by Tod Langley
5
Respite
Kristian sat on a small wooden stool, huddled within a blanket before a warm fire. He stared blankly through the flames at the bricks beyond trying to remember what had happened the day before. The young Erandian king did not know how he had survived but was grateful for the chance to rest after so long. He looked at his surroundings for the tenth time reassuring himself that he really was safe. Kristian appeared to be alone; his few possessions, other than his clothes, were piled neatly in one corner. The pile included the Belarnian broadsword Kristian had taken during the battle against Ferral. He had lost the jeweled sword his father had given him and the old cavalry saber he had carried since his youth.
Kristian sighed.
He was losing his good memories: his hopes and dreams, his few good deeds, his admiration and love for his parents—just like he had lost the swords. Memories of having acted out in anger, frustration, and ingratitude blocked out his few remaining good recollections at a pace too overwhelming for Kristian. Kristian felt dull and blunt like the Belarnian broadsword and his resolve wavered. The young king felt he might shatter, like a sword striking granite and exploding into thousands of razor-sharp fragments.
Kristian shuddered and tried to wrap himself better in the blanket, but no warmth could keep out the cold, dark thoughts that enveloped him. Kristian closed his eyes and tried to think of a cause worth fighting for—something worth the continued struggle to prove to Mikhal that he could be a better man.
He looked deeper into the fire, and as he mulled things over, Kristian realized that Mikhal’s thoughts did not matter. Being an honorable man doesn’t matter. I’m not doing any of this to gain respect. I’m doing this to save Allisia.
Kristian looked at the room again. He had only been awake for a few minutes. He had found soup on the stool next to his bed and eagerly devoured it, but so far, no one had come in to let him know how he had arrived here. Few personal touches decorated the room other than an upside down garden of herbs and roots hanging from the rafters to dry. Kristian found the simplicity of the room inviting.
He took another sip of the hot broth left for him. It brought a dull aching feeling back into his muscles, reminding him of how hard he had pushed himself since the battle against Ferral. Kristian welcomed the soreness; it reminded him he was still alive—it also reminded him of his failures. He tried to smile despite his brooding mood, realizing this was the first time he had been under a roof in a month.
“Has it been that long?” Kristian asked. His shoulders slumped as an image of Allisia being carried off by the demon flashed into his thoughts. The young king sighed and then got to his feet, looking for his clothes.
“They’re hanging out back to dry.” Kristian spun around startled by the voice. A young man with brown hair and plain features stood in the doorway looking at him. “Your clothes, I mean. I washed them.”
“Thank you,” Kristian said, he could force little else out of his sore throat. The young man relaxed and came further into the room. He reached out with his hand, eager to introduce himself.
“I’m—” He tripped on the edge of the rug and nearly fell. Cursing under his breath, he caught himself and pretended that nothing had happened. Kristian tried to keep from smiling. Reaching out his hand again, the young man said, “I’m Maurin. You’re in my home. Welcome.”
Maurin shook Kristian’s hand roughly, making him wince. “Thank you for saving me,” Kristian said. “What happened to … my friend?”
“He’ll be alright, though it will take him a bit longer to recover,” Maurin said. “He was delirious when I found the two of you. Your friend’s leg needed some stitching from a bad fall and he needed more rest than you, but he’s much better now.” Kristian relaxed a little, smiled, and sat back down, weary just from the short period of standing.
“How did you find us?”
“I often walk out that way,” Maurin answered. The man hesitated, adding, “I walk out there to find herbs and roots, things that will be useful in curing the sick and injured. Though I have to admit, I’ve never stumbled upon two dying men before.”
Kristian smiled.
“Would you like more?” Maurin asked, pointing to Kristian’s cup. When Kristian nodded, Maurin took the cup and went to the fireplace, where he ladled soup from a large pot.
“Ow!” Maurin hopped about shaking his foot. The pot had slipped out of his hand and fallen with a loud clang, smashing his toe. Kristian wondered if this clumsy man was the village healer or fool.
