Chapter 11

“I’m going after them; no matter what, they must be stopped!” Falcor set his jaw and pulled the broadsword from its sheathe. “I will hunt them down and kill them all, if that is what it takes,” he vowed, stroking the blade’s polished side and pointing it at Emain. He glanced to his sister, awaiting her forthcoming opposition. But none came. She only sat, staring distractedly at the floor.

Instead, Altam jumped up and grasped Falcor by the arm. “NO! No! You musn’t,” he cried abruptly. “They are evil, pure hate! They are NOT human, you hear? NOT HUMAN!” He shrunk back, seeming to recall a distant memory, and his voice shrunk. “Their faces…their eyes, oh the dread…” he trailed off, staring at a glowing lantern. Then his eyes came alive again and widened. “DON’T FOLLOW THEM!” he shouted, gripping Falcor’s forearm anew with frightened fingers.

“Fiora, you go back to Harken…tell Valimor what has happened. I’ll return with the weapons,” Falcor ordered, brushing the old man off of himself. He turned to leave when Fiora finally spoke.

“Take Emain with you,” she said at last. “He can help you.” Falcor opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. “Please,” Fiora pleaded, “for my sake. I don’t want you walking into the enemy’s camp alone.” Falcor clenched his jaw, but said nothing. “I know you won’t be persuaded to give up on those weapons, but please…take his help.” She locked eyes with him, fighting back tears. “Please…”

“I tell you now, you are a fool to follow them. A FOOL! They are NOT human!” the old man suddenly interjected.

“Fiora, I will come back, but I cannot guarantee his safety…” he argued, but a soft voice from the other side of the room interrupted him.

“I no longer fear for my life; I shall willingly aid he who prolonged it,” Emain stated. Falcor glanced at the floor. Taking the boy with him was folly—he knew, but if it would please Fiora…

“They will KILL YOU!” the elderly apothecary ranted. “They are evil! Pure EVIL!”

“It is settled, then. Emain, grab a pack. We have a long journey ahead of us. Fiora, head for Harken with the next caravan; I do not want you traveling alone. Tell Valimor to look for us on the…” he paused, figuring the length of their journey, “twentieth day. If we do not come back by then, assume the weapons are lost and prepare for the worst. Emain, let’s go.” Falcor slung his pack over his shoulder and sheathed his sword. Tears now flowed freely from Fiora’s eyes as she reached to embrace her brother. He caught her in strong arms and held her tight. “I will be coming back, sister. Wait for me,” he whispered. At that, he turned and motioned for Emain to follow him out the door.

“They are monsters. MONSTERS, I tell you! Fool!” Altam shouted after them. He threw his hands up in the air. “Why don’t they listen to an old, wise man? OH, they think, He’s off his rocker. Off my rocker, indeed! Just wait…JUST WAIT! YOU’LL SEE! Ahh, it’s no use; young people never listen—excepting you, my dear.” He spun to find Fiora choking back her sobs. “Oh my! Here, come now, come now…this is no time for tears.” He reached to wipe her face. “They will be back—they’ll return with those stolen weapons. Just you wait. You’ll see! They won’t have a scratch.”

~¤~

As Balii rode past the freshly-hung gates, a soldier greeted him. “Captain, the Magisters request your immediate presence.” Balii thanked the messenger, dismounted his steed, and strode across the city to a recently completed building. Inside, on newly constructed thrones, sat the two Magisters. The air was dim and musty inside, lacking the circulation of fresh air. Potent incense torches burned inside, giving light and scent to the air, and Balii nearly choked on the thick odor rising from the fire bowls. He knelt, bowing low before them, and a twinge of injured pride flashed through his veins. Each time he humbled himself before these men, he felt as if he dishonored his ancestors. But he had attained such a position by ignoring these impulses to cleanse their empire of their presence. Csii-Hill did not need them or their wisdom, but they kept order and that alone kept Balii’s mouth closed.

“Of what service may I be?” he asked, looking at the wooden floor and waiting to be summoned to his feet.

“Captain Balii, it is good to see you again,” one of the Magisters began. “Please, stand up.” Balii obeyed.

The other Magister then spoke, “Your leadership has been of the utmost quality in retrieving the weapons and destroying the outposts.”

The first Magister began again. “We cannot reward you enough for your hard work and trials you faced in completing this task.”

“However, we ask that you attend to one little item,” the second said.

“How may I serve you?” Balii questioned.

“As you may well know, we did not intend to make war until spring,” the first mentioned.

“But we have evidence that we may not be able to wait until then,” the second added. Balii gave a questioning look, glancing at each Magister several times. “So we have decided that we ought to march on Harken, the nearest city, right away. Perhaps we should leave as soon as the walls are finished.”

“My lords! Why so sudden a decision? We haven’t even begun construction of the towers and ladders, or any of the other siege weapons we have contrived!” Balii stopped himself before his rage went out of hand.

“There is good evidence that the enemy knows we are here and will strike before winter hits,” the first stated calmly.

“That’s impossible! We left none alive to report from the outposts and none learned of our presence in Talorn,” Balii retorted.

“Yes, you concealed yourself well in Talorn and killed all you knew of in Pretan…but evidence of a messenger dispatched to Harken some weeks ago was recovered in the investigation of the outpost,” the second reported. “The message told of a ‘large enemy invasion force’ coming down the valley. Who else could that have been? Captain, they know we’re here. You have failed.” Balii gazed at the floor in amazement. He couldn’t believe this was happening.

Again, the first spoke, “Balii, we will move against this fortress now, before they receive any reinforcements.” The Captain kneeled.

“What must I do?” he asked.

“Balii, this will be difficult for you to hear, as it is already,” the second Magister rose and descended the stairs, making a circular motion with his hand. The doors opened and guards rushed in. In a flash they seized Balii and held him secure. Balii did not struggle, though rage consumed him. “You are of no more use, Balii. You would only slow us down with whatever power you had. I am sorry Balii, but you are not the type of warrior I want leading my forces into battle. You have failed us one too many times. Go, now, and die in what way you deem fit; for, if you return to this city, you will be killed.” The magister smiled compassionately and bidded the guards to take the defeated soldier away. Balii held the eruption inside him and walked out passively between the guards.

“Balii, please don’t come back—don’t make us choose between you and the Magisters. Save us all the pain,” one of the guards said as they neared the gate. “There, you are free to go where you please. Just don’t come back.” At that the guards turned and headed back into the city. The newly functioning gates closed with a resounding thud. The gap in the wall had all but disappeared and soldiers of all ranks watched him with anticipation from the wall. They knew he had been exiled in honor, but he could go nowhere. The distance across the mountains was far too great for an unsupplied soldier, and the enemy would likely kill any enemy on sight. Balii had just been sentenced to death, by nature, by foe, or by friend. He walked slowly away from the walls and closed gate. The sun sank into the western mountains, igniting the sky. He wandered out into the plains, sauntering ever southward. The sun disappeared, and shadow consumed his body and mind. His rage died with the sun, following night into despair.

On he walked, pondering his shattered hopes and dreams. Without purpose or identity he roamed. Dried creek beds passed beneath his feet, grasses nipped at his shins, and still the plains loomed ahead of him. The sun made its arcing path overhead repeatedly, the moon following obediently, as Balii staggered onward. His armor grew heavy and burdensome, light as it was. The sun burned brighter and warmer than ever, though winter approached. At times his stomach told him to hunt, but, as the days passed, he found he needed no food—the thought of eating disgusted him. Soon, he would need no water. He would be free from physical sustenance: he would be divine.

The sun flew over him more quickly than before; time did not seem creep by so slowly as in his past life. He soon found it most pleasurable to sit on a giant boulder he had found in the middle of the prairie and watch the ripples of the wind in the grass, the gleam of the moon, and the blur of various birds traveling the sky. Everything was bright; everything seeped with life. Even the stars came to life in the night. Perhaps this was how the gods felt in their eternal existence. He needed nothing. It seemed he would not even need air soon. He felt as if he stopped breathing, life would be perfect and he could sit on that boulder forever and watch the seasons pass in a second.

The grass was beautiful, and the clouds—they danced and spun across the sky with amazing speed and agility. How he wished he could dance with the clouds! Staring upwards, he decided he could. Breathing out his soul, he became weightless and soared upwards into a white infinity. Lights spun themselves into a bright oblivion into which he flew or fell. He did not know which, but it made little difference to him. He was flung into a timeless eternity—an ocean of unparalleled moving lights. Suddenly everything dimmed. The circling points of light, one by one, blinked out of existence. Everything became dark and silent.

~¤~

“I hate to lose one such as he.”

“Yes,” replied the other Magister in the privacy of their throne room. “He was a strong soul indeed. One with the potential to lead his people to greatness.”

“It is a shame…and a pity,” replied the first.

“He could not stay—he was too strong. There are many who would follow him.”

“Of course…they have been born stronger of late.”

“But,” answered the second, “this may destroy our cause. If such a one was allowed to proceed, he might command the loyalty of his followers.”

“Yes, and that would spell our demise. No, we must let such go. It was fortunate reason fell to our hands. It may not be so easy next time,” the first reasoned.

“I agree. We must be wary. I fear his companion, Jumai, may follow his example,” the second worried.

“No, I do not. I did not sense the rage and passion that Balii carried,” replied the first.

“That is true. But he has potential. Be mindful of that, as well. The stronger the leader, the greater downfall possible,” answered the second.

“As ours will be,” stated the first, “if we do not keep them under control.”

A knock at the doors interrupted their conversation. Both turned in their seats and the first Magister beckoned the guest in. Jumai pushed the doors open and walked in, eyes blazing. “Why did you exile him? What did he deserve? He has done nothing but serve your highnesses!” The second Magister turned and raised an eyebrow to the first. The first sighed and turned his attention to the steaming soldier.

“Would you join him?” the first asked, narrowing his eyebrows.

“If that is what you wish then yes. If you despise our best leaders and passionate soldiers, then I would gladly join him!” Jumai exclaimed, his jaw set and eyes fixed.

“You have spoken truly…go join him now and never return, or remain in your position and be deserving of your honors,” answered the second Magister. After a long, thoughtful pause, Jumai closed his eyes and knelt. “How may I serve you?”

~¤~

Fiora stayed the rest of the day and the following night at the apothecary’s home, probing his memory of her grandfather. Altam told her of Harken’s journey from the northern mountains and of the events that transpired many years ago, as he rocked back and forth in his chair. Fiora listened in the dancing light of the fire.

