The spark of consciousness came with a shaft of light creeping over his eyes. Talibor awoke with pain in his shoulders and a throbbing head. Everything around him was white and fuzzy. As his senses began to respond, he found himself upright, leaning against a cold, damp wall. His wrists were chained above him. Fortunately, he found himself still clothed in his armor and cloak. A vague thought now came to him—that perhaps the emperor had discovered his intentions and had imprisoned him. He did not know on which level of the dungeon he resided, but the sunlight beaming in on him gave him hope. He finally managed to focus his eyes on the opposite wall and the locked gate within it. Breathing carefully and lightly, as not to aggravate his pounding head, lord Talibor found a familiar face on the opposite side of the gate—lord Boltor. He swallowed painfully and took a breath, licking his lips while exhaling. “Why, Boltor?” he managed to ask.
“You are too dangerous, my lord,” he stated, “And, I had little choice…”
“If the emperor forced you, by my forefathers I’ll…”
“You’ll what?” Boltor interrupted. “Look at yourself. You are disgraced and dishonored. If the emperor so chooses you will rot in here for the rest of your pitiful life! Talibor, you were not meant for this…you were meant for greater things. But battle is not one of them. War is failure! Bloodshed is needless!”
“Listen to yourself, Boltor!” Talibor strained to put any emphasis at all in his rebuttal. “He has poisoned your mind! Not only is war honorable, but at times, extremely necessary. Listen, if we do nothing, we will become nothing! Don’t you understand, by giving them the mercy of the benefit of the doubt, you condemn yourself and all around you. My forefathers understood this and built our defenses for a reason!”
“Talibor, you fail to see reason. The empire is united. There is no one to fight. You would strain the economy by riding to war. We are no longer a nation of war, but an empire of peace! We ought not to chase after vainglory as lord Harken did. Had he not disturbed the Mollocks—if everyone had been content, he would still live!”
“And die old, weary, and bored. It is you, Boltor, who have been blinded. Don’t you realize that an enemy marches to war against us. If apathy remains our policy, they will raze Ashton to the ground!” Talibor coughed and rolled his eyes back in pain. Boltor remained quiet. The patch of sunlight had moved to Talibor’s feet, and the two men stared at each other.
“Lord Talibor, I have the power to free you when you see reason…” Boltor began.
“Does reason have the power to free you?” Talibor asked. Boltor stared at the ground. His proud chin had dropped, and his blazing green eyes searched the hilt of his sword. His strong hands rubbed his short, brown beard. Talibor’s piercing blue eyes saddened at the confused man in front of him. Finally Boltor looked back up at Talibor with a defeated look.
“Talibor…I do not know. I want to be worthy of my wife and children as a husband and father. I cannot abandon them…”
“What is it Boltor?”
“If I free you and you ride, even if you ride alone, he will slaughter them…” Tears formed in his eyes as he spoke the words, and his breaths became short and labored. He pursed his lips together. Closing his eyes, he began to sob.
“Boltor…” the prisoner began, but stopped himself. He watched his second-in-command break down. He could identify with him; though he had no wife, he loved his sister and his niece. “Boltor, listen to me.”
The soldier sniffled and swallowed his grief. “Yes, my lord?”
“If you do nothing, they will die.” The strong, tall man that had been Boltor now slumped against the gate for support. Talibor continued, “The army will come here, and they will leave none alive!”
“How do you know?” the defeated eyes of Boltor gazed at him for an answer.
“Can I explain faith to you? You have faith in your wife’s love. You know she will be waiting and longing for you to come home. Yet, faith is proven in trusting her love. This is a beautiful thing. How do I know that this message of war is true? It is the opposite. I know the message is true, not because I have seen it, as a rational decision, nor because I have faith proven by trust, but because of the suspicion invalidated by hesitation. In the opposite way that you know your wife loves you, I know this army will invade. Call it anti-faith if you will, human intuition, or natural instinct. Look at horses. They lose their wits and search for shelter just before some sort of natural disaster. It comes to me in my dreams. Do you follow me?” Talibor held the soldier’s gaze. “Boltor?”
