Esmie brought her cycle to an abrupt stop as the others behind her followed suit. Vonack asked what was going on, but Serra was off the cycle even before Esmie had finished decelerating. She felt as if her heart was going to explode in excitement as she raced toward the riverbank, recovering ground they had just recently passed. It was just like the vision she had received from Ballor of the Grandstaff.
Serra found herself approaching a small, makeshift camp. Before her was a small rickety tent held by a thread against the elements. There were the remains of a fire long ago extinguished. Serra headed immediately to the tent, looking for its occupant. Norryn was close, and she had so much to say to him, so many questions she need answered. But first she needed to put her arms around him.
“Serra, hold up!” Jozlyn tried to get her friend to wait, but Serra was absorbed in the moment. Serra now ran as if her life depended on it. She passed rock and brush and then, without knowing fully why, she continued past the little tent. Serra somehow knew that no one had been inside it for ages as she flew by. It was then that she came to a quick stop, gasping and staring with wide, pained eyes.
“No,” she breathed. Her fists clenched as she trembled. “No,” said Serra again.
Esmie and the others were fast approaching. “Serra, what is it?”
“No!” Serra screamed as she dropped to her knees, staring in disbelief. Wordlessly her companions stopped behind her, one by one seeing what Serra was seeing. None could find the words as Serra continued to shake, her right hand covering her mouth. Serra had not known what to expect on this journey. But what she saw now before her had never crossed her mind. Now it stung her deeply, opening wounds, old and new.
Serra looked upon a rickety cross covering a cold and lonely grave.
“It can’t be,” breathed Serra, frustration and sadness cascading from within. She had come so far believing in her heart that Norryn was still alive. Even now she refused to believe him otherwise. This had to be a hoax, some sort of twisted joke. Or more logically, it had to be someone else’s grave. Still Serra could not unclench her frustrated fists.
“Oh no,” said Fahn as Jozlyn shook her head sadly next to her.
“I knew it,” whispered Vonack.
“Damn,” whispered Voltaire. Esmie was speechless.
Serra’s head shook through her spilling tears. “No, I refuse to believe Norryn is here. Not like this. There has to be some explanation!” Serra hit the ground. “He’s not here, I know it!”
“Serra, dear,” Esmie tried to calm her young friend, “We tried. That was all we could do. You knew this could be a possibility. I’m so sorry.” Esmie placed a hand on Serra’s shoulder, squeezing slightly.
Serra shrugged it off. “I don’t believe it. I have to know!” Serra could feel energy to this place. It had a story to tell and she would hear it all. While she was not gifted in such things, if Norryn had been here she would know. Gearing herself, Serra braced for the truth. Taking a quick, hungry breath she reached forward with both hands, grabbing the cross.
Instantly a wave of emotions and visions invaded her thoughts. She grimaced and strained as the images began to sort themselves out, like an unfolding puzzle. Refusing to be daunted, Serra pressed on, her grip tightening on the cross. Soon the truth unraveled before her like a surreal dream.
She could see him now. It was five years ago on this very bank. Serra could see all the details of that day but all of that was trivial to the sight of Norryn. He was young and beautiful, but he was hurting bad. His damp clothes and skin were covered in sand and mud. Burnt holes revealed where gunfire had torn through his shoulder. He did not weep, but Serra’s heart wrenched at his pain.
Serra could sense his struggle, feel his seething agony and loneliness. He clawed at the rocks, dirt and sand that made up the Lorne River bank with his right hand. His left was held close to his stomach, the shoulder wounded and almost useless. In that hand was Ashener’s Calling and he clutched at it with firm desperation. He coughed fiercely, still choking from the water and his trip. Granules of sand stuck to his cheeks and face.
Serra felt the horror of helplessness, longing to help Norryn and forgetting for the moment that this was only a vision. Still Norryn made his way, slowly and steadily from Lorne River, gasping and seething in an unspeakable pain. His limbs were exhausted, and his shoulder screamed, but that was nothing to the emptiness rising within his soul. Somehow even that was tangible in this vision, as it too washed over Serra.
