The Silver Portal (Weapons of Power Book 1)

by David J Normoyle

  “I’m not sure there’s any point to this,” Mortlebee said.

  “Humor me. Make an old warrior feel like she has a use,” Fellanni said.

  “You’re not... you’re not old,” Mortlebee stuttered. That was a part of the problem for Mortlebee with the training. The issue wasn’t just that she wasn’t old—it was that she was incredibly beautiful. Her long, silver-colored hair reached down to her elbows, framing a face more angelic than human. Her eyes were the deep blue of the mountain lakes in the dark of the afternoon. Mortlebee realized he was staring at her and glanced away.

  “Aren’t you sweet?” Fellanni smiled, and Mortlebee’s blush deepened. “Now, stand perpendicular to the target, legs shoulder width apart,” she said.

  They stood on the edge of Wellan’s Hollow, just outside the earthen mounds. The tree line was only twenty paces away, and the tree Fellanni had chosen as a target had several arrows embedded in it—all put there by Fellanni herself, of course. Mortlebee had hoped the misting drizzle would have ended the practice session, but Fellanni paid no attention to it.

  Each of those who were supposed to have received a weapon of power had adapted to the new situation differently. Huell the Giant stormed about angrily, and everyone gave him a wide berth. Delaron seemed to consider everything to be part of one giant cosmic joke, and untrained youths receiving the weapons of power only confirmed that to him. Lukin didn’t like Delaron much, which Mortlebee found surprising because he thought the two quite alike.

  Like Fellanni, Sierre trained the person who had taken up her weapon, though Simeon was the one who insisted rather than the other way around. Mortlebee wasn’t sure exactly what went on in Sierre’s tent, but he’d heard a few cries and shouts coming out while Simeon was in there. Krillo the Armentell—currently named Krillo the Coward by Delaron—who was supposed to be the company ringbearer and leader, had left after learning what had happened to the weapons and had yet to return.

  Fellanni, unfortunately, hadn’t been put off by Mortlebee throwing away his bow and was totally dedicated to training the new bowbearer. Mortlebee stood as Fellanni instructed and lifted a practice bow, holding it outstretched with his right arm. He wiped the back of his right hand across his eyes to clear the raindrops then nocked the arrow to the string and pulled.

  “Firmer here.” Fellanni touched Mortlebee’s right shoulder.

  Mortlebee glanced across at her. Flustered by her pretty eyes watching him and the warmth of her fingers on his shoulder, he quickly released the arrow. It flew like a dying duck and embedded itself in the ground twenty paces away.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “It’s okay. Everyone was a beginner once.” Fellanni walked forward to retrieve the arrow.

  “Really, though, this is pointless.”

  “Explain to me why.”

  Because you are too pretty, giving me a dry throat, sweaty palms, and a red face. “Because I don’t have the bow of power anymore.”

  “You are still bonded to it.” She smiled. “It won’t be that easy for you to escape it, I’m afraid. This is about the scrolls of Kale, isn’t it? Kale’s path will be a difficult one to follow for a weaponbearer.”

  Mortlebee sighed. “More like impossible. I don’t think I can stray much further and still find my way back.” Traveling with Lukin wasn’t exactly helping. “You’ve heard of the scrolls?”

  Fellanni sat on the earthen mount and tapped the ground beside her, inviting Mortlebee to join her. She simply didn’t notice the rain drifting downward upon them. Mortlebee chose a spot about a pace away from her and sat. He folded the hood of his cloak over his head and tried to ignore the dampness creeping up his backside.

  “I’ve read parts of the scrolls,” Fellanni said.

  “You have? I didn’t think anyone outside Tockery would know anything about them.”

  “The scrolls are beautifully written and full of noble sentiment. I’m sure scholars and philosophers throughout Mageles read them.”

  “Why did you read them? Aren’t you just a soldier?”

  “Just a soldier. Is that meant as an insult, or was it unintentional?”

