Fiora woke to muffled bumps and laughter rising from the hallway outside her room. Peering down the hallway, she found a heaping pile of sacks, barrels, metal contraptions, blown glass vials, leather pouches, and various alchemic tools littering the floor. Hurried footsteps came up the stairway from the basement on the far side of the mess—a set of bright eyes appeared from the dark stairwell and a few more random items flew over the summit, crashing and clanging to rest halfway down the pile.
Picking her way around to the staircase, Fiora heard the footsteps descend back down to the basement, a cry of disgust erupt, and another set of crashes echo through the floor. “Are you okay?” she called down the empty stairwell.
“Junk, junk, and more junk…” came the seeming reply, followed by a sharp clang.
“Is everything alright?” Fiora ventured, taking a few steps down towards the racket.
“And this I don’t need…” the voice decided. Another crash ensued. “AHA! There it is…eh, HUHHHHH…ummph, that’s heavy! Let me see. Ah yes, this should do.”
Fiora made her way carefully down the stairs, avoiding bits and pieces strewn across them. Suddenly a resounding BOOM thundered through the basement, mingled with the old man’s cackling laughter.
“PERFECT! HA!” he gloated, then passed into a fit of coughing.
After gliding down to the basement floor, Fiora found the old apothecary frantically waving, trying to disperse a thick cloud of smoke and gasping. He made his way towards the stairs, intent on some applicable object to clear the room. He settled on a broom and had picked it up before he noticed her. “Ahh, you’ve awoken! How did you sleep, dearie?” he questioned, without much success at hiding his cough.
“What’s going on here?” she demanded, ignoring his formalities.
“What? This? Nothing,” Altam answered and cleared his throat. “Just a bit of spring cleaning…er, wait, its autumn now isn’t it? Um, fall cleaning, then.” His straight face broke into a silly smile and he waved the broom about a bit. The smoke swirled around his weapon, but did not lessen. After deciding the broom was useless and tossing it to the far side of the basement, he retreated to the staircase. “Ahh, I don’t need anything else from that junk pile,” he said, attempting to swallow another cough. “Let’s get out of this smoke.” At that, he jogged up the stairs to the main room where his pile stood.
“What is all this, Altam?” Fiora asked when she reached the top of the staircase, just behind the old fellow. “This, my darling, is going to be my contribution to your grandfather.” His smile beamed as he surveyed his wonderful pile. “I’ve decided to go back with you to Harken and lend my skills to your army there.” Fiora gasped.
“Why?” she wondered aloud.
“To preserve the memory of your grandfather…and to preserve the general world as we know it. Well, that and I want to see if your brother and that plainsboy make it back alive…erm, I’m sorry,” he apologized, realizing his mistake.
“No, that’s fine,” Fiora said, checking her emotions. “But I don’t understand how this,” she motioned to the pile, “will help us at all.”
“Dearie, most of this you couldn’t find anywhere else in the Empire! With this, I possess a power great as any sword or arrow—Alchemy!” he boasted.
“I thought you were a doctor—a healer,” she said, brushing aside his lofty statements as if they were specks of dust on a kitchen counter.
“I am. However, I am much more than that, for,” he proclaimed, spreading his hands wide before the massive heap of junk in front of him, “I make potions of all sorts, powders of all functions, and mists of all potency. I will have those reptiles twisting themselves in knots or cuddled fast asleep on the field of battle by the end of my wrath! HA! They will learn not to mess with an alchemist!” he declared triumphantly. “But first, we must sort through this stuff before the caravan arrives. Here, you take the left, and I’ll start on the right. Put things in sacks closest to the door, just to the right. Then set the barrels on the left, and the vials on top of those. That should get us started and we can go from there.”
~¤~
It was midday and the heat rising from the canyon had swept onto the rim and through the town by the time the pile had disappeared from the middle of the room. Fortunately, the caravan had been late in starting and had only arrived as they finished sweeping the floor. With the combined efforts of the caravan workers and Altam’s ceaseless directives, everything found a resting place for the journey ahead—save a single alembic, “to fragile to tie on there!” as the old man had exclaimed. Fiora had also heard, “No, no, no! Bending it across the horse like that will destroy it! Then what use would it be to me?” In the end, he rigged a few leather straps to the alembic and hoisted it onto his own back, refusing to leave it behind. Finally, with only a few hours until dusk, the caravan departed Talorn and began its slow journey eastward to Harken.