Finally, young Norryn ceased his movement, burying his face onto ground. He sucked in air in great droughts, closing his eyes, obviously wanting unconsciousness to overtake him. But even in his exhaustion, Serra knew that his grief far outweighed it. It was the grip of loss and betrayal at once, relentless in his heart.
Miraculously a nearby fisherman, an old man who looked all of 200, had taken notice. The fisherman had been further downstream, searching the floating debris for valuables but had heard the commotion Norryn had made. Making his way toward Norryn, the man had recognized the young heir immediately. Setting to work, the fisherman tended to Norryn’s wounds, removing his wet clothes and setting up camp and a small tent. Thus cared for, overwhelmed and exhausted, Norryn finally slept.
A few hours had passed. The old fisherman had procured some food and was cooking it upon the fire. He mused his next move and how he was to get Norryn to safety. From the debris he knew Bannar was out of the question. Many thoughts weighed on the old man. Because of it, even for a few moments, he became less aware of his surroundings.
And he thus failed to see them.
“Well, well, boys, what do we have here? Looks like some stragglers to me.” With a start, the old fisherman turned his head to see five soldiers of Thorne fast approaching him. He stood quickly, grabbing his walking staff, ready to defend Norryn with his life.
“Ooh, careful, sarge, I think he means to kill us!” That was met with laughter.
“Maybe we should get some backup,” said the first soldier to speak. Serra surmised him to be “the sarge.” He looked at one of his men. “Jake, hoof it back and tell the rest of the squad to meet us at the rendezvous. We’ll catch up soon enough.” Jake complied though it was obvious he wanted to stay for some fun.
“Please,” said the old fisherman. “I don’t want any trouble. We mean no harm to you. Please leave us be.”
The sarge snorted comically. “Oh, don’t get your britches in a bunch, old timer. We might just let you live. And that will depend on what your hiding in that tent there. Let’s just see what you . . . damn.” It was then that the leader of this Thorne outfit saw the clothes neatly folded next to the tent. Resting on them was Ashener’s Calling. “Boys, we’ve just hit the pay dirt.” He motioned for them to surround the camp as he addressed the fisherman again. “So, who do you got there, pops? Friend of yours?”
“Yes, he is, a friend to all in fact,” said the old man. “And he is not well, please leave him to his rest.”
The sarge was unmoved. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to move, pops. I think we have found an enemy to the lands of Thorne. Now step aside or face the consequences.”
“Please, just let him be.” The old fisherman held his ground, his staff still gripped in both hands. “He’s just a boy.”
“And a very dangerous one we hear.” The sarge motioned to his men. Two sprung toward the old man. He tried to keep them at bay, but one grabbed his staff hurled the old fisherman to the ground. The other soldier then covered the old man with his rifle as the sarge and the other two men approached the small tent. Norryn’s bare feet hung out of the V-shaped tent.
“Come, boy, step out of the tent. Hurry it up now.” The Sarge prodded the tent with his boot. Either Norryn was still asleep or didn’t care to move. “I said move, boy!” The sarge gave the tent a swift kick, connecting with Norryn’s side. Still Norryn did not move.
“Stop it, please!” The fisherman still tried for reason, though it fell on unheeding ears.
“Maybe he doesn’t hear so good,” said one soldier.
“Maybe the little bastard’s dead,” said the other.
“Maybe so,” said the sarge. “But let’s make sure just the same.”
The sarge raised his rifle to the tent where Norryn still laid motionless. In one swift motion it was primed and ready. The old fisherman screamed as a sick smile of satisfaction spread on the sarge’s face. The old man tried to stand, tried to reach for Norryn but it was too late. That moment, while quick, hovered in Serra’s mind with painful, grueling clarity. The rifle aimed to where Norryn’s head would be resting. An old fisherman’s pleas fell on deaf ears.
The last thing that Serra could endure from this image was the pulling of the trigger.
“No!” Serra fell away from the cross. “No!” She stood only to stumble but she met the arms of Voltaire. Voltaire caught her as he knelt, easing Serra’s descent to her knees. She gripped him fiercely, sobbing uncontrollably. “How could they do that to him? Why him? Why?” Voltaire said nothing, pained by Serra’s grief. The others fell in around them, placing their hands upon Voltaire and Serra.
