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.