tied his horse to a hitching post and walked along the fragrant stalls, each basket smelling faintly of the salty sea.

  “Afternoon, Mrs. Barnsbey.” Filby raised his hand in greeting.

  Mrs. Barnsbey studied Filby with a dour look. She had been suspicious of him ever since he went missing almost two years ago and returned dressed very oddly. And that foreign-looking horse—Filby had still not given her a good explanation for that! “What’ll it be today, Mr. Filby?” she said sternly, her face wrinkled like an old leaf.

  “Well, I’ve got some plump cabbage and some nice green beans this season. I’d like to trade for one of those halibuts if you think it’s a fair exchange.”

  “Hmff.” Mrs. Barnsbey wrapped the halibut without saying another word, then handed the bundle to Filby without looking up. Filby was not surprised. He had become accustomed to that type of reaction since his return. He took the package and left the vegetables behind Mrs. Barnsbey’s stall, then guided his horse by the reins down to Mackleroy’s Tavern. It was Friday, and he took his normal Friday seat at the corner table, where a glazed window looked out toward the splashing town fountain. He put his elbows on the table and gazed out the window, watching merchants and shoppers and townsfolk tending to their normal weekend affairs.

  Mackleroy had a fire going in the large fireplace along the far wall. Odd, thought Filby, since it was bright outside and late summer still gripped the western lands. But a crisp wind had been blowing from the north all day, signs of early fall, and the fire was reminiscent of the coming holidays. Soon, there would be festivals, and large harvests of pumpkins, and sweet potatoes from the farms to the north.

  Filby sat and watched the fire and looked at the weekend shoppers in their bonnets and casual attire as they bustled along the streets of Meadowkeep. He didn’t have to order. Before long, Mackleroy appeared from the kitchen with grilled salmon covered in lemon wedges and fresh dill, and wild asparagus from the Great Meadow, and red potatoes roasted over an open hickory flame. A frothy mug of amber ale topped off the overladen tray.

  “The usual,” declared Mackleroy, situating the plates evenly across the wooden table. “You may have been gone a long time, Filby, but you sure are predictable when it comes to your Friday meal.” Mackleroy laughed and re-tied his white apron, a few gravy stains wrinkling into folds as he did so.

  “Well . . .” Filby scooted his chair closer to the table and looked at the plates spread out before him. “The crop was good this season—I can finally take a little time off from harvesting.”

  Mackleroy stood at the edge of the table holding an empty tray, and he stood there for an unusually long time, looking a bit awkward but hesitating to speak. “It may be none of my business,” he said softly, glancing around as if not wanting the rest of the patrons to hear, “but Sam Hastings . . . you know—the antiques dealer on Maple Street. He told me what he offered you for that sword of yours.” Mackleroy waited for a response from Filby but none came. “Hastings said it was quite rare—said you could probably retire and stop farming if you sold it to him.”

  “The value to me goes far beyond price.” Filby did not look up, but flaked a corner of salmon off with his fork.

  “You’ve been acting mighty strange since you’ve been back, Filby, if you don’t mind me saying. Hardly ever leave that farm of yours. But you’ve been better lately—coming back to your senses are you? It’s nice to see you acting more like the normal folk of Meadowkeep.”

  Mackleroy smiled and departed, and Filby
took no offense. He realized the lands beyond the Meltwater made people nervous. But he knew his behavior had been molded to the wild ways of the east rather than the manicured lifestyles bordering the Sanguine Sea, and no amount of time spent back in Meadowkeep would make it any different. Even his Friday meal, the meal he had often dreamed of while on the road, somehow seemed more bland than he remembered. And he felt like he could never quite relax and enjoy the dinner.

  Filby unhitched his horse then made his way along the twilit cobblestones leading back to his cabin. Mackleroy had been cheery throughout the entire meal, visiting Filby’s table often. He was happy, he told Filby, because business had finally returned after a long spell of dark days had prevented respectable travelers from passing through Meadowkeep. Indeed, Filby gazed at the land as he trotted east along the cobblestone way. Even the twilight seemed bright and welcoming, but there was something more, something less easily explained. There was an atmosphere of abundance and life, a radiant beauty to all the fields and meadows, and a harvest surpassing any recorded in the history of the Quiet Lands.