For long moments they stayed that way. Some cried. Some prayed. Most did both. They had come far and now their journey was over. Norryn Ashener, the heir of Vallance would live on only in their hopes and dreams. That knowledge brought a weight and a sadness to everyone present.
Still shaking, Serra broke free of the others and stumbled back to the grave. She dropped to her knees, once more staring and shaking her head. Tears welled river trails down her cheeks. It was over but there was still one thing left for her to do, and she knew it without knowing how or why.
Serra drove her hands into the moist soul in front of the cross. Every moment grew more difficult as she prodded deeper, though she did not have to go far. Through the mud and tiny chunks of rock her fingers met what she was searching for. Serra grasped it firmly and with a little effort it uprooted from its sleeping place in the soil. In its glimmer, Serra had found the last piece she needed to know all the truth she cared to know.
As small bits of moist soil fell free in her hands, Serra again looked upon for the first time in five years the amulet that was Ashener’s Calling.
-38-
“I can’t remember the last time my lips tasted something beyond ale or watered-down whiskey.” Wyndall of the Jacoi smelled the contents of the glass given to him by Sindara Preece. It was a fine bourbon and as his lips met with it, his soul sighed contentment as its warmth washed through him. It was little such glimpses of simple pleasure that reminded Wyndall of better times. It was these memories that carried his spirit, reminding him of the country and life he was fighting for.
Sindara Preece smiled easily. “I am glad that you like it. I’d been holding it for your return. If anyone deserves such a stock, it’s you.” Sindara stretched before wiping at sleep-worn eyes. “I’d like to know your thoughts.” Currently she and Wyndall were looking over a map of Vallance, cataloguing supplies, available manpower and munitions. As always it was a stretch to get by but get by they did. They had to. For Vallance and tomorrow there was no other option.
Wyndall looked at her in earnest. “Well I have a few ideas about how to keep the V.F.U. mobile and Cresul guessing, but his web gets tighter by the day. If we don’t figure out something soon, then all this time we’ve bought will have been for nothing.”
“Take heart, Wyndall of the Jacoi, for the day you give up is the day Vallance should toss up the white flags.”
Wyndall looked at his class as he mused. “I’ll tell you where to pin mine. I’ve got a place for both Rhoneck and Cresul to kiss.” Wyndall then finished off his bourbon.
Sindara smiled as she offered him another round. He of course, declined as she knew he would. She had always admired Axiter’s leader and couldn’t imagine a finer man leading the Ro’Nihn that protected their great nation. Sindara now had the chance to share some good news at least. “Adaven is doing well at last and sends his regards to you.”
This placed a genuine smile on Wyndall’s face. “Then that is welcome news indeed!”
“He instructed me to inform you to get back to work. He’s convinced having you on any battlefield increases our chances tenfold.”
Wyndall snorted as he placed his glass down. “Optimistic old bag. I wish that were the case, Sindara.”
Sindara paused, for all her news was not good. She needed to tell Wyndall of Adaven’s tale, to share with him the truth at last revealed. Norryn Ashener’s grave was at last found. That was the message that Ballor of the Grandstaff died delivering to Serra Landring Their country could at last move on. But not now, she thought. This is the lightest I have seen Wyndall’s heart in long months. I will let him be a while longer. Burying her woes, she pressed on. “What’s our next move?”
Wyndall looked up from his thoughts, smiling. “Our next move is to commandeer the mess hall, where I expect a large, delicious lunch and simulating conversation. Not too heavy of course for my next nap is years off. Then after that I’ll address the–”
The doors to the meeting room burst open. A young Ro’Nihn made haste to Wyndall, barely able to contain himself. “Sir, the V.F.U. has just arrived.”
“What?” Wyndall couldn’t believe the news and the messenger didn’t have the words. Wyndall shared a glance with Sindara who was as equally horrified. A deep, increasing feeling of foreboding was quelling within Wyndall. “Ready my gear! Sindara, sound the alarms. Get all civilians inside the city walls and have your artillery at the ready.” Wyndall was then on his way out the door with the young Ro’Nihn only a few steps ahead.
