Ashener's Calling

by David Partelow

  Wyndall slapped Alderich’s shoulder happily. “Oh, they could always be worse, of that I can attest. There has been a swell of unease, but I am sure that is the same everywhere in Vallance. Our warriors are as busy as ever. I’ve called many patrols home in preparation for Thorne. There is still no word from the courier we recently sent and in cases like this I would have to think that no news is bad news. But that is yet to be seen and the reason that we are all here.” Wyndall looked at Norryn and shook his head. “And now I must endure my people darker news, that the leader of our great nation and his chosen have produced a gnome with their union. There will be mourning of course but rest assured that I, Wyndall of the Jacoi clans will be laughing.”

  Alderich put his hand back on the bigger man’s shoulder. “I would now ask you for the time I will require to plot a proper revenge. Personally, I thought you were not going to be able to make it until later. The last letter I received from you spoke of grave news for you and Axiter. I am sorry to hear of your son’s illness. It pains us all to hear the news. How is he faring, Wyndall?”

  Wyndall’s head bowed slightly a moment. His right hand clasped the arm on his shoulder gratefully. “Thank you, Alderich. We still search for the cure of his ailment. His condition has worsened, but he continues to fight. I am sure that all will be well in the end. He desperately wished to be here today.” For a long moment, his eyes closed as he regained himself. Alderich knew how difficult it was for him.

  For many weeks Rynsik, Wyndall’s son, found himself caged to a bed. It started with what appeared to be a common cold. However, the cold lingered far longer than usual. Days turned to weeks and the time stripped the strength from Rynsik until bed sheets became his shackles. The wound was grievous for Wyndall as Rynsik was but a year the elder of Norryn.

  Shattering the reverie under his mask, Wyndall’s eyes became serious in an instant. “But if you think I was not going to be here for this, I would have accused you of misplaced sanity. There is talk of war. This is the time to stand united. Rynsik understood this, though leaving his side was not at all easy. Rest assured that you have the full support of all the Ro'Nihn clans. If Thorne wants a fight, let’s show them we are as much of warriors as we are people of peace.”

  {20}

  Rhoneck Ashener steadied his horse as another thunderclap ravaged the air. The men under his command had finally settled down for the night. A violent storm raged on as the evening slipped deeper into darkness. Raindrops danced and crashed on the ground as an army managed what rest it could under the clamor of rumbling skies.

  Alderich Ashener's oldest son readied himself for a long night. Something in the air that bordered on anticipation kept him focused, kept him sharp. His gloved hands tightened on the reigns secured to his horse. He surveyed the hastily erected tents and made note of the alertness of the current shift of guards. He again checked the strap that held his sword, unable to ease himself from the anxiety that vexed him.

  His father always told him to go with his instincts. It was those instincts that Rhoneck had used to raise fast through the ranks of the Vallance military. His discipline, leadership qualities and superb grasp of tactics had turned heads almost immediately. Aside from his commanding officer Hurler Rinstan, there were very few that outranked Rhoneck in the Vallance military. It was a rise that his father happily gave Rhoneck all the credit for.

  A roar of thunder erupted over the steady drum of the heavy shower, giving Rhoneck an even sharper focus. Scout reports had indicated heavy Thorne activity in the area. Rhoneck was sure that their encroachment was not a possibility, but a certifiable inevitability. His own recent scouting ventures had confirmed this.

  A pensive look covered a face that held an uncanny resemblance to his father. Rhoneck remembered the calm before the storm, before the talks of threat and war escalated to the present situation. Before he was a military prodigy, there had been a time when he was just a son and a brother. Sometimes Rhoneck missed those days, before there were the cares that now lingered unswervingly. However, the past was the past. Rhoneck Ashener made a habit to keep his thoughts and mind set forward.

  “Your quarters are ready sir.” Rhoneck looked over to Ellahn Wythgruel, his advisor, personal bodyguard and close friend. The Nadarr native wore dark, silent features upon a commanding presence. Ever the protective shadow of Rhoneck, there was no doubt that he would follow his commander to the ends of the Earth and back.