  Filby marveled at the lush landscape as he clopped past Trapper Tavit’s ranch, over his great grandfather’s wooden bridge, and on through his old and sturdy oak gate. A herd of spotted deer had gathered along the south meadow in his absence, their figures backed by the sunset and the grand old oaks, but they jumped farmer Mack’s fence when they saw Filby arrive. There they lingered, munching on farmer Mack’s greens and looking furtively over the fence.

  Filby stowed his groceries, then went back out on the porch to watch the last of the sun’s rays turn the land into shades of dark green and amber. He watched as farmer Mack’s corn swayed with a late summer breeze, and listened as Mack’s dogs began to howl in the still distance. The sun became low and wide and yellow, the old oak trees forming brown stripes across the lawn, and leaves dancing in carpets of shadow like butterflies flitting across the soft grass.

  Filby rose and went inside to retrieved his cloak, pausing for a moment as he reached up. There the cloak had hung, on that same nail, since he first fled his cabin those many months ago. How many times he could have used that waterproof garment while on the road, he mused, as he removed the cloak and slipped it around his shoulders. He walked slowly back out on the porch, the sound of starlings suddenly rising from shrubs and trees beyond the fence.

  And then came another familiar sound, the squeaking of a rusty wheel. Filby thought for a moment, then realized, “and it’s not even Monday.” Doloby had not come visiting since Filby’s return; the baker no doubt kept away by the town gossip of Filby’s unusual behavior. But here he was, leading his old buckboard down the potholed driveway, the same rusty lanterns swaying back and forth with every splashing rut.

  “Filby Redmont, how fares it today?”

  “Come on in Doloby.” Filby rose from his chair, waving a hand toward the door. Doloby carried his usual bag of baked goods, and though Filby had become less interested in such things, he could not help the slightest tinge of curiosity about what the baker had brought.

  “The gate was open, so I just came right in. Hope you don’t mind.” Filby heard the bench creak as Doloby lowered himself to the ground, the same white apron appearing to stretch a little wider than the last time the baker had visited.

  “It’s always open. I never lock it anymore.”

  “You would do well to keep the gate locked!” Doloby let out a sound that seemed to Filby something between a snort and a long, disapproving sigh as the two walked inside. “I know there aren’t as many ne’er-do-wells on the road nowadays, but there are still thieves about. Why, just last week, Mrs. Holloway found some of her silver missing.”

  “I’m not that concerned about it.”

  Doloby sat in his usual chair by the hearth, right next to the small table, and waited for Filby’s traditional offer of tea and Farthing cheese. “Apple muffins!” he said, and raised the bag in the air to show a few buttery spots leaking through the paper. “And olive bread!”

  “Apple? That’s new—never had those before.” Filby retreated to the kitchen and brought out the cheese, and a bottle of Maderna wine. He poured two glasses.

  Doloby’s jaw dropped ever so slightly, then he caught himself. “Uh . . . yes. Apple muffins. I’m working on some . . .” He stopped and cocked his head. “Didn’t know you drank Maderna.”

  “On occasion.” Filby sipped his wine then began poking the old ashes in the hearth in preparation for a new fire.

  “How’s your garden fairing?”

  Filby looked over his shoulder at the baker. “Fine . . . just harvested most of my beans and cabbage. Did a little trading in town with Mrs. Barnsbey.”

  “Mrs. Barnsbey . . . hmff.” The baker gave an odd snort, as if noting the strangeness of the Barnsbeys, and as he did so his stomach rolled up and down to wrinkle his tight apron. It was noticeable to Filby, because it was the exact snort Mrs. Barnsbey had given him back at the market.

  “How long have you been back now, Filby . . . a few months?”

  “Maybe four.”

  “And you were gone for how long on that godforsaken journey or whatever it was?”

  “I’m not exactly sure. More than a year anyway.”

  “More than a year.” Doloby’s voice trailed off as if contemplating the entire affair. “I’m sorry I haven’t visited but . . .”

  “No need to apologize—I’ve been busy too.” Filby added some logs to the hearth and struck a match. The new wood snapped and crackled with white smoke.

