“That is a powerful oath for you to make.”
“I’d do it again without a second thought.”
“You could always join another clan,” the founder calmly suggests. “It is not unheard of for a clan to adopt an orphaned gypsy. You could live and thrive with your own kind instead of manipulating city-folk to survive.”
“I don’t want another clan! I want my family!” Sari yells. She mutters under her breath and sends a storm of illusionary daggers flying in every direction. Off to her right, she can hear the faint sound of someone dodging her wild spell. “Luke and Nyx are my friends and my family. Nyx is the only person I have left from my past.”
“Nyx . . . I remember her,” the voice softly whispers. “What about the boy? What is he to you?”
“I don’t know,” Sari answers. Tired of fighting, she straddles a chair and leans on its back. “He makes me feel safe and warm like my former partner. Both of them were so kind and fun when they were happy. They were amazing warriors and had a kinship with nature, but Luke definitely has a closer bond to animals. Maybe I’m becoming attached to Luke because he reminds me so much of Kayn. It sounds disrespectful to the dead, but there are days I forget my pain because Luke is standing near me.”
“He makes you feel loved,” the voice says as a shadowy figure silently separates from the darkness behind Sari.
Sari sighs and leans her head on her crossed arms. “Yes, but he also makes me feel strong. I feel like the longer I stay with him, the better my chances of handling my pain when the time comes for me to be alone. Did you have anyone to help you with your pain?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” the shadowy figure replies in a cracking voice. He stops when he thinks Sari is about to turn around. “I have no pain.”
“I can hear it in your voice. It’s like a swarm of flies are released into the air every time you speak,” she says as a shiver runs down her spine. “I thought it was an effect you were putting on to scare the other thieves, but you’re still doing it. In fact, your pain is clearer now that your thieves are gone. So, why is it that your voice is full of pain and misery?”
“I lost the most precious thing in my life and it’s within my grasp once again,” the founder softly claims. “Now, I only need to find the tools for my revenge.”
“I can help you if you want,” Sari offers, fighting the temptation to turn around. “I can convince my friends to help too. In return, we ask that you disband this guild and allow Hero’s Gate to be restored in peace.”
The founder shifts back into the shadows before Sari can glance over her shoulder. “The guild will be disbanded when I’ve achieved my goal. It’s nothing more than a means to reach my goals.”
“Well, I still want to help you.”
“There’s something you can do.”
“You have my interest, but not my word.”
“Leave Hero’s Gate.”
“I’m sure my friends wouldn’t agree to that.”
“Then leave your friends.”
Sari clenches her fists and whirls around, hurling two stilettos at the fading sound of the founder’s voice. The weapons slam into a stalagmite and pin the founder’s leg to the stone. He fights to hold back a scream of pain from the sharp projectiles piercing his meaty flesh. Before he can bend down to free himself, Sari rushes at him with the chair held over her head. She hurls it into the shadows and the piece of furniture shatters over the man’s back. He clings to the stalagmite to avoid falling down and causing more damage to his leg.
“Never tell me to abandon my friends,” Sari angrily hisses. Staying on the edge of the torchlight, she snaps her fingers and the illusionary stilettos transform into mist. “If you knew anything about me then you would have never suggested that.”
“I know you better than anyone,” the founder groans, the phantasmal pain becoming too much for him. “I only want you to be safe when the storm arrives. I swore that I would protect you.”
The figure falls into Sari’s arms, allowing her to get a clear look at the young founder. His brown hair has been crudely cut short and there are white scars running along his bare arms. Though his eyes are closed, Sari distinctly remembers their pristine green, which he always swore paled in comparison to her emerald orbs. She strokes his rough, unshaved face, surprised that it is no longer the smooth skin she fondly remembers.
“I missed you, Kayn,” she whispers. She cradles her former lover’s head in her arms and lies down on the cold floor next to him, her warm tears pooling beneath her cheek.