Although it had taken Fiora and Falcor only three days to cross the plains, the caravan moved much slower and took a much less direct route, swerving north and avoiding the gully-riddled land surrounding the
And so the days passed in strange similarity—Fiora riding atop a horse and Altam trucking along beside her, with his ridiculous contraption strapped always to his back. But on the fifth day, as they neared the Kailan Mountain Range, the caravan master sighted a pair of travelers approaching them and stopped the caravan. Fiora dismounted and followed the apothecary to join the master. The two wore hooded cloaks and one seemed to support the other, as if one were injured. Then, Altam yelped and leapt to a saddle bag, furiously digging for some mysterious item.
“What is it, Altam?” Fiora questioned, glancing back to the approaching figures.
“It’s THEM!” he yelled, face buried deep in a sack. “I’m going to make their eyes turn to mush and their fingers drop like overripe figs! Now where is that vial…”
“What? Those who took the sword and bow?” Fiora wondered.
“Didn’t I just say so?” he mumbled, absolved in his search. Fiora left him and strode back to the front of the column. The figures held their hands aloft, seeming to gesture friendship. How could he be sure that they are those who took the weapons? She eyed the caravan master who shrugged and shook his head. Walking a few paces towards the strangers, Fiora wanted to see them first, before she let the alchemist attack. Then something in the figures’ posture changed when they saw her. They straightened and seemed to hurry towards her. She couldn’t decide if she ought to worry or not, when they came within speaking distance. The cowls of the cloaks hid their faces, but she remembered the purring voice from their encounter at the gates of Talorn.
“We are friends, though you will not believe so. Give us this chance and you may live through the horror that is to come,” the figure that seemed injured negotiated. “Grant us our life and we may be able to help spare yours.” Then, removing his hood slowly, the speaker revealed his identity. Fiora stepped back in shock; the face was entirely reptilian, with a fierce, scaly snout; sharp, thin teeth lined the jaw; and the eyes, the most prominent feature, gleamed in the afternoon sun. Steady, gray irises studied her, with large, dark pupils set deep within them. As she managed to catch her breath, she heard a whoop behind her. Turning, she found Altam running towards them, his right hand raised high in the air. Out of instinct, Fiora waved him off, but he barreled onward. With a shout of victory, he launched a small handful of pebbles at the enemies. Fiora watched in horror as the pebbles exploded upon impact, creating a massive dust cloud tinted green and purple by some alchemist recipe.
“HA! Eat that my reptilian scum! Taste my powers! Heh, heh, heh…” Altam rejoiced.
As the dust faded, Fiora looked away, terrified of what the old apothecary had done. But she could tell something had gone awry with his plan, for his cackling laugh died as quickly as it came. “What the…?” he wondered aloud. Fiora looked up to find the strangers brushing themselves off and banishing a cough as the breeze swept away the cloud of dust. Altam was scratching his head. “Sanyx-spit! It didn’t work…”
Fiora stepped forward and apologized, “Forgive my friend, he was quick to judge you…” but Altam interrupted her.
“You took the weapons! My only reminders of the great man I once served. You will writhe in some devious torture by the end! I will conjure some potion to redeem your actions,” he blurted. But a smack across the face from Fiora sobered him.
She turned again to the strangers. “I will trust you, so long as you deliver up your weapons to us. We ride for Harken—if you know anything of this war, or how to retrieve Harken’s weapons, you will tell Valimor, commander of the western legion and keeper of the city of
“But…but,” protested Altam. “They…you can’t be serious!” He stamped his foot resolutely. “I won’t travel with the likes of them!”
“Then you can go back home. Nobody asked you to come along,” Fiora stated matter-of-factly.
“Hmmph,” snorted the old-timer. “Fine. But I reserve the right to turn them to stone and then smash them with a hammer if your plan goes ill,” he demanded, and, turning to the strangers, he added, “…if they so much as look at anybody in a way I don’t like.”
