by N.D. Bailey
There was a disquieting silence as they all sat around a campfire, with their bedrolls stretched out. The full moon shone upon the new statue of King Justiz, reflecting its brilliant blue colors. Around the campfire, Monguard worked a piece of wood. Vandorf’s obsessions now took on throwing his dagger in the ground repeatedly as he distanced himself from the others. Fleece sharpened his sword, Vandorf beginning to rub off on his pupil.
It was Zorgar who broke the silence, venting his frustration. “Why did you do that when he wouldn’t even ride with us?” he asked, with some anger in his voice.
“He said he will catch up with us latah,” Navi explained.
“Later is a little too late for some of these people,” Zorgar said in protest.
“He’s not here now,” Gilgore said. “And how late is he goin’ to be, anyway?”
“While we’re out here fightin’ Dahvan’s forces, trying to get the Sword of Powah back and these people are sufferin’, King Justiz is sitting in his little celestial kingdom,” Vandorf said, throwing the dagger into the ground. There was something much more bothering Vandorf and Windsor and Gilmanza knew what it was. It wasn’t King Justiz at all; he was only a target for temporary accusation to voice past pain.
“It’s not for you to make that judgment. This is our mission and we need to tend to our own doings and let King Justiz tend to his,” Gilmanza advised, stately rebuking Vandorf.
Gritting his teeth, Vandorf pulled his knife out of the ground and walked off into the woods toting his dagger. He needed to get away.
“The Immortals weren’t there when we needed them this time neither when I was a kid,” Sagran said, voicing his frustration. “Couldn’t they have prevented this tragedy?”
“What do you expect? For them to be everywhere they are needed in order to make your little world and everybody else’s little world pehfect?” Ozni chimed in.
“Yeah, it’s not up to him to run everyone else’s kingdom,” Nadora said, offering an opinion from someone who knows something about running a kingdom.
Now, the argument got even more heated as people began to talk—or rather argue—over each other.
“Whose side are you on?” Zilgar asked Zorgar, a challenge in his voice.
“Oh, excuse me, Mr. All-knowing!” blasted Zorgar. “Did you not see what I saw, or did you have your head stuck up your anus, as usual?” Their argument rose above the voices of the others. Zilgar now shoved Zorgar, and Zorgar shoved him back. Clearly a brawl was brewing between the two brothers.
Now, everyone had an opinion and they all had the urge to shout it aloud. Yelling at one another, they all fought to be heard. Windsor sat and watched the eruption. Monguard looked as though he were tuning them out as he worked his knife over a piece of wood, putting the finishing touches on a well-crafted model of the statue that greeted them in Shy Kadesh. His head jerked a little bit as though their arguing was making him nervous.
Fleece didn’t really have a strong opinion. He flipped his medallion seeking clarity on the Immortal Kings position as well as his own. In times like these, he doubted if he should have ridden at all. But his found comfort in his coin which always seemed to give him the right answer.
“You think you’re so smart,” snapped Zilgar, rearing his fist back. “I’m gonna…” He began just before he punched Zorgar. Now Zorgar wrapped his brawny arms around his brother’s head and put him in a headlock. Skeener jumped into the fight and Buldar followed.
Amase sat silent throughout the turmoil, taking it all in.
Raising his staff, Windsor was moved with power to put an end to all of this. Wanting to get their attention, a bolt of power shot out from his staff making a loud noise.
“That’s enough!” Windsor snapped, striking Zorgar with the end of his staff. “You speak with the folly of simpletons! Are you that easily swayed? I can see that I did not choose as wisely as I ought to have for the members of this Circle.” Now irritated, he knocked the tobacco out of his long slender pipe and crawled into his bedroll. He was tuckered out.
“What’s our plan, anyway?” Buldar asked with a snarl, more pissed off that they didn’t seem to have one.
“Plan?” Windsor said. “We ride until we find the bloody sword, that’s our plan. If it takes us to the outskihts of Quadar then so be it.”
“We’re not goin’ into Quadar are we?” Buldar protested, familiar with the legends that no one who doesn’t belong to Quadar and enters Quadar alive, leaves Quadar alive. Ormandel’s escape from Quadar was nothing short of a miracle.
“We can’t just leave Cozbi there,” Nimri protested. “They have taken him and we have to go get him.”
Now, another argument was brewing.
“We can’t go into Quadar,” Buldar protested. “That will be the death of us all. Bettah to sacrifice one instead of the whole lot.”
“Sacrifice? You don’t know anything about sacrifice.” Nimri stood up and shoved Buldar. “If it were you, you would feel differently.” Buldar shoved Nimri back. Nuvatian jumped in, taking Nimri’s side, as did Ozni while Gilgore took Buldar’s side.
This time, Navi was determined to handle the situation; but, when he raised his staff Gilmanza’s booming voice settled the matter. “Shut up! All of you.” Windsor had leapt up too, about to yell just like Gilmanza. “I’m sick of your childish antics. Now carry your sword like a warrior or leave. A knight makes sacrifices and that is part of why he is noble.”
Binko now stood up. “Your arguing is only destructive to our unity. We Elves, we nevah leave anyone behind alive, and we try not to leave our dead behind if we can help it.” Binko spoke with the articulation of a statesman, a man of authority and experience. “Each of us has been carefully chosen for this mission; thus, we should be mature enough to rise up to the occasion and give out what has been given to us to give. Loyalty sometimes calls for obedience in mattahs that we wish not to undertake, but I am confident that each of you are willin’ to make sacrifices for the bettahment of your family, your friends, your county, and your world.”
