The Warder

by D K Williamson

  “Did you figure it out?” Mayhaps said.

  Granum laughed. “No. As it often happens, I left with more new questions needing answers than answers to old questions.”

  The group went to sleep shortly after.

  . . .

  Rendezvousing with Duke Philip’s forces occurred the following afternoon when King Harold’s army arrived at a camp south of Margrave Stonde’s castle.

  Knowing the coming night could be their last, the remaining daylight hours were spent ensuring all was ready for battle, from arms, armor, and horses, to mage and medical trappings and devices. The evening was largely spent preparing mind and soul.

  Many simply stood in tight groups and spoke with comrades, laughing and joking largely, while a few were far more somber. Others sought solace in services led by priests, while some wished for solitude to meditate or pray on their own.

  Knowing the army would be on the hunt for Malig’s force at first light, most sought slumber early.

  . . .

  Something gently stirred Dech and his group from their slumber.

  “I apologize for waking you,” Mus said from the doorway to their lodging, “but the council has made a decision.”

  Still full dark, the six rose, dressed, and gathered their gear knowing they would be leaving one way or another. Outside they found magical fires illuminated an open area a hundred paces away. Mus, Lilith, and several others stood waiting for them.

  “You will be conducted to the outer edges of Brosalean where you can make your way to the ruined castle in Nevar,” Lilith said. “The concerns your king and his mage council have are our concern as well. We still must determine the people accompanying you. If you will wait here, we will make our decision.”

  “My opinion on the matter has been expressed,” Mus said as the others walked away. “The leader of the escort has been selected and notified. We elected to use members of a group called the Owls, or as most refer to them, ghost-birds. Are you familiar with them?”

  Dech nodded. “Named for their quiet movement. They operate in sizable groups and serve as a rapidly deployed defensive force.”

  Mus nodded. “Correct. I’ll bring the man selected to meet you.”

  As Mus left, Mayhaps looked at Dissy. “What’s the difference between rangers and ghost-birds?”

  “Not a lot, but as Dech said, they operate in groups of eight or twelve and have one focus, repel intruders. Rangers operate solo or in pairs and have far wider roles, as much steward as fighter, as much hunter as scout.”

  A short time later Mus and an elvan man approached, a grey elf armed with bow and short sword. His expression made it clear he was not happy. He stopped a pace from Dech and glared at the order symbol on the warder’s dull green surcoat before shifting his gaze upward to Dech’s eyes.

  “I am Wherow,” the elf said not waiting for Mus to introduce them. “A ghost-bird. That’s a term mean—”

  “A term he knows,” Dissy said with a challenging edge in her voice.

  Wherow spared her a hard glance before looking at Dech once again. “We’ll have one thing clear right now, knight,” he said. “I am a grey elf and have no more care for humans than you do for my kind.”

  “You know my thoughts?” Dech replied.

  “They are apparent. You are human after all.”

  “Assumption leads to dark and perilous places,” Dech said calmly.

  “A threat?” Wherow asked with narrowed eyes.

  “A truth.”

  Mus suppressed a laugh, but not enough to escape Wherow’s notice.

  The grey elf sneered. “I will be leading the band when the elders order us to depart. Let me see these followers of yours.”

  Dech gestured over his shoulder. “We’re all here.”

  The ghost-bird’s eyes moved over the group several times before he snorted. “A knight who kills in the name of the Creator, a foppish bard, a mage who thinks she serves the Creator, a ranger of no consequence, and two others I know not what to make of.” Pointing at Erie and Granum, he continued. “I know these others and what they are, but you two, what sort do you be?”

  “I am a man of many pursuits,” Granum said. “A scholar of sorts might be sufficient enough description.”

  “Ah, yes, the so-called mage genius Elder Mus mentioned. And you?” he said with a look at Erie.

  Josip looked at the ghost-bird with boredom. “I am a thief. An honest one and skilled as well.”

  “You would admit to being larcenous?”

  “I said I am honest.”

  Wherow turned to Mus. “You would have me take these through the wilds?”

  “You already know the answer to that. You will have seven ghost-birds to accompany you. We—”

  “I’ll pick my team. There are—”

  “Interruptions only slow the process,” Mus scolded. “You lead the team the council has chosen.”