“After our conversation in the tavern, I invited him to my place to stay the night, seeing as he would be my patient the next day. In fact, I do believe we chatted in front of this very fireplace that night. That’s when he told me who he was—a prince of sorts, if I remember correctly—but he wouldn’t go into detail, even though I prodded him. I mean, I was going to wipe his memory the next day, what was the problem? But he still refused. I think it was because he didn’t want me to tell him anything of his past once he became the new man.

“So, I let it go. That’s when he handed me the weapons—the short sword and the longbow—and told me to bury them and forget them. I figured he was just some kind of peace-promoter who couldn’t handle the atrocities of war and had cracked. So I buried them in my basement; never gave them a second thought, ‘till just now. But I do remember thinking that there was something in the air when he was around—not anything spooky—just different. He made you want to follow him by simply walking forward—that kind of a guy. I saw it in your brother, too. Although, he’s a bit quieter than your grandfather.

“So anyway, the next morning I began the process before he awoke. I crushed the ingredients with the mortar and pestle, evaporated them in an alembic, and had him inhale the gas while sleeping. Then I took the catalyst—a bitter juice I had made that past evening—and helped him drink that as he woke, or else his dream might have been his permanent reality. I had one of those once…that was a weird day. But he woke up and I told him his new name that we had agreed upon, where he was, that his past didn’t matter and why.

“And he took it real well; some don’t—at all. This one patient of mine jumped out of bed, ran in circles until he collapsed from exhaustion, and died of a heart attack within the hour. But your grandfather, he put on his new clothes, bought himself a horse and rode off across the plains, determined to make something of himself in Ashton. And I heard all about Harken from the messengers who stayed for a night in the tavern—always, it was Harken did this, Harken did that. And we would all cheer and drink to his success. Until he died. I felt almost like a father to him, though he hardly knew me, and the guys at the bar and I all had a small funeral service for him one night. I cried like I never had before—not even when my wife died! Isn’t that pitiful. Ahh, she complained too much anyway. Though, she could wash dishes like none other!

“So, that’s what I knew of your grandfather. But those monsters came and took my only tokens of his—those weapons. I couldn’t care less about what they do, except that they remind me of that great man, your grandfather Harken. I should have stopped them; now that I think about it, I could have told them differently, offered them a night’s rest and cooked up some concoction or powder to set their lungs on fire or turn their bones into pulp. Oh, to have the chance again, I’d give their reptile tongues something to taste!”

“Wait,” Fiora interrupted. “Reptile? You mean those thieves were lizards?”

“The most human-looking lizard I’ve ever seen. And handles a sword plenty well! If only I’d had been in my right mind, I would’ve made a powder to blow them out of their beds and then fixed the roof that afternoon,” he affirmed with fist raised high in protest.

“Well, I think I shall retire,” Fiora stated, followed by a yawn and a stretch. “Good night.”

“Okay. Rest well, darling. You have a big day tomorrow,” he encouraged and turned back to the fire as she walked out of the room. “If only I’d had the courage of Harken…” he muttered. Then something brilliant flashed in his eyes. “Yes, YES! That will do. That will do finely!” He rose from his chair and ran to his basement. “Heh, heh, heh. Yes. It’s perfect!”

~¤~

Jumai strode out of the building deep in thought. To follow Balii was to embrace death. To stay in the service of the Magisters was to condemn himself to a life of hypocrisy. He lumbered up the stairs to the top of the wall and gazed at the spot on the horizon Balii had disappeared into, under the setting sun. Jumai stood in the soft breeze and wondered if he ought to stand for principle or for his life. He carefully weighed the options, but found them strangely equal. Finally, standing beneath the blaze of colors, he parted with his life as a Masok warrior. He decided he would not live with himself if he bent under the pressure and followed the Magisters. His heart burst into flame—an all consuming honesty that devoured his will—as he ran to his tent, grabbed any supplies he could find, and set out after Balii, passing under the gateway to freedom. He left his family, friends, and masters behind as he sprinted into the dying sun—but he was truly alive.

~¤~

Balii woke to water splashing over his face, trickling into his mouth, and soothing his burning throat. As his lips remembered the touch of cool liquid, his eyes remembered light, and he blinked. His mind whirled and lights spun around him. Another splash of water in his mouth awoke something inside him. As his stomach found the water, it collapsed upon it, devouring any bit of nutrition it could. Blood began to pulse ferociously through his head and he felt weak and dizzy. From what he could tell, he lay on his back, staring into the sun. A dark, blurry form appeared over him and he felt something soft and cool slide into his mouth. Weakly chewing it, it dissolved and he struggled to swallow it. More water. To wash it down, he suspected. He felt his stomach attack the tidbit of food inside him. Another bite of sustenance came from the dark form above him. His head pounded terribly. Exhausted by the simple tasks of drinking and eating, he struggled to keep his eyelids open, but soon he lost consciousness and drifted away into blackness.

When consciousness struck him next, he felt as if he were moving, flying perhaps. Had some giant vulture carried him away? He swallowed painfully and blinked his eyes. He had stopped moving. He soon felt ground beneath him and more water poured into his mouth. He drank more this time, swallowing gulps at a time. A wet, pasty glob was placed in his mouth, which he chewed and swallowed. More water came, some purposefully splashed on his face. He blinked his crusty eyelids. But all remained bright and blended together. Soon weariness overtook him and he slept again. Many times he awoke to similar treatment, but he lost count quickly. He was much too exhausted to think and so he ate and drank when he woke, passing rapidly back to the realm of the unconscious. Finally, he awoke cool and comfortable, propped up against something soft. His stomach no longer ached and he could think without a throbbing head. His throat was not dry and parched, but cool and wet. He opened his eyes and they focused on a form in front of him. He opened his eyes fully and blinked. They hurt a bit from the brightness of mid-day but he could still see. A faint rumble echoed in his abdomen, but he felt strong enough to sit up. He rubbed his eyes and face and sighed. His neck and shoulders were stiff and his chest was heavy. But, he looked around him and found some more water in a flask and drank some. The figure in front of him turned to see him drink.

“Wow, that’s the best I’ve seen you do yet! How about some fried fish for dinner?” the form asked. Balii felt tired again but tried to speak.

“Wh—wh—o…a—a—re…y—you?” His voice was raspy and harsh but, he took a deep breath and spoke again. “Wh—whe—where…am…I?”

“Whoa, take it easy there, Balii. You just rest some more and I’ll wake you up for dinner, okay?” the figure said, laying Balii back down with a concerned hand. “Sleep a bit more and maybe you’ll be ready for conversation at dinner.” Balii obeyed, closing his eyes. He was indeed tired and fell right asleep.

All too soon, he felt a cool hand on his arm shake him a bit. He opened his eyes to find a familiar face, but he couldn’t place the identity. A wonderful scent caught his nose and drew his stomach into convulsions. He was hungry and ready to eat. He tried to stand, but found himself on unsteady feet. The individual next to him grabbed his arm and stabilized him. They stumbled over to the fire-pit where dinner was cooking. Balii lowered himself to the ground trying to prop himself upright on his right arm. Instead the form lent him log to lean back on. He felt his stomach rumbling and craved the meal. The figure handed him a small leaf piled with fish meat and Balii dug in, consuming the meal with lightning speed. He finished it off with a piece of baked cornmeal bread and swig of water.

“Well, I’d say you’re coming around. In another week, you’ll be right back where you used to be, Captain,” the voice said. It struck a chord of deep recognition inside him, but he still couldn’t place it. He was still tired and he closed his eyes. “That’s right, sleep a little while and you’ll feel better. Good night Balii.” Balii felt himself lifted and set back down as he drifted off.

~¤~

Each time Balii awoke, he felt much better, ate, and drank. He knew not what time it was when he woke or how frequently a day, but he gradually gained more strength. He still, however, could not place his caretaker’s identity, until, finally, the day came when his memory served him. It was Jumai’s face he stared into. But other questions nipped at his memory. Why was he feeling so bad? And why was Jumai caring for him? He began to walk and talk, but Jumai refused to answer any of his questions. Jumai told him he had been scarcely the weight of his pack when he had found him. But now, he ferociously devoured everything Jumai set before him. Balii learned they had been camped at the edge of a forest along a small stream. The aspen forest provided good hunting and the stream, good fishing. But the days were growing shorter as winter approached. They would have to find or build heavier shelter if they would survive the winter. Jumai told him they would have to travel further south, or find a good cave. Balii agreed, though one thing troubled him. He still wondered why they wandered out here alone. One evening, as the sun slipped behind the western horizon and a small breeze began to pick up, Balii prodded Jumai to explain to them their predicament and if the Masok army would rescue them.

“My friend, we are alone for one reason: we were too strong,” Jumai finally answered. Balii did not understand nor accept this answer.

“Just tell me, Jumai, why did you find me in the middle of the prairie? Was there a battle? Did we win? Jumai, what happened? I must know, can’t you see?” Balii pleaded.

“Alright, my friend, here it is. The Magisters banished you—exiled you into the plains.” Sudden memories flooded Balii—the dam had splintered and the contents gushed forth into his conscious thought. He sat silent; an unreadable mist covered his eyes. “You walked southward for ten days. Luckily, you had been drinking water during that time. When I found you, you were almost completely skin and bones, but some water brought you around. I managed to carry you here—a five day journey from your final resting point. We have been camped here for five days so far.” Balii nodded as the events of the past few weeks played back in his mind. He remembered the gate closing—he shuddered as he thought of the finality of the closing thud.

Chapter 10

Falcor did not speak his mind, but rather tolerated the hushed discussion behind him. Fiora had no business allowing the boy to join them on their dangerous quest, but if it did keep her incessant questions occupied, then he welcomed it. For the past few hours of hiking west, he had kept his distance from the two, breathing in the fresh and relaxing silence. The dark morning, filled with a dreary drizzle and a rising fog, helped him separate himself from them. His thoughts were his own, for once, and he could at last ponder the grandfather he had never known. He could not decide whether Harken had truly come from a northern civilization somehow lost to history, or if Valimor had knowingly sent them away on a wild goose chase.

Either option seemed just as bizarre, and his speculation would not change anything. But the prospect that he descended from a lineage of foreign blood intrigued Falcor. His father had earned the same reputation of honor and respect that Harken had, but he couldn’t be sure that it had anything to do with blood relation. Because his father had died while Falcor was young, he wondered if his father had known any more about his grandfather than he did. Perhaps this was his chance to discover the truth of his heritage and the mystery surrounding his grandfather. As he topped a small hill, he shook his thoughts from himself and gazed down upon the village of Talorn.