Fiora focused on the defectors once more. “Your weapons?”
Setting their blades lightly at the feet of the caravan master, they bowed discreetly. “We are in your debt, my lady.” The first, strong one vowed.
“Then you are in debt to Harken. Now, tell me your story.” The weaker figure glanced at his companion and began his tale.
~¤~
The messenger sprinted through the gate, around the curving base of the tower, and up the stairs to the second level of the walls. He raced by the patrolling soldiers and over the narrow bridge to the fortress. Scrambling across the marble floor, he rounded the corner and slid to the doors of lord Valimor’s quarters. He skidded to a stop and knocked ferociously at the door. A grunt from within granted entrance. The messenger stormed through the doors, to find both the lords, Valimor and Talibor, deep in conversation. “My lords! Two enemy soldiers have arrived with the lady Fiora. It seems as though they have defected and we are holding them in the Courtyard of Ara-Min.”
A look of surprise crossed lord Valimor’s face, and lord Talibor eyes opened in wonder. The two immediately rose and rushed out of the chamber, leaving the messenger behind. The two figures scrambled to the inner walls and down the staircase to the courtyard. The winter wind had begun to blow, and low clouds built, blocking the life of the sun.
In the dull, shadowless courtyard Fiora stood beside two figures of which the likes neither Valimor nor Talibor had seen. Reptilian in nature, with long snouts and needle-like teeth, they possessed burning eyes and long thin tails that flicked about the ground. They bore shining steel armor, engraved with foreign runes, and long curved swords lay at their feet. Fiora strode to greet Valimor, whom he embraced as a daughter.
“Where is Falcor?” he questioned when she pulled away. “We failed to retrieve the weapons, so he went after them.” Valimor frowned. “That is what he would do, I suppose.” Talibor joined Valimor on his left, but soon realized his mistake. When Fiora glanced his way, he remembered who she was clearly: the woman with whom he had argued at the jewler’s tent. This bade ill for him, for he had not known she was Harken’s granddaughter. He lifted his gaze to meet her’s. Apparently she had remembered their conflict, as well, for a fire crept into her eyes and her smile disappeared.
“Who is this that stands at your side? And why is he here?” she demanded of Valimor, forgetting the two captives at the moment.
“Uhh, Fiora, this is Talibor…” he began, trying to keep a straight face, unsure of how to proceed further. Talibor saw his chance and stepped forward.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, my lady Fiora,” he gestured, kneeling and taking her hand in his. He lightly kissed it before she yanked it away.
“I won’t take courtesies from you on one day, only to be humiliated on another!” she exclaimed. A few of the guards couldn’t restrain themselves any longer and a few chuckles echoed in the courtyard. She shot an angry glance their way and quelled the laughter. Valimor walked to her side and put an arm around her. “He is the emperor now; it would be well for you to forget whatever happened earlier and accept his apology for what it seems to be.” Fiora gasped. Talibor sauntered to her side. “I apologize for my actions at the market. I am not that man any longer; fate, it seems, had a different man in mind for this crisis.” Fiora watched him closely with defensive eyes. At Valimor’s gentle prod on her arm, Fiora spoke. “I accept, my lord. I did not realize who you were; my words were uncalled for—forgive me.”
“Of course,” he acknowledged and then turned to the foreigners. “But what of these? They are like none I have ever seen. They are the enemy, you say?”
“They were the enemy, my lord,” Fiora explained, “but now they are allies. Their story is a strange one, but I trust them.”
Talibor nodded, but investigated them with a fixed intensity. He circled around them like a hawk, searching them for any sign of fear, treacherousness, or honesty. He found nothing.
“Do they speak?” he asked Fiora.
“Yes, my lord, they do. Surprised me.”
Valimor stepped up to the two defectors. He eyed them carefully, but they stood frozen like stone. Only their eyes gave the sign that life inhabited them. “Well, then,” Valimor began, “why do you come to us, surrendering yourselves to our mercy…or our judgement?”