His words silenced the lot of them. One by one, they shut up and sat down. Not a word was spoken as they rolled out their bedrolls around the circle of fire.
As he lay shifting trying to get comfortable, Windsor rolled over onto a key that dangled from his side. He suddenly realized that he had ridden off with the key to the building. It didn’t matter though because the building had been burned. But the key reminded him of another key, one he had received from the king, the one to the secret place that housed the Sword of Power.
Sitting up, he opened his satchel and dug down deep. He searched in every pocket but he didn’t find the key. It was missing. Someone had stolen the key. The key had to have been swiped in King Chess’s castle. There was only one suspect at hand. Now Windsor knew how the powerful sword had gotten into the wrong hands. He felt to blame. He should have kept the key on his body and in a safer place.
He, of all people, knew better. But he lay back down and didn’t say a word about it.
“So are we going into Quadar?” Buldar asked?
“God help us if we do,” Windsor said, rolling over and pulling his covers over his head. His troubled mind kept him awake all night.
The Immortal
The summer rain ceased for a couple of days, but then began falling again, gently yet steadily. It was summer and the riders were dreading the scorching temperatures. As they rode along, several of them again felt that nagging notion that someone was following them. They never saw anyone, so they dismissed it. The rain gently pelted the leaves, making an unending clatter. A touch of fog had settled lightly upon the ground, decreasing their visibility.
Tensions remained high. They dripped in disappointment and fatigue. Speaking was only done when necessary and practical jokes were out of the question.
Bringing Inka to a stop, Navi put up his hand, waving for the others to stop. In the near distanc
e, the sound of thundering hooves drumming the ground alerted them they had company. “Ridahs of Quadar,” Windsor whispered. With so much activity, Windsor knew they were at least in the right vicinity.
They geared up, preparing to fight.
The clamor of the hooves thundered in the distance. This was no small group of Quadarists, dark riders of Darvan. Snapping on their mail and helmets and pulling swords from their sheaths, the Circle of Riders quietly spread out. From behind the trees of the forest, Gilgore could see the vast army of dark riders. They were too numerous for them to attempt to take on directly. Their wisest tactic would be to remain hidden, thus avoiding a conflict altogether. Gilgore hunkered down on the ground, hoping to somehow conceal his massive body below the dense fog. As the Riders of Quadar passed by them some distance away, Moridar, sensing their presence, snorted and growled. “Shhhh,” whispered Windsor. Derves lurked in the trees, above where Quadarists were passing, a couple of the dark riders astride graquitorases, creatures Windsor despised.
“The Circle of Riders!” The devils whispered, eager to expose them. They jumped up and down in the trees, excited at handing out information. “The Circle of Riders!” they whispered in succession, each eager to be the talebearer. Taking heed of their utterances, the Riders of Quadar, pulled back on their reins, reduced their speed, and listened carefully to what the derves had to say. As they galloped in the direction of the Circle of Riders, Moridar roared, sensing their threatening presence.
“Oh, great, here they come!” Windsor wished they could just avoid them.
Seeing that a clash was now unavoidable, the Circle of Riders mentally steeled themselves for the inevitable battle. As the dark riders came closer, they dug their heels into their mounts and rode out fiercely, clutching their swords with tight fists. Swords crossed, steel against steel, ringing loudly throughout the forest.
With expertise, Nadora took out one of the graquitorases immediately, putting an arrow through its eye and sinking it into its head. The graquitorase roared in pain and fell to the ground, sending its rider over its head. Easy to expunge, Nadora sunk an arrow into the dark rider as he scrambled to get to his feet.
Monguard raced in, eager to fight for what he believed in. Fleece fought with skill beneath that of his mentor but still far better than most knights. After all, his mentor was Vandorf, a veteran of war and a man meticulous for perfection. Gilgore towered over the vast army, yanking dark riders from their horses as rapidly as he could and driving his giant sword into the devils. Binko and his zebra became indiscernible to the naked eye, his sword cut down riders with a single stroke. The sheer numbers of the attackers were overwhelming.
It was in the heat of the battle that the riders came face to face with some young men, their faces smooth, free from the shady hues that occurs with times in the dark forces. They knew that these young men were new recruits, likely from the village of Randorin. Amase crossed blades with such a man.
“You’re new,” Amase said, blocking the deadly blow. “Tuhn back while you still can. This isn’t the way to go.” Amase blocked the deadly blows as he tried to convince the young lad. His eyes captured the young warrior, holding him in a gripping and convincing stare that bone into the lads’ soul. “Are you from Randorin? We just delivered your village. It’s free now.”
The young warrior stopped fighting. “You freed my village?”
“Yes. They lie to you. Fight against the evil, don’t join them.”
Suddenly, a strong dark rider bearing the face of one of experience pushed the boy to the ground and stood face to face with Amase.
Finding himself surrounded by dark riders, Amase fought them with fierceness, dropping them like flies. In the midst of the chaos, two dark riders smashed their swords into him simultaneously, unseating him. Pain swept across his chest. He fell face-down, but rolled and rolled until he ended face-up. Dazed and confused, the young man tried to clear his head and regain his strength. He opened his eyes. Now he starred into the monstrous face of a dark rider, sword clutched tightly in his right hand.