  Rhoneck nodded in Ellahn's direction. He had no intention of going to his quarters and Ellahn knew this, but he would still follow protocol. Held in Ellahn's right hand was a quadbow, on his back the sword he carried with him from Nadarr, aching to be used. Ellahn had always looked somewhat awkward in the tunic and gear of a Vallance regular.

  Rhoneck motioned with his head toward the sleeping encampment. “Then there's nothing more to do now than wait. You may turn in now if you wish.”

  There was no pause before the reply. “I think not.”

  “Very well.” Rhoneck said nothing else as Ellahn mounted his horse and brought it alongside his own. He had known what Ellahn's answer was to be, but he too would play the part of protocol.

  Part of Rhoneck was ready for the impending fight, yet another was ready to return to Bannar this instant. He had unfinished business at home. There was much still to discuss with his father. And, of course, he missed his little brother. Rhoneck knew there was a part of Norryn that always looked up to him. He could practically feel Norryn missing him across the miles that separated them. Rhoneck would continue to set an example of strength for his younger brother. Whether Norryn knew it or not, there was a part of Rhoneck that looked up to him as well.

  Rhoneck and Ellahn continued to survey the camp. Soon they noticed commotion at Hurler's tent. Hurler Rinstan emerged, missing much of his uniform, though well armed. Even from the distance eyes held a bemused rage. It was as if he had accepted madness as he approached Rhoneck. In one hand was his great sword and in the other a courier’s parchment. Slung upon his back was a quadbow. Before he reached Rhoneck, he shouted orders.

  "Rouse the men! Prepare for battle at once!" Clenching his sword angrily, Hurler made his way to Rhoneck at last.

  Rhoneck brought his horse around to face his commanding officer. “What's going on, sir?”

  Hurler Rinstan half chuckled to himself before answering. His voice was resigned. "I've just received news I'd been expecting for some time now. I've decided to give every man here a fighting chance at life." Hurler dropped the courier parchment upon the mud and stabbed it with his sword. Thunder cackled as he looked around. Not far from them, soldiers clamored from their tents in preparation. "It would be against my honor to see them slaughtered in their sleep."

  “What are you talking about, Hurler?” His commanding officer was not making sense. Rhoneck had never seen Hurler so unraveled before His worn, rugged face now showed every battle in the career soldier’s past. Acceptance, exhaustion and fury made for a potent, unsettling mix.

  Before Hurler could respond, a guardsman's voice covered all. “Incoming!”

  Great surges of blue energy screamed through the sky and into the camp. Explosions rocked the area, engulfing the ground and anything that stood with it. Soldiers and equipment were torn and thrown in the scorching wave. The remaining survivors scattered in panic, desperate to escape certain death. Thorne's artillery had found them.

  Rhoneck Ashener did his best to calm his horse. Below him Hurler Rinstan smiled sadly, coldly as he stared at Rhoneck Ashener. An artillery blast hit close enough to spit warm debris upon them, yet Hurler moved not at all. When he spoke again, it was through smiling, clenched teeth. It was obvious that he was privy to knowledge that Rhoneck and the rest of the army were not.

  “And right on time too,” he said.

  {21}

  “Faster, Voltaire! Sad is the day one loses to Westor!”

  Voltaire of the Achylles clans goosed the accelerator, throwing all caution to the wind. He knew that
Esmie was right. Nobody lost a race to Westor of the Brytesky, and Voltaire did not intend on being the first. He would never, ever hear the end of it if he did. Esmie would most definitely see to that.

  The four Ro’Nihn thundered along a dusty road, somewhere between Bannar and Shinteu. Voltaire and Westor both drove cycles designed for high velocity traveling. Each cycle proved this as they tore through the miles, hovering casually above the ground. The only sound was the thrashing of wind, and the shouts of encouragement from their excited passengers.

  The new Ro’Nihn could feel the wind on his face even through his newly acquired Ro’Nihn mask. Just recently, he had earned the right to wear it into the world, and Voltaire had created the lightest one that he could tolerate. Thin and trim, it was drenched in the red hues of the Achylles clan. His mask started just below his short blonde hair and ended above his upper lip. Strapped loosely on his head, his friends had reassured him that all Ro’Nihn got used to the feeling, though in his case he highly doubted it.

