Chapter 4

“Can I help you?” came an inquisitive reply. Balii found himself staring at a man clothed in fur robes, standing in front of a fireplace. He stirred some sort of meal in a small cauldron over the fire. Balii glanced around at the simple adornment of the cabin. The man—who resembled the Magister in his appearance—cocked an eyebrow and glanced at the warrior who had sprung through the door. “What brings a visitor of your likes to my doorstep today? Do come in and warm yourself by the fire!” Balii didn’t know what to think. He glanced at the floor, the walls, and back to the fair-skinned man.

“I…uh…” Balii stumbled over his words, unsure of the situation. His eyes grew dull and dark. His heart froze as his fingers wrapped themselves around his sword. He heard the man say something, but his mind was overrun by battle lust. He forgot the kind intentions of the man, and adrenaline rushed through him as he pulled his sword from its sheathe. The sheen of the tempered steel in the firelight caught the old man’s attention. Balii strode purposefully across the room, gripping his weapon with both hands. The man’s eyes widened as the sword came flashing across his throat, and in the next moment, he dropped to the floor, dead. Balii snorted and wiped the first blood of the war onto his own shoulder. Jumai came from behind him and looked down at the first kill.

“So it begins…” Jumai stated as Balii turned. “We shall give no mercy—we are invaders and shall not take prisoners.” Balii nodded at Jumai’s judgment.

“Let us stay the night in this valley…there is wood for fires. We shall celebrate the dawn of war.” Balii ordered, exiting the cabin and calling their steeds. Jumai took a last look at the cabin. It appeared that the man was the only inhabitant of the cabin and snorted a satisfactory grunt. He followed Balii outside. He looked up to the pass where the first battalions would descend. Balii leapt upon the Masckarl and beckoned Jumai to hurry. Jumai looked once again at the cabin, wondering how much blood would be shed these next months. Balii called again and Jumai mounted his steed. After another quick glance about the valley, the two departed to rejoin the descending army.

~¤~

Terensi enjoyed his walks in the woods, especially after a fresh snow. He trudged back up the valley in his snowshoes. He adored the mountains. He felt alive up here. A squirrel scampered around a pine tree. He watched the pines grow smaller and smaller until, finally, they could not break the surface of the snow as he ascended. Higher and higher he climbed, up into the plateau and the high mountain lake. He carried some dry firewood he had managed to find in the lower valley, but the day was waning and so he hurried back up to his grandpa’s cabin. He came around the bend in the valley, beneath three enormous peaks, and started his trek out across the lake when he heard the loud clear whistles.

He looked away to the north and shaded his eyes. Across the lake bounded two giant…weasels, were they? Were his eyes playing tricks on him? The shadows of the peaks creeping over the snow-covered lake obscured the white animals, which became more difficult to see. They ran towards the cabin, over on the eastern shore. He narrowed his eyes and found two figures waiting, evidently, for the beasts. Who could be visiting? Then, at last, the figures climbed onto the creatures and rode away to the north. Why would anyone ride north…nothing but mountains existed for miles and miles? At least, that is what his Grandpa had told him.

As they faded on the other side of a ridge between two more peaks, he hustled across the lake to the cabin. As he approached the cabin, he found interesting tracks around the cabin…it looked as if someone had been crawling towards the cabin. He tromped onward as fast as he could. Within a few strides of the doorway, he called out. “Who were those people, Grandpa?” Nobody answered. He unstrapped his snowshoes and ventured inside. “Grandpa?” He couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t answer—until he saw the body laying on the floor, next to the fireplace. “Grandpa? Grandpa!” He leapt to the side of his dead friend. Tears built in his eyes as he saw the downward slash splitting his grandpa’s neck and chest open. “Oh, Grandpa!” He began to sob, his chest heaving and his throat choking. “No. Why? No! Gran…Grandpa.” Then he broke down, holding his grandpa’s cold hand and kneeling at his side. Time became meaningless. His grief consumed him and he drifted of into that suspended place of mourning.

