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.