“Come, Fiora; we have arrived. And bring your friend,” he stated without turning. Fiora crested the hill a moment later, cursing the rain. She had stumbled twice and her outfit was splattered with mud. The boy remained at her side like a faithful dog, but kept silent before Falcor.

“So this is it—this is the crowning glory of the western colonies,” Fiora mumbled. Falcor shot her a glance of warning, but did not rebuke her. “Good. This is good…well, let’s get out of the rain then, shall we?” she asked. Falcor shook his head. The rain—the rain brought him to life. He took a deep breath and faced the heavens.

“Why?” he retorted. “Rain is a gift—a sweet outpouring of the gods’ grace. Embrace it, Fiora, and stop thinking about what it will do to your hair.” He didn’t remember what she ranted about for the remainder of the journey to Talorn, but instead gave the gloomy skies his full attention. When they came to the gate, Falcor knocked several times on the man-sized entrance on the left. Suddenly it burst open, and six cloaked figures dashed out and into the prairie. The door caught Falcor on his right shoulder and sent him sprawling. Standing, he shouted a challenge to the fleeing forms. The apparent leader held up a fist and turned. Fiora shrunk behind her brother, pulling along the boy from the Sanyx hunting party.

“With just what are you brigands escaping?” Falcor roared. The individual walking towards them picked up his pace and practically jogged to confront the big man. The cowl of his cloak left his face in shadows, but Falcor could see that he easily outmatched the form in size and strength. The figure drew close in a fluid manner and two reflective eyes peered at him from under the hood.

“Do you want to die, stranger?” the cloaked form hissed. Falcor did not move. The figure eyed him closely. “Well?”

“A fleeing pack of thieves with empty threats do not intimidate me,” Falcor answered. A long thick silence ensued as the two locked stares. Then, in a flash, the cloaked form drew his weapon and slashed at Falcor. But the man had unsheathed his powerful broadsword just as quickly and caught the strike before him in a sweeping parry. “Mind who you pick a fight with,” Falcor warned. The cloaked stranger snarled, twirled his sword away from Falcor’s, and stepped lightly backwards.

“You are fast for a man your size, and quite skilled with a blade it seems. I would hate to waste time and energy on such an even match. So, I shall withdraw, on a single condition: heed my advice. Journey westward or southward, traveler, and you shall be spared.” At that the form, sprinted into the gloom to join his friends. Falcor watched him go until he disappeared. Slipping the broadsword into its sheathe on his back, Falcor opened the door into the dark streets of Talorn. Fiora clung to his side, strangely silenced by the confrontation. The boy followed them closely, glancing passively about the obscure, sleeping city.

~¤~

The wandering trio, led through the colony town of Talorn by Falcor, found an inn and paid for three rooms in which to spend the rest of the night. Deciding to rest for the remainder of the night and begin their search for the weapons on the morrow, the company bedded down and fell asleep in moments.

The night passed quickly and without incident for Fiora, until the stiff grip of her brother woke her. The sun had broken through the rain clouds in a few places and bathed her room in its pure light. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes and stretching, she listened as Falcor relayed some information he had gathered from the innkeeper earlier that morning.

“He said there was such a practitioner of herbal remedies, but he had forgotten most everything he knew and now lived to cultivate his garden and spend his evenings at the tavern,” Falcor relayed. Fiora was nodding her head and running a comb through her hair.

“Where does this man live?” she asked, trying to remove a knot just behind her shoulders with the comb.

“A few houses down, on the left. A simple place with a porch overlooking the garden in front. He should still be there, if we hurry,” he answered. Fiora shook her hair loose and rose.

“Is Emain up yet?” she wondered.

“Who?” Falcor asked, raising an eyebrow, but realized his mistake too late.

“Oh, that’s right. You haven’t met him yet—your life-debtor,” she replied with a stone-like stare. He shook his head.

“You shouldn’t have brought him…” he said—then paused, unwilling to finish his thought, but Fiora moved to confront him.

“You don’t know him; why should you assume he is useless?” she questioned.

“I didn’t say that…” he replied and turned for the door. A hand on his back stopped him.

“Just give him a chance,” she pleaded. Falcor bit his lip and nodded.

“I did,” he said and walked out. Fiora wanted to call him back, show him that Emain could help them somehow, and have a unified trio. It seemed as though a bottomless abyss had opened between her brother and the boy he had saved. Fumbling for her pack, she followed him out. Emain emerged from his room at her knock and the pair rushed after Falcor. They found him waiting outside, adjusting the sword on his back.

“Come on, let’s find this old tramp, discover his secrets, and go,” he demanded. The two fell in behind his brisk trot silently. The streets seemed more welcoming even in the cloudy morning than in the bitter gloom of the stormy night. The structures appeared worn by the unpredictable weather, though they couldn’t be more than fifty years old. Wooden and timber-framed houses, shops, and taverns lined the cobbled streets; small puddles gleamed in the facet-like depressions in the road.

“Here’s the place,” Falcor declared, standing before an old run-down that housed the old apothecary. He tramped up the stairs and banged his fist against the door, which almost gave way under impact.

“N-no-nobody’s h-home,” a feeble reply echoed from somewhere inside.

Falcor shook his head and knocked again. “Is this the home of the apothecary of Talorn?” he asked politely, reigning in his frustration.

“I-I don’t kn-know who you’re talking about…” the faint voice answered, audibly trembling. Falcor jiggled the latch in growing anger and pounded on the door again. Fiora put a hand on her brother’s shoulder, and spoke to the closed door.

“We are friends of a friend of yours…we must speak with you,” she pleaded in her most gentle tone. A rustle and some hurried footsteps caught her ear.

“You say you know a friend of mine…name him, er…her…ummm…whoever it is you claim to know,” the voice demanded, quite certainly positioned just on the other side of the doorway.

“His name was Harken…he was our grandfather,” Fiora answered, smiling at her anxious brother. But the shriek from inside and the pattering footsteps erased it from her lips.

“I don’t think he’s listening anymore…” Falcor stated. Lurching forward and smashing his shoulder against the door, he easily broke the rusty latch and splintered the door.

Fiora was the first one through, chasing after the fading sound of footfalls echoing down a hallway to the left of the main room, lit dimly by curtained windows. Falcor rubbed his shoulder and stumbled after her, blinking his eyes in the poor light. It was Emain, however, who sprinted past Fiora and into the dark, gloomy hallway. He disappeared through another doorway on the right and then vanished up a flight of stairs while Fiora struggled to keep up. She caught only glimpses of the agile boy and heard nothing of the old man they searched for.

Finally a holler sounded somewhere in front of her. Ducking into a room, Fiora found Emain on top of the old man, pinning him face first into the floor. She collected her breath momentarily and nodded to Emain, who released the apothecary, but held him tightly by the collar. The old man trembled violently and his shaky eyes darted from his captor, to the girl, then to the door where Falcor emerged.

“Please miss, don’t let ‘em hurt me!” he whimpered, his wide eyes turning to Fiora.

“They won’t,” she assured him, “so long as you tell us what we need to know.”

He glanced worriedly at Falcor, who idly rubbed his shoulder. “H-how can I be of s-service…” he gulped.

“Our grandfather, Lord Harken, wrote in his journal of an apothecary he visited when he first arrived in Ashton…we were hoping you were this man,” Fiora stated. A cold stare from Falcor permeated the moment of silence and appeared to completely unnerve the captive.

“I-I…I am he. My name is Altam,” the old man stuttered. “But d-don’t hurt me…I couldn’t stop them…its-its not my…oh, those demonic eyes…I could do nothing, understand! Nothing! Nothing, nothing, nothing…” and with that, he collapsed into tears. Fiora knelt by the old man and tried to probe for more information, but she could not discern anything helpful from his babbling sobs, while Emain sat silently behind her. Falcor, however, caught on at once to the old man’s story.

“It must have been them…those bandits,” he deduced. Fiora scrunched an eyebrow. “Those were no ordinary thieves running from the law; they were the enemy—they found the weapons first…” his voice faded as he drew his thoughts to their logical conclusion. It hit them at the same time. They had failed; the weapons were lost and in the possession of the enemy, who had threatened the apothecary and terrified him into cooperation. Falcor cursed himself for allowing the thugs to escape, for not taking any action, save that to save his own skin. Without those weapons there would be little chance of survival against the invading army. He had failed himself, his sister, and his country. What hope was there now?

~¤~

The fog had lifted and the sun shone on the road diving westward from the Citadel across the river. Talibor knelt beside the fresh grave of the fallen emperor, paying his respects to the once great man. He had been like a father to Talibor, raising him as a lord of the Citadel. No, Talibor had not desired to slay his uncle, but the lives of Ashton had demanded it of him. He had served Ashton as he knew best, and now he dared not leave his country unattended and unguarded. The Imperial Guards had surrendered when the cavalry had appeared and now swore to protect Talibor.

Senators from all parts of Ashton, many of whom would have gladly taken Talibor’s dark role in secret, had crowned Talibor emperor that very morning. He accepted the title reluctantly, for the defense of Harken demanded that he ride to war. In his stead, he had appointed two of the most-respected Senators, Galam from the north and Helad of the Citadel to govern the empire during his absence. Shortly after the ceremony, he had ordered the emperor buried on the side of the road where he fell and a monument to him erected, displaying his few, worthwhile accomplishments. Here he bowed, grieving the loss as that of his own father and celebrating the freedom of Ashton. His blue eyes opened and a tear slid down his cheek; he bit his lip and rose. Boltor appeared beside him.

“You loved him, didn’t you,” he whispered.

“As my own father, and…enough to end his life,” Talibor mumbled. He glanced at Boltor. “And you loved them, didn’t you.” Boltor eyes fell to the ground, his mind wandering to the burial grounds that now held his family.

“Yes, but they are in a better place now. As are we,” he said, checking his sobs before they rose. Talibor turned and placed his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“But we have only begun to purge darkness from our lands.” Talibor held his gaze with the unmatchable blue eyes, passion overflowing him. Boltor inhaled deeply blinking slowly.

“Of course, my friend. I will not let any army so easily tear away families from any man. This invasion shall be quenched quickly by the blade of my sword!” He exclaimed, a faint smile growing on his lips.

“By the blades of our swords!” Talibor corrected, fervor thickening his voice. “Let us march to war!” He stood and mounted his steed that had not strayed from his side neither throughout the morning nor during even the coronation ceremony. Noon approached and the army had been re-assembled, now ready to march. The sun glistened off the shining steel armor and spears of the phalanx division, and the cavalry horses snorted in eagerness. Talibor rode to the front of the lines and drew his sword, raising it high into the beaming sunlight. Everyone grew silent in anticipation of the new emperor’s orders.