7
The forest of Hero’s Gate is blanketed by a canopy of reds, oranges, and yellows. Nyx is amazed at how quickly the trees have changed color even though Timoran has told her that the change is more gradual than she realizes. She quietly sits on a tree stump, staring up at the trees and watching for a stiff breeze to knock more leaves off the branches. There is a thin layer of fallen leaves on the forest floor, which she has gleefully kicked at every time Timoran has escorted her into the forest. After an hour of patiently waiting, she magically flicks already fallen leaves into the air to make them dance among the trees. She has them float near Timoran, who immediately leans away.
“Do you really believe my magic will hurt you?” Nyx asks, letting the leaves gently float to the ground.
“I apologize for my nervousness, but I was raised to be cautious of anything that alters the natural state of things,” Timoran answers. He slowly turns in a circle to do another scan of the area. “I have heard the lengthy explanation of auras and how casters use their own essence to cast their spells. Yet, I still see the practice as you putting some of yourself into the essence of something else. For example, the spell you cast on the leaves makes me feel that you are invading the essence of the leaves. They might not appreciate the intrusion if they could talk.”
“I never thought of it that way,” Nyx admits, reaching out to catch a naturally falling leaf in her open palm. “I guess it comes down to how we were raised. I grew up around magic, so it’s as natural to me as water and wind. Spells were described to me as acts of intimacy with my surroundings, which is why I feel the aura of whatever I interact with. As a child, I called the feeling an aura kiss because it feels warm and comforting. I really don’t know how else to explain it.”
Timoran smiles warmly at the half-elf and bows to her. “I appreciate your attempt to put my fears at ease. I am sure if I spend more time with casters, I will come to an understanding of their trade. Though, I am curious as to why your aura feels different than those of other casters I have met.”
“What do you mean by different?” Nyx asks. She hops to her feet and walks over to Timoran, playfully kicking at the leaves around her.
“There is a . . . taste in the air when a caster emits a spell. I have noticed that it is typically a sour taste as if I have licked a lemon,” Timoran explains, picking his words carefully to avoid insulting Nyx. “Your aura reminds me of, and I mean no offense to you, honey and roses. It is as if a great sweetness has invaded the air, which drifts away almost as quickly as it appears. The smell is not bad, but it is not something I understand, so it puts me on edge.”
“I’ve no idea how to explain that, but I’ll take it as a compliment,” Nyx says. She walks further into the forest and beckons for Timoran to follow. “Let’s keep patrolling the area and then we can get back to the city. It’s been very quiet, so I’m expecting us to get this done rather quickly.”
Timoran nods his head and catches up to Nyx with several long strides. He keeps his great axe on his shoulder, but he is fully prepared to swing at any threat that appears. His acute senses are on edge as he searches out the source of every noise he cannot identify within a second of hearing it. The barbarian occasionally glances at Nyx, who has her magic crossbow in one hand and a simple mourning star in the other. They have yet to see any action since they began patrolling four days ago, but it is a daily activity that Nyx begged for. Tzefira and Lord Highrider eventually agreed to allow her to help with th
e patrols, but only after Timoran secretly promised to bring Nyx to areas that were far away from the real danger zones. Even now, the lying does not sit well with the honorable warrior, but he knows that it is for Nyx’s own safety.
“I think you’re a mystery too,” Nyx suddenly says.
“My people are not very complex,” Timoran responds in a steady voice. “I assume you have never met a barbarian before.”
“You’re the first barbarian I’ve met,” Nyx admits, turning around and walking backwards. “I read a lot as a child and my teachers have books on every subject. The books on foreign cultures and cities appealed to me. I’ve read a lot about barbarians, but there are some things about you that don’t fit with what I know.”
“Books can only tell you what someone felt like writing down,” Timoran argues, feeling slightly offended by Nyx’s comments. “Two men can write a book about the same event and the books will be completely different. The only way to know the truth would be if you saw the event with your own eyes or take the time to compare the stories for similarities. The differences between the stories can never be trusted. This is why every barbarian tribe has a scribe who is bound by the spirits of truth to keep an honest record of our history. To break this covenant is to dishonor your family and be cast into the wilderness.”
