“So be it.” The answer entered his mind, though he had no visual contact with the Aasimar.
“My thanks.” Rogan slipped between buildings and headed north toward a short bridge, which served as the only entrance to Salmarsh from that direction. He spread the “all clear” as he walked, making sure everyone knew the battle was over. The bridge was only three body-lengths and stretched over a gully nurturing a slow-moving brook.
An exuberant pair of axe-wielding brothers guarded it. They had instructions to take out the bridge’s supports, should the enemy attempt to gain entry from the north. Luckily, they didn’t start chopping when the Order of the Rising Moon arrived ahead of Rogan. The brothers stood abreast, blocking the way across, however, until he called to them.
“Morton! Genri! Thank you for your diligence. These men are guests, and you may let them pass.” Rogan jogged the rest of the way to the bridge and clasped the still-suspicious brothers on their shoulders. “Please show their quartermaster to the Falkin pasture, where they may keep their horses.”
Rogan nodded to the blonde-maned Master at the front of the procession. “Welcome again to Salmarsh, Sir Golddrake. You have a formidable retinue, and fortuitous timing. If you and your officers would join me, there is a table in the Public House reserved, and I’m sure we can find provisions for your men.”
“You are most gracious, Baron Rogan.”
“Just ‘Rogan’ will suffice. I am, after all, an outlaw now.”
“History will be the arbiter. We aim, at least, to have a hand in writing a better one. By all means, lead the way.”
Rogan took Sir Golddrake and a pair of his officers, one of which was a striking woman of Begnari descent, along the town’s dirt paths to a two-story, wooden building. The distance was short, but weighed by an awkward silence. With his back to the riders, Rogan wasn’t sure if they were communicating secretly behind him, or just taking note of their new surroundings. Rogan was still trying to decide how much information to share with these seemingly benevolent strangers, when they arrived at their destination.
When the riders dismounted, Rogan’s attention was seized by two details. First, Sir Golddrake, the Order’s Master, was lame. Second, the silk-veiled Begnari woman was not one of the Order. Once on solid ground she unclasped the oversized, white cloak that encircled her, revealing a closer-fitting ensemble of desert red. The upper garment left her sun-kissed shoulders and belly exposed, and her long skirt hugged the curves of her legs as she took sure strides toward the door. Her figure, her dark eyes, even her clear sense of confidence were all striking. Rogan was intrigued.
He followed his visitors closely into the Public House, eager to witness their first reactions to the presence of Palomar. He was not disappointed.
“A visitor from the afterlife!” Sir Golddrake exclaimed, pointing.
“Legends of old!” the man beside him added, placing his right palm over his heart.
“I… I’ve dreamt of you,” the woman gasped, seeming both surprised and pleased. Everyone turned in her direction. “Last night. You handed me a bloom I didn’t recognize, strange and beautiful. When I took it you began singing a melody, and my own voice rose in harmony, though I’d never heard the tune. The petals in my hand burst into red flame, and the dream ended.”
Palomar nodded deliberately, as if perhaps he shared knowledge of the woman’s dream, or at least understood something about it. “There is power in song, my lady.”
She gasped and Rogan smiled, remembering his initial response to telepathy. Momentarily mesmerized, Rogan recovered when he felt the Aasimar’s gaze upon him.
“Pardon me, where are my manners?” Rogan stepped past his guests and took a spot to Palomar’s left, facing them. “Once again, I am the former Baron Rogan, and this is Palomar. He is an Aasimar, a being not native to our world. I shall let him explain his origins further, but first, it would please me very much to receive your introductions.” He held his hands outward to the visitors.
“Of, of course,” Sir Golddrake stammered, overcoming his awe. “As I previously stated, I am Sir Amurel Golddrake. This is my second-in-command, Sir Geldrick Kilborn, and the talented Lady Saffron min Furasi. I am Master of the Order of the Rising Moon, chartered by the Prince of Dawn’s Edge, dedicated to her Exalted Radiance, Criesha.”
Rogan and Palomar shared a half-turn glance.