  Mortlebee was glad that the hood covered his face, as it was surely beetroot red. “Completely unintentional.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not hurt. You wouldn’t be able to think up an insult I haven’t heard before. It’s not only Tockians who have a poor impression of soldiers. But a soldier’s life is a tough one, and only the lucky get a better reward than a pace of steel in the gut. I was trained with the Delcessians and actually consider myself a warrior rather than a soldier.”

  “The Delcessians?”

  “They are well known, though I doubt they talk much about the warrior orders in Tockery. We are based in eastern Uniteia, and we are unique not only in being all women but also in encouraging members to study religion and philosophy. Soldiers are trained to kill at a master’s orders. As a warrior, sometimes we do that too. Other times, it’s kill or be killed. But once in a while, there’s a choice. We can choose to spare a life.”

  “Surely the choice is always to spare,” Mortlebee said.

  “The scrolls are clear on the subject, of course.” Fellanni’s smile was gentle.

  “Crystal.” They were definite on all types of violence.

  “I’ve made the choice to kill. Some men will murder and rape until they are put down,” Fellanni said. “Perhaps the scrolls work in the isolation of mountaintop villages, but their lessons are impractical in the rest of the world. I would love to live in a world where everyone followed their sentiments.” She shrugged. “It isn’t this world.”

  Mortlebee remembered how his people ended up in the mountains. Generations before, the followers of Kale, sick of being raided by Pizarrians, fled from central Mageles deep into the mountains of Tockery. There they learned to grow enough food in the rocky soil to survive. Then Lackma had arrived.

  “Even the mountaintops aren’t isolated enough. Do you think I should abandon everything I have learned?” Is that even possible? “I’ll never be able to return to my family.” Just saying that out loud made Mortlebee feel uncomfortable. He rubbed at the side of his face.

  “You don’t abandon it. You integrate it. The human conscience is an incredible thing. It comes from family, friends, religion, things that happen to us, things that we learn. A myriad of influences combined into a single thing. A lifetime of influence that is compressed into a split-second decision.” Fellanni looked deep into the forest, the drizzle misting around her face. “Kill if you have to,” an instructor once told me, “but kill with conscience.”

  “So you have killed people, but your conscience is clear—is that what you are telling me?”

  The smile left her face. If her expression was anything to go by, instead of seeing the distant trees, she was watching the unfolding of terrible events. “You also have a lifetime to regret a split-second decision. People see Huell or even Delaron, and they assume they have killed a lot of men, and they hope most of them deserved it. People see me, and they see a woman playing with a bow and arrows. But I’ve killed more men than Huell, perhaps even Delaron.” She glanced across at Mortlebee. “I have been called beautiful a thousand times and often called a whore moments later for not being willing to be that man’s plaything, logic not being everyone’s strong suit. Those who admire my looks don’t realize that they are a curse.”

  “I killed one of Zubrios’s clerics,” Mortlebee blurted.

  “I wish I could say that the weight of that will disappear. Though the memory of it will fade, it will always be with you,” Fellanni said. “The world needs good people to do bad things. Maybe a merchant doesn’t get robbed, or a butcher doesn’t get his throat slit, or a milk maid doesn’t get raped because someone was killed who needed to be. Hell, maybe a war is prevented. But we who did the killing will never know for sure. The death will always be on our hands, haunting our dreams.”

  “Lackma’s death will haunt me forever?” Th
e parable of the penitent man had no mention of continuing nightmares after the man was forgiven.

  “If it stops haunting you, that’s when you worry,” Fellanni said. “The butcher or milkmaid will never thank us for what we do. They’ll be more likely to spit on us. I accepted the responsibility of becoming a bearer when Krillo called, but I didn’t crave it. The burden is on you now.”

  “You make it sound so bleak.” Mortlebee sensed quite a contrast from Lukin and his talk of adventures and taverns. “Has watching me drive arrow after arrow into the ground driven you to depression?”

  Fellanni’s gentle smile returned. “You’ve done fine. Some only see the good in themselves and what they do. Others only see the bad. You must learn to see your own light.” She stood. “You said to me that this was pointless because you want to return to following the dictates of the scrolls. It’s always best to be prepared. Choosing not to use your bow is a powerful decision. Being incompetent with it is a weak one.”