Talibor steadied his horse and began, “Hear me, my brothers. Today, the threat to our families, lifestyles, and beliefs from across the northern mountains will begin to fall. From this point forward, no invasion force shall come into our empire unchallenged, murdering and plundering at will. This land is ours! And we shall defend it! It is not to glory, honor, or fame that we march. It is not to history books, monuments, and statues that we march. We march to the defense of Ashton. We march to WAR!” As Talibor raised his sword and bellowed a battle cry; his loyal soldiers echoed him. “Let us march!” He ordered and urged his steed forward. Line by line the phalanx division began to march, spread across the breadth of the road. Soon the cavalry divisions fell in behind the archer and skirmisher divisions and the army, a giant silver river flowing down the Great Western Road, headed for the city of Harken, twenty days distant. Today was the second day since the messenger had left, and that gave him twenty-eight days to arrive in the city. Talibor decided he would not push the soldiers, but rather keep them fresh and ready for battle, in case Harken fell in the forthcoming days and they met an unexpected foe.

The army marched in the early-mornings and evenings, while the temperature was most bearable, stopping for a larger meal in the afternoons and a short nap to refresh the soul. On the evening of the fifth day the army crossed the River Dalan, and camped to the west, just outside of the city of Ithil. Before them lay the Plains of Silac, and, invisible in the distance, the Kailan Range to the north and the Atep Mountains to the south. At their meeting, due west of their position, stood Harken. The fortress-city remained the door to the outside world and any attack on Ashton. Morning and evening they would march without complaints along the Great Western Road that ended at Harken. On the tenth day the hills bordering Lake Pala rose to the north and further south, beyond the horizon, the Dunes of Alat sat, forcing all southern travelers, the river included, to deviate eastward around its impassable sand dunes. Still before them lay the vast sea of grass and the road. Nights passed in a delectable chill. The days were clear, though windy at times, and warm with the sunlight bestowing all life to the plains, which soaked it in and prepared for the siege of winter.

On the nineteenth day, the mountains appeared from the dusty horizon and rose ever-grander as they approached them. More hills and valleys decorated the plains, yet the road seemed to miss them all, bearing them straight on to Harken. On the twenty-sixth day, a messenger arrived to greet them from the city, tucked behind the foothills beneath gorgeous snow-capped peaks and verdant forests. The visit brought sighs of relief and Talibor bid him to stay and tell of the news from Harken during the afternoon break. That evening, the messenger rode off to deliver his report to lord Valimor, and, at noon on the twenty-eighth day of travel, the army passed through the welcoming gates of Harken. Talibor saw that tents, blankets and pads had been procured for his men and temporary stables set up for his horses all along the outer walls of the city. As he rode in, lord Valimor strode out to greet him.

“Lord Talibor and Emperor of Ashton, I salute you. We have temporary quarters for your men set up and stable boys to care for your steeds. Please, make yourself at home.” Talibor glanced around him. On both the northern and southern sides, the city walls met sheer cliffs, providing an excellent defense against any invasion force. In the middle, behind a second set of walls, the fortress rose like an island in a river. It was a gate in the wall of the mountains, which provided little other choice around them. The Atep Mountains stretched to the sea southwards, and the Kailan Range, like a knife’s edge, ran northward into the Hilken Wilderness. Drinking in the jagged mountains, Talibor nodded.

“We thank you for your gracious hospitality. Not many cities would welcome an army of thousands as their guest.” Talibor conceded.

“If you, my lord, would follow me, we shall show you to your quarters, if you would grace my own household with your presence…” Valimor offered.

“I’m sorry lord Valimor, take no offense, but I shall sleep with my men,” Talibor interrupted. Valimor hesitated only slightly, but then bowed.

“As you wish, my emperor, but would you join me for dinner?” he asked Talibor.

“That I will take you up on,” the emperor replied and dismounted. A young boy led his steed away, and Valimor’s captains began to direct his soldiers to their camps. Talibor followed Valimor through the second gate and into the fortress, awaiting a fresh, home-cooked meal with his old mentor and friend.

Chapter 9

Talibor rose at the first sign of dawn and roused Boltor. “Come,” he whispered in the sleeping man’s ears. “The day beckons our haste.” The reclined form breathed deeply and soundly, his slumber unfazed by Talibor’s words. Talibor wondered what dreams the man might be lost in. In fact, he was quite surprised to find Boltor sleeping that well, considering his loss from the day before. Talibor reached to shake him awake, but he pulled away as the man rolled over, a smile of peace etched onto his face. Talibor decided he would allow the man some extra sleep before they would ride and awake the army. He searched through his pack and found a sack of nuts to breakfast on.

Away in the east, far behind the Citadel and the mountains, streaks of yellow tinted the lightening sky. Soon shadows appeared, stretching long and thin. The morning mists settled over the plains, and obscured the painted sky. Not more than half an hour had passed and the clear sky overhead had faded and the air became cool and damp. Talibor almost wished he had awoken Boltor in the crisp beauty of twilight instead of in the dreary fog; he wondered what effect it might have on Boltor’s attitude, as well. The mists would linger until near mid-day, as close as they were to the river, and prompted the young lord to action.

Talibor reached out and touched Boltor’s arm. The man started and his muscles tightened, but then he exhaled loudly and squinted his eyes. Talibor spoke again to him, “Rise my friend, we have many miles before us today.” Boltor nodded and yawned. Talibor put away his nuts, securing them in a pouch on his saddle. He whistled a long soft note, and his steed came prancing to his side. With a silent effectiveness, he strapped the saddle onto the stallion, but ignored his lance and bow, leaving those burdens for only a necessary time. His sword, however, he secured to his belt, for it never left his side, even in sleep. It was the Graymark Blade, a weapon forged by the ancients during the Cleansing. Always a member of the house of Ashton wielded it—now he carried the weapon. One last time, he spoke to Boltor before he mounted the horse, “Get them ready to march, we will leave shortly after I return.” The responding nod and flicker of eyelids told him Boltor would soon rise and rouse the troops. Talibor urged his steed forward and disappeared into the mists.

~¤~

Another bold sigh gave Boltor the kinetic energy needed to lift himself from the ground. He glanced into the mists to see an obscure form fade into nothingness. He pulled himself to his feet and stretched, meditating on his dream that faded from memory. He had been in a grassy meadow, somewhere in the forest, walking with his wife. His two sons had chased each other over logs and onto boulders. The sunlight was bright and the air warm. The sky remained a brilliant blue, with small white puffs of clouds hovering here and there. His wife’s hand had interlocked with his own as they strolled across the field. Laughter echoed over the meadow as the two boys climbed a fallen tree trunk, broken halfway down the tree, sloping up to the breakaway point. They giggled as they climbed ever-higher. His wife smiled at him and ran off to join them and perhaps to caution them not to climb too high. He strolled easily towards the trunk feasting his eyes on them. Suddenly, he felt a strong cold hand hold him back from continuing towards them. He turned and found the strong blue eyes of Talibor behind the grip. When he had glanced back towards his family, they were gone, replaced by the morning mists. The thought of the swinging forms underneath the shadow of the north tower nagged at him, but he frantically banished it from his head.

Boltor found a small cake to eat in one of his saddle-bags and glanced around. The mists were heavy this morning; perhaps it would delay the awakening of the soldiers a bit, and thus the mileage of the day. But then, the fog only settled near the river and the road lay straight and true. He rubbed his eyes and bit into the dense, filling cake. A large yawn crept out of his mouth and refreshed him. He grabbed his horn and blew a long resounding note. Movement responded from every part of the mists. Silhouettes rose and packed their things, after finding a bit of breakfast to eat in their provisions. Boltor slipped the bread into his pocket, and blew another note to be sure everyone was awake. He found his steed had answered his call as well, and he saddled him quickly with the skill of more years than he possessed. The horse stood quietly, patiently waiting for his master to mount. In another moment, Boltor finished and climbed upon the horse. “Let us shape these soldiers into an army, shall we?” he asked the steed and rode off, hailing soldiers and issuing marching orders.

~¤~

Fiora woke to the pre-dawn twilight by her brother’s icy grasp. “Stay still; don’t move,” Falcor whispered. She obeyed, but squinted her eyes, prying into the grayness that consumed the world. Finding nothing, Fiora glanced at her brother. He did not return eye contact, but stared intently, eyelids half-shut, at something in the distance.

“What is it?” she wondered, her words only slightly audible.

“A Sanyx hunting party…two there, to the west…two more off north and another between them,” he said, stifling as much of the sound his words made as he could. Fiora’s eyes widened.

“Have they picked up our scent?” she wondered. Falcor held up a hand and gazed into the gloom.

“No…otherwise we would not still be alive,” he answered simply. “They’re moving off to the west, now.” Fiora wondered how his keen eyes could have picked anything out in the faint, early light. She could see nothing. “Get down…we should not risk our concealment,” he mouthed more than said. “Say nothing further.” Fiora nodded and curled down in the grass without a sound. After what seemed an eternity, she felt Falcor sink beneath the grass next to her and wait. But something prompted him to rise again. Fiora fought confusion until, at last, her unskilled ears caught the sound of a far-off cry. Then several more distant voices joined the first. Then another sound found her perception. The beat of padded feat echoing dully through the earth told her the Sanyx were no longer prowling. She glanced uneasily at Falcor, who was already on his feet and drawing his sword. “The Sanyx have been attacked,” he declared and yanked Fiora to her feet. “Let’s go.”

They trod with quick, light steps atop a slight rise to west, following the direction of the Sanyx pack. Fiora gasped. Before them a ring of torch-lit hill-folk surrounded a pack of five massive, snarling creatures. Some of the more courageous warriors feinted in, attempting to draw one of the giant beasts to the waiting bowmen. Crudely armed with spears and javelins, the rag-tag band of men cheered and chanted wildly as the jabs and leaps grew closer to the beasts.

Fiora knew the Sanyx would not take any bluffs. They were the masters of the open prairie—lords of their realm. The men might have a chance against two or three, but not five, she decided. These predators would wait, at least, until they found a weak spot in the ring and burst through it with relative ease. At best the men might manage to take one down, but they would pay for it with their own lives. The beasts were just too powerful. Fiora hated to see men die, but to attack a Sanyx, five nonetheless, was a death penalty. Falcor grabbed her arm, “Let’s circle around to the north; keep in that small ravine to avoid being seen. She nodded without a word.