It took only minutes before Wyndall to be armed and on the streets of Rahn. As he made his way outside the gates, there was Vallance Force United in almost full force. Wyndall fought the urgency rising within him as his gut told him this could only be trouble. In his wake, Sindara was not far behind. Wordlessly he approached the Vallance troops, hungry for answers.
Dismounting, Lancer Vanmorth and Brenn Ainsley saluted Wyndall as they approached. It was Lancer who spoke first. “Well here we are as requesting, Wyndall. Now do you mind telling us what the hell is going on?”
Wyndall replied still trying to put the pieces together. “Lancer, what are you doing here? Who told you to bring the forces to Rahn?”
Lancer and Brenn exchanged glances. “Well, you of course,” said Brenn as he reached in his pocket and procured some papers. He handed them to Wyndall. “What’s going on?”
Wyndall looked at the orders. His heart sunk further at the sight. The forged signature he now looked at was dismally impressive. Damn it all to hells, outmaneuvered again. Cresul has once more forced our hand. This cannot be anything but a trap. Crumpling the parchments, Wyndall motioned for some of his Ro’Nihn. “Take to your cycles and scout the area and be quick!” He then placed his focus back on the V.F.U. officers. “I’ve a feeling we are not alone, gentlemen. Prepare for battle. Station the men in front of Rahn and ready the town’s defense.”
Brenn and Lancer turned to the soldiers under their command, shouting orders. Within moments these orders were set into motion. Wyndall gritted his teeth as he prepared for the worse. The sickening pit growing in his stomach deepened by the second. And very soon Wyndall’s fears were confirmed.
A hovercycle returned to the scene in great haste. Its rider was shouting as soon as he felt he was close enough to be heard. “Incoming troops! Thorne is approaching!”
Wyndall waited for the Ro’Nihn to bring his cycle to a halt. “How many?”
He needn’t know the answer to his question after catching the eye with his fellow warrior. “More than what we have to defend with that is for sure. And by a great deal.”
Wyndall nodded. “Continue your recon but keep at a safe distance. Report back to me everything that you see.”
“Yes, sir.” In a breath the Ro’Nihn had sped off.
Staring into the distance, Wyndall put his thoughts in order.
Around him a frantic pace fueled the need for readiness. His men were tired, demoralized, and outnumbered. They would have to draw on their inner reserves to outlast this day. Wyndall’s heart told him there would be no quarter in this battle. Victory or defeat meant the difference of life or death.
Joining the troops, Wyndall of the Jacoi clans prepared for what might be his greatest and final battle.
-39-
“Serra, we’ve got to go. There’s no telling when they will catch up with us,” said Jozlyn softly.
Serra processed her friend’s words but could not register them fully. She lay curled on a blanket, staring at nothing. Serra’s will to move had left her, and the strength that carried her in her search for Norryn was no more. Her friend was dead to her again and with him another piece of her heart. Serra knew it was childish, but now all she wanted to do was embrace the sadness that ravaged her innards.
Serra’s friends had hastily erected camp, meant to endure a few hours of rest. But this duration easily drew well beyond such time. Each in the group made their peace at Norryn’s grave as Serra remained on her blanket, dazed and clutching Ashener’s Calling. Her mind was a havoc of images and emotions, eliminating all rational thought processes. Serra’s final hope had been driven like a nail into a coffin with utter certainty.
“It’s true,” whispered Serra hoarsely. “He’s really gone.”
Jozlyn couldn’t find any words for such pain but wanted desperately to try. “I know. It hurts.” She squeezed her friend’s shoulder as she continued. “But we must go on, Serra, and we must leave this place. That is what he would have hoped for, for us to continue. And I know deep down you know that.”
Serra slammed her eyes to the world. Of course, she knew that to be true, but her grief held her beyond the grasp of rationality. Serra realized that she had grown to care deeply for Rynsik, but Norryn was a part of her soul. She held the hope desperately that that part had still lived. The possibility had given her renewed vigor, but this day had stolen it from her again, leaving her worse off from the revelation.
Echoes of Ashener Page 30