“My adopted father wrote the book after spending several months with the eagle tribe of Canst’s Fields,” Nyx dryly states. She trips over a tree root and stumbles backwards until she hits a young tree. It is enough force to knock leaves loose and they rain down on her head as she glares at the grinning barbarian.
Timoran walks over to help pick the dry leaves out of her hair before taking the lead. “I am sure your father had the best of intentions, but tribes are not identical. We have different styles of hunting and different rites of passage. The eagle tribe is composed of centaurs, so they use endurance races for many of their trials. My tribe is composed of humans, so we use feats of strength and journeys. Your father should have spent time with every tribe before writing his book, but I am guessing he was rejected by the others. We do not like to share our culture with outsiders who wish to research us like monsters.”
Nyx trails behind in silence and softly kicks at the leaves like a scolded child. Timoran can hear her take in a breath to speak, but she exhales slowly and holds her tongue. As they continue walking, he gradually feels guilty about how he spoke to the caster. The redheaded barbarian stops, causing Nyx to bump into him and fall to the ground. He extends a hand to help her up, but she ignores him and gets to her feet on her own.
“I owe you an apology, Nyx,” Timoran kindly states in a soft, baritone voice. “You had a legitimate statement about me, but I was rude and insulting to you. Worse, I was insulting to your adopted father, who must be a great and benevolent man to have taken you into his home. I also realize that my comments about your aura being infectious to the natural world are as insulting and ignorant as an outsider’s thoughts on barbarian culture.” Timoran bows his head to Nyx until his forehead touches the top of her head. “You have my deepest apologies and I ask for your forgiveness. I will answer whatever questions you have about me and my people.”
“I forgive you, Timoran,” Nyx whispers, taking a deep breath and fixing him with a stern expression. “I read that barbarians take a year-long journey when they’re given their coming of age weapon. Many stay away longer to investigate the cities and other regions of Windemere. I originally assumed you were on a journey like that, but you seem to have taken root in Hero’s Gate.”
“I have not taken root, but I have decided to help the city,” Timoran politely corrects her. He shifts his axe to his other shoulder and rubs his stiff muscles. “I will continue on my journey when their troubles are. Many barbarians get involved in situations like this because they can test their mettle. You can never guarantee a worthy adventure on the open road.”
“I guess,” Nyx half-heartedly agrees.
“You do not sound convinced,” the barbarian mentions.
Nyx nervously looks around the forest, struggling for several minutes to find the best words to express her thoughts. “I don’t mean any offense by this, Timoran, but you seem too old to be on such a journey. The scars on your body tell me that you’ve already seen multiple hunts and battles. A warrior with your experiences would have no reason to go on a journey seeking adventure.”
“I would have already returned to my clan and taken a position in the hunter or warrior class,” Timoran adds, knowing the point she is trying to delicately make. “You are correct, Nyx. I am in my twenty-fifth year, which means I already completed my journey and returned to join my people in their battles. I rose to the ranks of noble guard and war chieftain before I left my tribe and committed myself to the road.”
“Am I allowed to ask why?” Nyx sheepishly inquires.
“You may ask, but I am sworn not to tell,” Timoran replies. He sighs and gently pats Nyx on the head, amused by her sudden look of indignation. “If our paths stay close then you may learn my secret one day. For now, please know that there are several reasons a barbarian will leave his tribe. It happens more often than you would believe.”
Nyx smacks his hand off her head and playfully scowls at the large man. She turns to walk away, but stops in mid-step. She feels a sudden heaviness on her body and looks back to see Timoran sniffing the air like a hunted animal. The barbarian is on edge and his great axe is clenched in both hands to give him some sense of comfort. They inch forward, pausing whenever their unease grows stronger. Both of them are sure they want to avoid whatever creature is powerful enough to emit such a thick feeling of dread. Thirty minutes pass before the feeling abruptly vanishes and the forest atmosphere returns to its natural peace.