The figure to the right spoke first. “I am Balii, Captain of the Masok forces. This is my companion Jumai. We have been exiled from our camp and will find no mercy there. We might have survived this new war in hiding living out our lives in peace and regretting every day our chance to reclaim our honor. Thus, we present ourselves to you. We are at your mercy. But, if you treat us well, we shall only serve you, my masters.”
“You realize,” Talibor began, “that you are in no place to negotiate. We will do to you as we deem necessary.”
“You may slay us, or you may torture us. But I will tell you first that if you did such, you would lose any respect in which we esteem your race right now. I tell you now, you cannot extract loyalty, information, or commitment from us. It is ours to give to whom we choose. It is your choice, and it is now. Grant us mercy and you will earn our undying loyalty and service. Turn us away and we will leave. Kill us and you will suffer the devastating wrath of our army,” Balii responded.
Talibor glanced at the two soldiers. “You are Captains of your army? When will they attack?”
“Your decision is mercy then?” Jumai questioned.
Lord Valimor looked at Talibor and turned his gaze back to the defectors. “I will grant you mercy. But before I accept your plea of loyalty, you must eat and rest. Then we shall talk. Halor! Take them to the guest quarters in the fortress.” A guard stepped forward and unbound their hands, and motioned for them to follow him. The two strode off into the keep and the crowd dispersed leaving the two lords in the cold courtyard.
“What of it, Talibor? You seem distressed about my decision,” Valimor asked.
“Oh, nothing of consequence,” he replied. And then, with a sly grin he added, “but last I checked, Talibor was emperor of Ashton.” Lord Valimor let out a harsh laugh, disguising it as a cough.
“Yes, true enough…but this is my city.” At that both of them laughed. “Fiora, will you join me in the fortress for some tea? I want to hear about everything.”
~¤~
Balii gazed in awe at the architecture of the fortress. Nothing this grand and wonderful had ever been built in Csii. He walked through vaulted, painted ceilings, hallways filled with statues of ancient leaders, and wide spiraling staircases. As they followed the guard, Balii turned and whispered to Jumai.
“I think we might have made the right decision coming here.” Jumai looked at him and noticed the real Balii was back. No longer was he skin and bone, but he seemed strong and confident.
“Yes, I believe we did…”Jumai answered, but his voice fell short as the guard opened the door to their quarters. They wandered in, eyes wide in wonder, glancing around the room. On the far side, two windows, framed on each side with cloth, let natural light illuminate the room. Several lantern-torches hung on the walls, which had been painted a dull burgundy. Two wonderful beds had been placed on each side of the room, covered with a thick quilt, soft yellow blankets, and a fluffy white pillow. The floor was tiled, and a meal awaited them on the table in the middle. They thanked the guard and slipped into the room. The guard closed the door, leaving them in silence. Balii stared in wonder of the hospitality of the “enemy,” which far exceeded that with which they would have received a defector. He wondered why they would treat them like this…he had expected that they would live. But, to live in luxury had not even crossed his mind. He wandered to the table and examined the meal, the smell itself invigorated him. Off to the side stood a wash basin, and Balii quickly removed his fingerless gloves and washed himself. He then unfastened his armor and dropped it to the floor. After removing his belt and leather outer garments, he stretched and seated himself at the table. Jumai, though, simply stood and watched.
“Are you going to eat or just stand there?” Balii asked as he brought a forkful of meat to his mouth. Jumai did not move a muscle.
“I don’t know why….” He answered. Balii glared at him.
“Do you need an answer? Do you need a reason to enjoy some comforts? It is because you saved me. Now eat.” Balii told him. Jumai still remained standing.
“I did nothing to deserve this…I can’t,” Jumai said.
“And neither did I. They gave this to us as a free gift…now EAT!” Balii encouraged, his mouth half-full. “There is no reason to reject this…they gave it to us out of pure goodwill. It isn’t poisoned, rigged, or bad; and they aren’t spying, listening, or guarding us. Its food…so eat! And relax a bit—let us enjoy this evening of comfort.” Finally, Jumai unstrapped his armor and washed himself. Then he sat down at the table, before a meal that was much too large for the both of them to eat.
“What do you think they’ll ask us about?” Jumai wondered in between bites.
“After this meal, I’d tell them everything,” Balii answered.