“It has begun, then,” the Aasimar intoned. His face remained an emotionless mask, but energy hummed in his words.
“What has begun?” Saffron asked.
Palomar looked in her eyes and shrugged, as if she should know the answer, “Your gods have clearly returned their interest to this mortal realm.”
Sir Kilborn’s jaw dropped.
“How are you doing that?” Sir Golddrake questioned, raising his palm toward Palomar, as if it might contact something invisible between them.
The Aasimar cocked his head sideways with a quizzical look. “It is how I communicate.”
“You are a marvel. I have felt the change you speak of coming,” Sir Golddrake nodded. “Criesha’s sacred revelations have given me a glimpse of what the future might be.”
“I don’t know how you came to be here at our moment of need, but it does feel like something larger at work,” Rogan cut in. “I have lived in Chelpa my entire life, and though I have some grasp of the perception many outsiders hold, I can tell you it was not always as now. Before Ebon Khorel rose to power a decade ago, this land was not a harsh place to grow up. Certainly, there have always been opportunists making things difficult, but nothing compared to the crushing worship of The Dread Tyrant, Gholdur.
“I was arrested on suspicion of treason and served three years in Blackthorn Prison, without any opportunity to defend myself. Such a thing was unfortunately common, back when anyone dared to openly criticize the King-priest. So the rebellion went underground.
“I escaped prison with the aid of another of Palomar’s people, and though we failed then in our attempt to end the King-priest’s reign, I’ve been striving against him ever since.”
“There are more of you?” Saffron asked Palomar directly, though it was Rogan who answered.
“Many more – though they don’t look like him. Palomar is the butterfly, if you will. Dampers are the caterpillars, and the King-priest keeps dozens of them prisoner underneath Blackthorn.
“I went to see a historian, a scholar friend of mine in Crioc, after my encounter with Ebon Khorel some years ago. I saw firsthand the destructive magic he wields, and sought to gather more information on where that sort of power came from, and the origin of the Dampers as well.”
“Was this scholar of yours a believer in the old gods?” Sir Golddrake took a step closer with his question, his own interest in the subject apparent.
“He seemed to think there is merit to the stories, yes. I don’t know how much of them is true myself, but what I’ve seen certainly convinced me there is a basis for the tales.”
“Gentlemen… Saffron. Might I suggest we take a drink and sit before delving further into story-telling? I, for one, am thirsty after the day’s long ride and hard fighting.” Sir Kilborn strolled behind the bar to search for mugs as he continued. “Not to mention, a little brew might help me start believing children’s stories about gods and such.”
“Geldrick!” Sir Golddrake admonished.
“Criesha’s pardon, of course.”
Palomar studied the older knight for a moment. “You do not believe in beings from other realms? How would you explain my presence?”
“That’s exactly what I mean, begging your pardon, too. You look real enough... but either way, I’m in need of ale.”
“I can get behind that,” Rogan added. He helped distribute the full flagons as Sir Kilborn poured them, then gave everyone a chance to find a seat at one of the large tables. He pulled out a chair for Lady Saffron after she declined to partake in the ale, attempting to polish his rusty manners. Palomar remained standing, his wings making it nig
h impossible to fit comfortably in the high-backed chairs.
“Common legend has it,” Rogan continued, “that the gods were banished centuries ago by a secret congregation of powerful, mortal Shapers, sometime after the Gift of Arkmus. My friend shared, however, that it was not the gods themselves who walked the world in the first place – only their Avatars.”
“This is true,” chimed in Palomar. “The Veil of Nessus prevents physical beings crossing from one realm to another.”
“So it was only the Avatars,” Rogan carried on, “the impure, physical manifestations of the gods’ psyches, that were banished. The gods, according to my friend, simply chose to abandon us after this great insult. It appears, for whatever reason, at least some of them have returned their attention to us. Unfortunately, Gholdur the Tyrant seems to be the first.”
“And now my mistress, Criesha,” Sir Golddrake pondered.
“Your world is about to change, again,” Palomar added.