Embarrassed, Maurin bowed his head. “Actually, my friends call me ‘Maurin the Unmaker.’” He looked down at his boots as he handed the refilled cup to Kristian. “Because if you give me enough time, I can break just about anything.”
Although he continued to look sheepish, Maurin laughed at his own clumsiness and Kristian soon joined in. Kristian knew right then that he liked Maurin. He was thoughtful and had a special way of making his awkwardness seem funny. He appeared only a little older than Kristian but much thinner, like a long piece of rope, tall and gangly. His hair fell across his face, making it even more difficult to take him seriously. It was easy for Kristian to see that this man always meant well, even if he rarely got anything done without breaking a valued possession.
“Come,” Maurin invited, still chuckling, “let’s check on your friend.” The two walked out of the room and down the darkened hall to another bedroom. Maurin lent a hand to help steady Kristian as he hobbled along. The healer knocked and entered without waiting for a reply. He beamed at Mikhal, leading Kristian to believe that Maurin rarely had guests, but Mikhal was sitting on the edge of his bed staring at his open palms and did not look up when they entered.
“Did you get any rest?” Kristian asked, concern showing on his face.
Mikhal continued staring at his hands but did not say a word.
The next evening, the three sat on the front porch drinking warm cider and enjoying the gentle evening breeze.
“You can imagine my surprise at finding two men unconscious in the middle of the plains, only a league from the village,” Maurin said.
“So close to shelter,” Kristian shook his head in disbelief. “We were so close.” The Erandian looked down the dirt path that Maurin called the main street. There were many homes and businesses, but all of the shops appeared to be closed; everything was quiet. At first glance, everything seemed peaceful in the village, but Kristian sensed an undercurrent of anxiousness. People had closed and boarded their homes because they were afraid.
The few villagers Kristian did see stared fearfully at him. What kind of dread do they think I brought with me? The frightened looks on their faces mirrored those in his dreams. Their eyes reminded him of his failures, of the countless people that had died and of those still dying every day because of him. Kristian quickly looked away from each person that passed by, ashamed of what he had done.
Mikhal concerned him even more. His companion had not been the same since Maurin saved them. Mikhal had further distanced himself from Kristian—even more than before their trek across the plains. He rarely talked, did not eat much, and continually excused himself from their company. His eyes stayed bloodshot, and he looked exhausted despite the care Maurin gave him. Even now, as they sat on the steps to Maurin’s house, Mikhal held his cup of cider loosely in his hand and stared out into the night.
“So, why did I find two young, exhausted men on the plains in the middle of nowhere?” Maurin asked them. Kristian had no idea what to tell him. He tried to push the question off by asking one of his own.
“How far are we from the forest?” Kristian asked.
Maurin shrugged. “Not far. Less than a few hours’ ride. Why do you ask?”
“The people that live in those woods,” Kristian continued. “Do you know of them? What are they like?”
Maurin shrugged again. “I know little of them. I think few people really know them at all. They keep to themselves, always hidden withi
n the solitude of their forest. They rarely visit our small village. They’ve enough to worry about, I suppose. They’ve been at war with the Holtsmen for hundreds of years. I’ve never seen the mountain warriors myself, but they must be mighty warriors indeed to fight for that long with the Atlunam. There has been much slaughter on both sides—and not all, I hear, justified by war. You can see the sorrow in the eyes of the woods folk that come here to trade. They have seen too much death, but they refuse to make peace. I think they’ll keep fighting until they’re all dead.” Maurin shook his head in disapproval.
“You’ve seen them before, then?” Kristian asked, amazed.
“Of course,” Maurin replied. “From time to time, one or two of them will come here to trade or get news of what is going on to the north. Why are you so surprised? They might be a little eerie, but there is nothing magical about them. Though, I’m sure many Northerners see them that way. They’re just ordinary people like you and me. Actually, Mikhal looks a lot like them. I would have assumed he was one of them had you not said you were from …” Maurin paused in confusion. “Where are you from?”
Kristian had been trying to avoid the question ever since he woke in Maurin’s home, but Kristian realized he would have to give the healer an answer of some sort.
