The warriors stopped a heartbeat away from the edge of a cliff—the trail terminated at the brink of a colossal drop. Far below, the turquoise waters of a great lake greeted them, its perimeter lined by the distant peaks of the northern Muse.
The Kraidic band searched all about, expecting arrows to rain down on them, but all they saw were the sheer cliffs on either side of the trail. Short of growing wings, there was no way anyone could have left this end of the trail.
Frustrated, the chieftain grabbed a crossbowman and flung him over the edge. “Find them!”
The flailing man’s scream marked his inevitable demise. He plunged head over heels out of sight beneath the curve of the cliff, his death cry punctuated by the impact of his heavily armoured body as it struck the blue waters far below.
Death of a Friend
Deep within the Chamber of the Wise catacombs, Bregens lay beneath a heavy woollen blanket, close to death—the right side of his head, crushed.
A sputtering candle on the edge of a stained, bedside table, cast the room in flickering light. The table was the only furniture in the gloomy room other than the bed. Incense burned within a tarnished thurible set beside the stubby candle, its white vapour thick in the stale air, smelling faintly of sandalwood.
Vice Chambermaster Solomon Io, himself a bishop, knelt upon the cold stone floor, his elbows propped on the edge of the straw mattress. A shiny gold chain wrapped tightly about his gnarled fingers gave him something to fiddle with as he offered the dying man absolution.
Standing in a shadowed corner, Silurian observed the ritual, barely visible in the flickering light. If Bregens hadn’t fended off the four horsemen in the stream, he and Avarick might not have fared so well. The boy, the farmer, the green hand newly enlisted with the Gritian militia, had slain two experienced thugs, and detained the other two long enough to allow he and Avarick to deal with the rest.
Silurian leaned against the stone wall, his face cupped in his hands. Traces of dried tears streaked his grimy face. He wasn’t prone to crying. He’d seen many gruesome things in his time. Lost many a good friend, but for some reason, Bregens’ injuries affected him more than he wished to admit.
Back at the stream, Avarick had taken one look at the stricken boy and said it didn’t matter if a healer were right there with them, but Silurian wouldn’t hear of leaving the boy to die in the wilderness. He had plucked Bregens from the stream and tied him upon the boy’s horse.
Avarick had located his own horse not far away, and together they galloped back to Gritian in search of a healer.
They had ridden into town near sunrise the following morning. Upon Silurian’s insistence, Avarick dispatched a rider to alert the Farriers. Another had been sent north to inform the high warlord of Silurian’s return. As of yet, neither had returned.
It was now past suppertime and Silurian wore the same clothes he had on when they had trotted into town. He had practically fallen from his horse when a stable boy took the reins from him. Others rushed to offer him aid before realizing who they were dealing with.
He had shrugged off their scorn and staggered after the litter bearing the Farrier boy. A few of the braver men conspired to take Silurian into custody, but the Enervator intervened and sent them away.
The candlelight in the dim chamber flickered more than usual. Silurian looked up.
The head healer had entered the room. Shooing the bishop aside, he examined the motionless body. It wasn’t long before he rose and shook his head.
“He’s beyond my ken. It won’t be long,” the healer whispered, brushing past Solomon into the hall.
Solomon glanced at Silurian and swallowed. With a sigh, he knelt at the bedside to finish administering the boy’s last rites.
Silurian listened absently to the bishop’s ministrations. When the final words were spoken, Silurian stepped from the shadows and squeezed into the tight space beside the bed, taking Bregens’ hand in his own.
He grimaced at the bruised face, squished beneath a heavy swath of blood-soaked bandages. The young man who had faithfully followed him to his death was unrecognizable. This wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t gone against the council’s wishes.
He dropped to one knee upon the cold, stone floor, banging his baldric against the wall. He couldn’t get the images of Bregens’ parents from his mind. Proud Janus and sweet Asa. They were going to be crushed. He tightened his grip on Bregens’ lifeless hand. As cold as his hands were, Bregens’ were colder. He closed his eyes and wept.