In that moment, the dark rider that stood above Amase fell dead, face-down atop him, a sword having cut him down to size. Shoving the dark rider off, Amase stared at the boy warrior in dark clothes bearing a blade graced in the blood of a dark rider.
Then, Amase realized that his mail had broken. It was then that he saw the streaks of red, flowing through his tattered shirt. He knew he had been cut but starring into the face of a dark rider holding a double-edged sword caused Amase to forget about the flesh wound. He wasn’t sure what this boy was going to do now.
The dark riders never even saw the sting of death coming upon them, until it was too late. They were surprised by the fight they had on their hands; after all, it was just a small group of riders. Arrows flew out of nowhere dropping them like flies. The first one taking out the second graquitorase that had now become an immediate threat to Nimri, having him backed into a corner, with both beast and rider threatening his life. With the arrow through the roaring mouth of the beast, Nimri easily blocked the blade of the dark rider and followed through with a cut across his back, cutting him down to size.
Noticing Amase lying on the ground holding his chest, Sagran raced over to the lad, nearly sliding in the mud as he approached. The gash looked deep at first glance, which caused them great alarm.
Meanwhile, arrows were still flying in every direction, ripping into the dark riders as they spun their mounts and high-tailed it out of there. Curious about the unexpected relief, the riders looked deep into the thick of the forest, but again saw no one. How did we fight off all those riders? Where were all those arrows coming from? The questions persisted, and suspicions began to form, but no one said a word. Windsor had his sneaky suspicions.
A black cape flapped against the tree, signaling that not every dark rider had rushed to safety. It snapped in the wind in spite of being weighed down with rainwater. Navi swung his sword as he stepped from the other side, now coming face to face with the dark rider. Trembling, the warrior dropped his sword and buried his head into his hands.
“Look at me,” Navi commanded.
The dark rider raised his head and the smooth skin of the boy looked Navi in the eyes shamefully.
“You’re just a boy, a new recruit.”
“Please don’t kill me.”
“I’m not gonna kill you. When did you join them?”
“When our village was taken and they brought hard times on us. I realize now that it was a mistake.”
“Yes, but what do you want now?”
“I want to live. I want to go home. My friend said you rescued our village. Is that true?”
“I don’t know. What is your village?”
“Randorin.”
“Yes, we delivered them the othah day. But who is your friend?”
A boy emerged from beneath the dead body of a dark rider, hiding beneath his black robe. It was the boy that Amase challenged to change his position and leave the dark riders. Another young warrior crawled out from his hole too. There were three, three boys who realized that they were making a mistake.
Now, Navi appeared with the three dark riders robed in black. Swords instinctively came out; then, they realized that these were young warriors, likely realizing their mistake and now changing their position.
There was silence. They young boys looked at the riders and then at Amase who held his bleeding side. They stared at the Awnee trying to figure out what he was. His eyes apprehended them, holding them in a decisive clutch of persuasion and conviction. Then, the boy who had cut down the dark rider that charged at Amase threw down his sword and began to peel off his dark wardrobe. The other two boys followed him, peeling off their black clothes.
“Go home,” Windsor said. “Go home.”
“Yes sir.” The three boys darted off into the woods, leaving behind their swords and their black clothes.
Now
becoming aware that Amase had been injured, the riders hustled to his side.
“Amase, are you okay?” Ozni asked, inspecting the open wound. Nadora immediately began threading a needle, that she might stitch his torn flesh. As she began to do the deed, she found the wound was not as deep at it had first appeared.
“This is not as bad as I thought,” she said. She went ahead and put a few stitches in. Amase gritted his teeth and winced under the pain. Moments later, his wound was properly closed. Nimri reached down his hand and Amase took it. Leaping to his feet, Amase insisted that it was nothing more than a scratch, refusing to be treated like a kid.
Gathering their reins in their hands, many of the riders now looked curiously at the blood bath on the ground and all the fallen dark riders. Some looked inquisitively into the forest wondering if they had some help. But they saw no one.
The stench of the decaying flesh of the Riders of Quadar filled the air.
“Let’s get out of here,” Vandorf said, holding his nose. “Perhaps we can find a river and get cleaned up.” The rain was making an irksome racket on their steel heads; so, many of them pulled them off. They couldn’t hear a thing coming with those helmets on.
Windsor sensed something, or someone. He scanned the treed forest but didn’t see anything. Turning back to look into the depths of the forest one last time, Windsor spotted someone stepping out from behind a tree. Fog covered the ground, making it difficult to discern the figure. He stopped and stared. Then he caught a glimpse of blonde hair against the dark tree side—it was indeed Akiylah. He admired her beauty. His heart ached with love for her. I am an old fool.
There was someone following them, after all: the immortals. (Or so he thought. It truth, it was only one). It had not been his imagination. Surely that was what he saw at Norssod. King Justiz had not abandoned them. An Immoral was behind them, watching their backs and secretly waging war against the enemy. He caught only a quick glimpse of her, and then she vanished into the fog.
“Windsor,” Nuvatian shouted, noticing his delay. “What are you looking at?”
“Nothing.”
“Did you see someone.”
“No, no one,” Windsor answered. He now proceeded, though, with a smile on his face. It was the first in a long time.
Painful Memories
Waiting on the antelope to roast, the riders sat in solemnity. The fire was warm, but their spirits were cold. They were tired, and frustrated that they had not yet retrieved the Sword of Darvan. Images of the tyranny they had witnessed tarnished their restfulness. Tensions remained high among them.