“I feel like a traitor already, following you,” Jumai replied, “I don’t know if my conscience will let me go any farther.”
“Of course, but remember, they threatened to kill you if you left and decided to return at a later date…they practically sentenced me to death. I’d have no problem seeing those Magisters decay in the battlefield,” said Balii.
“And what of our brothers that will die?” Jumai retorted.
“They would die by our lead or by our hand. There is not much hope for the first invasion force in any battle. Perhaps there will be a few survivors, but mostly he who invades first will lose many soldiers. That is the art of war: to gain territory with as little death on your part as possible.” Jumai sat back and pondered these words. “Besides, Jumai, our people will live in peace in Csii if the invasion fails. The Magisters will fall and our people shall rule themselves. In fact I look forward to bringing down the Magisters in any way possible; if that means allying myself with the enemy, then so be it.”
“I suppose you are right and there is hope for our people, but I cannot see it,” Jumai despaired. Balii reached across the table and grabbed his companion’s shoulder.
“Let us enjoy this night, at least, and we will take each day in its own time. Let us learn the ways of this people, and give them insight into our lives,” Balii encouraged. Jumai nodded, agreeing with Balii. They both returned to their meals and happily chatted about their new allies and their wonderful city.
The clouds hung low over the pass and consumed the sun’s setting completely as darkness fell without the fiery warning as the evenings before had shown. Instead, the cold blue light faded to gray and then to black. The lantern in the guest quarters flickered and cast a dancing light on the reclining forms. Soon night came, and the guests extinguished the torches, welcoming the night and climbing into their beds.
~¤~
Talibor walked the inner walls, gazing out over his encamped troops. They had barely fit within the walls and the only open space left in the city was a main street or a guard post. Tents, blankets, and packs covered the ground as the autumn leaves of a deciduous forest. Beyond the western gate lay the Plains of Raida, the ever-stretching sea of grass and the
“Lord Talibor, your presence is requested at the home of lord Valimor,” a soldier reported. Talibor turned to the man, nodded, and strode back into the fortress, navigating back to Valimor’s residence. He found his way to the breezeway on the northern side of the fortress and descended to the small courtyard and knocked on the wooden door inside the small metal gate. Arla, Valimor’s wife, opened the door with a contagious smile and invited him in, taking his coat. Off in the living room, little
“Well,” he began as he sat, “what hospitality! What is the occasion?”
“I thought we could enjoy some of my wife’s fine cooking and then discuss our visitors,” Valimor stated.
“Always about business,” Boltor joked, shaking his head. The others smiled as he continued, “do you ever sleep?”
Valimor laughed. “Of course, it is hard to think about work here…I have a duties as a husband and a father.”
“Like playing with me!” a tiny squeal came from the entrance to the dining room.
“What did I tell about when we have company,
“Not to disturb you, daddy,” came the mournful reply. Then Valimor knelt and smiled at her.
“Okay?” he questioned. She nodded and sniffled a bit. “Then let’s show them a waterfall!” he exclaimed and a squeal of delight erupted into the air. Valimor turned away from the girl and reached over his shoulders backwards, crouching until little
“Okay!” came the enthusiastic reply as she skipped around the corner, vanishing from sight.
“Dinner is ready, boys,” Arla sung and set a steaming dish of a vegetable and meat mix down. Shortly after, she returned with a basket of biscuits. “Enjoy your meal.”
“You aren’t going to grace us with your presence?” Talibor asked as she turned to leave.
“You men need to talk business…I’m going to read a book,” she replied as she left the room. A moment later she disappeared into the back rooms of the house. Valimor raised his eyebrows and served the two others from the mix. Boltor took a biscuit and passed the basket to Talibor. After everyone had been served, Valimor grabbed a biscuit and took a bite of the vegetables and meat.
“Hmmm,” he said, “it needs some salt…but don’t tell her I said that!” The three laughed and Boltor passed the salt container to him.
“So,” mentioned Boltor, “if your wife does not plan to join us, who is the extra plate for?”
“I was hoping lord Daril would join us,” said Valimor.
“Lord Daril of Padras?” Talibor wondered. “I thought he shared similar views as the former emperor?”