“That was strange,” Nyx whispers when she calms down.
“We should go back to Hero’s Gate and give our report,” Timoran replies.
A deep voice erupts from behind them, saying, “I hope you are willing to stay for a little longer. I have some things to show Lady Nyx before you make your report.”
Nyx spins around while Timoran slowly turns to face the black-scaled fireskin standing a few yards away. The stocky creature is wearing a bright red robe and leaning on a dark red staff, the elegant weapon’s green crystal top glinting in the sunlight. Nyx steps in front of Timoran to act as a comforting barrier between the barbarian and the powerful dragon-man. She notices that Isaiah’s eyes are golden orbs of light, which means he is scanning everything with his magic sight.
“It’s good to see you again, Isaiah,” Nyx declares with a bow.
“Is it? I remember out last encounter being less than cordial on your part,” the great caster mentions, glancing at the sweating barbarian. “You can relax, Timoran Wrath. I am an old friend of this young woman. We go back to the day I rescued her from a burning village and blessed my friends with her presence. Though, I have heard that some days were less blessed than others.”
“I hope you understand if I remain on my guard,” Timoran says, his blue eyes refusing to leave the fireskin.
Isaiah cocks his head to the side and grins at the warrior. “You are an amazing specimen of strength and loyalty. I feel much better about leaving Nyx in this area with you by her side. Though, I would greatly appreciate it if you would keep her behind the city walls until all of this trouble is over. As her earliest benefactor, I believe I have the right to make such a request.”
“As the person in question, I have the right not to be treated like a child,” Nyx angrily snaps before Isaiah magically erases her mouth. She glares at him, waving her hand over her face and returning her mouth to its natural state.
“Do you understand what will happen if these krypters get their hands on you?” Isaiah asks. He watches her abashedly stare at her boots and step closer to Timoran. “They seek to completely absorb your aura, which means they will devour you whole. Once they devour you, the krypters will eat each other until a single, extremely powerful krypter is lef
t. That one will be harvested by its masters for its aura, which will make him stronger than ever.”
“Tzefira always assumed there was someone behind the krypters, but she never had any solid proof,” Timoran mentions, placing a comforting hand on Nyx’s shoulder. “She said it made no sense for the krypters to remain in the swamp unless they were being held back by an outside force. They are only unleashed along the borderlands, which is more to remind us they are around. The goblins and thieves have been the more active of the problems, even if they are not the most feared by the citizens.”
“Those two factors are rather interesting,” Isaiah claims with a toothy smile. He stops smiling when Timoran tenses up again. “The local goblins are being used as a distraction by more than one party. With their presence in the forests, Tzefira and Lord Highrider refused to send all of their forces against the krypters. The last thing anyone wants is another goblin swarm attacking an undefended city. Also, there is an issue with the Growk Council who are promising retaliation if the goblins are attacked without clear reason. It’s a political mess.”
“It weighs heavily on Lord Highrider’s mind due to his orc blood,” Timoran bravely interrupts. “Yet, the goblin problem is easier to understand than the thieves.”
“The thieves are even more of a curiosity because I have found no connection between them and the krypters,” Isaiah continues with a nod. “They are mere scavengers who have done a horrible job of hiding their presence. It makes me wonder what they are up to, but I have neither the time nor the resources to look into it. I’m sure our gypsy friend will have everything taken care of before too long.”
“You know a lot about what’s going on here,” Nyx points out, suspicion growing in her chest.
Isaiah shrugs and casually swishes his tail through the fallen leaves. “I have the luxury of being able to step back and examine all factors without dwelling on what I must do to stop them. If I was in the role of Tzefira or Lord Highrider then I would not be so quick to push the goblins and thieves off as insignificant pests. To some extent, I think they already know that the krypters are the real threat.”
Legends of Windemere: 03 - Family of the Tri-Rune Page 18