When he awoke—or his consciousness returned—he heard a strange rumble outside. He feared the murderers were returning, so he glanced out the window to see what the commotion was. His eyes grew wide and his lips parted in astonishment. Down the pass to the north marched soldiers…thousands and thousands of soldiers. They were coming right down to the lake! He searched around the room and found his pack. He threw a few survival items in it, swung it on, and crept outside. He strapped on his snowshoes and crept behind the cabin. The marching grew louder and he slunk away to the south, taking a few strides and hiding behind a white mound. Every few moments he looked to the north, checking the progress of the approaching army. Where had they come from? And how had they crossed the mountains with such a force? He shook his head, telling himself to think later and act now. So, he crept from mound to boulder to mound. Finally, just as the army reached the lake, he reached the southern valley and trees. With a final sprint, he left the open lake and ran out of sight into the valley below. His heart was pounding within him…partly from the sprint, but mostly from the fear. He wanted to stop and to rest, but he dared not. Instead, he ran as fast as he could on his snowshoes down the valley. He knew the trail well, even if it lay covered in snow. But it would be a three-day hike in normally from the nearest outpost. If he could get there, a messenger could alert the nearest town. All he had to do was run.

~¤~

As Talibor walked the narrow streets beyond the gate, where vendors pitched their tents and babbled incessantly, he ignored pleas for his attention and shouts of various bargains. The streets were swollen with buyers and sellers arguing and bartering, and Talibor had to pick his way carefully through the crowds. While his steed snorted, trying to nudge people aside and eagerly attempting to break free onto the Plains of Silac, a jeweler’s booth caught his eye—he thought of a gift for his sister’s daughter. He had promised her a token from the journey, and so he reigned in the anxious horse and made eye contact with the peddler who sold the jewelry.

The old man with sparkling green eyes and a long white beard held up his best necklaces and raised his fading eyebrows. He understood the quality of this customer—a soldier mounted on a beautiful stallion—and would not allow his chance to slip by. Talibor dropped from his saddle and tied his steed loosely to the tent post. Before him diamonds glittered, rubies sparkled, and emeralds shone. Earrings, necklaces, bracelets, and other jewelry adorned the shelf in front of him.

“Well, tis your lucky day,” the man shouted over the din. “How about a diamond ring for a special someone? Or perhaps a pearl necklace straight from the port? If that won’t suit you,” he interjected seeing a disinterested look arise in his customer’s eyes, “this wonderful ruby ring would bring out the passion in you; yes, I see that plainly. It would complement those eyes of yours. None would argue with you, that I can see now. A fist in declaration, garnished with this jewel, would not be resisted. Don’t you think?”

“I am here to buy a gift for a young girl—my niece,” Talibor explained. The merchants eyes grew wide and his mouth opened in understanding.

“Ahh, yes. A gift for the girl—how young?”

“Eight years,” he answered, glancing at the table in front of him.

“So nothing too expensive, then?” the man inquired, reading Talibor’s intentions like a book.

“Exactly,” Talibor replied. The man stroked his beard and stared at his collection.

“She would like the aquamarine bracelet, if it will fit her wrist,” a feminine voice beside him ventured. Talibor glanced to his side to find a slender woman with deep brown eyes and long flowing dark hair pointing to the jewel on the shelf. She wore simple, white slacks, riding boots, a belted, crimson tunic, and a maroon riding cloak.

“Yes!” the man in the booth exclaimed. “That will do perfectly! And for you, my lord, I make a special price,” he offered, breathing the fresh air of another sale. His bottom eyelids slid halfway up as he raised his eyebrows. “Hmmm?” Talibor shifted his gaze from woman to merchant to woman, as if he had been double-teamed.

“And how would you know what she would like, stranger?” he wondered aloud, his temper rising.

“Because I was eight once,” she declared. Talibor locked his gaze with hers.

“And that gives you special insight?” Before she could answer he turned to the merchant. “What of that silver necklace?” he asked, nodding towards it. The peddler’s eyes flashed again.