Some of the riders lay on their backs and watched the stars; others gazed at the roasting antelope, as though hypnotized by the flickering flame. Amase lay on his back, drifting in and out of consciousness, weary from fighting demons and aching with pain from his injury. The bruising from the weight of the sword caused him nearly as much pain than did the cut itself. The contusion went deep into the tissue and bone.
When the antelope was done, they eagerly ate, tearing the meat off the bone with their teeth. The crickets chirped, giving clattering noise to the otherwise quiet night. Searching questions rolled around in many of their heads. Where are we riding to? How long before we find that dumb sword? What are we going to do with it when we do find it? Is Cozbi still alive? But there was one question that turned around in most of their hearts: Why didn’t King Justiz ride out with us?
Windsor had both regrets and questions rolling around in his head? I wish I would have put that key on me instead of in the satchel. But he knew why he hadn’t tucked the key in a pocket in his clothing—he really hoped to forget about it least he fall under the spell of temptation. I wish I had of woken up when he snuck into my room. And what was that potter talking about?
Skeener spoke up, asking what many of them were wondering. “W-why didn’t K-king J-justiz r-ride?”
This was still a sore subject among some of the riders.
After a lengthy pause, Binko responded. “He too has a kingdom to run.”
“That is not good enough,” Zorgar grumbled, his mouth full of meat. “We all had things we needed to do.”
“He will ride when the time it right,” Navi answered, trying to put an end to the subject.
“When the time is right?” Vandorf murmured, throwing the bone he had gnawed to death on the ground. “What is supposed to be the right time?”
“Yes, I agree,” Gilgore said. “We’re out here bustin’ our butts, tryin’ to get this bloody sword back, and he’s nowhere to be found!”
“He said he’ll catch up,” Ozni said. When his calming voice went unheard, he returned to his quiet humming, since their company had ceased to be enjoyable.
“The prophecy says that the immortal king will ride,” Windsor offered, “so what’s your problem? The Circle has a mission, and all we need to be concerned with is fulfilling our mission. The rest is up to the immortal king!” He spoke in a calm but stern voice.
“If he had seen what we just saw, he might be motivated to put a bloody end to Dahvan,” said Buldar, throwing his slab of meat aside.
“We just need to stay focused on what we’re supposed to do. This discussion distracts our focus,” Monguard said, his head jerking a bit as he ripped some meat from the bone he held in his hand.
“But it would be easiah if the Immortals just took care of this since they aren’t under the risk of dying like we are,” Gilgore said. “This should be their responsibility.”
“Why should it just be their responsibility when we are the ones who bear the guilt of our forefathahs?” Monguard said, talking with his mouth full.
“But if he’s not going to ride then he ain’t doing his paht and we can’t kill Dahvan. Only he can do that. So quit defending him,” Zorgar said.
“He will ride,” Amase said assertively, his words silencing everyone momentarily.
Truthfully, they were more silenced by the fact that he spoke than by the sheer words. Amase never said much.
“How do you know? You don’t know anything about him,” Zorgar said.
Windsor had been waiting patiently before speaking up. Now was the perfect time to settle some things. “Amase is right. Some of you don’t know what you speak of.” He paused before continuing, “King Justiz has proven himself to be loyal to us on more than one occasion in times past. You should be cautious with your words of judgment. You use your tongue like a fool uses a sword.”
Windsor stroked his beard and inhaled a long draw from his pipe. “He knew.”
“K-knew what?” Skeener asked, swallowing his last bite of dinner.
“That we were going to lose the sword the moment of our return.”
“H-ow w-would he know that wh-en it hadn’t h-happened yet?”
“Their ways are mysterious. He knows things that we don’t.”
“An immortal king has abilities above even normal immortals.” Binko sat erect and stately, confident of the knowledge he spoke about.
Gilmanza nodded in agreement, acknowledging King Justiz’s past loyalty too. “What you all forget,” he said, “is that the Immortals have knowledge of things that we do not. They know things that we don’t know. If he had ridden out with us then we wouldn’t have the sword to give to him now. Furthermore, he knows what is expected of him and he will handle it in the right time.”
“I suppose you’re right,” said Buldar, picking back up his slab of meat and tearing at the flesh.
Skeener was unwilling to let it drop there. “It j-just makes me so m-mad to see those p-people s-suffah like th-they have. I can’t im-magine dying l-like they did—wr-rapped in ch-chains and s-strung from a c-ceilin’ ‘til you ev-ventually st-starve to death. I d-don’t und-derstand why D-dahvan has not been de-f-feated before now.” His agitation made his stuttering even less controllable.
“Human sufferin’ became a tragedy when man lost his immortality,” Windsor said fo
rcefully, having patiently endured Skeener’s long speech. “We are all subject to its hahsh reality, and those of us who have not suffered as much—well, we are fortunate, and perhaps we should do more to relieve the sufferin’ of othahs. But it is not the immortals’ fault that we suffah,” he continued, his voice now calmer, “nor is it King Justiz’s fault. At some point in this life, sufferin’ touches us all in some degree or anothah. What I am trying to say is this: Do not make the mistake of thinking that just because King Justiz is an Immortal, he is not touched by the sufferin’ of the mortals.” He was almost tempted to tell all that he knew, but just as in King Justiz’s case, it was not the time yet.
“But w-why do in-nocent p-people have to s-suffah?” Skeener jumped in again. “P-people like you!” He pointed at Ormandel. “W-why did you h-have to s-suffah like you d-did?”
