by Robert Ryan
These dark thoughts came and went. For the most part, he was happier than he had ever been in his life. A thirst for knowledge came to him as well. He had only ever experienced this before when he had learned how to hunt. But the pursuit of knowledge was like a hunt itself, and he delved deep into what Aranloth taught. Not just the ways of the body and how to use it, but the strengths of the mind. And magic most of all, which was wild as the lands that he loved to hunt.
The year grew old. The trees turned color and leaves fell, the sap in the trunks that gave them life slowing. Once-green grass was browned by leaves, and by the hard frosts that beautifully layered the land but killed. With the dying of the year, so too departed geese, swallows and hawks.
The land seemed to be holding its breath, waiting. But winter had not quite arrived. Yet one morning as Faran and Ferla returned from a long run, in their armor, having reached the beehive and finding it still, snow drifted from a clear sky to sting their faces as they ran.
The snowfall stopped by the time they reached the lower slopes. But coming back closer to the lake they saw a wagon before the cabin.
They knew that wagon, yet still they were cautious. They had seen no one else in all their time in the valley, but caution was now as much a part of their nature as it was with a wild deer picking its path through the trees.
They approached slowly and carefully, keeping to cover where they could. But it was to no avail.
A figure came out from the cabin and moved to the wagon to retrieve something. They sighed a little in relief. They had expected no one else, but being hunted sometimes made it hard to trust the very air they breathed.
Faran felt relief, and he looked forward to talking with the tinker. But he saw the look on the old man’s face, and it was one of worry.
18. A Price in Gold
They sat at the sturdy table in the cottage. The hearth was warm, and breakfast was cooked. It was a feast this morning thanks to the arrival of the tinker. In the wild, when a traveler stopped by, the best food available was always put out.
Faran and Ferla still wore their armor. Jareck paid no attention to it, though it must have been a strange sight. Had he guessed who they were? Faran had no doubts.
They ate their meal in good humor, and the scent of smoke filled the room from the hearth. Nearby, sausages and slabs of meat hung for curing. It was a homely little place, but the tinker’s expression was not encouraging.
When they were done, Faran and Ferla washed up, and the tinker passed on news of what was happening around Alithoras. Most of it seemed normal enough, but as they came back to the table to join the others his expression turned grim.
Leaning back in his chair, in the favored position reserved for guests closest to the warmth of the hearth, he filled and lit his pipe.
Aranloth broke the subject that loomed large within the small confines of the cabin.
“What news have you heard out of Faladir?”
Jareck puffed at his pipe. “I took your advice, old friend. I didn’t go there. And well that I didn’t, for even the news that reached me hundreds of miles away was bad enough.”
He glanced at Faran and Ferla, and his eyes lingered on their armor.
“There’s much talk of dark deeds and disturbances. It’s said the king has become a tyrant. Fear breeds in the streets like shadows on a moonless night. Men go missing. Men who oppose the king. Some are found slain, perhaps the work of robbers. Perhaps not. Some men are never seen again.”
Aranloth nodded. “It begins. But it will get worse.”
“Oh, it already has,” Jareck told him. “Rumor is, if you can believe it, that the king has used the Morleth Stone. It’s said that lights often shine in the Tower of the Stone until the dawn brings the day to obscure it. It’s also said that he sometimes takes the stone from the tower and walks among the people. They cower before him, and well they should. Rumor says he is a young man again, and that he tolerates no disobedience.”
“I believe it,” Aranloth whispered. “Yet it will get even worse yet. The stone will corrupt until nothing of humanity is left.”
The tinker shivered and puffed deeply of his pipe, as though that perhaps might warm him.
“There’s another rumor as well.”
“Speak it,” Aranloth told him.
“This one is only whispered, for it is death to say it to the wrong person.”
Aranloth glanced at Ferla and Faran, then back to the tinker.
“Say it.”
“You know what it is. You have known all along. What happens now in the streets of Faladir brings old tales to mind. The people speak of the founding of Faladir when the stone was raised against them first, and defeated. And they speak of the prophecy made when it was overcome and the Kingshield Knights first tasked with guarding it. One day they would fall. That has happened. And now the people whisper of the second part of that prophecy. They speak of the rising of the seventh knight, and they wonder where he is.”
Faran felt guilt wash over him. The people were desperate for a hero, but it was not him. It would never be him, but that did not mean they were alone. When he had the skill to interfere in the enemy’s plans, he would do so. What else could he do, in the meantime?
He looked at Ferla and saw that she had gone white. But her expression showed no fear, only determination.
Aranloth did not look surprised. “Druilgar will be doing all he can to stamp out that hope. There is more news yet to come, is there not?”
Jareck looked uncomfortable. “That there is. Worst news comes last, as they say.” He took a deep breath. “You should know this. All your descriptions are circulated. All four of you. You are declared outlaws, and there is a price of gold on your heads. Anyone who can lead them to you will receive it. But the king does not wait on that alone. He has searchers out, including knights. They scour the countryside by day. At night, there is rumor of dark shadows that fly, seeking you also.”