“Yes, a pretty piece of work that is…she will doubtlessly find it appealing,” he added.

“She won’t like it as much as that bracelet,” the woman interjected. Talibor had had enough. His eyes blazed and his fists clenched.

“And why is that!” he demanded. Instead of drawing back at his angered tone, she stepped closer to him. “Because, silver is only half-best! Everyone knows that. Give her something strange and wonderful that has no comparison—even if it is cheap. That is what the bracelet will do,” she argued. Talibor clenched his jaw and reminded himself that she was simply a woman and not an enemy he could strike down with his broadsword. He released his grip on the handle of his weapon and closed his eyes briefly.

“Thank you for your advice…” he trailed off, raising his eyebrows and waiting for her to fill in her name.

“Fiora,” she replied.

“Thank you Fiora,” he acknowledged with a smile and a slight bow. Then, turning to the vendor, he asked, “How much for the silver necklace?” The man instantly read his intentions and spat out a price. In spite of Fiora’s incredulous stare, Talibor payed the man and tucked the purchase in a pocket of his tunic. He thanked the man, who smiled warmly. Fiora scowled at him as he mounted his steed, but Talibor payed no attention. Spurring his horse onward, he left the crowds of the market and began his journey back to Ashton.

~¤~

After his morning ritual outside the western gates of the city and his breakfast of eggs and bacon in the mess hall, lord Valimor received a message to consult the state of a section of the inner wall of the fortress. He hurried out to the breezeway above the inner walls and immediately spied the chief engineer who had been inspecting the fortress’ architecture to ensure maximum performance. Valimor greeted him warmly and asked about the condition of the walls.

“It seems as though they’ve about just had it—we have fractures on the baseline stone slabs. They’re old and brittle, weathered down over the years. I hate to say, but this whole thing needs rebuilding—the fortress itself is fine, newer than the rest and made from thicker slabs of granite. The outer wall is good, too—should last another century or so unless a catapult finds them first. But this here inner wall, it needs some help,” the engineer reckoned, licking his teeth repeatedly with his tongue.

“How much of the wall? Will we need to rebuild the entire breezeway and command post?” Valimor asked, weighing the cost of such an effort in labor and raw material.

“Nah, just this western wall needs it. I mean, it wouldn’t hurt to redo the whole darn thing, but this half is where the wind and rain hits the hardest. Here,” he said, bending down and pointing to a base stone, “look at this. This stone right here used come out to here.” He measured a span of nearly two inches with his finger and thumb. Valimor winced. “You see, the slabs here at the bottom are only a foot in width—it isn’t as thick as the outer walls or the fortress in the first place—now its only ten inches. All this weight on ten inches—six at the top—just cracks them after a time. Look here. See that big crack. You’re pretty much sitting on a stack of cards as far as I’m concerned. It’s just crying to be fixed, or it’ll all come down in a big crash one day.”

Valimor nodded his thanks and the engineer bowed and left. Valimor called his attendant to him and instructed him to find the chief architect and tell him to come to the base of the inner walls. The boy bowed and ran off. Valimor looked up at the fifty-foot wall. This would be no simple task to rebuild. He sat before the cracking wall and pondered the reconstruction—he would surely have to use an army division instead of hired labor. They were able-bodied enough to handle the workload and competent enough to learn from a few guildsmen. He decided the regular infantry squadron would suffice, and when his messenger returned with the architect, he sent the boy off again to call upon Falcor’s unit.

When the boy had sprinted off again, Valimor told the architect of the situation. The elderly man nodded and assured him that he would oversee the reconstruction. That taken care of, Valimor hurried back to the keep, where he would attend to any legal matters before the noon luncheon—when he was scheduled to meet with two merchants over a trade dispute. After that he would briefly check on the business of tearing down the western part of the inner walls before heading to his weekly conference with the town council. Who knew what new form of political disruption had arisen in the town? His life seemed hectic and unbearable, until his thoughts drifted to his evening he would spend with his beautiful wife and lively daughter. He smiled unconsciously as he walked to the keep.