“I don’t know…”
“Listen, I sent a messenger to ride to Harken telling them we would arrive in thirty days. We need at least twenty to march to Harken. That gives us ten days to assemble the army to leave. Boltor, look at me. If I am not out of here by the end of the week this will be impossible to achieve and the invasion will not end at the Plains of Raida, where soldier will fight soldier. Instead, it will progress from city to city, among the women and the children until, at last, the Citadel will fall and every one, warrior or pacifist, will be slaughtered. Boltor, war is our only chance for peace!” Talibor stared at Boltor until he lowered his head.
“But he will torture them…” the man pleaded.
“Only if he can find them! He must not. It is a large city, is it not? They could depart for the sea on a caravan unnoticed.” Boltor only shook his head.
“He has them in his custody, already. It is hopeless,” grieved Boltor, becoming less and less a man and instead a fear-stricken animal.
“Then we must release them!” Talibor exclaimed. His fiery eyes locked once again with Boltor’s. “You have until the end of the week! Find them and tell me where they are located and we shall rescue them.”
“I cannot do this…what if I fail?” Boltor wondered in fear.
“You shall not! Do not ponder failure, but if you protect them now, you abandon them to the whims of the enemy. If you do nothing, you will fail them. By acting now, it is a risk, but it gives you a chance to save them. Apathy will not save them, but you can!”
The shaking soldier bit his lip. Glancing up to the prisoner, he asked, “What must I do?” Talibor smiled.
“You must find where your wife and children are held…tell him you only want to know they are safe—any man would. Afterwards, DO NOT come directly to me nor to the guild. Go somewhere inconspicuous, wander about the gardens if you must or amuse the merchants on the lower levels.” He stopped as epiphany struck. “Or even better, find a caravan that leaves the city in three days. Ask them if they have room for your family and pay them in advance if they require payment. Arrange a meeting place and, after a few hours, return here. Once you are back, we shall make further plans.”
“Yes, my lord. I will do so.” Talibor grinned at the man.
“We really do need more men like you, Boltor!” At that, the man rushed out of the prison and headed to the royal courts. Talibor dropped his head and closed his eyes. It would be a long anxious wait for Boltor to return.
~¤~
“Falcor?” the wandering voice called. The man standing on the scaffold bit his lower lip and glanced down without turning his head. At the bottom of the inner wall he was repairing stood a girl with dark eyes searching out his own—his younger sister.
“What do you need Fiora?” he muttered, spreading a new layer of mortar on the wall, his permanent scowl creasing his face. He did not want to see her now.
“I heard about the messenger…” she began, eyes filled with concern for her brother’s well-being. “I thought…we might spend the evening together, if battle…”
“Fiora,” he interrupted plainly, “what difference does it make if there is a battle or not.” He dipped his spade into the swirling mortar in the bucket at his side. Slathering another layer he nodded for the rock to be lowered into place. His men at the opposite end of the makeshift crane and pulley swung the giant stone around set it down. Falcor brought up a giant mallet and with well-aimed swings, nudged the stone into position. “And since when have you desired to spend any time at all with me?” He stated flatly, inspecting the stone with a sharp eye.
“Well, is it wrong of me to start now?” she snapped. For the first time, Falcor turned to face his sister.
“Perhaps,” he quipped. Then he immediately regretted it and exhaled deeply. Shaking his head and closing his eyes, Falcor leaned against the scaffold. “What time?”
Fiora’s eyes brightened. “Six at my place?”
His eyes grew wide, “Your place?”
“What is that supposed to mean?” she inquired, her hands moving to her hips. Falcor shrugged and turned back to his work.
“Falcor!”
“Your place, at six. I got it,” he conceded and moved to prepare the next joint.