They crept across a washed out gully and began to summit another small escarpment when the Sanyx charged the line. Shouts erupted into the night air, followed closely by screams of agony and cheers of adrenaline. Then a new chorus of voices joined in with the sound of shattering pottery just in front of Fiora. A flare of light erupted in front of her as the concealed reinforcements raced to overwhelm the confused Sanyx. Faces of both men and women rushed past her as Falcor yanked her back down into the ravine. But a hunter had noticed them and flashed the torch light in the ravine. It was a boy, armed with a bow and sword, that stood above them.

“Come! Victory is near. Don’t hide. Fight!” he encouraged and turned to back to charge the beasts. Falcor scowled at Fiora, as if their spotting were entirely her fault, and took a step backwards down the ravine, away from the hunt. Fiora resisted for a moment, and in that split-second she found she wanted to help these people—help them destroy these monsters. Falcor opened his mouth to speak, but the blur that leapt over the rise in front of them left him speechless.

The monstrous cat bounded from hunter to hunter, crushing each in a deadly pounce. It sent another flying with a giant paw and neatly dodged a flying spear, hurled by an unknown hand. The boy drew an arrow and took his aim at the approaching Sanyx, which crept forward in a crouch, waiting for its opportunity. Fiora watched in horror as the boy let his arrow fly, which sailed just wide of his target, and the Sanyx leapt forward. Fiora waited for the boy to draw his sword, but he froze, his gaze fixated on what would be his death. Fiora found herself equally unable to move as the magnificent predator halved the distance to its prey in a single bound. She had no desire to watch the boy die, but she could not avert her eyes.

Then, from somewhere beyond her gaze, she saw Falcor dashing past the paralyzed boy. His broadsword flashed from its sheathe and in the same stroke the Sanyx crashed at his feet, lifeless. Fiora gaped wordlessly as she struggled back up the escarpment. She watched Falcor wipe his blade off on the beast’s fur and sheath it. He strode past the awestruck boy and grabbed Fiora by the arm.

“We have lingered here too long. Let’s go,” he declared. He turned northward, but a cry stopped him.

“Wait!” Fiora glanced back to find the boy striding towards them, hands up and waving. “Wait. Who are you?” he gasped, still trying to catch his breath from his close encounter. Falcor ignored the boy and pressed on into the growing fog. When the boy saw Fiora hesitate, he pleaded with her, “Stop, please! You must…I…I must repay you…”

“Falcor…” she intervened. But the silhouette did not waver.

“We must go,” he murmured into the graying and quickened his pace. “Come.”

Fiora turned back to the boy, who had now reached her side. “Please, tell me your name, that I may serve you! I should have died, but by your grace I live.” Fiora found her lips sealed and her will unsure. She found herself walking towards her brother, yet she could not ignore the boy beside her. Glancing down, she nodded to the boy and jogged towards Falcor.

~¤~

Talibor rode to the cavalry and archer divisions to the north and the skirmisher divisions south of the phalanx division. As he approached the cavalry division, he found the captain already up, awaiting the signal. He rode swiftly by and moving his index finger in a circle. The captain nodded and strode quickly back to his men. Each division he passed the captain awaited him. Talibor indeed had good men to lead his army. He rounded the rear of the encamped army and rode back the southern side. The skirmisher captains also awaited his arrival in the same fashion, for they had been trained well. As he looped around, heading back towards Boltor he heard the lone cry of a trumpet. Many distant notes echoed this call, and soldiers began to rise, shaking sleep from themselves and readying their packs and equipment for a long day. Talibor arrived back at his camp where his lance, bow and quiver, and saddle bags waited to be loaded. Just as he stopped to dismount, a captain of the cavalry rode up, skidding to a halt in front of him.

“Captain! The Emperor’s Imperial Guards approach our flank,” the horseman reported. Talibor grimaced.

“Then let us meet them. Are your men ready to ride yet?” Talibor asked, urging his steed forward. The captain pulled his horse around and met Talibor’s pace.

“Yes, my lord!” he replied.

“Then summon them to my aid at once!” Talibor ordered. The captain nodded and rode off into the mist. Talibor spurred his steed and rode back towards the city gates, while dark forms of soldiers flickered by in the mist. He thought of hope only as he approached a likely disastrous confrontation with his uncle’s personal guards. Suddenly, he found himself facing an entourage of silhouettes marching from the city. Slowing his stallion to a slow trod, Talibor kept his distance, hoping to give his captain time to muster his horsemen. He wondered what the Emperor had ordered, for there didn’t seem to be many of them, though they still appeared formless in the fog. But as the elite guards inevitably closed the gap, their golden armor gained texture and shadow, and he found them bearing a litter.

He gasped. Had the emperor himself come out to demand allegiance? Talibor straightened his back and pulled his helm from the saddle and strapped it on. Drawing his sword from its sheath, he stopped his horse and waited for them to approach him. In the mottled light, the litter-bearers stooped and set the carriage on the road. Stepping through the mist to face Talibor, the emperor hobbled on his engraved oak staff and leaned weakly on it for support. Talibor dismounted from his jittery horse with a pat on its neck and a soothing whistle. The horse shook its head fiercely as if to beg its master to turn away. Talibor whistled softly again and stroked its cheek. The steed shook again, but remained faithful and stepped behind Talibor, close enough to nudge or encourage him to mount and flee if the danger mounted.

Talibor twirled Graymark in his hand and waited as the bent figure approached him. The old wrinkled face twisted in absolute hate, and his eyes blazed with fiery anger. The trembling finger pointing at him did not seem to match the steady, powerful voice echoing from the old man.

The emperor questioned Talibor, “You would defy the emperor? Not once, but twice. You have corrupted my army with your ideals! You have escaped the dungeon to work your evil. You are a disgrace to your family, your people, and your country. You would even murder me; look, you carry your sword with you!”

Talibor knelt. “If you truly serve the people, you would command me not to kneel before you, but to ride to war. If you serve only yourself, command me to drop my weapon. I am a servant of Ashton and the people within, and I will do as they wish.”

“The people would have you spare the lives of their husbands, fathers, and sons,” the emperor spat. “Lay down your weapon and your life shall be spared!”

“Who are you to grant and deny life? Who am I to do such? But if it comes between the life of my people and the life of my enemies, I choose to protect those of our people. And I can only protect our people now by riding to war,” Talibor spoke softly, but only fueled the fury of the emperor.

“I am the emperor! It is my right to protect my people against usurpers and war-mongers like yourself! If you serve Ashton, stay where you are while your punishment is delivered! Guard!” The nearest golden-clad soldier stepped forth. The emperor drew the guard’s sword from its sheathe.

“Do as you will,” Talibor responded quietly. “If by my life or death I may serve Ashton, let it be.” The emperor no longer hobbled on his staff but stood tall and strong, overflowing with hate, gripping both sword and staff in his hands. I hope you believe the same, he thought silently.

“Let Ashton see what a traitor deserves!” cried the emperor and lifted the sword high. He paused a moment, relishing the climax of his backswing, and smiling swung the sword head level at Talibor with all his might. Talibor neatly ducked the swing and sprung into the emperor. The old man’s eyes grew wide and suddenly distant. From his back protruded the blade Graymark, thrust deep and sure into him.

“Let Ashton see her greatest enemy fall…” Talibor whispered in the emperor’s ear. Then the fallen emperor sputtered something incoherent and breathed his last. Talibor nudged the dead man to the side and let the man slide off his sword. A fiery blaze burned in his blue eyes, as he raised Graymark to defend himself against the guards who, momentarily stunned by the emperor’s death, had unsheathed their weapons. The golden warriors let out a cry and the nearest ten rushed Talibor. The young warrior stepped back and gripped his sword, ready to fend them off.

As the first one neared the Captain and raised his sword to strike, an arrow flashed out of the mist and struck the warrior in the neck. Two more arrows zipped from the oblivion, piercing them through. The guards hesitated as they watched their comrades fall to the ground. Talibor glanced to his left and saw the archer captain sprint forward, leading his team to Talibor’s aid. He pulled an arrow taught and felled another attacking guard. Several more dropped before hands began to rise in surrender. Talibor stopped the advance of the archers. Behind him the rumble of the cavalry overpowered his voice. Horsemen flew by him and rounded up the fleeing guards. He barely noticed the captain salute him as he raced by. Talibor stood in awe of his captains’ tactical leadership and decided that no army could withstand the full power of his might.

~¤~

Despite his drunken antics, the old man led Balii to his cellar and located a hatch in the floor. After wiping away years of dust, Balii heaved the door upwards on creaky hinges. In a roughly-hewn pit, a long slender box rested. When Balii pulled it into the lantern light and wiped it clean with his gloved hands, it shone brilliantly. Balii found the latches and clicked them open; this was the moment he had been waiting for. Ever so slowly and with the most cautious attention he began to lift the lid. The old man ventured closer and sobered a bit as the gap widened and finally revealed the interior. Balii set the lid next to the small chest passively and gazed at the contents.

A long slender bow, plain and undecorated lay beneath a sheathed sword. Balii drew the sword first from the box and slid the blade from the leather scabbard. It appeared dull and unwieldy until he played with it a bit. It seemed to glide smoothly with his movements, spinning and thrusting perfectly. He tested the edge of the blade with the light, but could not find any reflection. Deciding it was sharp, Balii sheathed it and turned his attention to the longbow.

He ran his fingers over the plain surface. Although it lacked adornment, something simply and intrinsically beautiful existed in the longbow, as well as in the short sword. Then, an inscription on the bow caught his eye: Druin-Kiil. He glanced back at the sheathed sword. On the hilt were the similar characters: Anduir-Siil. Balii set the recovered sacred weapons back in the chest, and closed the lid. Thanking the old man with a few coins, he pulled back his hood. The smile on the old-timer’s face disappeared. Balii drew his sword and pointed it at the man.

“Any word out of your mouth will spell your death, understand? My friends and I were never here,” Balii warned and flipped his hood back over his face. Then the other five members of the company emerged from the shadows around Balii. One slid the box into a sack and the other four took up formation around him. Balii flipped another useless coin to the man and slipped out the doorway into the dark, rainy morning.

Chapter 8

Lord Valimor gazed from the walls of the fortress-city, Harken, into the western plains and the setting sun. The brilliant oranges and fiery reds tinted his face, solemnly pondering the future. The past mattered little now. He remembered the day Harken had marched out of the city, east and south. He remembered watching the hero lead his army with courage and hope down the streets and out the eastern gate as a young man of sixteen. It was in that moment he had decided to become a soldier. What more could bring honor and dignity than protecting with your life all others? Harken had not returned. Only a single, horrified messenger had fled in time to escape doom, arriving in Harken a few days later. After the dead soldiers’ bodies had been buried, Harken’s was brought back to the city he forged, a hero to some, a reckless warrior to others—especially the emperor.