Again, Aranloth did not seem surprised. “It’s a big land, Alithoras.”
“It will need to be,” Jareck muttered.
The conversation turned to other things then. It was clear that the old tinker knew exactly who they were, and he stood to gain much if he turned on them. But Aranloth trusted him, and there had been no point in his coming back here. Had he wanted to turn them in, he could have already done so. More than that, he had put himself at risk in coming here and warning them.
The tinker’s presence did not put a stop to their training. After tending the garden, they went out by the lake with Aranloth and continued their practice. Jareck could hardly miss that, and if he had not guessed they were being trained as knights before, he would know it now beyond doubt.
It was a hard session. This time the lòhren summoned no illusory partner, but had them spar each other as they sometimes did. Nor did they use training swords, but their own blades.
Training with real weapons was different, and great care was needed. They had not started that way, but as they progressed Aranloth had insisted on it.
“The way you train is the way you fight,” he had told them, and there was much truth in that. Facing a wooden sword was not the same as a steel blade that could kill. That changed how you moved and thought.
They circled each other now, Ferla’s green eyes intent. She gave no warning of her strike, and like a viper’s tongue the blade leaped toward his abdomen.
The tip of the blade nearly struck him. Perhaps it would have in a real fight, but she slowed to pull the blow at the last moment. His own sword clanged down against hers with a screech of steel, but that was not what saved him. It was his hasty retreat.
That was something he was working on. Retreat was all well and good, but it made it harder to deliver a return attack. Better to deflect an incoming blow and strike from where you stood. It eliminated that backward step and sped the return strike. That movement, albeit it only slightly faster, made all the difference. It put the opponent under pressure and caused them to retreat instead.
They circled again, and Faran dropped his weight and struck with The Swallow Dips Low, but Ferla moved back with the graceful counter of Serpent Recoils. From here, she was well positioned to spring back, but she was wary of him and remained at a distance. It was well for her, because he had only dropped low as a ploy to trick her into an attacking move she favored and that he was ready for.
It was probably no accident. She knew how he thought and what tactics he applied. Much of the time, she could read him like a book. She knew and understood him well. But he was not so good at reading her.
“That’s enough for today,” the lòhren called.
Faran and Ferla saluted each other. It was a sign of respect among the knights, but it also served to make a clear signal that the sparring session was over. It was a means of ensuring no accidents occurred.
They sheathed their blades and went to sit by Aranloth on the logs they favored. A cool breeze came off the lake, and Faran wondered if the waters froze in winter. Probably not. It was quite large, and they were farther south here and slightly warmer than Dromdruin had been.
“It troubles me,” Faran said, “that Jareck could turn us in.”
Aranloth considered that. “Do you think he will?”
“It’s not that I think he will. I’m sure he won’t. But he could. I might be wrong about him.”
“That’s always possible. Truth is though, sometimes you have to trust people. You just have to be discerning about it, and then once made let the decision go. Fear will make you doubt yourself. If you let it, it’ll erode everything you believe and everything that you are.”
Those seemed like wise words to Faran. They did not just apply to the situation with Jareck though. As always, the lòhren never wasted a moment to try to teach them something.
Aranloth was not done speaking. “You should also know this about the tinker. He’s a man who has no use for gold, and never has. Better by far for him to travel the land he loves. He lives for that only, and nothing else. He’s probably already rich, because he’s been trading and tinkering for many, many years. But he cares nothing for that. He just wants to travel the land, far and wide, and he glories in the beauty of it.”
There was a pause in the conversation for a good while after that. Ferla was the one to break it.
“Do the people really hope for the seventh knight to rise?”
Aranloth did not look at her. He kept his gaze far out over the lake, and his thoughts, whatever they were, could not be read. His face was a blank mask.
“Hope,” he said at last, “is like the seeds of the earth. Drought may bake the land dry, but people still remember what green fields were like. And when it rains again, and even deserts know rain, they spring to life. Nothing can stop them.”
Ferla nodded as though that was the very answer she expected.
They worked in the garden after that, and by evening had done yet another long run. After that, they swam in the lake as the long shadows crept down the slopes. Faran thought he saw a shadow among them, something that walked as a man, taking long strides, but even as he blinked and stared hard, he saw nothing more than the swaying shadows of a pine tree.
“What is it?” Ferla asked, drying her red hair on a towel.
“Nothing. I was just seeing things, but it’s nothing.”
She tossed the towel to him, and he dried his hair as well, but he kept looking again and again all along the slopes. Nothing was out of place, but he still felt uneasy. It was no more than the words of the tinker playing on his mind though.
Dinner was quiet, and the long night also. Faran did not sleep well, and when dawn came he was tired. But he and Ferla still did their early morning run, and returned in time to see Jareck off.
“I’ll not come this way again until it’s safe,” the tinker told Aranloth. The lòhren had nodded at that and wished him well. Then the wagon rumbled forward. Even as it did, snow swirled in the air again, and a breeze came to life, cold as a knife.