“Erand. We’re from Erand,” Mikhal answered. The words came slowly from his lips. He struggled out of his dark mood trying to join the conversation. There was an anxious look on his face as he turned to Maurin. “Tell me, Maurin, these fair-haired people that look like me … are they tall, also?”
Maurin nodded. “Mostly. I mean they’re not all identical, but … yes, most of them are of a height with you.”
“We must go there. I must see them for myself,” Mikhal declared, attempting to stand. He acted as if he wanted to leave right at that moment. Mikhal turned his head when he heard Maurin scoff at the idea.
“What?” Mikhal demanded.
“If you want to try and find them, be my guest. But you never will,” Maurin snorted, amused by Mikhal’s determination. “No one finds the woods folk, the Atlunam. They would just as soon use you for target practice. They are the best hunters in Erinia. In a few weeks, we would find your body with a score or more arrows sticking out of it.”
“What about this place?” Kristian asked trying to lead Maurin away from their current conversation. “For such a peaceful village that wants nothing more than to be left alone, there seems to be a lot of tension.” Kristian waved his hand, taking in the houses surrounding them. “Why are their windows boarded up? Who are they afraid of?”
Maurin shrugged. “Nothing. Nothing real, anyway.” Maurin leaned closer to explain in a hushed voice. “There have been reports of large armies to the north. Men in armor walking all night in silence. The army is always just out of sight of the people that hear them, but they know something is there and they become afraid.”
Maurin shrugged again as though the stories meant nothing more to him than tales told to scare children. “They’re just rumors, half truths. People around here live very boring lives and make up fanciful things to occupy themselves—you know—trying to add some excitement.”
Kristian stood and took a few steps down from Maurin’s house and into the street. His voice was full of grief and desperation.
“He’s using them to search for me, isn’t he, Mikhal?” Kristian asked.
“You don’t know that. He may just be sending them out to conquer someone else,” Mikhal replied.
Kristian shook his head. “No. I can feel him bearing down on me. And Allisia is running out of time.” He turned to face Mikhal and Maurin. “We’re all running out of time.” Kristian focused on the healer, a pleading look on his face. “Maurin, will the people of your village listen to me if I tell them something of great importance?”
“What are you going to do?” Mikhal asked, raising an eyebrow.
Maurin shrugged and then answered Kristian, “I don’t know. Most people here think I’m a fool—always collecting herbs and reading books. I doubt they would believe I even had guests unless they saw you for themselves.”
“Well, please try,” Kristian begged. “I must speak to them immediately. Your village is in great danger. We must warn them.” Maurin nodded, seeing the concern in Kristian’s eyes. “And Maurin, you’re definitely not a fool. I would know. You have been nothing but kind and selfless since we met. Thank you.” Maurin smiled shyly and nodded before he got up to rally his townsfolk.
Kristian and Mikhal stood apart from the growing crowd. The towns’ people gathered in small groups around the center of the village. Most of them spoke in hushed tones fearing this meeting had to do with the strange tales of an army to the north. A few of the older villagers grumbled about being woken in the middle of the night while others scratched their heads. Maurin herded in those that continued to stumble toward the gathering place. Cursing, a large man with thick arms and a bushy, black mustache threatened to hit Maurin over the head if he did not settle down. Maurin tried to order the big man to move along. “Eroly, just hurry up. My friends have an important message to tell all of you.”
“The only thing that would surprise me is if they really are your friends, healer … or should I call you a poet, now?” the big man asked. Maurin ignored Eroly’s jibe, ushering him toward the front of the crowd.
Soon, over a hundred villagers stood in the town square. Kristian scanned their faces, searching for those that might be supportive, but few seemed friendly. Kristian was nervous and did not know how to begin.
Mikhal approached him. “It’s time.” The words could not have been more appropriate if they had come from an executioner.
Kristian looked at him, nervous. “I don’t know what to say. I thought I would, but I can’t find the words.”