Ormandel remained silent, not having a really good answer for why he had suffered. It was a question that had haunted him for years. At times, the hellish memories tormented him. When he slept, his mind frequently replayed the sadistic torture he had undergone. Fear. Death. Blackness. Lashes. Trembling. Coals of fire. Longing for death. The Sword of Power. Darvan. Hell. Inescapable memories tortured him—especially while he slept. Fear often gripped him, even during his waking moments, yet he remained silent about this, ashamed of appearing weak, an emotion thought to be ignoble in a knight.
Fleece persisted on Skeener’s track. “What was it like—being in Quadar? What did they do to you?”
Ormandel was still silent. This was a subject just too personal and too painful for him to breach.
In the silent darkness, he thought back, seeing the room where they had tortured him. He recalled being put on the rack, his body stretched while red hot iron mini-balls were rolled across his belly, and thin painfully hot needles stabbed into his flesh. The whips that plowed his back. The heat of hell. The taunting of death. He saw himself taken to the infernal fire, as they taunted him with threats not truly so empty. He remembered how the immense heat nearly took his breath away, immediately licking up all the moisture with his body.
Images of beatings haunted him. They had beaten him until his flesh lay open and he stood in a pool of his own blood. He had longed for death, wishing it would take away the pain. He remembered vividly the fires of Quadar as they hung him over them, still taunting and threatening even worse fates. Badgering him with every degrading thought and criticism under the sun, they had made him feel completely worthless.
Flashing through his memory was the time when he was weakened from torment. His flesh was numb with pain. It was then, while he was weak and grasping to hold on to life yet wanting to die that Darvan put the Sword of Power in his hands. Darvan knew full well he could do no harm to him since he was not an immortal king. Holding the cursed Sword in his hands, he heard the lies, telling him his fight was useless because there were no more immortal kings left, lies speaking that Darvan already ruled the entire world, and that every last Immortal King had succumbed to its dark powers.
Etched in his memory was the electrifying power of that sword. A feeling of invisibility flooded his soul even as he lay near death. His only hope at life, or so Darvan tried to make him believe. He had never felt anything like it, before or since.
He felt life flood into his weakened form.
With this sword he would live.
His body was racked with excruciating pain as he stared death in the face. He could only hope that it would come quickly, but it had not come quickly enough. He had wished to die and to do so sooner than later. Death had seemed his only deliverer from pain and affliction—until he had held the Sword of Power. In that moment he wanted to live. He wanted to be on top. He wanted to be in a position where this would never happen to him again.
He wanted to rule.
All of this ran through Ormandel’s mind as he sat silently by the fire. Now, gazing into the hot coals of the campfire, as the flames flickered and licked the wood as though it enjoyed consuming it, he said, simply and briefly, “I don’t talk about that.”
Fleece was not content. “Well, then how did you get out of Quadar?” Vandorf elbowed him on one side, as Gilmanza elbowed him on the other. Fleece squealed, but still wanted an answer. Everyone stopped what they were doing.
“I told you,” Ormandel said, standing to leave this inquisition. “King Justiz got me out!” He poured his remaining coffee on the ground. Clearing his throat, he went to his bedroll which was sprawled out between the riders and his mount. He crawled under his covers, pretending to go to sleep, his hand clutching his naked sword. Tears welled up in his eyes as he remembered once again the horrific torment he had experienced. His memory of Quadar was so vivid: the gray firmament and its foul, sulfuric, and musty smell. The large mountain and the rock door that led inside the hollow mountain where the rotunda of torture dwelt. The fear. The pain. It was almost real again.
Lying beneath his cover, with the flames of the fire dancing in the shadows, he replayed in his mind those last moments in Quadar. His body broken and bleeding, they had forced him to hold the Sword of Power in his hands, and its presence called to him, stroking his ego. “You have earned it,” it breathed to his spirit . “You deserve it.” The mental and emotional torture was now nearly more than he could handle. They knew they had him. They knew that now he would become a rider of Darvan. Tears rolled down his cheeks again, as he reflected back on that excruciatingly agonizing experience.
Then the final moments passed through his mind. The earthquake that shook the ground—no small earthquake, either. It shook everything in Quadar, dislodging the sword completely from his hands. At that moment, while everyone was preoccupied with the shaking, he had jumped up and run. He ran wildly down the corridors of the rotunda of torture, where he had spent seasons in various portions of the facility. The guards of Quadar had chased after him, even as the ground trembled beneath their feet.
Now, lying under the cover with his head burrowed in, he remembered the huge gothic dragons stationed at the exit door. He was running as hard as he could, his body racked with unbearable pain. He wondered now how he had found the physical ability to run, when he’d thought himself incapable of standing. At the time he had just done what had to be done.
When he had reached the door, it swung open and he fell on his face, unable to go another yard. When he came to, he was astride a white stelleto, its silvery mane and tail blowing in the wind. King Justiz was riding on the mount and the army of the Immortals from Shy Kadesh was with him. That was still all he could remember. His next memory was of waking up in Shy Kadesh.
Ormandel wept silently. His heart ached with the sheer memory of his painful suffering, a suffering he had no answers for, a suffering that was unjust. Sometimes he wished he had never regained his memory. At other times, he secretly wished he had died, so he could never have those thoughts again—at least the pain and fears would be completely gone, he reasoned. Haunted by his fears, he finally drifted off to sleep.