“Ebon Khorel is Gholdur’s most potent Channeler. I’ve seen him morph into insubstantial shadow, even call searing flames down from the heavens. His armor is forged of an uril-chent alloy that turns back steel as if it were wet grass. I don’t know of any mortal means to defeat him.” Rogan took a sip from his flagon before hitting them with the punch.
“That’s why, if you’re serious about defeating the King-priest, I’d like your help freeing the Dampers from Blackthorn Prison.”
“And exactly where is Blackthorn?” Sir Golddrake inquired.
Sir Kilborn answered. “I know exactly where it is, unless my geography lessons were taught by an imbecile. It’s two hundred miles deep into Chelpian territory, overlooking the River Chelhos, is it not?”
Rogan nodded, “You are correct, Sir.”
“I’m sorry, friend,” Sir Golddrake said, “but that is too far for my men to travel into hostile territory.”
“We would have the element of surprise. Ebon Khorel would never suspect it.”
“And we would never make it back alive. Even if Criesha herself anointed the path to the prison gates, and we were able to claim victory, the King-priest would cut us off with his northern army before we even got a sniff of the border.” Sir Golddrake took a deep breath and composed himself. “Now, we’ve won a victory here. Salmarsh is on the frontier. We should look to fortify this position, to use it as an example for other towns within the Empire – that they too can revolt against oppression.”
Rogan didn’t want to sour this budding relationship, but couldn’t help feeling a little desperate. “That is an important endeavor, yes. But with all due respect, it is not how we’re going to topple the King-priest. We need the Aasimar for that, and with your help I know we can free them. You’re the allies I’ve been waiting four years for.” Couldn’t these newcomers understand, no one knew as well as he what they were up against?
“No offense to you, sir,” Sir Golddrake stood and addressed Palomar, then turned back to Rogan, “but, impressive wings aside, how exactly can these Aasimar turn the tide of battle in our favor when we are outnumbered five-to-one?”
Rogan looked to Palomar, who took a tentative, half-step forward.
“No future outcome can ever be guaranteed, but my kin have protected the slopes of Mount Celestia for eons.”
Sir Golddrake let out a sigh, reeking of impatience. “I am very happy to meet you both, and am certain we will revisit this later, but for now I must look to my men and make sure they are on task. Perhaps we should gather again for supper and discuss the immediate future of Salmarsh, once we’ve had a chance to assess things?”
Rogan pursed his lips. “Of course, Sir Golddrake. Take what time you need, and we shall dine together this evening.”
While the knights made their way from the Public House, Saffron lingered behind. “Pardon me, Baron, might I have an extra moment of your time?” Palomar overheard the request and gave a polite nod before following the others outside.
Once she was no longer in the presence of the Order, Saffron’s shoulders slackened and she removed a long pin from her hair, sending the confined, sable locks cascading over bare shoulders. “I hope you don’t mind the informality,” she said, unclasping her veil, “but it can be hard for me to relax around men of such discipline. I do not wish to forget who I am.”
“I don’t mind at all.” Rogan’s gaze was transfixed on her now-bare face, as if he had been granted a glimpse at a rare treasure.
Saffron smiled. “Good. I was hoping for an opportunity to ask you about something that may not affect the direction of nations, but is of no less importance to me.”
“Go on.” Rogan encouraged, leaning closer. He couldn’t imagine what this beautiful stranger might possibly need from him, but his intrigue deepened.
“You have been working toward a rebellion for some time, no?”
“Since I escaped my imprisonment, yes. Which, of course, was baseless,” he added, not wanting to give the impression he was a common criminal.
“I assume, then, you have informants in or around the government of the King-priest?”
Oh, here it comes, he thought. Rogan just knew she was about to ask him to do something he really didn’t want to do. “It would be fair to say I sometimes hear things…”
Saffron brushed back a dark tendril of hair from in front of her ear. “I have a favor to ask, then.” She smiled, not only with her lips, but her eyes.