Mikhal shrugged. “First time I’ve ever seen you speechless.” The cavalier’s words stung, but Kristian was getting used to them. Mikhal nodded toward a bench, prodding or daring his king to tell the villagers what was coming toward them. Reluctantly, Kristian climbed onto the bench looking at those gathered around him. He raised his hands in an effort to quiet those nearby. Kristian’s mouth was dry as he started to speak.
“Thank you for coming,” Kristian started. “You have to understand that what I am about to tell you is of the utmost importance.” The towns’ folk became still, waiting for Kristian to continue.
“I have come from the north and bring terrible news. The King of Belarn has raised a nightmare army and plans to subdue or destroy all of Erinia.” The people began muttering among themselves. They talked in frightened tones about what might happen to them.
“How do you know this?” Eroly, the blacksmith, asked.
“We’ve seen this army ourselves. It’s made up of thousands of soldiers and they march west to destroy all those that oppose Belarn,” Kristian answered, choosing his words with care.
“Then we have nothing to fear. We’re just a small village and threaten no one. This king will not waste his time sending an army here,” another villager called out.
Kristian shook his head in disagreement. “No, I’m sorry, but he will come here.” The Erandian hesitated a moment, afraid to tell them more. “Ferral will come here because he is searching for survivors of a battle that was fought a few weeks ago. We fought to defeat him and rescue Princess Allisia of Duellr.
“Ferral is the King of Belarn and a sorcerer. He holds Allisia prisoner in his fortress. An army of her countrymen, along with the Prince of Erand and his escort, attempted to free her. Their army was destroyed through treachery and magic. Ferral used this magic to create an army that will do anything he commands. That army now rides west to destroy everyone in their path.” Kristian paused to gauge their reactions.
“That doesn’t explain very much,” one stubborn, old man shouted back. “We care nothing for what happens to the kingdoms north of here. They’ve never bothered us before. Why would they start now? W
e’re not a part of this army that fought against him.”
Kristian grimaced not wanting to give a more detailed account, but he had no choice. “Ferral will come here looking for me. I was a part of that army.” Kristian could hear them gasp, shocked by the news. Fear grabbed hold of many of those standing near Kristian and Mikhal.
“Then you have led them here! We are doomed,” voices cried out from the crowd. Panic had taken hold, and none of the villagers appeared to know what to do.
“Maurin, you always were the idiot. Now look at what you’ve done!” another man shouted.
“It isn’t his fault,” Kristian said. “Maurin was only trying to help us. He didn’t know. I had no intention of putting you in danger. And there’s more. I haven’t told you everything. This army that Ferral has raised is … an army of the dead.” The Erandian king heard several men laugh, but others gasped terrified. Many had heard the rumors of the silent army to the north that only moved at night. Kristian’s words only confirmed that evil walked the land.
Eroly spoke out again. He was less confident, now, but still seemed to represent most of the villagers. “Who are you? Why does this king seek out just two men with an entire army? And how do you expect us to believe stories we only use to keep our children in line?”
Mikhal saw the look on Kristian’s face: he was faltering under the pressure of their questions. Kristian looked out at the crowd, speechless. Mikhal jumped up beside his king then, sensing that things were about to get out of hand. Mikhal knew the villagers had to be warned; they had to flee before it was too late.
I won’t let them end up like my friends, he swore.
“I’m Mikhal Jurander. I was an officer with the cavaliers that escorted the Prince of Erand. Everything he has told you is true. I saw the evil magic that Ferral used to destroy the Duellrian army and my companions. As Ferral began to lose the fight he called upon the darkest magic imaginable. I saw hundreds of men with ghastly wounds stand up from where they had died. I even saw a woman thrown from the walls of the black city stand and rush my prince and me. The fall was nearly sixty feet; she had a deep cut across her throat. No one could survive something like that, unless through some dark magic. These dead creatures rushed those still fighting, ripping them apart with their bare hands. They surrounded and destroyed us.”
Mikhal lowered his head in grief. “Only three survived the battle that we know of. Myself, another soldier, and our prince.” Mikhal gestured to indicate Kristian. “This is the prince that fought against Ferral and his evil plans. His father was killed by Ferral’s treachery. He is now the King of Erand. Our people have been scattered across Erinia by Ferral’s evil forces.”