  Dolby reached for a hunk of Farthing as he fluttered his fingers. “You have no family left to speak of, so the constable looked after the farm for you. Well, not really ‘looked after.’ All he did was chain the gate and ride by to check on the place once a month or so—make sure no thieves ransacked the place.” Farmer Mack’s dogs began a long, low howl at the last flicker of sun, and Dolby grimaced. “I think those infernal dogs helped too.”

  Filby said nothing, but turned his head slightly from the hearth and nodded.

  “The town fathers wanted to sell your land at auction, but the law says they have to wait two years when someone goes missing before they can possess any property. You made it back just in time.”

  “I know—I talked to the constable about it when I first returned.” Filby rose from the hearth and took a seat next to Dolby.

  “Times were bad when you were off traveling, you know. Maybe it was best you left; you missed the worst of it. Days were dark . . . cold. Those riders with brown cloaks all over the place. Business was bad—worst in memory. Some of the shops almost closed their doors.” Dolby gave a self-satisfied grin. “Not me though. That’s the good thing about baking, people always need bread.”

  Filby untied his cloak, the glow of the fire casting its warmth upon the small table, then the room fell into an awkward silence. Logs crackled, seemed to echo throughout the cabin.

  Dolby was a bit uneasy with the lack of conversation, fidgeting in his chair while he rotated his glass of Maderna as if unscrewing a lid from a jar. “Almost two years now, my, my . . . since you disappeared for all that time, I mean.” Dolby glanced at Filby, hoping for some sort of explanation, but none came. “You never did tell me what the fuss was all about.”

  Filby seemed distracted. He was looking intently out of the window at the north fence. The sun had already dipped below the horizon, but a dim twilight still lingered on the land. And there, just near the Westing Road, three shadowy figures made their way over the fence and began crossing the lawn toward the cabin.

  “Excuse me for a moment.” Filby rose from the table, walked over to the utility closet, and opened the door.

  Dolby was confused; he hadn’t seen anything from the window, then he noticed Filby tie something around his waist. “Where are you going?” A nervous tremor rose in the baker’s voice. “You haven’t even tried a muffin yet.”

  Filby opened the front door and began outside.

  “It’s gett
ing dark!”

  Filby strode across the lawn toward the Westing Road in the fading light of dusk. Dolby looked out the window aghast. Although the four figures were some distance away, along the north fence, he could still see the glint of Filby’s sword and everything else that took place, and he almost choked on his apple muffin.

  Filby stood in front of three thieves, all of them armed with swords and all looking tall and mean and angry.

  One of them drew his blade. “Let us pass or I’ll slit yer throat!”

  Filby laughed and drew his sword. “Will you now?”

  The thieves looked at him, wide-eyed. Two of them fled over the fence; the third stood with his sword brandished toward Filby for a moment, then turned and fled with the others.

  Filby returned to the cabin, being sure to put his sword back in the closet before entering the parlor, for he knew it would make his friend uncomfortable.

  Doloby sat speechless as Filby returned to the hearth and began poking the fire. Silence gripped the room for many minutes, while Doloby nervously fidgeted with his glass of Maderna. “I—I must be off,” he said finally, rising to his feet. “Much to do . . . much baking. My goodness, is that the time? Weekend’s almost here, but I’ll be back. Surely, I’ll be back.”

  Doloby swept through the front door and mounted his wagon and bounced down the driveway before Filby could say a word. The baker didn’t even finish his wine, and left a full plate of Farthing cheese on the table. Unusual for him, thought Filby, as he cleared the plates away. But he didn’t really mind. The olive bread did not taste like he remembered, and a visit by the baker no longer held the attraction it once did. “Visitors are more of a distraction nowadays,” he muttered softly to himself.

  He stoked the fire until a crackling orange glow warmed the room, then he poured another glass of Maderna and slid out his grandfather’s antique chest. Inside rested the collection of dusty old papers that he and Trader had looked through all those many months ago. But there were a few new articles added to the mix. He withdrew three worn scraps of paper, water-stained from many months of exposure to the elements. His own handwriting was still recognizable, and he recalled the translations of the runes he had transcribed so long ago. The keeper, and the ember, and the Light of Endura.