by B T Litell
Walking down the street, accompanied only by the sound of his horse-leather boots striking the cobblestones, Michael wondered to himself how the priest could possibly walk without leaving any sound behind him, especially on the stone streets, surrounded by stonework buildings. A slight breeze carried a tinge of chill through the city, a herald of the nearing approach to winter. This, with the snow creeping down from the peak of the mountain, confirmed that for Michael. The chill in the air showed it would not be an easy winter. If winter came early, it could turn into the worst winter that the city had seen. Or it could start fierce and grow milder as the winter progressed. That had happened the previous winter.
When Michael arrived at Master Gamel’s home, he slid the sealed letter under the apparently heavy door and turned to head for the temple. His conversations with Master Gamel had grown interesting at times and Michael wanted to make sure that he wasted as little time as possible getting to the priest.
Michael walked three blocks up from Master Gamel’s house and turned left toward the market. The temple stood on the far side of the market from the artisan street in the city. Michael had never considered himself religious, but he did visit the temple from time to time, though he could have possibly gone more frequently. As he approached the temple, he gazed up at its three spires that rose to the sky, almost like a bridge between this world and the one beyond, icy remorse chilled him to the bone more than the cold mountain wind. To leave the only life he had known, and for one that would be unknown to him until he dove into a new life brought doubt. Despite that he already made his choice, doubt gnawed within himself like a street dog eating through refuse.
“Am I making the right choice?” Michael asked himself as he stopped outside the temple doors. Of course, because he had asked himself, he knew he had no answer for that question. Nevertheless, he remained the only person he could ask such a question at this point. Perhaps the priest would have more answers during their journey to the capital.
The doors of the temple were large, pointed arches with stained glass in the upper portion. The designs were ornate and intricate; they would cast sunlit promises of a life after this upon the ground as the sun rose through the sky. A pair of brass rings hung on the inner edges of each door, seeming to offer entrance to anyone approaching the temple. The chill from the rings nipped at Michael’s hand when he grasped it and pulled open the thick, oak doors open. The door moved with surprising ease, given its size, and the hinges whispered a quiet symphony of the slightest friction in the metal. Someone clearly took pride in their job as they had been maintaining the hinges. Perhaps the lack of sound was to not disturb the ceremonies and rituals that would take place inside during their regular hours.
As Michael closed the temple door behind him, the light of dozens of candles forced him to squint until his eyes adjusted to the brighter light inside. The floor, wooden planks with a plush white rug that formed a walkway to the altar, shone in the candlelight. At the very end of the temple, Michael saw the priest kneeling with his cowl drawn off his shaved head. As Michael approached, he saw the priest’s lips moving in a silent prayer. He held his hands close to his chest, palms and fingers touching flat against each other. The raven on the back of his right hand was more visible in the candlelight, but Michael wanted not to disturb the priest during his prayers to get a closer look at the marking.
“It is the sigil of the Order of Ravens. Curiosity captivates many when they see the raven, but it has no powers, and that is its only meaning,” the priest said suddenly without looking at Michael. “There are many signs a priest wears such as this one during our trials to become a priest.”
“Sir, I have made my decision,” Michael said, not sure how to reply to the priest about his curiosity.
“I have noticed, child of the Allfather. This choice could not have been an easy one for you, but I promise you will make a difference in the future. Our world may not know the sacrifice you have chosen to make, but no one will be able to ignore the consequences of your actions,” the priest stated calmly as he stood and turned toward Michael. His dark grey eyes seemed to peer into Michael’s soul. This feeling was new to Michael. Something, he couldn’t say exactly what, was different about this priest. The man who tended to Feldring’s temple, while not a priest, was calm and caring, but this priest seemed harder. Rougher. As if he had seen battle, perhaps.
“I’m feeling doubts about this choice. This is the only life I have known. Feldring has been my home for my whole life, and I am but a humble carpenter’s apprentice,” Michael stated.
“Child, we come from all walks of life. The Allfather chooses us all. To feel doubts about this choice shows you are not simply a humble carpenter’s apprentice, but a human. I’ve doubted and questioned my calling to priesthood many times throughout the years. The reason for our calling in this life is not what matters. It is the willingness of our hearts to carry out that calling. Don’t be ashamed for feeling doubt, Michael,” the priest replied, striding toward the doorway with Michael following shortly behind him. The carpet muffled any sounds their footsteps would have made on the bare wooden floors. If he would have made any sounds without the carpet’s presence, that is.
Calmly, the priest pushed on the door, opened it with ease, donned his hood as he left the temple, and returned his hands to the inside of his sleeves. The brisk early morning air seemed not to affect the priest as they strolled through Feldring. The far distant sky had grown to a lighter blue; a sign the sun would be rising soon. It would be at least an hour before any sign of the sun peeked over the horizon far to the east. This was Michael’s favorite part of the day. Many mornings he would wake up and simply watch as the sun rose over the horizon far below the city and bathe the world with its magnificent light. The mountains above the city would reflect the rosy glow and the warming light from the ever-frosted peaks.