He had no idea how long he knelt that way, but he became aware of the absolute silence that had settled over the chamber. He opened his eyes to see Solomon shrouded in the last vestiges of sputtering candlelight, the bishop’s eyes closed. Silurian nearly leapt from his skin when he glanced at Bregens.
The boy’s eyes were open. One more so than the other. Beneath all those wrappings, despite the excruciating pain, Bregens tried to smile.
Silurian smiled back, choking out a laugh. Tears rolled unabashedly off his face.
“We beat them, Sire?”
Bregens’ pathetic voice made Silurian’s throat constrict. He could barely draw a breath. He nodded as his vision blurred. He grabbed the stained sheet to wipe his eyes and clasped the boy’s hand to his chest.
“I knew we would, Sire. You are Sir Silurian, king’s champion, and Zephyr’s saviour.”
Silurian fought the urge to cry even harder. “We couldn’t have done it without you. Avarick and I owe you our lives.” He raised his voice, “Now stop calling me Sir!”
The bishop jerked backward, stunned by his sudden loud voice.
A tear welled in Bregens’ good eye and rolled down his cheek. Delirious, he rambled, his voice sounding far off, “Alhena was right. He said to me, ‘you will know when he accepts you. When that day comes, he will angrily warn you to stop calling him Sir. Only then will he consider you a friend.’”
Silurian bit his lips and nodded, unsuccessfully trying to smile.
Another tear followed Bregens’ first. “Aww…” He coughed. His body convulsed. Brutal pain twisted his face. When the coughing fit passed, another agonizing pain took hold of him. His grip on Silurian’s hand was incredible.
The spasm passed.
Bregens turned his head to look Silurian squarely in the eye. “Bregens is Silurian’s friend?”
Silurian nodded again, his throat too tight to speak—his vision blinded by tears.
Bregens’ hand clenched Silurian’s once more before he released his death grip. His eyes became vacant and his shallow chest rises came no more.
The Edge of the World
Waterfalls! The sound of thousands of gallons of water plunging over a precipice reached Alhena’s ears as he and Rook clung to the side of a mountain, submerged up to their necks in water. A gentle current propelled them westward.
They had been in the water for hours. Ever since their leap of faith from the terminus of the gorge trail they had fled down. Their capacity to think straight or move effectively was slowly diminishing in the surprisingly warm waters of Madrigail Lake. Neither man had been able to stop their teeth from chattering since the direct sunlight had disappeared behind the western mountain peak.
They pulled their way around the edge of the lake by using natural handholds along the otherwise unclimbable rock face that shot up from the depths of the bottomless water body.
Alhena had been upon Lake Madrigail twice before. In a boat. If he had his bearings right, they were near the end of the lake where the majestic Splendoor Falls spilled the lake’s contents thousands of feet to the mainland below.
He recalled a small platform, hewn out of solid rock, on one side of the monstrous falls. He hoped it was this side.
Rook glanced at him, his hair dripping—every so often the roll of the surface water slapped against the cliff wall, splashing them in the face.
Alhena forced a grim smile. “It is the pull of Splendoor Falls we feel.” Alhena picked up his pace, forcing R
ook to pull himself along faster to remain ahead.
Rook’s voice trembled through chattering teeth. “The pull of Splendoor Falls? You mean…”
“Aye, we are close to the brink of the waterfall. If we are lucky, there will be a platform where we can pull ourselves free of the lake.” Despite the cold seeping into his bones, Alhena’s pace increased further. They had to get out of the water.
A gap in the unbroken ring of mountains materialized a few hundred feet ahead of them.
The current increased. It wasn’t long before they were struggling to slow their progress along the slippery periphery of the lake, desperately trying to hang onto the rock face and not be pulled away.
Alhena’s trepidation mounted. He couldn’t see the platform he sought. He had a clearer view of the far side of the gap and couldn’t see the platform there either, but that did little to alleviate his concern. If the water level had risen or dropped, the rock ledge he sought might be too high above, or submerged uselessly beneath, the water’s surface.
