by Philip Blood
Aerin stood silently with his eyes closed even after the sounds of the shovel had stilled, but when a new voice spoke Aerin looked up and found an archer standing four paces before him, a long bow slung over his shoulder. The man was thin, and he had lavender-tinged skin, obviously one of the willowmen race. He spoke in a soft voice, "What were your parent’s names?” He held two young saplings, recently uprooted.
Aerin mumbled out his parent’s names, and the willowman concentrated briefly on each of the saplings. Aerin’s parent’s names seemed to grow right into the thin trunks, appearing vertically.
When the willowman was done working with the saplings, he said, “Do these meet with your approval, young master?” And then before Aerin could answer, added, "Their names will grow with the trees that mark their resting place."
Aerin nodded to the lavender man in gratitude.
Soon the two trees were planted and Aerin had to face his future.
The old woman gazed deeply into his face, and Aerin met her keen stare with his red-rimmed eyes unblinking. "Do you have other kin, boy?"
Aerin shook his head; his only uncle had died last spring, and both sets of his grandparents had passed away before he was born. "We were going to Strakhelm, so my father could write the chronicle of the new NexLord," he explained dully.
Mara raised an eyebrow at this disclosure. "Your father was a scholar then? That is an interesting occupation for a man in these hard times. No matter, now you may come with us, we too travel to Strakhelm. I'll see you are taken care of once we arrive."
The large cloaked man finally pulled down his hood, revealing his completely hairless head. Bronze irises with golden flecks sparkling within looked into Aerin's eyes. "When his mother fell he didn’t run, he turned to face them with naught but a butter knife; he has courage Ma-r-r-ra," the Quarian rumbled, his accent rolling the 'r'.
Aerin looked with awe upon the strange man, he had often read about the mysterious Quarians but had thought them a mere legend. He wondered about the Quarian’s hands, but the long sleeves of his cloak kept them covered.
Mara looked Aerin over again, and then a small smile crept to the corner of her mouth. "Yes, Tocor, perhaps there is something here worth a look. Do you remember that section I've pondered for some time? `Common, but uncommon, and matched in grief, they bonded closer than any before.' They have both lost their parents now."
The Quarian didn't answer, but he nodded, his bronze eyes never leaving Aerin's face.
The young boy took no notice of their talk, his heart ached for his parents, and his mind was far away in the past.
Aerin's wagon had completely burned to the ground, so with nothing but the history book, and no family, he climbed up into Mara's wagon to begin a new and greater journey.
Chapter Two
“...and I saw the savior of the land marked by the death of his father at an early age. Son of the Warlord and a future Lord of the Nexus: metal heated by the fire of loss, shape molded by the teacher’s hammer, strength quenched in the blood of adventure and razor edge honed by the loyalty of his friends. This I saw… Tremble Dreadmaster, cower Wraiths, for into this world comes a NexLord, and the strength of his Bond spells the end of an evil renewed since the beginning of time.”
- From the Prophecies of Gold
Gandarel was plotting his escape.
While Kimmerman, his Courtesy and Protocol instructor, droned on about proper lengths of lace cuffs and when and how low to bow to whom, Gandarel was considering how he was going to get out of the castle, and more importantly, out of his lessons the following morning.
He nearly had it worked out now, first, he needed a diversion. He had noted that one of the large sows in the animal pens out back had given birth to a pack of piglets a few weeks ago. His plan called for the piglets to escape their pen and somehow get loose inside the main castle halls, in fact, very near to his first classroom session. He decided to make sure they were well-covered in excrement to make them extra slippery. Gandarel pictured the rotund Kimmerman trying to capture the slimy piglets as they ran squealing around the room, but he couldn't make his mind up if it was the piglets or his teacher squealing the loudest in his imagined comedic scene. A small smile crept onto his young face and he tried to hide it, which of course made it even more difficult to contain. A small shaking of his body and his eyes watering gave him away.