This one knows what she’s doing, he thought, and prepared himself as he returned her smile. “I am at your service, Lady Saffron.”
“I am from the province of Sesfaran in the Emirate of Begnasharan. I was travelling to Selamus with my sister to play for the prince, when our caravan was attacked. We were both taken as slaves, but sent to different camps. Sir Golddrake and his men rescued me, but I am still searching for Dhania. Please, can you help me find her?”
Rogan was taken aback. There was no deception or pretense in her eyes, only true concern. “I’ll do what I can,” he found himself saying without considering the response.
“Thank you.” Saffron rose on her toes and kissed Rogan on the cheek. “She is very beautiful, and probably being kept in one of the pleasure gardens, if that is helpful.”
Suddenly, the door to the Public House swung open and Sir Kilborn thrust his way inside. “Scouts have returned and there’s no time to lose!”
“What is it?” Rogan’s heart fell to his stomach.
“The force that attacked earlier was just a first wave. More of the troops deployed from Lucnere came west than we thought; they just took a different route. A thousand men, including Blood Tear assassins and Gholdur war-priests are on the move. They’ll be here by nightfall. Amurel’s leading us out of here as soon as can be managed.”
“We can’t just forsake Salmarsh!” Rogan had only come to this town a few weeks ago, after finding Palomar, but he’d invested much in its rebellion and felt responsible for its defense.
“Baron, the decision is made. You and Palomar are welcome to ride with us. In fact, we hope you will. But we’re moving quickly, and the townsfolk will have to fend for themselves.” Sir Kilborn left without another word, while Rogan dangled between duty and desire.
“Come with us,” Saffron spoke for his heart. “I will ready a horse for you and your winged friend – does he ride?”
“He does. Flight is tiresome.” Rogan sighed. Leaving his brethren felt like a decision he would regret, but not following this woman was beyond his power at the moment. “All right, give me an hour to make arrangements with my people. I’ll bring Palomar and meet you at the northern bridge.”
Rogan had no doubt that, one way or another, this choice was going to define his future.
Chapter 9
After a Long Climb
T he journey to Greyhorne was miserable. It rained most of the way, and Jaiden was stuck in the back of a covered stock wagon, surrounded by smells of dirt, grease, dried sweat, and wet horse. Although the destination was only about forty mile
s northwest of Halidor Keep, the ascension into the foothills of the Wyvernwatch Mountains was rough. The uneven terrain added to the unpleasantness of Jaiden’s ride, and he was relieved to climb out of his shifting coffin on their arrival at the end of the second day.
He had plenty of free time during the excursion, leading his mind to wander to his latest rendezvous with Criesha. After thinking more on it, he had practically convinced himself she was just a pleasant delusion brought on by his injuries. Imagining she was real enticed him, though, even if he could only visit her in another realm.
For the first time he pondered what it meant that a goddess would choose him for a special purpose. Did she, with her unearthly insight, recognize something in him he failed to notice? He was good with a blade – maybe the best – but what else did an orphan from Selamus have to offer a supernatural entity? She said she desired obedience – maybe that’s all there was to it. If he served her, perhaps they would both end up getting what they wanted.
He stretched his limbs after climbing down from the wagon. He winced against a surge of pain from his right leg as it adjusted to bearing his weight. The rain had ceased for the moment, but the ground was muddy from its afterbirth.
A long night of unpacking lay ahead for the Order of the Rising Moon, but Jaiden wanted no part of it. Given his limited mobility, he’d probably only end up getting in the way.
Instead, he decided to relax with some time away from the other soldiers. He would be seeing his fair share of their ugly faces in the coming weeks. Unsure exactly what he’d be asked to give up once officially signing on, Jaiden rationalized the best thing might be to find somewhere he could have a stiff drink. He could always report to Captain Millstone in the morning.
Still using the crutch Saffron made for him, Jaiden limped from the growing bustle of men unloading the wagons toward the darker portion of the town’s center. He didn’t want to be noticed or bothered, and figured to find an establishment in the shadow of the mountains serving something stronger than water.
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