Sweat beaded up on his forehead, as the sweltering heat from the fires below scorched his backside. His body was wracked with pain, from the hot needles that pierced it. Crisp flames licked with an appetite for destruction, roaring in the infernal below like a volcano warning of its wrath. Above him danced shadows of the flames, whirling about in some satanic ritual. A voice thundered with laughter in the background.
His hands were now moist with sweat. He worked his wrist, wiggling them, working them through the cuffs that bound him. Boisterous laughter permeated the atmosphere. Grabbing hold of the chains, he swung himself around, attempting to reach the edge. He managed to grab hold of a pillar on the ledge. Looking up, he now beheld a dark and hideous face, laughing at him with sword held high, prepared to cut off his hands. As the sword swung, he took hold of the dark figure’s foot and yanked it out from under him, pulling the figure into the thrashing fires below. His face n
ow contorted with a devilish grin, he laughed, a wicked laugh of revenge and power. He picked up the Sword of Power, walked up to Darvan and smiled a devilish smile.
Ormandel awoke with a gasp. His body was moist with sweat, his heart heavy with fear.
Norgidian and the Apothecary
Windsor was sitting on a log, sipping on his morning coffee and thinking. They needed supplies since they used up everything they had while in Randorin. In fact, this was the last of the coffee and how Windsor hated when he didn’t have coffee. But coffee was only one thing among many that they needed. And going into a city could be dangerous, that is, if in fact he was right about his assumptions.
If dark riders were the ones occupying the knightly gear then they could get trapped and attacked within the city. Then again, they did let them out of the city of Norssod so perhaps his assumptions were wrong. It is quite possible that Norssod was taking extra precautions if they were aware of some of the activity of the dark riders. I would take extra precautions if it were my city. But his gut said that something sinister was going on in Norssod and he knew what it was. It was only because of the Immortals that we got out of there alive; that is if indeed that is what I saw. But what if they don’t follow us to Norgidian? But we’re not gettin’ anything done like this. Perhaps we could find out somethin’ in Norgidian. Two of us will go while the rest wait along the banks of the river. But what if we get in the city and they kill us? What did that prophet mean? His thoughts were scattered. He seemed unable to harness them.
With a mug of coffee in hand, Gilmanza joined him. He knew Windsor had a lot on his mind and he knew they needed supplies.
“What do you think? Should we go into Norgidian or not?”
“I don’t know,” Windsor said aloud, answering both his own question and Gilmanza’s. “It could be risky.”
“We need some supplies—and some information.”
“Yeah, I know. Two of us will go while the rest wait by the river.”
Gilmanza paused, taking a swig of his coffee. As long time friends and comrades in war, Gilmanza knew that Windsor was not the sort of person to ride aimlessly around. He liked to get to the bottom of things, find out the secrets and settle matters. He also knew his old friend well enough to know when something was bothering him. He had no idea that it was fear of death, for even Gilmanza thought of Windsor as being practically immortal.
“Sounds like a plan,” Gilmanza said. He decided not to breach the subject yet.
The matter was settled. Two of them would ride into Norgidian.
Gilmanza observed Vandorf setting alone on a log sipping a cup of coffee too. He watched him as he threw his dagger into the ground and pulled it out. He threw it in and pulled it out. Again. Again. He took a swig of coffee and threw the dagger again. “It’s getting to him.”
“Yeah, I’ve noticed. Memories. Tough to live with sometimes,” Windsor said, wishing he didn’t have so many.
The next few days were relatively uneventful, aside from the discouraging whispers of the derves lurking in the trees above. Amase rode in discomfort but he gritted his teeth, bearing the pain in silence. Finally, on the third day, as evening was encroaching, the riders reached the river whose banks they aimed to camp out on. They found the perfect spot shielded by lots of rocks. Most importantly, they were eager to drink up and refill their canisters. Vandorf, however, was about as excited about bathing and shaving as some were about drinking the refreshing waters.
The next morning, Windsor arose at the crack of dawn. Having rethought his present decision that two would ride, he changed his mind. He aimed to ride into Norgidian himself because he didn’t want to endanger anyone else. He feared death but he was old and reasoned it might as well just be him. He sure didn’t want to be responsible for anyone else’s death. He carried enough guilt from his years of comrades dying in war.
But to his surprise, Navi was sitting on a rock behind the dragons waiting on him.
“Morning, crony,” Navi said.
The sound of Navi’s voice startled Windsor.
“When we leavin’ out, crony?”
Windsor moaned. “Who said anything about we? And how’d you know I was goin’ somewhere?”
“Oh, my dear crony, you forget I’m a wizahd too.”
Not wanting to draw attention to themselves, they took horses, borrowing Vandorf’s and Ozni’s. Windsor had scribbled in the dirt that he was going into the city alone and for them to stay put.
Windsor and Navi came to Norgidian, a fortified and progressive metropolitan city. Approaching the entrance to the high walls, they were not surprised to discover that the gates were closed and a cadre of knights was present and fully outfit standing alongside men donned in uniforms. This city was, after all, in close proximity to Quadar. It would only make since that they were on high alert.
But what caught them by surprise was that the gates were opened freely without badgering questions and they were permitted to stroll through the gates with ease. Windsor began to question his previous suspicions.
What they did find striking was that knights were fully outfitted in armor and were wearing their helmets. The heat of summer was kicking up. They had to be scorching in that gear. They concluded that they were either expecting trouble at any moment or they were hiding something. They had their suspicions and leaned towards the later—and they thought they knew what it was.