His sacrifice, however, did not weaken Valimor’s resolve to become a leader as Harken had. Instead, it intensified it. Long weary years had passed and now, he held lord Harken’s position, and now, quite possibly, his same fate. He had not heard from his scouts in the outpost nearest the supposed invasion corridor for nearly a week after the news first came to him. He assumed the invasion force had easily wiped it out, preventing any escape. Figuring they assumed the element of surprise, Valimor decided he might have a chance to deal heavy damage if he caught them off-guard in preparations.

But who could say? They came from the mountains. Science and history told them the mountains continued forever. Except Harken’s journal. He bit his lips and watched the sun slowly sink into the horizon. Perhaps his doom awaited him in the north, as Harken’s had awaited in the south. Perhaps he would return to this city in less than a month as a corpse, champion to some, fool to others. He shuddered as the bleak horizon cut off the life-giving sunlight. Will the next lord of Harken suffer the same fate? Where then? The west? The East? Would some little boy watch him ride out the western gate and decide to become a soldier?

He closed his eyes and thought. He tried to steer his mind away from the upcoming battle, but, like a stubborn steed, it would not veer from the plans for battle. He wondered if any help would come from Ashton, the Imperial Capital. Surely lord Talibor would understand his viewpoint, even if the emperor could not. It was not a secret that the emperor, in his younger years, proclaimed himself a pacifist and lord Harken an ignorant warmonger. The question remained: would lord Talibor ride without the emperor’s permission. If he did not come, as Padras in the north-east or Jarad in the south, he would find himself alone, and he dared not make battle plans without sufficient knowledge. He would not provoke a giant until he knew how tall and strong he himself was. The sun had disappeared, and the light faded into darkness, as a soft, autumn breeze blew coolly in his face.

“Lord Valimor! The messenger from Ashton has returned and carries news.” Valimor spun and nodded to the sub-captain. The soldier saluted and retreated back inside to resume his duties. Lord Valimor briskly followed the man up the stairs and into the fortress. As he walked through the door, an attendant bowed and beckoned him to follow. Valimor nodded and thought to himself, I know how to navigate my own fortress, but he said nothing and at last arrived in a small briefing room. He took a seat and glanced at the messenger.

“Do you have news from lord Talibor?” he questioned.

“Yes, my lord; he told me to relay the following message: I, Talibor, Captain of the Imperial Army, will ride to your aid in thirty days. Expect me no sooner, and no later,” the messenger quoted.

“That’s it?” Valimor wondered aloud, more to himself than an actual question, but the messenger answered anyway.

“Yes, my lord. However, I did learn an interesting piece of information as I left the guild to ride here,” he added.

“What was that, soldier?”

“Lord Talibor was imprisoned the evening before, only hours after he had given me his message.”

Valimor’s gaze dropped to the floor. He narrowed his eyes in obvious meditation. His tongue licked his lips, indicating his deep thought. No one spoke. Only the candles’ flames moved, flickering their subtle light on the walls. The window let only the twilight darkness in. After a long moment of silence, Valimor nodded and licked his lips.

“We shall give him thirty days, and not an hour longer. After that time has passed, we will act. But for now, night is upon us. We have thirty days to prepare for war, aided or unaided. Let us rest until then. Goodnight men.” At that, he strode from the room and headed to his home—adjacent to the western side of the fortress itself, looking out over the western plains.

~¤~

“Come quickly, Fiora!” Falcor hissed softly. His rugged frame shouldered a fair-sized pack and his boiled leather armor underneath. A great broadsword hung at his side, sheathed and swinging. He melted into the shadows of the streets and padded silently in the lazy blue twilight to the outer walls. Fiora followed behind, clad in a blue tunic and a gray cape clutched tightly about her shoulders. An ash longbow fell across her back with a quiver full of light, steel arrows strapped beneath it. Skittering behind her brother, Fiora’s dark eyes peered into the growing shade of evening. It would be a dark night. Few stars broke through the cloud cover to light their way. Only a faint, glowing patch of silver light indicated the position of the moon. The duo slipped through the gate and into the vast sea of black prairie.

“We should turn north, find the stream, and then follow it west to Talorn. Don’t you think?” Fiora proposed. Falcor’s cat-like reflective eyes flashed at her.

“Or we could travel due west and save time,” he asserted and turned back to the plains. “The sooner we arrive at Talorn, the sooner we can leave.” Fiora shook her head. There would be no arguing with him like this. She trotted after his receding silhouette into the night.

The darkness thickened with the onset of a cold, damp fog settling over the plains. Yet Falcor did not waver in his direction, heading ever westward into the night. Stars overhead blinked out of sight and the air tightened around them. For hours they stole across the plains, unnoticed by any living thing. The sensation of loneliness overwhelmed Fiora’s mind. She drifted from herself and felt as if she had been swallowed whole by the blackness. Only random tugs on the rope which Falcor had tied to her waist kept her moving forward. Between these reversions to reality, she wandered in a dreamworld of black.

What had she stepped into? A pit of fear stood yawning before her. In the musky black of the night she stumbled, heading to an unknown situation with unforeseeable consequences. Her brother was a force, but would he be enough? If the enemy was searching for the same weapons, could they stand and fight? Another yank on the rope purged her mind of the relentless questions assaulting it. She stepped blindly forward and clambered into Falcor, who caught her abruptly.

“We shall rest here for the remainder of the night,” he whispered. “Here, take your bedroll.” Fiora accepted it and paced a short distant from her brother. Dropping the bedroll on the ground, she eased onto it and pulled her warm cloak tight about herself. She fell asleep immediately under Falcor’s keen watch. He reclined against a protruding boulder and rested, both eyes shifting endlessly around the grass and brush of the Plains of Raida.

~¤~

Lord Valimor entered the door to find his wife busy at the kitchen, cooking their evening meal. His small daughter noticed him immediately and jumped up, running to his open arms. He lifted her small body high above his head and spun her around. “Oh, Berea! My love. How was your day!” He drew her into his arms and held her close. She smiled warmly and answered.

“Good. I got to go with Mrs. Elonor to the flower shop today,” she answered, looking straight into her father’s eyes. She wore a purple dress and had her black hair drawn back into two pony-tails. Her deep blue eyes gazed happily at her father.

“Yes? And how was that?” he asked.

“I looked at a lot of flowers. It was fun!” she replied.

“Which one was your favorite?”

“Ummm,” she mumbled, thinking deeply about the question. She looked up towards the ceiling and put a finger to her lips. Then she turned towards her mom. “What was that one you showed me, mommy?

“A Chrysanthemum?” came the reply.

“Yeah!” she shouted with glee, startling her father, “a Cry-sand-a-mom! It was pink!” Valimor chuckled at his daughter’s enthusiasm.

“Well, Berea, has mommy got dinner ready?” He asked, setting her on the floor. She gazed up at him and shrugged. Valimor smiled and let a small chuckle escape. “Go and see if she needs help then,” he remarked and the little girl spun and ran off to the kitchen. He heard the little voice ask mommy if she could help. A squeal of delight came with the responsibility of some little chore. Valimor loosened his cape and unstrapped his armor piece by piece. After placing the uniform in its closet, he walked to the bedroom and threw on some new clothes. He washed his face and hands at the wash basin and came to the dining room just as his wife set the final dish down. He placed his hands on her hips and leaned over her shoulder. “It looks wonderful, my love,” he complemented and kissed her on the cheek. They all sat down, after Valimor had lifted little Berea into her seat, padded with pillows so she could reach her plate.

“I set the table!” Berea boasted.

“I see,” said her father, “and you did an excellent job, too.” He speared a piece of meat, served his wife, and sliced up a smaller portion for Berea. He passed the rolls around and then served the vegetables, some summer squash and zucchini. When he reached to set some on Berea’s plate she covered it up with her short arms and wrinkled her nose.

“I don’t like those!”

“But, you will eat them all the same; here,” he replied, and dumped the vegetables between her arms, right in front of her nose. She squealed in frustration and crossed her arms. Valimor held in a laugh and stared down his daughter until a smile crossed his face. “They’re not all that bad. Now, eat.”

“You eat,” his wife ordered, assuming the same pose of her daughter.

“Am I to be outnumbered, then? Fine.” At that he took a large bite of his daughter’s vegetables, and after swallowing, replied victoriously, “I started, now you finish.” Berea wrinkled her nose and sniffed the steaming slices.

“How did your day go, honey?” his wife asked him, while their daughter pushed the vegetables around her plate, jabbing a piece of meat every so often and eating it.

“Long. A messenger from Ashton arrived today…” he began.

“What news? Will they aid us?” she interrupted.

“I don’t know. Lord Talibor promised his aid, but is rumored imprisoned for his stance. But, he told us he’d be here in thirty days, and I believe he’ll honor that promise, imprisoned or not. So it will be thirty-one days until battle, assisted or unassisted.” He heard his wife’s saddened sigh.

“Won’t they fight instead, while you may rearguard them, provide them with support at the city?” she asked.

“Now, now. You know it is our priority to fight, and theirs to assist us,” he chided.

“I know. I just wish you didn’t have to fight.”

“I do, too. But, if nobody leads, none will follow.”

“Even so, sometimes no one will follow…”

Valimor glanced uneasily at her. “Falcor and Fiora left this evening, too,” he declared, changing the subject.

“Where are they going?” she wondered.

“Remember how I told you Harken figured into this somehow: this is it. In Talorn, I believe Harken hid a powerful weapon—a weapon only capable of use by his descendents: Falcor and Fiora, his grandchildren. I think Harken came from the north, just as this army does. I think they want the weapons as well.”

“You didn’t send them alone, did you?” she gasped.

“I had to,” he stated and then paused. “They can handle themselves…I hope.”

~¤~

The small squad of Masoks, hand-picked by Balii himself, traveled southward across the plains in the dimming twilight speckled with emerging stars. Balii had long since decided to journey throughout the night, to cover as much ground as possible. The Masckarls they rode bounded on tirelessly over the rippling sheets of grass covering the giant valley. Above them the moon waxed full and flooded the prairie with its comforting beams. Everything glowed silver in its light, except his dark shadow flitting across the pale-gray blades of grass. A muffled voice to his right startled Balii. He found Jumai riding next to him.

“What do you think?” Jumai repeated. “Do the sacred weapons rest there, in this Talorn?” Balii shook his head.

“I know very little of their history, save the legends of their creation,” he admitted. Balii’s eyes dimmed as he glanced down, away from the starlight.