Michael and the priest walked toward the city gate which stood at the lowest point of the city, concealed by a switchback road. As they approached the top of the switchback, a train of several merchants and their wagons full of wares made their way into the city. Their horses all seemed to match despite there being different merchants. They had white fur around their ankles and white stripes down the center of their faces, from just above their eyes to the end of their noses. The white patches flared out and surrounded the horses’ mouths, with an appearance almost like the pendulum of a grandfather clock. The animals happily trotted up the road pulling the wagons; their blinders seemed ineffective for the horses as they continued looking around as they walked.
“Do we have horses?” Michael asked after the wagons passed. Walking to the capital would take much longer than two weeks, let alone the fact of how tiring that would be for them both.
“I have two geldings the King waiting in the stables. It seems that the guards here don’t allow horses that are not pulling merchant wagons into the city. The capital is similar, with horses only being allowed in the city if they are stabled at the castle,” the priest replied.
When they arrived at the gate, the guards eyed them for a few seconds, but went back to check wagons and merchants for anything that Feldring or the Duke considered contraband. There was very little that wasn’t allowed into the city, but every so often a merchant tried to bring something in. Michael didn’t know what all was considered “contraband” by the city guard, or the Duke, nor did he have any idea what they would search for. Rumor in the city said the merchants would need authorization from the Duke to enter the city regardless of what they sold, or how regular of a merchant they were to the city. Nothing besides rumor said that though. Many merchants would get upset if those rules were implemented.
Inside the stable, a stable hand waited patiently with the geldings saddled, brushed, and fed. The priest walked over and handed the stable hand a small pouch of what Michael imagined to be coins. The horses stood still, moving less than statues, except when they blinked. Michael wondered if they were once war horses with as still as they
were standing. Their shoulders and legs showed enormous strands of muscle through the short hair. Their necks were thick, protruding from large backs that showed the hint of ribs despite looking well-fed.
The priest climbed into the saddle on the black gelding, his feet finding the stirrups naturally. It was the same color as the raven marking, solid black except for a white splotch on its forehead, centered between its eyes. As he mounted, the horse stamped one of its hooves, the only movement the horse made the entire time. Michael’s horse was solid white, from nose to tail. It calmly stood while Michael lifted himself into the saddle and grabbed the reins. Climbing into the saddle was less natural for Michael than it had been for the priest, as he had learned to ride a horse and hadn’t ridden many times since then. He had been in his teenage years when his father had brought him out to this very stable to go riding in the countryside. At this moment Michael tried his best not to fall out of his saddle, a poor omen for the rest of the trip to the castle, as they weren’t even moving yet.
“Let’s ride. I don’t expect any trouble, but just in case have your sword ready. This should be a quick journey, but you never know, really.” The priest snapped his reins and Michael’s horse followed without any directions from its rider.
“I never learned to use my sword. Father taught me how to hold it and how to draw and sheath it without cutting myself, but that was all. My father passed his sword along to me when he died, but as a carpenter, I never needed it,” Michael replied honestly.
“We will train you as a soldier after you have spoken with the King,” the priest stated. He seemed not taken aback by Michael’s comment.
“I am going to speak with the King?” Michael choked, feeling a wave of panic splash through the very depths of his soul.
“There’s no reason to worry. The King simply wants to meet you before we deal with this Shadow Knight. He just has a few questions for you,” the priest replied calmly. As the horses walked along the road, their shoes clacked against the stone roadway.
Trees lined the road and would have provided shade had their leaves not fallen for the approaching winter. Their barren branches waved with the light, chilly breeze that rolled down from the mountains. It was odd for the wind to be coming down off the mountains. Usually the wind came from the south, not the north. The first rays of sunlight shone through the trees, casting playful, dancing shadows on the road as the horses sped into a trot. A league down the road the trees thickened, and the road widened, though it also turned from stone to packed dirt. The ride grew less smooth as they pushed onward. A merchant and his wagon rolled down the road toward Feldring, pots, pans, spoons and other wares hanging on the outside of the wagon clanging as the wagon rumbled over the uneven road.
Michael watched the side of the road as rabbits and squirrels scurried through the grassy brush ahead of the horses, collecting food for their hibernation. Few songbirds remained around Feldring this late in the autumn, so the only sound that accompanied them on their journey was the echoing of the horses’ shoes on the slightly buried stones along the dirt roadway. Overhead some squirrels ran through the branches from tree to tree, playfully chasing each other. Michael smiled to himself watching them.
“These woods seem really lively for being late autumn,” the priest commented. “I wasn’t expecting to see this many critters.”
“It’s been unseasonably warm lately. I think the winter will be harsh this year. I hope the people of Feldring have prepared,” Michael replied.