Kimmerman fixed him with a stern gaze. "What do you find so amusing about proper choice of colors to wear to a funeral?
Gandarel swallowed hard, biting his tongue on purpose to stop his laughter, it wouldn't do to let Kimmerman know his fate before it transpired. His teacher had a date with some pigs. That thought nearly started him laughing again, but he managed to contain it this time. "Nothing... really, about a funeral, something else just struck me as funny." He told his teacher.
Kimmerman just stared at him for a moment. "Don't blame me someday when you're embarrassed because you're wearing an inappropriate jacket to an important dignitary's funeral. Then we'll see who is laughed at!"
With a straight face, Gandarel said, "I'll do my utter best to follow your guidelines when it's time for me to go to your funeral, Sar Kimmerman."
"Well, you better listen if... MY funeral?” the chubby teacher gasped. "What makes you say a horrid thing like that?"
Gandarel looked innocent. "Well, everyone dies sometime; I was just trying to reassure you that you needn't worry about me embarrassing myself at your funeral."
Kimmerman was completely flustered now. "Enough of that, let's get on to proper shoes. You know well enough that I only have three years left to pound you into shape before you are required by law to make the journey to the Great Court and present yourself before the Regent. That's no backwater city; it's the capital, where all the great Worthy of the court reside. Gedin help us if you make a fool of yourself. How would you like it if the Regent decided you were unworthy and sent in one of his Blue Coats to take control of guarding the border? What would your father and his father think of your losing their hereditary post of Warlord of the Dragonback?"
Gandarel sighed, he was well used to these threats; he cared little for what was three years away; that was nearly forever to a bored twelve-year-old. He went back to planning his escape.
He figured with the castle staff in an uproar over the pigs in the hall, it should be easy enough to slip in among the crates on the blacksmith's wagon. Tomorrow was Seconday, and the blacksmith always went into the city for new supplies.
Once out of the castle he would have the whole day to explore the city, and later he could just slip back in when the blacksmith returned. Then he could just claim to have been studying all day. What could they do to me, anyway? He thought; Get a new heir to the Seat of Stone?
When Gandarel finished his Courtesy and Protocol lesson he fairly bounded out the door, his emotions flushed with the excitement of his bold plan of escape and adventure. With boyish energy, he rounded the corner into the south wing and suddenly went sprawling forward as his feet were cut out from under him. He skinned his elbow on the hard floor and cursed, "Gedin's blood!"
Then Gandarel's own blood ran cold from the voice that spoke from behind. "Those that corrupt the ground with anger in the Lord's name will be tortured by the evil one through all eternity, so sayeth The Hand of God."
Gandarel looked up and saw Hork, High priest of The Hand, the church of Humanity. The crippled man stood on his good left leg, his large ivory cane helping support his withered right leg. He wore the simple white robe of The Hand's priesthood, and his piercing gray eyes bore through Gandarel's.
Hork's eyes narrowed. "Boys should take more care with the body Gedin has blessed them with, and not run haphazardly through the hallways where they might fall and damage themselves and others. Go in servitude, young Gandarel."
Gandarel got painfully to his feet, eyeing the cane in Hork's hand; he thought he had seen that cane for a split second as it darted out and tripped him, but he kept his opinion t
o himself.
"I will be more careful, your Holiness," he promised in a tight voice, eyes downcast.
Hork gave him the church's traditional prattle, "Follow the way of The Hand."
Anger seethed within Gandarel, but he swallowed it and nodded to the High Priest and then walked away at a normal pace.
He could feel Hork's fanatical gaze on his back.
Chapter Three
“Warlord and NexLord are lofty titles, yet during one vision I saw common folk becoming the friends and bonds. Before any titles are bestowed, while yet heir to his post, I saw the Warlord's son meet his closest friend. That meeting began with competition and ended in cooperation, and blood sealed their pact.”
- From the Prophecies of Gold.