“What of that? I have never heard…” Jumai wondered. Balii paused a moment, his face hidden in the shadows of night.

“It was said that they were Masoks once. Anduir and Druin were their names. Both studied the magics and sciences of the old world, and grew immensely powerful. So powerful, in fact, that they challenged the gods Siil and Kiil to a contest. The gods, amused by the Masok brother’s vain egos, accepted the contest with great apathy.

It was, however, during the contest made plain that the Masoks had acquired such power that each outmatched their counterpart: Anduir bested Siil and Druin defeated Kiil. The two brothers proclaimed themselves god, but their lack of wisdom irritated Siil and Kiil. The gods, called such for a reason, were not, in fact, two but one. When they united, they cast a twofold curse upon the two brothers: first, that their true forms would be revealed in their bodies. And so Anduir and Druin, who saw themselves only as weapons to defeat greater powers, became a short sword and a longbow, instilled with their magics and powers but unable to use them of their own accord. Second, the gods saw them as a danger to the Masok race, for they lacked the judgement to use them, and gave them instead to a pair of travelers—humans. These two—a husband and wife—were the ancestors of the Magisters,” Balii finished. Staring forward in silence, Jumai pondered the tale. The Masckarls ran on without a sound, rocking the two Masoks gently back and forth.

“I haven’t heard that tale, even in all my schooling. How do you know it?” Jumai asked.

“My grandfather told me just before he died. He said something to the effect that it was the Magisters’ second greatest secret. He had devoted himself to unseating their ‘pompous lineage’, but without luck. He was an outcast among our people, if you rememeber. However, he did convince one Magister’s son of the tyranny—he left when my father was still a child. I don’t remember my grandfather ever mentioning his name, though. That son fled south with my grandfather’s aid. That much he told me—but I don’t think it was everything. I think he knew something even more dangerous: something that would dethrone the Magisters forever…”

“Careful, Balii!” Jumai cautioned. “You sound as if you live on the edge of treason. The Magisters are much wiser than any of us shall ever be. We would do well to learn from them.”

“Perhaps. But, I’ve often wondered what a Masok state would be like, without the Magisters looming over us,” Balii wondered, lifting his gaze to the night sky. The moonlight dazzled off his eyes as he drank in the clear fresh air. “Haven’t you thought about that, Jumai?”

“As I said, you tread a dangerous road. Think no more of it, Balii. Let us recover these weapons, our heritage and sacred relics. With this we shall bring a future to our people,” Jumai entreated. Balii nodded his head.

“Yes, let us.”

~¤~

It was in the early morning hours that Balii’s squad crossed over the second tributary of the Slaac River and passed into the outskirts of the colony town, Talorn. Dark clouds and a crisp breeze rolled through the sky; night appeared as if it would continue its reign well into the morning. Shadows were thick and heavy raindrops sporadically pelted the windswept hills east of the Slaac. Donning thick, dark cloaks, they took only their weapons and some coins pilfered from Pretan to investigate the burial of these weapons. Balii pulled a slip of leather from a pouch the Magisters had given him with orders not to open it until they had arrived in Talorn. In thick legible letters, one word was printed: Madai. Balii glanced warily at Jumai.

“Madai took them. The Magister’s son who my grandfather convinced to leave: he took the sacred weapons,” Balii whispered as they approached the flimsy wooden wall erected around the town. Jumai eyes grew large in the darkness.

“This bodes ill, Balii. Madai died in hunting accident years ago…at least that was the story I heard. Let us just retrieve the weapons and be done with this,” Jumai declared. Balii nodded as he knocked on the gate. In that instant, as if responding to a summoner of old, rain began to fall. The gatekeeper heaved the gate open, holding a lantern before him. Balii thanked him and thrust a few coins in his hands.

“For no questions,” Balii muttered and led his company inside. The man behind the hood nodded and turned back to the gatehouse. The cobbled streets began to flow as the rain stiffened, but Balii splashed brusquely forward, searching ill-illuminated signposts for a pub or an inn. Finally, one caught his attention: the Sanyx Eye Tavern. He assigned the other four members to keep watch and stay hidden. As they disappeared into the night and alleyways, Balii eased into the bar with Jumai.

A faint, dry glow welcomed them, along with hearty laughter. Keeping their hoods draped low about their faces, the two meandered to a table away from stray glances and unwanted questions. When a waitress wandered over to take their order, Balii asked her if there was a man in town who had lived there for more than thirty years. She nodded her head and pointed to an elderly man laughing across the room, his beard soaked with rum. Balii thanked her and ordered a pint for each of them. When she returned with the drinks he paid the amount due and tipped her thoughtfully. Retreating to themselves, the pair of travelers waited. Within minutes, the owner declared the tavern closed and began helping his customers out the door. When the bald, white-beared man who the waitress had pointed out stumbled out of the place, Balii rose.

“Let’s see if he remembers our friend, Madai, shall we?” he stated. They nodded politely to the owner and stepped back out into the rain. The old man walked alone, stumbling south. He was cursing the rain and splashing through puddles when the two cloaked figures caught him. “Hello there,” Balii ventured, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder.

“Whos…are ya? And whys…ya wants most dan, dane…dangersous…maan in sa town…hmm…mmmph?” He blurted, clearly not in his right mind. But that was advantageous, Balii decided and asked him his question straight out.

“Do you remember a man by the name of Madai?” Balii questioned. “It would have been thirty or so years ago, and he would have come from the north, carrying a short sword and a longbow,” he clarified. The old-timer stroked his beard and nodded slightly.

“Yesirs, I do…I does seems to remembers me…talkins with sucha soul. Went east, mefinks.”

“He did not take his weapons with him, did he?” Balii prodded. For a moment, only the rain splattered on, interrupted once with a rumbling note of thunder.

“Ahh, yes. Fat’s’s…whats was matter wit him, wanted ‘ems buried…” he belched loudly and rubbed an eye. “Craziers ‘an a…rabid Sanyx, says I.”

“And where did he bury them?” Balli asked, sensing success coming.

“He’s di…didn’t.” Balii’s hopes crashed. The man stumbled and caught himself on Balii. Grinning wildly, he patted Balii on the arm. “Nopes…didn’t wants ta sees ‘em evers…agains. So I’s done buried em…firty-odd years ago laddies…I shows you right wheres’em is,” he declared, shaking bony finger at Balii. Balii glanced at Jumai, who dropped back to gather the others. Their quest was nearly over.

Chapter 7

Boltor scrambled down the causeway and entered a doorway of the dungeon, scurrying down flights of stairs. Finally, he raced down the corridor to Talibor’s cell. He so bent himself on his task that he could hardly open the lock, fumbling the keys around gracelessly. The cell door swung open at last, clanging against the iron bars, and the prisoner glanced up at the intruder. The blazing blue eyes met Boltor’s in surprise and anticipation. Boltor strode to his side and unlocked the cuffs around his wrists. Talibor grimaced, let his arms fall at last to his side, rubbed his writs, soothing the pain from them. His shoulders burned and his arms felt like a deadweight hanging from them. “Did you find them?” Talibor asked and Boltor stopped in his tracks. Boltor closed his eyes, recalling the vision of the forms swinging in the breeze. He sighed hoplessly and turned to Talibor.

“He executed them. They hang from the northern tower.” He bit his lip and swallowed rising sobs.

Talibor glanced away and the passion in his eyes died. His blue eyes searched back and forth and a heavy breath took him. “Come, my lord. We must ride to war,” Boltor urged. The confidence in Boltor’s voice surprised him. He looked back to find a resolute statue standing in the cell doorway. Talibor nodded, and a grim smile replaced his somber lips.

“We shall not let their sacrifice be in vain, and we shall not let harm come to any more innocents. My men are loyal to me and will follow us to war,” Talibor proclaimed, setting his right hand on Boltor’s left shoulder. Boltor repeated the gesture. “Let us send the invaders back to the mountains!” Boltor nodded and smiled. They departed the cell and Boltor retrieved Talibor’s sword. When it came into Talibor’s sight, he inhaled sharply and addressed the sword, as if a long-forgotten friend, “Last I saw you, we played with children. Now let us show our true might to the enemy.” He drew the blade out of its sheath and held it aloft, gazing upon the shining blade. “Yes, that we will.” He replaced it in the cover and fastened it to his belt, thanking Boltor.

The two men strode out the doorway and into the crowds filling the causeway. The two men broke through the waves of people like a new blade through cloth. Upon reaching the guild, they confronted the senior officer, pulling him off to the side. A quick debate ensued in hushed tones and, after a few words, the man nodded and left the room.

Talibor turned to Boltor, “Now we shall see the muster of the Imperial Army, ere the sounding of the battle call, and the true heart of our noble empire.”

“Will not the emperor hear this call?” Boltor wondered.

Talibor shot him a sideways glance and nodded his head. “The emperor sees and hears everything, if you remember his last public address.” A smile crossed his face, drawing a chuckle from Boltor. “This time, I am the enforcer behind his claim. He will here this!” A moment later, a loud, drawn out horn blast sounded from the twin pipes of Haran Tol. Everyone in the streets turned to the guild and barracks and stared. Chatter and voices became silent as the long note shook the stones of the causeway itself.

Afar in the fortress, the emperor looked up in astonishment. A frown crossed his old wrinkled face and he erupted from the throne, demanding Plianth and his guards. Still the note bellowed across the city, waking soldiers from sleep and interrupting training. Like zombies on a mission, they swiftly adorned their armor and grabbed their weapons. They began to filter into line, ready for battle. Soon, after horses emerged from the stables, lead by the stablehands for Talibor, Boltor, and the other Captains. They mounted and Talibor urged his steed in front of the assembling army. He lifted his sword high in the air, and everyone grew silent. Only the soft theme of marching feet played in the air, as soldiers still filed into formation in the courtyard of the guild itself, and civilians retreated from the main causeway. Talibor’s strong voice rang freely in the fresh, clear air.

“If you have not heard the rumor of war yet, I will tell you now. It is no rumor! An invasion of our beloved empire has begun by a force of unknown magnitudes in the northern Plains of Raida. We shall march for Harken and war!” The men gave a shout and Talibor turned his horse and held his beaming sword high, leading the soldiers down the causeway and out of the city. Civilians backed off to the side, watching the sudden processional march in front of them. Boltor hung back to bring up the rear. Already, along the lower levels, the cavalry battalions formed ranks and marched out of the city, awaiting the command of the Captain. Talibor rode proudly in front of the army, holding Ashton’s banner high as he wound down the causeway. The sun sank lower in the sky, illuminating the city with fiery oranges as it set. Each stone gleamed in the slanted evening rays. Talibor basked in the final moments of daylight and hoped to assemble his forces outside the city by nightfall, pondering the ever-darkening night growing in the future.

