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.