Mara's wagon hit a particularly nasty rut in the road and jerked heavily, but the old woman made no complaint, her keen gaze was locked on the silent young boy beside her. In the day since the Togroth killing party had slaughtered Aerin’s parents he had hardly spoken a word. He still clutched the leather bound book in his lap.
"What is that book about, Aerin?” she asked, hoping to get him talking, she did not think this silence good for him.
"It's the true story of the last NexLord, Ragol," he answered, still speaking without much animation.
Mara frowned slightly, but almost immediately wiped it from her face. "I wouldn't believe all you read, history is written by the victors, and told as they see fit."
Aerin's eyes were glued to the leather cover of the book. "My father said this is the most accurate account of the last NexLord."
Mara shrugged. "That could be true; it just means it lies a little less than the rest. That all happened over three hundred years ago… time enough for exaggeration, lies and falsehoods to be written, but tell me, why the interest in Ragol and olden times?"
"My father was a scholar, we were on our way to Strakhelm so he could write the story of the new NexLord," Aerin explained.
Mara smiled slightly at this. "And who might that be?"
Aerin felt she was challenging his father's word, so he looked at her defiantly, "Gandarel Trelic, heir to the Seat of Stone, future Warlord of the Dragonback."
Mara laughed lightly at his stern look and words. "Relax, boy, I was not disparaging your father's beliefs. I happen to know he was right, the young heir is destined to become a NexLord."
Aerin suddenly remembered the muscle-bound warrior who had led the attack on his parents, the one with the golden chain marks of a NexLord on his wrists. "You're right, Mara, history has it all wrong, NexLords are cowards and murderers," he almost whispered, anger and hatred warring on his face.
Mara lifted her gray left eyebrow and inspected Aerin briefly. The emotions running deep within him were easy for her to read. "Why the sudden change of opinion?"
"That man, the one who led the Togroths, he was a NexLord," Aerin explained, tears filling his eyes.
Mara was intrigued; the man Aerin was talking about had been gone before her wagon had come around the bend of the forest path. "Why do you say that?"
Aerin lifted his left hand, pointing to his other wrist with a forefinger. "He had the chain marks of a NexLord."
"Ah, now I see," said Mara, while smiling slightly. "If we stop the wagon, and have Tocor come over with some paints and mark my wrists with some golden chains, I guess that will make me a NexLord."
Aerin frowned, considering this for a moment. "No, that would just be a fake! Besides, you're a woman and the NexLords were mighty warriors."
"So chain marks are not what makes you a NexLord? Then how do you know this man was one? Didn't your father say he was going to write the account of the new NexLord, the first since Ragol?"
Aerin nodded.
"Then," she said, reaching over and touching his nose lightly with her forefinger to emphasize her point, "what makes you think that evil man was a real NexLord? Did he act like one?"
"No," Aerin agreed. "So he was an imposter?"
"Most definitely, and he is not the only one traveling the lands these days. It's become quite fashionable, and more to the point, profitable for men to fake that title. They get false respect and deference from the masses. In addition, they fetch higher money for work as bodyguards and other militant endeavors," she explained. She watched his face to see if she had been talking over his head, but her words didn't seem to confuse him. She chalked it up to the education his scholarly father had begun.
"It isn't right," he exclaimed, "they shouldn't be allowed."
"Who is to stop them? But don't worry; they'll get their just desserts in the end. Most of these imposters die quickly, as anyone with such marks becomes the first target in any battle. Remember, lies carry their own punishment," she explained, pushing back a lock of gray hair that the wind had blown across her well-lined face.
"If only Ragol was alive now, he would set things right!"
"That was a long time ago, Aerin," Mara said gently.
Aerin glanced down at the book in his lap. "It says, in here, that he died alone, without friends or companions, attacking the Dreadmaster, but my father said that some people say he was captured and tortured into insanity. I like to remember him at the battle of the Kitrick Wall, ready to take on the Dreadmaster's army, his Bondsmen at his side."