The villagers’ mood turned ugly, afraid of what would happen to them if Ferral learned that the King of Erand hid in their town.
Kristian called out again trying to quiet them, “It’s true. I am the King of Erand, and I am sorry. I never intended to involve those that did not wish to help us.”
“What do you mean? What do you want?” It was Maurin that had spoken.
“We have come west searching for those that would help us in our cause,” Kristian asked. “The princess Ferral still holds captive is my betrothed. I fear he will kill Allisia soon if I don’t help her. But I do not ask you to help me because of some private quest. I ask you to help us because Ferral threatens every living person in Erinia. He is a madman who will not stop until he controls everything or has destroyed what he can’t control. Surely, you know that Belarn has never been a kind neighbor. Now that this madman is king, I promise you will not be safe from him.” Kristian paused afraid to ask the question.
“Will any of you help us?” Mikhal asked. “We need supplies, but mostly, we need volunteers. We need all types of people to help us rebuild an army to stand against Ferral. Will any of you help?” The crowd stood silent. Not a single person moved or said anything.
Finally, Maurin came forward. “I will help you if I can. I can’t fight, but I can help with the sick and injured.” Kristian smiled, thanking Maurin, and then looked out at the crowd in expectation.
Several men walked away, mumbling that they wanted nothing to do with the King of Erand or his quest. Some even shouted for him to leave, now. Most stood around, sheepish and not sure what to believe, not wanting to make a decision. Finally, Eroly the Blacksmith came forward and spoke.
“I’ve heard the stories of the silent army to the north,” Eroly said. “I don’t know what their intentions are or whether they are the terrible creatures you speak of. But I know that this is my home. My wife and business are here. Everything I have is here. I can’t leave my wife, and I will not put her in danger by following you.” Kristian nodded, understanding perfectly. The blacksmith left then and most of the villagers followed.
Kristian and Mikhal stood looking around at the few still gathered. None of them would look at him. They stood in small circles discussing what might befall their village in worried tones. No one else came forward.
Once all of the villagers left, Maurin approached the two Erandians and bowed awkwardly. “Sire, why didn’t you tell me you were the King of Erand?” Maurin began to kneel before Kristian, shaken by the turn of events. He had never met a king before and had no idea how to react now that his friend turned out to be a king.
“Please, Maurin, get up,” Kristian said. “I was only a man in need of help when you found me, and you gave me that help not realizing who I was. It really doesn’t matter. I have no kingdom to rule, and my countrymen are scattered. My father is dead.” Kristian paused, reprimanding himself. It was all too easy to resort back to those habits that he found easier—to complain and argue, to doubt the words of others.
He saw the face of one of the cavaliers that had rushed toward the swarming mass of dead creatures the night of the battle. He had wanted to fight and die by the side of his comrades. That, Kristian began to realize, was a courage and nobility that I have never been capable of.
He then added, shaking a bit, “Call me by my name as any true friend would.” Maurin did not know what to say. He looked to Mikhal for guidance. The young cavalier nodded.
“Thank you for all you’ve done, Maurin,” Mikhal said as he stepped forward to shake Maurin’s hand. Kristian noticed a pained and distant look flashing across Mikhal’s eyes.
“But,” the clumsy healer stammered, “but what are we going to do now?”
Kristian shrugged. “I don’t know. I hoped more people would join us. I’m afraid they will die if they don’t take our warning seriously.”
Maurin snorted. “They never listen when they should. And listen far too often when they shouldn’t.” He threw his hands in the air. “Lord, save these poor, ignorant fools.”
Kristian was only half-paying attention to his companion. He noticed a large figure edging through the shadows. The stranger looked around, furtive, ensuring no others were close by. Then he stepped quickly into the square.
It was Eroly.
The big man stopped in front of Kristian and his friends. He bowed. “Forgive me for not being supportive earlier. I have much to look after here in the village, as I said. My wife, my shop, they are everything to me,” he pleaded.