  Mortlebee stood beside her. “Will I ever see my family again?”

  “That I don’t know,” she said. “Let me tell you about my family. They were good folk, and I often picture the happy reunion I will have with them when I return one day. Deep down, I know it wouldn’t be like that, for I have changed too much. Despite the memory of our love, I would be alien to them and they to me. But still, I imagine happy tears when we are one day reunited.”

  “What are you saying?” The drizzle had stopped, and Mortlebee pulled back his hood, spraying heavy drops down his neck. A patch of blue sky in the distance promised a better afternoon.

  “Treasure the memories of your loved ones, but look forward not back. Maybe one day, you’ll reach a place in your life when you can be with them again, but for now, you are the bowbearer. Your very presence would bring them danger.”

  Mortlebee nodded. That wasn’t the answer he’d wanted to hear, but he could live with it. “Thank you.”

  “For the unrelenting bleakness of a hardened warrior? We give that off like a stench. It’s not something to be thanked for. Now, raise the bow, sight the target, and stand firm.”

  Mortlebee did as she asked.

  She gave him a little push, and he stumbled. “Firm, I said. Let your feet grip the ground. Tense your stomach and buttocks.”

  At the word buttocks, Mortlebee flushed again, and all at once, his awareness of her returned, the way her silver hair blew back in the wind, how her tunic flared out below her belt. The breeches fit too well, showing the shape of her thighs and the swell of her buttocks. Mortlebee felt stupid and embarrassed—after everything they had talked about, including how she suffered from the attentions of men, and still he was like that around her. His embarrassment only added to the redness of his cheeks.

  “To get a strong core, remember to do those exercises I gave you, every day. If your frame is strong”—she pushed at his shoulder again, and that time he remained firm—“then your arrows have a chance of going straight.

  “Imagine your shoulders as far apart as possible.” Fellanni gestured in front of her chest and arched her back slightly as she stretched out her shoulders.

  Mortlebee became very aware of her breasts. He puffed out his chest. His own movements had none of her grace.

  “Stretch out your left hand as far as it can go, holding the bow out in front of you. At all times, keep your frame strong. Once the bow is in place, take hold of the arrow and nock it to the string. Hold the arrow just firmly enough so it doesn’t fly from your hand. Pull back in a single smooth movement as far as your cheek. Your right eye looks down the length of the arrow. Tension runs along the string through the bow and all the way through the body to the ground. Feel the ground and the bow at the same time. Inject the strength of the ground into the bow. The release happens almost by itself. You barely have to think about it. When the eye and the body are lined up with the target, your fingers will relax, and the arrow will fly.”

  Mortlebee’s muscles trembled as the fletching of the arrow wobbled against his cheek.

  “Did you get all that?” Fellanni asked.

  Buttocks firm as iron, breasts pushed forward, eyes blue as the cold mountain lakes, hair silver blond like wheat in moonlight. “More or less.” Mortlebee released, and the arrow flew high into the forest—nowhere near the target, but at least the arrow had gone more than ten paces that time.

  Fellanni tensed, looking over Mortlebee’s shoulder.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Movement in the trees on the other side of the camp.”

  He turned. “Maybe one of our soldiers returning from a hunt.”

  “I saw a scarlet cloak.”

  Mortlebee shook his head. “It couldn’t be. The treaties.”

  “The Pizarrian treaties have just been voided.”

  Chapter 33

  The staffbearer was a fraud. Lukin stood in the awning of Krillo’s tent, listening to the light rain wash against the sides of the tents and watching drops plop over the edge of the awning. Three days Simeon had spent trying to use his staff, leaving Sierre’s tent at the end of each day with only a scowl for his efforts. It was becoming clear that Sierre was right and Simeon simply had no magical ability and would never be able to use the staff.

  Lukin sighed. First, a religious crazy, and now this. It’s hard to put together a decent band of adventurers in this day and age.

  Boredom was the absolute worst. On the first evening he’d arrived, Lukin had found a group of soldiers to gamble with. Unfortunately, they had quickly wiped him out. He wasn’t sure if that was because they were cheating or because he didn’t exactly understand the rules of the game they were playing or because he’d just been unlucky. The soldiers had been much less friendly when he had no topaz to gamble with.