Boltor watched the soldiers march out of the guild entrance, following their leader without question. A sudden patter of feet above him drew his attention as a squadron of the Imperial Guard, accompanied by the dark-cloaked Plianth, marched towards him. They plowed through the bystanders and faced Boltor. “By order of the emperor, you are to cease your actions and return these men to the barracks!” snapped Plianth.

Boltor looked at the steward with disgust and shook his head. “I serve Ashton alone! Be that obeying or defying the emperor, I will hold to it.”

“Guards, seize him!” Plianth ordered and the guards stepped forward. Boltor pulled his lance from its holster and pointed its blunt end at Plianth. “If I followed the emperor’s example, I’d use the other end,” he replied and urged his horse forward with a grunt. The steed leapt through the guards, knocking them to the ground and Boltor pinned Plianth to the ground with the lance. He issued a war cry and the garrisoned soldiers taking their formation stopped, and quickly surrounded the guards at spear-point. The guards dropped their weapons at Boltor’s command.

Boltor looked to the guards. “You must protect this city while we are gone—from outside and within.” He glanced to Plianth and spat. With a sudden twitch and jerk, he knocked the consciousness from the steward and ordered his men to proceed down the causeway. The soldiers formed up and began marching down the causeway again. Boltor turned to see Talibor and the head of the army approaching the main gates and several units already waiting outside the wall. The remaining soldiers marched out of the guild and joined the ranks marching downward. Boltor looked around him and then set his steed on their flanks. The banner of Ashton, pinned to his lance, fluttered brightly in the breeze and the incessant stomp of marching feet echoed a joyous melody in his ears along the city walls and buildings.

~¤~

“What do you need of us, my lord?” Fiora wondered aloud.

“You two must undertake a mission for me—for Ashton.” Valimor paused, searching the faces of the siblings for any sign of approval. “It is of utmost importance.”

“What is it?” Falcor asked bluntly, his face falling into that blank stare which had come with his years of serving in the army. Suddenly, Valimor reached into a leather bag the two had not noticed and pulled a small, bound book out. Setting it lightly on the table he beckoned them over. “This is your grandfather’s personal journal. I had been studying it to learn how better to manage the affairs of the city—to glean whatever I could from his wisdom. I started reading only when his rule of the city began, but this afternoon something inside me told me to look back at some of the first entries,” Valimor stated simply. When no one bothered to interrupt him after a slight pause, he continued. “You know your grandfather was neither born in this city, nor even in Ashton, right?” The two nodded. “He always told me he came from the mountains to the north.”

“Same here,” Falcor said, picking up the scent of something important.

“In here, he begins writing only after he came here, but he mentions something curious about his homeland. Listen.” Valimor picked up the journal and began reading.

A hard day today: I laid some ancient demons to rest—hopefully never to rise again. They have plagued me since I left. I cannot allow my father and uncle any chance of regaining them. But, the weapons are buried now—to be forgotten in the western earth from my blood. I shall begin anew—burying the old self with the weapons. I am no longer Madai, Prince of the Masoks. He is dead. I am now Harken. I will travel eastward and become part of the people here. Perhaps I shall travel to Caida, it is in the mountains—something I shall never be able to live without. This will be the last entry and I shall not look back. Tomorrow I will forget everything: the Healer here says he will give me a root to help me start over—says it will wipe my memory clean. It is for the best, I think. Tomorrow, I shall be Harken. Tomorrow will be truly new.

When Valimor finished, the three sat in a momentary silence. When no one ventured to speak, he began again, “This is a side of your grandfather I never knew? Did you?”

Falcor shook his head vehemently. “No, he never mentioned his past, now that I think about it.” He scowled in thought and stroked his rough stubbly chin. “Masoks, he said…Prince of the Masoks. What are they?” he wondered.

“I was hoping that perhaps you could tell me,” Valimor replied.

“He said he would never be able to live without the mountains…what do you suppose that means?” Fiora inquired passively. Suddenly Falcor’s eyes lit up.

“Do you suppose he could have come from the northern mountains—that he and this army the messenger mentioned could be from the same place?” he suggested. Fiora glanced at Falcor uneasily.

“What then do these weapons have to do with our grandfather and his father?” she asked. Then epiphany dawned on her. “What if our great-grandfather is behind this army? Suppose he knows his son took the weapons here and wants them back?” A cold look came into Valimor’s eyes as she spoke.

“That is what I was wondering—that is why I need you two,” he stated simply. “You two must find these weapons before the enemy does.”

“But why us?” Falcor asked, chewing on his lower lip.

“He said my blood in reference to the secret of these weapons—it implies only a direct descendent could use them, don’t you think?” Valimor answered. Falcor nodded his head.

“I will prepare my unit at dawn…” he began, but Valimor cut him off.

“If these weapons are of any importance, the enemy will be seeking them as well. If they have attacked Pretan as we assume, they will not encounter any resistance until they come here. They will be able to search at their leisure for the weapons before they attack. Time is of the essence, my friends. You must leave tonight—both of you. Alone,” he finished. Fiora stared at him suspiciously, a frown coming to her face. Falcor pondered the idea carefully.

“Why alone?” he inquired at last.

“You will travel more swiftly and secretly. And if you gain possession of the weapons, you might not need any other protection; besides, if the army attacks here before Talibor arrives…if Talibor arrives, we will need all the men we can get. I can’t afford to give you any others besides yourself, Falcor,” Valimor replied, sensing the burden he was placing on the man, spoken and unspoken. Falcor nodded again.

“Where is it we are going…all I could tell is that its west of here?”

Valimor nodded his head. “I thought the same. I did some research and found that the colony of Talorn has been known for its Healers in the past, and that many people have gone there to pursue treatment for depression or other mental problems. Some accounts even mentioned a rare treatment for severe cases—a memory wipe.”

“It looks like were going to Talorn. Very well,” Falcor mused, “Fiora, get your pack ready.” Standing, he moved to leave through the door.

“Where are you going?” she demanded. He glanced at her and winked.

“I’ll be right back,” he answered and slipped into the night.

Valimor shrugged and bade Fiora to prepare her things and then exited the house as well. She stood, her hands resting on her hips resolutely, for a moment. At last she sighed and shook her head and began gathering the necessary items.

~¤~

Talibor rode ever-closer to the main gates, leading his men to the awaiting plains and the city of Harken. Before him, other Captains led their troops out of the city. The shadows of the evening had fallen and consumed the city in twilight. He watched the arched walls pass over him. Beside him the gate doors stood, ready to bar anything from entering the city unchallenged. But, at the emperor’s will they would stand open to anyone, even invaders. For this purpose he rode to Harken. Lord Valimor would be pleased at his arrival, and he anticipated the co-preparation of battle. Valimor was a keen tactician, and riding into battle with him in the command post would be an honor and a pleasure. Lord Boltor seemed to be a new man, yet he had just lost his family. How could he be so strong now? Perhaps he realized he had nothing to lose. Talibor felt a twinge of regret for his companion, but he realized Boltor would become a terrible warrior. Talibor knew this could be a valuable asset for the upcoming battle. Many things would prove themselves to be useful in this trial; however, many variables required attention. He would have to examine each with lord Valimor later.

First, his task remained to march to Harken. He told his sub-captain to form the main infantry divisions into ranks two battalions thick, and rode to meet the captains of each of the other divisions. His white steed eagerly jumped forward into a gallop. As he turned to face the city, he found Boltor still riding down the causeway. On his left of the main division, two smaller skirmishing units held parallel formation to his own. To his right, illuminated by the last rays of sunlight, rested three cavalry units and an archer division. Still flowing like a golden river through the gates, spreading out to his determined width, the phalanx units marched. He spurred his steed to gallop towards the skirmishers and called for their captains to accompany him. They urged their horses forward and fell in behind him. He looped behind the main phalanx division, passing behind Boltor just as he exited the city. He gave a heralding cry and Boltor jumped in behind him. Just as with the others, the captains of the cavalry and archer divisions rode out and followed him. He pulled around to the front of the army and turned to face his fellow captains and the city.

Dismounting, he beckoned the others to join him. As the others leapt off their horses, he demonstrated a particular interest in a piece of grass growing in the trampled roadway. He sighed and glanced at his companions, the brave men who would lead each division in the heat of battle.

“Today, I have been many men. I was brother. I was friend. I was prisoner. I was mourner. I was traitor. I was emperor. And I was your Captain. The last is what I still am at this moment, and that I hope to remain. It has been brought to my attention that an invading army has been spotted and is expected to camp in the Northern Plains of Raida until they can prepare an assault on the eastern world. I do not know if they have been camped for some time, or if they march on Pretan yet. If luck befalls us, they have just arrived. They will suspect we remain oblivious to their movements, and this element of surprise may aid us, depending on the size of their army. We shall march to Harken and prepare for war there, along with lord Valimor’s forces. There we shall learn much more and what exactly we must do. So, tell your men our destination and purpose: we march to Harken to face an unknown army bent on the annihilation of our lives and empire. Now go, make camp, but sleep softly. We march at first light.”

All the captains, except Boltor, remounted their steeds and dispersed into the fading sunlight. Boltor remained watching the sunset begin in the west. “Boltor, prepare our men. They must rest well tonight.” Boltor nodded, but remained steadfastly still. Talibor glanced up at the man, dismissing the blades of grass he had been staring at. “Do you need something, my friend?”

“No, my lord. But, might I ask you a question?” Boltor spoke softly and slowly.

“Of course, anything.” Talibor explained.

“Did you truly mourn my loss?” Boltor asked, catching and holding Talibor’s gaze. Talibor rubbed his chin and shifted his weight.

“Yes, I did,” he answered, without faltering his gaze.

“Thanks.” At that, Boltor rose and mounted his horse, a brown stallion. Talibor looked back to the patch of grass. It flourished despite the perils of the road. Perhaps life could only be so much—a wisp of beauty amidst struggle and trial. Then, it would fade as some unfortunate or intentional foot would come and stamp it into the ground. Where could purpose, honor, and glory exist in this scenario? Maybe, he ought to simply enjoy the pleasures life could offer, while they remain fresh and unspoiled. Suddenly he found his mind drifting to the girl he had met in the market outside Harken. He saw her dark eyes and curly black hair…he shook his head, wondering why it was he thought about her. He had rudely embarrassed her in public and left without apology. Finally he banished the thoughts from his mind. Perhaps riding to war was vain and would only hasten more death than delay it. But, perhaps not…