“There is nothing to forgive. Everyone must choose their own path. But, I warn you, danger is close and may come this way,” Kristian said.
The man frowned thinking hard about the warning. “I know. I know, but … I can’t go with you.” He acted nervous, anxious to speak his mind. “Still, I can’t just let you go on with no help at all.”
“Humph. I volunteered didn’t I? My skills in healing will come in handy in the battles to come. So would yours, Eroly. You are the best blacksmith the town has ever had.” Maurin pointed at Eroly saying, “Why, you could turn out the finest weapons. You could furnish the sharpest blades to cut down the enemy.”
Eroly snorted. “I wouldn’t give you a blade for fear you might trip on it and cut yourself. Then the one who would re
ally need healing would be you.” Kristian choked on a laugh. Mikhal said nothing. Apparently, their first recruit was well known in the village. “I don’t know why they even accepted you on their quest, Maurin the Unmaker.” Eroly paused a moment, thinking, then asked, “Why are you willing to leave everything behind any way, healer? You may be a clumsy fool, but you know we respect you. You’re one of us, after all.”
“Really?” Maurin challenged. He looked around at the plain colorless homes and shops that lined the one dirt road cutting through his village. The healer lowered his eyes, murmuring.
“Humph, first time I’ve not been able to hear what you’ve had to say!” Eroly goaded him.
Maurin’s temper got the better of him, and he shot back, “just go back and hide behind your wife and forge then.”
“Now you just wait a minute. I have something I want to give you … all of you,” Eroly replied, hurt. “Please, follow me.” He turned motioning for the three to follow. Shrugging, Kristian started off after him with Maurin and Mikhal right behind.
Kristian patted the muscular neck of the horse Eroly had given him. The fine black steed nickered enthusiastically sensing the journey ahead. Eroly had given them each a horse from his stable. Mikhal noted that they were as good as any of the horses the Erandian cavalry had used.
Kristian tried to find some personal belonging to give the blacksmith in return, but he had nothing. Eroly would not have accepted it anyway. “These are my gift to you. I would come with you if I didn’t have a family to look after.”
“Your kindness is more than we expected, Eroly. I will not forget your help. And if I survive this war, I hope to return and give you a better thanks than this,” Kristian responded. Eroly bowed, uncomfortable now and ready for them to get on their way. Kristian and Mikhal nodded in return.
As he prepared to leave, Eroly said, “It would probably be a good idea to tie that clumsy oaf to his saddle. You won’t get out of sight of the village before Maurin falls off, hurting either himself or tripping my fine horse and causing even more harm.”
Maurin stuck out his tongue but had no remark to shoot back at him.
“Good Fortune be with you, gentlemen. And Maurin, if no one else in the village will thank you, then let me be the one to say it. Thank you.” He reached out and shook the healer’s hand. “G’luck to you, healer and poet,” the big man said, smiling. “Watch your step.”
His heartfelt thanks warmed Maurin’s spirit. He smiled proudly and tried to give the big man a hug, but Eroly would have none of that.
Eroly frowned at the healer. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked. “I know you never felt like you fit in, but you don’t have to prove yourself like this. You’ve saved more than a few of the townsfolk. Despite what they might say, they know what you’ve done: they will miss you.”
Maurin sighed. “I’m not doing this to prove myself to anyone, Eroly. I just want to see more, do more … I want to be a part of something bigger than just what I see out here on this lonely, boring plain.”
Eroly shook his head. “What will you do if you have to fight? You don’t know anything about swords. You can barely ride a horse.”
“I’m not a fighter and they know that,” Maurin nodded toward his new friends. “I’ll just stay out of their way when there’s fighting to be done.”
Eroly argued, “And when the wounds are terrible? When there is blood everywhere? When there are limbs missing or guts spilling out? What then, Maurin? Are you ready for that?”
Maurin stepped back a little, unsure of how to answer. “I’ll be ready.” Eroly nodded then, knowing he could not talk Maurin out of his decision. Eroly came close, hugged Maurin fiercely for an instant, and then left them.