“Uh, Alhena,” Rook’s voice reached him over the rising crescendo of rushing water. The worry in his eyes told Alhena that he had come to realize their dilemma as he slipped along the algae covered rock face, fighting his forward momentum.
Alhena, bobbing along behind, bumped into him, and he lost his purchase.
“This can’t be good.” Rook glanced back at him, fear evident in his eyes.
Less than a hundred feet separated them from a drop they couldn’t survive. The incessant current pulled them along, their handholds slipping through bloodied fingers.
Puffs of white clouds appeared between the gap in the mountains, the land beyond appearing far away.
The water churned into a froth as it flowed toward the brink, funnelling around a protrusion of flat rock just before the drop.
“That’s it!” Alhena cried out. “Grab the chains!”
“Chains? What chains?” Rook searched the rock face.
The din of cascading water rose to a deafening roar.
Alhena held his breath. Rook floundered ahead of him, his long hair whipping about as he searched for the chains.
There were two sets, rusted and thick, attached to large, metal eyelets driven into the rock face below the lip of a small ledge carved into the mountainside.
Rook missed the first set. Scrabbling frantically to keep from being pulled away from the edge and around the outcropping of rock, he reached out for the second chain, brushed it with an outstretched hand, and missed. He floundered helplessly toward the outcropping.
Alhena let the current pull him past the first chain. He threw his staff over the lip of the platform, snatched the second chain and grabbed hold of the back of Rook’s green suede tunic.
Panicking, Rook nearly pulled Alhena’s one-handed grip free of the chain.
“Stop struggling! Grab my arm!”
Rook’s eyes were wild.
Alhena hung on to him, dangling precariously from the chain, the struggle evident in his pained features.
Rook reached around and grasped Alhena’s outstretched arm with both hands and allowed Alhena to pull him free of the stronger current.
The water’s tug wasn’t as severe snuggled up against the massive chain. Using the thick links as hand holds, Rook pulled himself onto the granite platform. Utterly exhausted, he rolled over and helped pull Alhena to safety.
They sat upon a slab of granite measuring no more than a few hundred square feet. Behind them, the mountain rose outward, its peak lost in the clouds. Beyond the current of the falls, Madrigail Lake rolled toward the distant mountains surrounding its perimeter.
Both men removed their sodden clothing in stages and rang them out, the lake breeze making them shiver profusely.
Fully dressed again, Rook crept on his hands and knees to the edge of the shelf rock abutting the falls. He had seen Splendoor Falls from a distance on several occasions, but he wasn’t prepared for how great the drop actually was. And the view! Far below, lost for the most part behind a veil of mist, Splendoor Falls’ catch basin frothed and churned, giving birth to the mighty Madrigail River, Zephyr’s largest waterway. He followed the river’s course, shimmering splendidly beneath the setting sun, cutting a northwestward swath through dense forestland. Its blue ribbon entered Lake Refrain, many leagues away, before continuing its journey toward the lofty heights of the Spine; the mountains dark and visible upon the western horizon.
“Quite a sight, isn’t it?” Alhena shouted over the roar of the falls.
One of Rook’s hands slipped over the brink. He caught himself by falling flat on his stomach. He crept backward and turned to sit up, his heart hammering in his chest. He hadn’t heard Alhena come up to him.
“You scared the wits out of me. I almost jumped over the falls!”
“That would be the quickest way down!”
He gave Alhena a sour look and scooched away from the edge. Making his way to the middle of the platform, he sat with his back firmly placed against the cliff face and hugged his arms around himself in a vain effort to get warm.
Alhena stood on the edge of the shelf. Thousands upon thousands of gallons of water thundered past his feet. Leaning against the stone wall on his left, he gazed out across the land. The wind whistled through the mountain gap and whipped his wet hair and robes about.