  The rhythm of the falling drops slowed then began to miss their beats as the rain stopped. As Lukin stepped out from under the awning, the mud sucked at the soles of his boots. With the exception of the sentries on the edge of the forest, the soldiers remained huddled inside the tents with the flaps down, giving the camp a deserted feel.

  Lukin moved toward the western end of the camp, toward where Fellanni watched Mortlebee sight a bow. The Tockian looked like a dog trying to use cutlery—perhaps Sierre had more chance of squeezing magic from Simeon. With Sierre teaching Simeon and Fellanni teaching Mortlebee, Lukin had been left out. Delaron had offered to train Lukin with the sword, but he hadn’t escaped sparring with Flechir to volunteer to fight with another. Krillo the Coward, who was to be the ringbearer, had deserted them—not that Lukin needed teaching. He’d been able to use his ring from the first.

  He came to a stop just outside the circle of tents, intending to watch the archeress rather than join Fellanni and Mortlebee. He wasn’t alone in paying her extra attention—sometimes when she walked through the camp, time seemed to stop as the men paused what they were doing to turn and stare. The only warrior women Lukin had seen previously had been old hags.

  Lukin had thought to talk to her—he still needed to practice his skill with women—but when he approached, she had given him a look. He still didn’t know how she’d managed to be so expressive with a subtle shift in her features, but he’d gotten the message and not bothered. That didn’t stop him watching her when he got the chance. He didn’t have much else to do. Her grace and economy of movement when she fired arrows were nearly as impressive as her beauty.

  Shouts sounded behind him, and Lukin turned to see soldiers spilling out of their tents. Huell strode through the tent, shouting orders, but Lukin couldn’t hear exactly what he was saying. What the renka is going on?

  Lukin ran back into the camp. Delaron, Sierre, and Simeon emerged from Sierre’s tent. Simeon immediately ran toward the back of the camp.

  “What’s going on?” Lukin asked.

  “Simeon’s gone to get the horses ready,” Delaron said. “There’s too many of them. We won’t be able to hold them off for long. You should go help him.”

&nb
sp; Lukin grabbed Delaron’s arm as he tried to run past. “Too many of who?”

  “Redbirds. Most of the sentries have been killed, so reports are unclear, but there are at least several hundred.”

  “How?”

  “We worry about that later. For now, we deal with the situation. Go help with the horses.”

  Mud splashed as a dozen soldiers charged past, heading to where Huell was directing their forces. No way was Lukin going to miss out on a battle involving Huell the Giant.

  “No.” Lukin knew that wasn’t how adventurers ended up in songs. “I’m fighting with you.”

  Delaron hesitated only an instant. “Come on, then.”

  Lukin raced after Delaron, and they joined the other soldiers on top of the earthen mound to the front of the camp.

  “What if they go around?” Lukin asked.

  “Luckily, a frontal charge to overrun an undermatched and surprised enemy would be the traditional first step.” Delaron shook his head. “This is the most indefensible camp on the continent. Who knew they would break the treaties just to get a hold of you three?”

  At the top of the ridge, the redbirds were forming up, their scarlet cloaks standing out clearly against the trees behind them. “What’s the second step?”

  “Probably won’t need one. The first step succeeds around ninety-eight percent of the time.”

  “Comforting.” Lukin filtered out the snippets of thoughts coming from the soldiers around him. He could do without the secondhand fear.

  “Are you forgetting something important?” Delaron asked Lukin.

  Lukin shrugged.

  “First battle?”

  Lukin nodded. He couldn’t even pretend he’d fought in a battle before.

  “You’ll notice the other soldiers have items that you lack,” Delaron said. “Armor and shields for one. But I don’t have those myself. More importantly, something with a sharp, pointy end to stick in enemies.”

  “I don’t have a sword.” If only he hadn’t lost Flechir’s in the Hatori. It, along with the Eorne Goblet, either was lying at the bottom of the river or had been taken by whoever found their horses.