“I thought the same, but a week ago a messenger arrived telling me that he would follow our new emperor’s lead and march with us into battle,” replied Valimor.
“Ahh, I bet Senator Galam had a little something to do with that. But, knowing lord Daril, he probably chose to side with that of the emperor period—no matter who it was,” said Boltor, who had once served under lord Daril before his transfer to the Citadel.
“I thought the same,” said Valimor, “so, in a way, I was not surprised. At any rate, his cavalry divisions should have arrived today, but perhaps the weather is worse further north.”
“And what more did you learn of Falcor?” Talibor asked.
“Fiora told me that he, along with a plainsboy he had rescued from a Sanyx, journeyed north, after the weapons. Also, an old apothecary—the very same that Harken spoke of in his journal, accompanied her here. His name is Altam and he wants to help in the battle. Fiora says he knows his stuff, but failed when he tried to kill the defectors. Whether he is legitimate or not, I can’t say at this point, but if he has medical skills, I think we can allow him that.” Talibor and Boltor nodded. At that moment a knock came on the door and Valimor rose to answer it, expecting lord Daril. But when he opened it, he found only a messenger. “What is it?” he asked.
“My lord, our scouts to the north have spotted the army! It is on the move and should be here by tomorrow night.” Valimor set his jaw, lost deep in thought.
“Thank you, you may take your leave,” he replied at last, and the messenger vanished into the night. “Well, my brothers, you heard it for yourself. We have twenty-four hours to prepare for battle. But, we have a meal to eat. Let us enjoy this—it may be our last.” He sat back down and raised another forkful to his mouth.
The rest of the evening was spent in casual conversation, for the messenger had effectively executed the primary focus of the meeting. The army was en route and now they could only wait until dawn and better reconnaissance to make any decisions. As they sipped tea in the living room, lord Daril arrived, apologized for his tardiness, scooped up the rest of the main course, and took the last biscuit. He ate in the living room as the others filled him in on the events of the past few days, including the capture of the defectors and the news of the moving army. Daril took it all in, wide-eyed, but no questions came forth. At last, as he finished the meal, he asked, “How many in this army?”
“We really have no idea,” Valimor began. “I had hoped our defectors could help us with that, but we planned to interrogate them in the morning. However, I imagine the upcoming battle will not be a walk in the park.”
“Do you think we ought to meet them on the plains? Or should we let them break like prairie-pigs against Harken’s walls?” Daril questioned.
“It will depend on numbers and equipment. So I cannot say at this point,” Valimor pointed out. The others agreed with grunts and nods. Soon, as the evening grew later and later, Daril bid them farewell, for he still had to set up his quarters. Not long after his departure, Talibor and Boltor decided to leave. They thanked him heartily for the wonderful evening, the meal, and the tea. After they left, Valimor shut the door and locked it. He slumped back into his chair and sipped the remnants of his tea. Arla heard the men leave and stepped behind her husband. She set her hands on his tired shoulders and began to rub them. Valimor sank back and let Arla work her magic.
“How did it go?” she asked as she worked his neck with her fingers.
“It was good,” he answered simply.
“You seem tired…what happened to the waterfall man from earlier?” she wondered.
“The army is on the move,” he told her. “Fortunately, lord Daril showed up. I think that will give us a fighting chance.” She stopped massaging him; instead, she hugged his neck and kissed his cheek.
“When will they be here?”
“Tomorrow night,” came the solemn reply.
“Well then, I guess you’ll just have to show those lizards who they’re messing with then, won’t you?” Valimor laughed a bit, then sighed. He gazed straight ahead at nothing in particular.
“Arla?” he asked, sighing deeply.
“Hmmm?” came her reply.
“I love you,” he said, turning to face her.
“I love you, too,” she replied, kissing him lightly. “Come on, you need to rest before your big day tomorrow.” At that she stood and walked into the bedroom. Valimor sighed and slipped deeper into the chair. They make these chairs too comfortable, he thought to himself. He finished off his last sip of tea and set the mug down on the end table. He closed his eyes, trying to shrug off the despair that tomorrow would bring. At last he rose and ventured into the bedroom for the night.
No comments:
Post a Comment