Mara nodded at the boy and said, "Perhaps that is best."
Aerin looked ahead, and in the distance, he could see large amounts of smoke rising above the trees.
"Strakhelm," she said in answer to his unasked question, "we'll be there soon."
"Is it on fire?” he asked.
She laughed merrily, "Don't worry, that's just the hearths and fireplaces at work preparing the evening meals. We're still a ways off so we will make camp out here tonight and enter the city in the morning."
The next morning Mara's wagon rumbled across the cobblestones on one of Strakhelm's main city streets. The old woman drove the two horse team, slowly heading for an Inn with a stable large enough to accommodate her wagon. Aerin sat on the seat beside her. The Quarian had retired inside the wagon before they entered the busy streets and the lavender man had also disappeared somewhere; as Aerin had discovered he was often want to do.
Aerin was amazed; he had been to more than one small city, but nothing like Strakhelm. It was huge beyond his imagination. Buildings were mostly four stories high, and there were towers even taller! People were everywhere; the sheer mass of humanity nearly overwhelmed the young boy. Strakhelm was the largest city east of the Dragonback, and home to the Seat of Stone, the Warlord’s castle.
Mara noted his wide-eyed look and smiled, it dawned on her that she had come to like the quiet boy during the two days they had been together. "Quite a sight, isn't it?” she asked him.
Aerin nodded, watching a garishly dressed merchant pass nearby with four bodyguards flanking him on all sides.
A squad of ten men dressed in brown leather armor and sheathed swords filed past with what looked like a priest in white robes leading the group. Aerin noted the symbol of an open hand on the left breast of the priest's robe.
Mara scowled, but kept her eyes straight ahead, not looking at the priest, though he appraised the wagon from under his dark eyebrows as it passed.
Aerin looked back trying to get another look at the symbol on the priest's robe.
"Don't stare, Aerin," Mara admonished softly.
He sat back down. "What kind of priest goes around with armed men?” he asked.
"The Hand," she noted dryly.
Aerin heard the scorn in her voice. "Why do you dislike them?"
She suddenly smiled at him slyly. "Now did I say I didn't like them? Can't recall it, but let's just say I don't believe what they believe."
"And what is that?” he asked with the curiosity of the young.
"More than I care to get into, but I’ll tell you this much, they are very narrow-minded about a lot of things, like all non-humans being evil, that kind of thing."
"You mean they think Yearl an
d Tocor are evil?" Aerin prodded.
"Yes, as I said, very narrow-minded, but let's not talk about the priests of The Hand right now, let's enjoy the more positive sights of Strakhelm!” she said to lighten the mood.
Their wagon ambled over bumpy cobblestones as Mara guided them through several streets. Eventually, she brought the wagon to a halt and climbed off and bid Aerin to wait. She took some food she had wrapped up earlier and crossed the street to a man who crouched in the doorway of an abandoned building. Aerin watched intently as Mara suddenly crouched down as she neared the raggedy man. She scooted forward, animal-like, staying lower than he was and placed the food before him.
Aerin just couldn't understand what she was doing.
A few minutes later she was back and started the wagon on its way. From inside the wagon, Tocor asked Mara a question. "How was he?"
Mara's voice held a note of sadness, "No change, but it's not time yet."
"I know, but can't we..."
"He won't come, and yes, I worry as well. Leave it be… for now," she said, glancing at Aerin who was looking back at the crouched form of the man in the doorway.
“Who is he?” Aerin asked Mara.
“Just a mixed up man that I look in on now and then, don’t worry about it,” she replied.
They passed a few more streets before Mara turned the wagon into a courtyard of a suitable looking Inn. As they entered under the arched gateway she cautioned Aerin, "Don't you go far from here for a time, big cities are like jungles," then she joked, "Large carnivores wait to pounce on weak prey, and for now, you're looking pretty plump and tasty!” she pinched at his waist as if to test his plumpness.