  “So it’s decided then?”

  “It soon will be. Lauril will serve as lead trekker. There are reasons for the decision. Reasons you need not worry over. Prepare for an imminent departure.”

  “A mailed knight, luted bard, robed witch, old scholar, and a taersaenn ranger?” Wherow spat. He shook his head and pointed at Erie. “The thief is the only one that has a chance to pass through in one piece.”

  Dissy’s hand moved to her sword as Dealan stepped forward and made a quick sweeping motion with her hand. In the blink of an eye, her apparel changed to her loose mantle and quilted breeches ensemble she wore for most of the trip.

  “No robes to worry you, so put your mind at ease. We will pass through unscathed,” she said.

  “Illusions.”

  “Translocation of inert objects,” she said curtly.

  “That might impress dukes in some Aratainian great hall, but not here. You have no inkling what awaits us out there.”

  Dealan smiled. “You have no inkling of what I can do to keep us from harm.”

  “Witches spells. Bah! Can you spell yourself quiet? Can you suppress your magery as well? There be creatures out there that detect magic, that feed on magic, and when they catch scent of yours, they’ll follow.”

  Dealan nodded. “And I can sense them as well.”

  “And anything that can smell can have their olfactory abilities turned against them,” Granum said. “The druids of this place do this.”

  “You’re no druid.”

  Granum laughed quietly. “I’m not simply a scholar either and I know a druid trick or two. You assume much young one. Assumption is the mother of all confusion.”

  “Assumption serves me well. Arrogant old humans who spout nonsense are not worth the effort of listening. An assumption well worth keeping.”

  “Enough,” Mus said. “The others will be here soon enough. Wherow, you will carry the responsibility for seeing this through. You understand this?”

  “I do. I am quite capable of the task.”

  “You would not have been chosen if we didn’t think so, but know your selection was not unanimously endorsed. You have much to prove to the council. I would suggest you show some respect to your charges. Adelbert Granum is an old and trusted friend to many of us here. A man with knowledge enough to teach us druids a thing or two. Consider that.”

  “None of them should be here, Elder Mus. I will see them to their destination. Best be rid of them as soon as possible. Is there more?”

  Mus sighed and shook his head.

  Nodding, Wherow turned to the expedition members and said, “Prepare to depart.”

  “We are ready,” Dissy said. “It is you we wait for.”

  A laugh came from behind the ghost-bird leader. A look revealed seven people dressed in garb and bearing arms similar to Wherow’s. “The ranger speaks for us as well,” said a smiling elvan woman standing at the front of the group next to Mus. Each wore a pack on their back or had one slung over their shoulder.

  Wherow glared at her as he threw the straps of his ruck over his shoulders. “La
uril, you will lead out when it is time.”

  “It will be my honor,” she replied.

  Wherow snorted again and gestured past Mus. “Some of the council approach.”

  “You and I must go speak with them then,” Mus said.

  The ghost-bird called Lauril approached Dissy and smiled. Exceptionally tall for a woman of the elvan race, she was nearly Dissy’s height and sturdily built, a contrast to the slender frames of most elves. Her bronze complexion showed she was of gold elf extraction.

  “I am happy to see you well, Diz. Odd company you keep,” she said with a look at Dech.

  “This is Sir Dech, a warder contrition knight,” Dissy said. “Dech, this is Lauril, until recently a ranger and one who instructed me when I joined.”

  “Ignore Wherow’s bluster,” Lauril said as she tied a green kerchief to cover her light colored hair. “He is quite competent out in the trees.”

  “Taersaenn, that’s what he called Dissy,” Erie said as he eyed Wherow speaking with the elders. “I take it that is a disparaging term?”

  “For him it is,” Lauril said. “An old word that simply means across. It is commonly used interchangeably with the terms half-blood or cross-stock, both of which are meant as insults. To him and those that share his view, Dissy is worse than human.”

  “I am tainted in such eyes,” Dissy said. “Let him spew, it’s nothing I haven’t heard before. Lauril will make our journey far less troublesome than it might otherwise be.”