“See you then,” she ventured, but Falcor had dropped the matter. She wasn’t even sure why she tried, but somehow with the prospect of an invasion, she didn’t want to lose the last member of her family. She turned and strode away, anticipating their evening meal.
When Falcor arrived, his sister stood at a short squat stove, stirring something that filled the room with a light, delicious steam. He closed the door softly and removed his cloak; he looked back to Fiora—she had not heard him enter. A crooked smile came to his lips as the elite military assassin in him surfaced. He moved soundlessly through the shadows behind her. After a slight pause, he loomed behind her in a single motion and touched her lightly on the hips.
A scream erupted in the silence as she jumped in utter surprise. The ladle Fiora had been stirring the soup with became a terrible weapon in her hands and she turned vehemently on Falcor, whacking and smacking him uncontrollably with the wooden spoon. Falcor’s laughing only maddened her rage and he could barely raise his hands about his head and face to shield himself from his sister’s wrath.
When she had calmed herself and scolded Falcor sufficiently about her new apron, now stained with the soup she had been fixing. Falcor’s ribs hurt and eyes watered from the laughter. He only managed to stop after several more blows from the wooden spoon.
A sudden knock at the door interrupted the sibling violence. Falcor rose swiftly and answered. It was lord Valimor who stepped through the door. Falcor saluted and Fiora welcomed him. “My lord, it is good to see you. What brings you…” she began.
“You two,” he interrupted. His eyes glanced uneasily around the room. “Are you alone?” he asked sharply. Falcor nodded, sensing the urgency of his lord. “Good. I need something only both of you can give me.”
~¤~
Boltor sprinted up the winding stairs, surfacing from the dungeon and sliding into the streets. He regained his composure and began to walk up the causeway, though his heart throbbed within him. Merchants, barterers, and buyers littered the causeway and sidestreets. Boltor casually stepped around enthusiastic bargainers and reluctant bidders. As he strode further up the causeway, the crowds lessened and his path straightened. At last he passed through the gates and into Taren-Hammer Courtyard, a wide semi-circle-shaped plaza, with the gates on the mid-secant and the fortress door as a tangent. Large towers rose from each other on both points of the semi-circle. He passed large ancient statues that glared into a timeless oblivion. Finally he entered the throne room and bowed deeply. The emperor rose and motioned for him to rise. His heart beat steadily faster as the emperor spoke. “What brings Boltor, Captain of the Imperial Army, to my halls?”
“I report on lord Talibor, my liege. He has not changed. He has yet to see the light as I have.” He found his words flow out of him with such confidence he could barely restrain a smile. The emperor lifted his gaze from Boltor and set it on his servant.
“Fetch me some water,” he ordered and the young boy ran off. “And he will not, not for some time,” he replied. “But you must keep at him. He is too valuable an asset to me to lose. Such as other things are for yourself.” Boltor felt his heart shrink, and a cold fear pierce it. “You know of what I speak.” Boltor felt his hands begin to tremble and his mouth opened, but no words came out. “They are secure, rest assured.”
“May I see them?” Boltor pleaded. “To assure my own mind that they are safe?”
The emperor sat back and thought deeply on the matter. After a long, grueling silence, he answered. “Do you not trust my judgment?” The dark, old eyes burned into Boltor’s heart.
“No, my lord, you are infinitely wise, but I am not. I ask in my ignorance, that I may be assured of their safety.”
“Okay, okay. You have shown your faith in other matters, so I will reward that. Plianth, show him to the quarters! A steward dressed in lavender robes appeared from behind a pillar. He sneered at Boltor and twitched his head, indicating him to follow. Boltor stood and stepped behind the frog faced man. He followed the steward through a small doorway and down a long hallway. They passed several chambers and then descended down a stairwell. At the bottom they ventured out into a patio just below the causeway and the Taren-Hammer. The steward turned and faced Boltor, pointing upward. The soldier spun and glanced in the indicated direction and his spirit left him.