As the trees thickened around the road, Michael saw small stone structures standing between the trees. Vines and moss covered many of the structures as nature fought to regain control of the profane structures men had once built which marred the pristine beauty of the forest. A doe stood between a couple smaller structures, her tail flicking as she looked up and watched the horses as they thundered down the road. After they passed her, Michael heard her snort and the faint sound of her hooves as she bounced away through the ruins and trees.
“These ruins are the outskirts of the Lost Capital. The name has long since fallen out of our history. Before the collapse of our homeland, something that happened long ago, another civilization lived on this continent. Their society collapsed long before we arrived here and began building our new lives,” the priest stated calmly.
“What do you mean by ‘the collapse of our homeland’?” Michael inquired as the horses slowed to a canter.
“Our people are not from Prikea, Michael. Long ago there was another land, Drendil. Our people lived there until dark experiments and rituals brought a Madness to the land that we could not live with. Wars, famines, plagues, and monsters. So many monsters. We had to abandon the continent, in search of other lands to inhabit. No one can go to Drendil and return here,” the priest explained. This sounded like something that should have been explained in the history classes Michael had attended as a child.
“Why would they not teach about this in history classes?” Michael wondered, partially to himself.
“A few generations ago, the King feared what may come of others returning to Drendil. He struck its name and reference of it from the history books. Well, most of the history books. The priesthood maintains records so we can protect Prikea. Most of the time we are successful in that matter,” the priest told. Michael could tell he was a gifted speaker, telling this story—
Without warning, a clap of thunder boomed through the woods, the branches waving from the blasting sound. Fierce gusts of wind flashed through the woods, any leaves that had remained on the trees flying violently through the air, evicted from their branches. The horses dropped their heads, trying their best to block the wind from their eyes. They slowed to a just slower than a trot as sticks and small branches fell from the trees. Debris flew down the road toward Feldring, though it would never make it to the city, yet not a cloud floated in the sky as a warning of this sudden tempest.
“We should hurry as much as we can.” Upon saying that the priest flicked his reins and kicked his feet against his horse’s belly. Michael followed his lead and the horses were galloping despite the wind. The priest’s hood blew off his head, resting on his shoulders. Sweat collected on his brow and made his whole head glisten.
As the horses galloped around a slight bend in the road, they came to a fork and turned left. The trees thinned after a few hundred meters; upon leaving the trees, the wind died as quickly as it had started, not even a slight stirring in the air. The horses slowed into a canter, and Michael looked around, watching for any sign of what could have caused the sudden storm. Feldring stood a few miles northwest, the bastion of a city standing like a sentry keeping a watch over the plains from the mountains. Far above the city, the dark entrance to the silver mines looked to be the only blemish on the face of the mountains.
“Such a wonderful sight, Feldring. I imagine it pains you to be leaving,” the priest said, donning his hood and covering his head once more.
“The mountains have been my home for my whole life. I have often just gazed upon their majestic peaks in awe of them. My heart is quite heavy to be leaving,” Michael replied. Simply saying that brought some relief to him, yet that pebble of sorrow remained steadfast.
“Leaving your home is always difficult. This is a necessary pain, Michael. Without you, the Shadow Knight will wreak havoc in this world without resistance. We need to rid our Realm of this threat. It will not eliminate evil entirely, but perhaps we can keep the darkness from spreading for the time being.”
“All of this is entirely new to me. I’m worried that I’ll fail in this time of need, sir,” Michael replied. The horses’ hooves thundered along the road under the riders, small clouds of dust rising from the road as they moved along.
“My name is Joshua. You don’t need to be formal with me. I have no doubt that you are exactly who we need at this dire moment. You will not fail, Michael. This won’t be an easy journey in the slightest, but nothing that is worth this much is ever easy. But with the blessing of the
King, and adequate training, this burden thrust upon you can be lessened.”
For the next few hours, they rode on in silence, Joshua watching the road for any threats, and Michael trying not to let his mind run wild with his doubts and fears. He had to concentrate more than he ever wanted to admit, staying atop his horse. He could feel the beast moving under him and that made him nervous. When they stopped that evening, Michael sat on the ground with his pipe in hand. He sat looking into the empty bowl of his pipe, trying to calm his mind. He gazed at the grooves inside the bowl, left from years of scraping partially burned tobacco from the bowl, trying to find some comfort in them. He found none, even after a few minutes.
From the corner of his eye, Michael saw his companion watching him, so he filled the bowl of his pipe, packing the leaves into the bowl gently but purposefully. With a quick motion, Michael struck the match on the stone he carried just for that purpose. The whisking sound of the fire flashing over the head of the match and consuming the wood comforted him, but not as much as he had hoped. With a few puffs at his pipe, Michael blew a cloud of grey-blue smoke skyward, watching as it spread into the air, eventually to the point he could not see the smoke anymore. He felt some internal pride, having finally lit his pipe with a singular match. He had to remind himself to appreciate the small things, no matter how irrelevant they might have seemed.