After they had passed through the gates, the large doors to the city were quickly shut.
Walking down the stone paved streets, the scene was similar to that at Norssod. The streets were populated with knights adorned in shiny steel. Around the walls of the city was an entourage of stalwart knights. Besides the knights, the streets were scarce again, with only a few civilians nervously going about their business. They saw virtually no women or children. An air of fear hovered over the entire city and the streets were shrouded in secrecy. A sinking pessimistic feeling pervaded over both of them.
The two wizards roamed the streets looking for a friendly face and trying to discern the source of the unsettled feel of this city. They wandered into a saddle shop but found it to be unwelcoming.
Finding a tavern a stone’s throw from the saddle shop, the riders entered another tense environment. Hungry, they ordered breakfast. Armored knights stood, watching over the patrons like vultures over prey. The intensity was such that Windsor and Navi ate in silence—along with everyone else in the place. The tavern was devoid of the typical fun spirit: no dart playing, no merrymaking and friendly spirits, and certainly no boisterous laughter. The atmosphere hung thick with an overlay of dread like a black cloud before a storm.
After quickly devouring their food, they high-tailed it out. The guards along the streets stared at them as they rode down the stone pavement. After turning down a few streets, they noticed a stretch in the road, seemingly absent of guards. They also noticed a sign, a gold and jade painted wooden one that read, Pantika’s Apothecary. A sweet aroma of potpourri and aromatic fragrances fluttered in the air just outside the door. The two opened the wooden door, carved with a dragon being sprinkled with healing potions by a woman with a wand. Straightaway, the pleasant aromas of the shop awakened their senses of smell.
A petite woman emerged from the back of the shop, holding a black and white long-haired cat. Her patchwork handkerchief skirt of bright colors flowed as she walked. A silver chain draped her skirt like a belt, its extra links dangling at the side. Long dark curly hair flowed down her back and tiny braids were strung throughout it, some along with colorful beads. Around her wrist was the most unusual rustic bracelet of stones set in old looking silver. Her neck was strung with a variety of beads and polished stones, one with a most unique appearance: it looked like a dragon’s eye, again set in silver. The dark eyeliner around her eyes and her burnt-ruby lips added to her air of mystique and panache.
“May I… help you,” asked the woman, stro
ngly accentuating her words and frequently pausing between them.
“Yes, I would like to sample some of your fragrances,” Windsor said, not knowing what else to say.
“Ah, you have a special lady?” asked the woman. Her voice was bubbly and her smile wide.
“Not special like you might think,” Windsor replied. “But I am looking for a gift for a special friend of ours.”
“Ah, a wo`man of friendship. She smiled a knowing smile.
“Yes,” Windsor said, just trying to keep the conversation going. “Actually, a princess.”
“A princess? Well then, let me show you my finest.”
“Do you have something as fine as you?” Navi asked, flirtatiously. Windsor rolled his eyes at him. This is hardly the time to try to pick up a woman.
“You, you are for`ward. I like that, a man who knows what he likes and goes aftah it. I…I am Pantika.”
“I am pleased, very pleased to meet you, Pantika. I am Navi, and this is Windsor.”
Why did you use our real names? Windsor thought.
“Pleased, very pleased to meet you,” she replied, sticking her hand out for Navi to kiss, which he gladly did. His eyes never left hers.
She showed Windsor an expensive fragrance. “I could buy a team of horses for less than that.”
Is she a princess or not?” scolded Pantika. “Do you cheat her of her wohth?” She showed them a few lesser fragrances, but Windsor was still not satisfied.
“If she is really a prin`cess, you really are goin’ to embarrass her!” She picked up another and showed him it, allowing him to smell the aroma. Windsor now selected one and paid her for it.
“He’s tight with all things,” Navi stepped in. “Me, I know the worth of a woman.” He winked at her. Windsor wanted to smack him now.
“Ahh, I bet you do,” Pantika said. “Perhaps then you can buy me somethin’! I am wohth a lot.”
“I bet you are,” he remarked. “So tell me, is that a dragon’s eye around your neck?” He changed the subject. His tactic was to work around to the information he needed in a subtle way without her being suspicious that they were seeking enlightment more than possessions.
“Yes, it is. The eye of a deahly depahted friend. I glassed his eye ovah to preserve it and made it into a neck`lace so I could always have a paht of him neah me.”
Navi felt a kindred spirit. He decided he could ask this woman some real questions. But before he got the words out of his mouth, Windsor stepped in. “Why are all the steel knights in this town?” He could hardly have cared less about a deceased pet, even if it were a dragon. He had lived long enough to see numerous pets come and go, and had finally decided it was best to live with an expectation of death regarding anything living—even more so, if it were dear to him.
“You are not from around here I see.” Pantika moved closer, after glancing over her shoulder to make sure they were alone. “These, these… beasts, they take the city. They flooded the palace and killed our king. They take our freedom and force our women and children to stay behind the close doors and make ordahs of what we do. Some women are forced to work for them; othahs are forced to surrender favors, it you know what I mean. Our men are forced to work for their benefit instead of their families. If we do not obey, they take us and they torture us. Many have been confined to their torturas prisons. My people, they feah for their lives. Norgidian is no longah free like it used to be.” Though her words were halting, the fire in her eyes showed her anger at this outrage.
“These men,” asked Windsor, “have you seen their faces? Are they… Ridahs of Quadar?”