There, suspended from the tower above him, hung his wife and two sons. His heart froze, as he watched the breeze nudge them back and forth. Tears formed in his eyes and his mouth opened in horror. He wanted to scream, to let his heart explode inside him. He clenched his hands into fists and dropped to his knees. Gritting his teeth, Boltor gazed at the lifeless forms swinging from the tower, his neck quivering. Finally sobs came and rushed out of him. He couldn’t tear his blurry vision from them. He wanted to die right there, to join his loved ones in the afterlife. Then, between sobs, he thought of Talibor’s words. If you do nothing, you will fail them.
He had failed. But, he had taken a chance of saving them. He bit his lower lip. But, it was the emperor who had executed them. Killed them in innocence. His heart broke free of the frozen fetters of despair, and a fire was kindled inside him. He looked back to the hanging forms, swearing to make purpose for their sacrifice. Bowing his head one last time, he vowed allegiance to Talibor and his lost loved ones. Plianth stepped away from the trembling man and spat, “Shall you serve your emperor, or must he require your life as well?” Boltor glanced up at the man, quelling his despair.
“Tell the emperor I go to bury my family. Then he shall require no more from his servant.” Plianth grinned a crooked smile, and nodded his head, stepping away and climbing the stair back to the throne room. Boltor stayed on his knees until the steward had left. Then, he rose and blew a tormented kiss to his wife and sons, blessing their journey in the afterlife. He closed his eyes and clasped his hands together. After a moment of silent reverence for their lives, he jumped over the balcony railing and landed in a side street. He ran past merchants and beggars, travelers and housewives. He knew what he had to do. He would free Talibor and ride with him to war.
~¤~
“Yes, my lords? What do you need of me?” Balii inquired, dropping to a knee inside the makeshift tent erected on the frozen lake. One of the Magisters rose from his seat and beckoned Balii to stand. Placing a weary hand on the Captain’s shoulder, the old man locked his eyes with the mysterious gray irises.
“We must ask a favor of you—and you alone. In the ancient days, two magical weapons were crafted by our forefathers—one a short sword, the other a longbow. These remain the symbol of Masok supremacy in this world, but we no longer retain possession of them. We need these weapons to win the battle, Balii. You must retrieve them for us.”
Balii nodded. “Where are they?”
“We cannot say, exactly, but we can sense the presence of their power. After much discussion and examination of a captured map of the southland, we believe they reside somewhere in a colony township south and west of the targeted strike point, Harken,” the Magister said, but his voice cracked a bit with his last word. Balii noticed this change of voice and inquired about it.
“Do not worry about me. Worry about your mission. Take a small group of your best warriors—6 at most—and head south. We will wait for you at the northern end of the plains, just beneath the mountains. Scout ahead to the plains and destroy any immediate outposts. Then you shall journey south to Talorn. Find the two weapons and bring them to us; they must not fall into the hands of the enemy!”
Balii saluted. “Your faith is well-placed. I shall not fail you,” he declared and bowed deeply. Striding out of the tent and into the night, Balii wondered what sort of power might be harbored in these weapons of old—and why he had not heard of them until now. Perhaps the Magisters had not trusted the tale to the Generals in Csii, or perhaps they figured only he and his small company ought to know. He shrugged it off in the cool grip of the mountain night and sought out his quarters.
Shortly after he had entered, Jumai found him. “What did they want?” he asked.
“For me to find a missing artifact they think will help us win the war—two, in fact,” Balii muttered. Jumai’s eyes brightened.
“The Blade of Anduir-Siil and the Longbow of Druin-Kiil!” he exclaimed.
“Yes. They have been lost to us for decades. None know when or how they disappeared from our possession,” Balii answered. “The Magisters have proclaimed that they will be found in the
“What about the construction of the encampment?” Jumai wondered.
“The Magisters will handle that. Our mission is to recover the weapons—and we will not fail.”
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