  Voltaire knew he had little to hide regardless. He was the only Ro’Nihn who stood nearly 7 feet tall. In addition, the pupils of his eyes were distinctly blood red. Mask or not, Voltaire knew there was no mistaking him or the fact that he stuck out like a sore thumb. For the moment, he banished such thoughts from his mind. He had a race to win and a reputation to keep, after all.

  Voltaire found himself further pulled from his reflection by small, strong fingers. Digging into his side, the firm touch placed further emphasis on the race at hand. Esmie of the Ryndragus was telling him to get his head back into the moment. It prompted Voltaire to glance to his right. Sure enough, they were gaining on Westor and Muray of the Grandstaff. It was a start of course, but Voltaire would have to use guile as well. Thanks to Voltaire immense size, Westor’s cycle held the much lighter load.

  A pleasantly amused voice filled his ear. “Uh, would you mind pulling to the side of the road to let me off? I would hate to go back to Axiter riding with such news and shamed by the woe of these dark times! A painful loss and to Westor of all people! I knew you should have let me take this one.”

  “Oh, shoosh it,” shoulted Voltaire over his shoulder. Esmie always had a flare for melodrama. It was just her style, and it had been that way for the eight years he had called her his friend. Tried and true though, she was a good friend despite her incessant pestering.

  “Shoosh? Shoosh? Don’t you shoosh me young one. Know your place and respect your elders,” said Esmie as she poked at his side teasingly.

  Voltaire shook his head. “You’re only three years older than me, Esmie! Besides, it was a god’s hand that saved us the last time you had the controls.”

  Esmie was unmoved by his retort. “Pish posh! You and I recall the past quite differently! Now get your head back on the road, young one.”

  Voltaire squinted through a dust cloud coming his way. Westor had done that on purpose. It was his way of reminding Voltaire of where he was in comparison. Not that he needed reminding, but he was sure Westor enjoyed it just the same. Up ahead, Muray looked back at them, waving. He could see her grin even through her hair blazing in the wind. Esmie thumped him on the back with an open palm. Voltaire grinned at the challenge for he was never afraid of the thrill of true speed.

  Lush hills in the distance became increasingly obscure in the momentum. Had he not been lost in the race, Voltaire might have enjoyed such a view. An aged road plodded before them serenely. Sparse, vibrant trees hovered here and there, inviting with their prospects of shade. A court of bison ambled with haste from the group. As shy as bison were, the ground still shook under the girth of the ten-foot tall creatures.

  Just then, Westor took their little game off the main road. Cutting to the left, Westor seared across the grass as he neared Crimson Lake. The large mass of water loomed closer, shimmering in bountiful sunlight. Voltaire had fished here a time or two in his youth, in the days before he ever even thought about toting a mask. The two things his father had relished in his off times were music and fishing. Neither of these pastimes were wasted on his son.

  Esmie of the Ryndragus urged him on as he squeezed all available power from his cycle. Voltaire and Westor were both dancing dangerously close to the banks of the lake. Ducks and geese squawked out of harm’s way with bellowing fits of alarm. Voltaire smiled at the approaching hisses of the geese as they lumbered clumsily along. He found their displeasure as they fled comical. The flick on his ear told him that Esmie did not approve.

  “I do hope that you are happy with yourself after that, picking on poor, defenseless creatures and all,” said Esmie as she rolled her eyes. Voltaire could only smile, for he was happy.

  With Crimson Lake at their left they continued, though they had almost reached its end. The path ahead remained clear with only shore and grass in their view. There was a small clump of rock in the way. Two of these rocks were at least three feet high. Westor casually swerved right as Voltaire decided to venture left. He was close enough to the waters that he felt wetness on his boot. Surely, Esmie had felt the same would give him an earful soon enough.

  Passing the rock, Voltaire then saw the old man that had stopped to fish. Hidden from view until that very moment, the old man’s positioning threatened a deadly collision. Esmie’s fingers dug feverishly into his sides as she buried her head against his back. For an instant, Voltaire saw the wide surprise of old eyes, knowing his blood pupils matched. After that, there was no time for thought.