Rook kept an eye on him, not happy at how close to the edge he stood. As if reading his thoughts, Alhena turned and walked close to where he sat. He followed Alhena’s gaze to the several rusted eyelets anchored along the water’s edge, obviously used to moor boats. Who in their right mind would risk bringing a boat this close to the falls? Yet, at the moment, a boat was the only means off this godforsaken platform.
Alhena stopped before an eyelet set apart from the rest, closer to the middle of the shelf. He studied the rusted iron ring and slowly scanned the rock between himself and Rook. His gaze met Rook’s.
Rook forced a smile past his chattering teeth. “What are we going to do now?”
Alhena smiled. “We obviously cannot swim the lake, so…”
Hearing the crazy old man’s next words, Rook almost fainted.
“We will descend the falls.”
Chamber of Chaos
Leaving Bregens’ death bed in the capable hands of the good bishop, Silurian strode with purpose toward High Bishop Abraham Uzziah’s personal chambers.
Avarick, who had kept watch on Silurian from outside of Bregens’ chamber, followed closely on his heels, unsure, and more than a little concerned about what the troubled warrior had in mind. Avarick had long since shrugged out of his filthy riding cloak and now wore his usual tan suede tunic bearing the twisted golden knot of rope on his left shoulder. He stroked his well kempt, black goatee. After witnessing Silurian in action, he didn’t relish crossing swords with him as much as he had wanted to when they first met.
They continued past the fork leading to the regular sleeping chambers and carried on beyond the eating halls. At the next crossroad, they turned left down a narrow corridor. The passage veered right several yards in and ended at a large, iron strapped, wooden door. Two burly pike men stood at attention, but they moved aside at the Enervator’s approach.
Silurian pushed down on the brass door lever and entered the private passageway housing the Chamber council.
Twelve doors faced each other, matching the one they had come through, six on either side of the short tunnel. Sconces flickered between the doors, illuminating exquisite battle scenes and religious ceremonies, intricately carved into the granite walls. At the tunnel’s end, another door, strapped with bronze and inlaid with silver and gilded metalwork, stood before them.
Avarick stepped in front of Silurian. Glancing a warning at the grim-faced man, he rapped loudly.
Before Avarick’s knuckles had struck three times, the large door swung noiselessly inward. Both men jumped. The forbidding countenance of the chambermaster glared back at them, mantled in his red robe of office. It was as if th
ey had been expected.
Without waiting for an invitation, Silurian brushed by Abraham into the warmth of his lushly appointed chambers.
Abraham grimaced as Silurian trod across his priceless rug in dirty riding boots and plunked his filthy self onto the end of a plush, leather couch.
Avarick felt the high bishop’s scowl follow him across the rug as he joined Silurian beside the couch. The door shut harder than usual.
He respectfully allowed the high bishop to take his seat in front of an ornate, ivory topped table across from Silurian, before he joined Silurian on the settee.
Abraham steepled his fingers, waiting, his face an unnatural shade of red.
Avarick glanced from one powerful man to the other. He could’ve cut the tension with his sword. Breaking the awkward silence, he said, “If I may?”
The chambermaster blinked. Averting his glare from Silurian, he nodded.
“I have returned Silurian Mintaka to your justice.”
Silurian slowly turned to face him. “Returned me to justice? I came back to save Bregens.”
Avarick ignored him. Instead, he related the retrieval of the Scared Sword Voil at the Forgotten Shrine. He failed to mention that he had been unable to remove the blade himself. He spoke of the subsequent battle at the river, which had precipitated their return to Gritian with the unrealistic hope of saving the farm boy. Not once during Avarick’s tale did he belittle Bregens as a coward or a traitor.
The high bishop nodded, but it was obvious by his expression, or lack of one, that he already knew all of this.
Avarick paused to gather himself. He hadn’t realized until now how much the young man’s death had affected him. As the Enervator of Gritian, he wasn’t accustomed to these feelings. Death didn’t bother him. He dealt with it almost every day. More often than not, he was the instrument of it. But now, standing before the stone-faced chambermaster, inexplicably, Bregens’ demise cut him to the core of his being.
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