19. Wards of Protection
A few days after the tinker had left, winter set in with a vengeance. The cold wind grew fiercer and fiercer, and then one night it snowed. And didn’t stop all night.
Faran and Ferla did not run that morning. But they still donned their armor as usual, and they walked halfway up the western ridge. It was hard going, but the snow ceased and the sun rose, bathing them in warmer light. But it was still not warm. The power of the sun was weak, but they enjoyed it nonetheless.
“The valley looks so different,” Ferla said.
“It’s beautiful. But I’ll enjoy a hot drink and some warm food inside the warmth of the cabin even more.”
“Hush. I’d rather be here than anywhere else.”
Faran gazed out over the valley, and he knew she was right. This was home now, and he loved it. Even if life was difficult.
There were no towns nearby, nor even villages. Nor would they go there if there were. Especially after the news the tinker brought. Whatever they ate, they had to hunt, gather or grow themselves.
But the garden prospered, and they had many vegetables that would store. Others could be dried or cured. The hunting and fishing had been excellent too. There was also an abundance of nuts, and these they cached in various places. That alone would see them survive. Even if the winter was harsh, they had food to see them through.
When they returned to the cabin, they did not go inside. The last of the garden needed harvesting, and this they did. By the time they finished, they were freezing. The metal of the armor drained all warmth from them, and their fingers were white and numb.
At length, they went inside and Kareste built up the fire. It did not warm them straight away, but over time they thawed out. A hot drink helped. It was some kind of tea, made of strong herbs and sweetened with honey from the beehive. Faran did not like it much, but it was warm, and Kareste told him the herbs were good for his health. He believed her, but he still did not like it.
“Where’s Aranloth?” he asked.
“Gone for a walk,” Kareste said. She could not quite hide the worry on her face. Aranloth had recovered after the tombs, but not fully. He still seemed weak, and she did not like the thought of him being alone out in the wild in this weather.
But the lòhren returned not long after, quickly shutting the door behind him to stop the rush of cold air that came with him.
Faran had seen the lòhren go out into the cold before, but it still amazed him that the old man wore only the clothes he always had and nothing further. He seemed immune to the cold, and perhaps that was some trick of magic. He and Ferla had taken to wearing deerskin cloaks.
The old man sat down by the hearth, and Kareste gave him the same tea that she had given the rest of them.
He took a sip, and then glanced at Faran and Ferla. “I haven’t taught you yet the word of power for warmth, have I?”
Ferla groaned. “We could have done with that this morning. This armor is like ice.”
“Hardship sharpens the mind,” Aranloth answered. “Endurance of the woes of the world builds character.”
“Be done with that knightly babble,” Kareste said. “Just teach them how to do it.”
Aranloth raised an eyebrow, but he did not answer her back.
“Think of the warmth in this room,” he instructed. “Or if you are outside, when you will need this trick the most, think of the sun above. Or if at night, the slightly warmer air in a pocket of trees or coming off a west-facing cliff.”
Faran thought of the warmth coming off the hearth. He felt it radiate through the air. He sensed the shifting and twining flames leap and dance above the burning wood. And underneath, he sensed the embers, hotter than the rest and steady.
“Hrokhar,” intoned Aranloth. “Hrokhar, which is warmth. Feel the word. Feel the warmth. Know your mind, and understand that all three are one.”
Faran almost had it. He uttered the word and sensed the power, but it slid from his grasp. Yet Aranloth’s mind was there, slipping over his
own, and then the warmth came. It was his to command.
When the lòhren withdrew his mind, that sense of control was gone. But Faran now knew what it felt like, and that he would be able to do it by himself at some point with more practice. Without the lòhren, such a thing might take years, if success ever came at all. With him, anything seemed possible.
Aranloth had shaved years off their training. Perhaps decades. Yet still the knights were well ahead of them, and the king held the Morleth Stone which granted him great powers. Perhaps he could do for the knights what Aranloth had just done.
They moved outside after that, the word of power fixed in their minds, and the cold did not seem as bad as it had before. Although that might just be the sun rising higher.
The lake had changed. It was still as it often was, but no ice had formed. Yet here and there where groves of willows grew along its banks, they had lost their leaves. Dead the trunks and branches seemed, and stark against the sky, but new life would flow into them when spring came. New life as had come to Faran, for he was not the same as he had been in Dromdruin.
They sat on an old tree trunk that had long ago fallen, and Faran knew what type of training would come next. Aranloth always took them here when he wanted to sharpen their minds rather than their sword skills.
“Tell me,” the lòhren said, “the purpose of poetry.”
They had conversed like this before, debating topics that at first had been well beyond Faran’s grasp, but he had learned.
“Poetry is to entertain,” he answered. “By the power of its beauty it seizes attention and uplifts the spirit.”
Aranloth nodded. “What of you, Ferla. What answer do you give?”
Ferla looked away. “I don’t know the answer. But must there be one true answer? Poetry may please you for one reason, and myself for another. Why should they not both be right?”
“Well, those are both good answers,” Aranloth said.
Faran hesitated, and then spoke. “But which one is correct?”