  Using his weight, Voltaire pushed down on the cycle as he pulled the controls to the left. Repelling magnetic forces barked against the motion, spitting them further into the air, just missing the hat of the old angler. Esmie screamed as they smashed like thunder upon the water. The flatness of the cycle’s underside combined with its momentum propelled them upward again in a swift, hopping motion. In a long second, Voltaire had gone from shore to water and then to shore once more as relief poured from him in an exuberant sigh.

  Esmie smacked him soundly on the back of his head. He winced but knew the blow could have been much heavier. “Curse you, Achylles! Curse the day they gave you a mask. Curse the day they saw fit to teach you to drive! Curse the fact that I am stuck with you to tempt the fates for me! Just curses all around!”

  For the first time on that brisk and sunny day, Voltaire emitted a long, triumphant laugh, and it shook them both as the cycle continued to blaze forward. Behind them, the old man had dropped his pole and waved a single fist in their direction. Had Voltaire been able to hear anything over Esmie’s ranting, he would have heard the aging angler screaming at him in pretty much the same fashion.

  Voltaire quickly gained back lost ground. Westor and Muray were both looking back at their comrades, struck speechless by the maneuver. Voltaire and Esmie closed the gap that separated them from Westor’s cyle. Westor was quickly reminded of the race at hand and goaded his throttle again. The hungry grin on Voltaire’s face did not waver a bit. In fact, it greatly deepened. All right Westor, I have you now. You just don’t know it yet.

  To Westor’s dismay, his cycle regained top speed at the same time Voltaire came up even beside him. Frustrated, he put his focus back on their path as Esmie and Muray taunted and laughed. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Voltaire was smiling at him. The smile sent chills down Westor’s spine as his confidence faltered. And Westor knew that Voltaire sensed such a faltering. His slump might continue after all.

  They were almost back on the road. The trail before them went for a few hundred yards littered sparsely with trees and lazy hills. After that, it became increasingly dense as they neared the outskirts of a nearby forest. That forest was the termination of the race, and now it was just moments away. Westor urged his vehicle forward, sparing a glance to his left at Voltaire. He’s still looking at me and smiling like a lunatic! What in blazes is he up to over there?

  Westor got his answer soon enough.

  Voltaire gunned his accelerator once more, somehow getting yet more speed fro
m his carefully-tuned cycle. His heart raced with coldness and glee. Voltaire did not know where he was in his mind, but wherever it was, he liked it. Slowly veering to the left, Voltaire vectored his cycle to grassy mound about two feet off the road. Leaning a bit more forward, Esmie noticed his intent. She didn’t know what was going on in his head, but she did know that she would not like it.

  She pushed a strand of black, wind-blown hair from her face, shaking Voltaire’s side with her other hand. “Uh Voltaire, I think I know what you mean to do, and let me just say that I am firmly against it. Maybe you should reconsider for both of our sakes,” she offered.

  Esmie’s words met with more of that laughter. The grassy mound etched closer. To her dismay, it was at an incline, veering upward in the direction they were heading. She could almost feel Voltaire’s intentness now as his muscles tensed and prepared for his next maneuver.

  Esmie tried one more time for reason. “Uh, Voltaire, I don’t think suicide was on the agenda today. Come back to us now. We should really talk about this. Voltaire!” Nothing but laughter from him was his reply. His stomach shook as the inevitable encounter swiftly approached. It was too late for whatever argument Esmie had hoped to sway him with. “Woe is me,” she muttered, sheltering her head once more into her friend’s back.

  Mere feet from the mound, Voltaire readied himself for the jump. Westor and Muray watched, mystified as Voltaire and Esmie hit true. Voltaire pulled the cycle up and to the right. As he did, the cycle began to roll in mid-air. The heads occupying one bike came inches from the heads on the other. Westor and Muray crouched lower on instinct while Westor slowed at the same time. Voltaire completed the roll in the air and landed right side up ahead of and on the opposite side of Westor’s slowing cycle.

  With a triumphant whoop Voltaire continued true on his path. Hearing this, Esmie finally lifted her head to see that they still lived. Her throat stung, and she realized that she had been screaming during the entire maneuver. Once again, she slapped Voltaire on the back of his large head. This was just simply the last straw in her book.