“I’ve not seen their faces. But, they are Ridahs of Quadar. I know it; I can feel it. They smell like those demons with their rottenin’ flesh.”
Navi stepped back into the conversation. “Why are you able to work in business here when we see no othah women in the streets?” He admired a pewter ring as though he were merely making conversation and not so much fishing for information.
“Ahh,” she continued, “I make a deal with them. See, they want fragrances and ointments and healing herbs. I am the only one for that in these parts. I am allowed to wohk as long as I make them fragrances and healin’ potions. I must make them for free—this is the price for my freedom!
“Ahh, but I deceive them,” she said with a glint in her eye. “You see, I am workin’ on makin’ them a fragrance that will slowly poison them as it seeps through their rottenin’ skin.” She laughed, with almost a sinister cackle in the tone.
“How long before you finish makin’ this potion?” Windsor put the fragrance he had purchased in his satchel.
“Oh, I don’t know. I just can’t find the right potion.”
“Is this possible?” Navi doubted that such a thing could be done.
“Is this possible?” There was almost anger mixed with pride in her voice. “Of course it is possible. I not speak like so if it were not possible. I have already made a love potion. You want to try it?” she said, winking at the younger wizard.
“Well, my dear maiden,” Navi said, looking straight into her eyes, “with the beauty you possess, I hardly think you’ll need to use that love potion on me.”
Windsor rolled his eyes.
“Ahh, I like you.” She smiled.
Windsor was still unconvinced. “Why are there no guards placed in the vicinity of your shop?” he demanded.
“I… I don’t know,” she admitted. “I nevah thought about it. I suppose they don’t perceive a woman as a threat.”
“You seem to be taking this well. I mean you seem like a strong woman,” Navi said, trying to word it in a complimentary way.
“Well, we can’t kill Dahvan. And he’ll always have ridahs. I know that no mattah what I do, I cannot permanently stop them. We…we must wait for the Immortal King to destroy him. The prophecies say that he will arise you know.”
“You are familah with the ancient prophecies?” Navi asked, inquisitively.
“Of course,” she said. “I am a smaht woman. I believe this one… this one will accomplish what he sets out to do. If not,” she added, “then we all will be damned.”
Navi was puzzled that she knew so much.
“Have you seen a blond-headed man?” Windsor was fishing to get the information he needed.
“Ah, the Possessah of the Swohd. Yes, I have seen him. He came in with the ridahs and declared himself lord of the lands. He led them in stormin’ the palace and killin’ our king. He, he was here, but he left,” she concluded. “I have not seen him since.”
“So you know what the Sword of Dahvan looks like?” Navi asked.
“Of course I do. I am a wo’man of much learnin’. Ahh,” she paused, “and you, I know…, yes, I know who… Are there more ridahs with you?”
The wizards stared at her and refused to answer her, fearing that they had said too much.
“Ahh, yes, you, you are…You are the Circle of Ridahs that are prophesied about. You, this cihcle of ridahs, search for the Sword of Dahvan to give to the Immortal King. But they say the king didn’t ride. They say he is fearful. But I don’t believe it. I know that he will ride when the time is right.”
The wizards didn’t answer her. She knew more than a woman of her status ought to know. How did she come by this knowledge? They wondered.
“How do you know this? How do you know who we are?” Windsor asked.
“I have my ways.” She refused to say how she had come by this knowledge. I will tell you that I ovah heahd them say something about Norssod and Dahvan was very angry that they let you out of the city,” Pantika said. “Are all of you in the city?” she asked.
Now they were put on the spot. Without thinking, Windsor whispered, “No.”
Looking up, Windsor now noticed a guard coming their way. “Well, it looks like we must be goin’.”
“If they know who you are they will nevah let you out of the city alive.�
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“We know. That’s why we came alone and on horses instead of on our dragons. We didn’t want to stand out.” Navi wanting to impress her that he had a dragon.
“You have a dragon,” she said with excitement. “I love dragons. When this is ovah you must come back and take me for a ride.”
“I will be back,” whispered Navi. “You intrigue me. And I’ll take this ring,” he added, handing her a few coins to pay for it.
“Ahh, you…you intrigue me too,” she said, taking the coins. “Lay low and come back at dahk and I can help you out of the city. Meet me behind the building,” she whispered, spotting a woman approaching the door just before the guard. “I can help you get out of the city without being spotted. Might not have trouble but nevah know. Besides, might help in the future.” She knew it would.
As the woman entered the shop, Pantika pretended to be making a normal business transaction and Windsor and Navi played along. The woman’s straight dark hair was draped over her shoulders, her eyes were heavily outlined, and her lips were painted. She was an attractive woman, but not nearly as attractive as Pantika. There was something about her that looked harsh.
“You’re back,” Pantika said politely to the woman. “This is Vandia. I am teachin’ her about herbs. She has been with me for many moons now.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Windsor and Navi said, bowing their heads to her.
“Pleased to meet you too,” she replied, though she really didn’t look pleased to meet them; in fact, she looked irritated at their presence. Neither of them had a good feeling about the woman.
Windsor and Navi walked out of the door. Seeing their purchase of fragrance and the ring, the guard simply stood by the door and gawked at them.
“Well, that was interesting,” Windsor said, “and she was very interesting—in you. In fact, she seems like your kind of gihl. I liked her. Sort of odd, but very pretty. A smart one too!”
“Yeah, she’s…she’s alright, crony.” Navi was for once at a loss for words.
