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.