  Lauril looked Dech from boot to scalp. “You are large for a human and clad in armor. You do realize we are walking and doing so through rough terrain.”

  Dech nodded. “I also carry weapons of considerable weight, a shield, a helm, and a large rucksack. These are all items I have carried for most of my life.”

  “You needn’t worry about Dech,” Mayhaps said. “He’ll be the last to drop if it came to that. What about you, elvan lady of the ghost-birds? You are quite tall for your marvelous race and well put together at that. How do you fare traipsing the wilds?”

  Lauril smiled. “You are selling something or flirting. In either case, I will not carry any of your gear for you. As for how I fare? Well enough. Lithesome and artistic I am not. Quiet and strong I am. That makes me well-suited to be a ranger or ghost-bird.”

  “If not gear, would you consider carrying a war sword?” he said tapping the big sword attached to his pack. “Genuine Contrition Order issue.”

  “I will not,” she said good-naturedly, “nor will I carry your lute. You’re not bringing it, are you?”

  “I simply must, and you are correct you will not carry my lute. I am the sole bearer of said instrument. Before you ask, I am a bard and more. A lute is a requirement, not an option.”

  “Artists,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “I’m sure there’s a reason you are along?”

  “Destiny, fate, convergence, or perhaps just plain good luck.”

  Lauril rolled her eyes again. “I see, and who are we to question such.”

  . . .

  Wherow returned and announced, “We leave immediately. We know the trails nearest the grove and it will be light by the time we reach the troublesome areas.”

  “The area around the Great Oak has always been repellant to dangerous creatures,” Lauril said. “But once far enough out, the threats become great.”

  “Do your best to stay silent,” Wherow said with a glare at Dech. “A sound at an inopportune time could mean death. The distance as shown on a map may not seem very far, but you will find all that weight you carry will exhaust you. You will be forced to abandon it or you will err and compromise us.”

  “I know my limitations,” Dech replied calmly. “This is not my first time afoot.”

  Wherow snorted. “We’ll see, won’t we. Lauril, have you assigned column positions?”

  “To our owls, yes. Where will you be?”

  “Toward the rear of the column. Use standard field signaling. The council wants us to get these people to Nevar as quickly as possible. Here is the route,” he said handing her a small map.

  Looking it over, she nodded. “Some hazardous areas we must navigate.”

  “Yes, but silence and your trekking must do. Find us a way past those hazards. Haste is called for.”

  “Haste does not always mean taking the most direct route. I will go as fast as safe passage will allow.”

  “Position our charges as you wish and lead us out.”

  Nodding, Lauril turned to Dech. “You are truly able to manage the load you carry?”

  “I am.”

  Gauging Dech’s response as truth, she replied, “I would have you near the front of the column then. The council selected able archers from the ghost-birds. Not to say we cannot wield steel as well, but an able knight might allow more arrows to fly from our bows should we walk into trouble.”

  “I’ll be near as well,” Dissy said. “I have bow and sword ready for what might come.”

  “I welcome them,” Lauril said. “What of your mages?”

  “Both are quite capable,” Dech replied as he withdrew his light crossbow from its place on his rucksack.

  “I’ll have a pair of archers stay near them to cover them while they cast. For quiet communication, we use vocalizations you are not familiar with, save for Diz. I’ll also use hand signals should we need to stop, kneel, or pay heed in a specific direction.”

  “And us?” Mayhaps asked as he gestured between himself and Josip.

  “Stay near the mages.”

  Signaling Wherow, Lauril nodded as he waved an acknowledgement.

  “Let’s go.”

  . . .

  The trails leading from the grove of giant oaks were wide, flat, and smooth, making for rapid travel. Before long though, conventionally sized trees and underbrush appeared to mark the end of worry-free travel.

  “From here on, we must be watchful,” Lauril said quietly.

  The dense foliage overhead blotted out almost all direct sunlight coming from the rising sun, bringing with it a feeling the forest was closing in. To a degree it was, the trail narrowed and the undergrowth thickened, forcing Lauril to slow the pace.

  Despite stopping periodically to rest, listen, and ensure all personnel were still present, they continued to make good time. This ended when a piercing, wailing cry brought them to a halt.

  “A banshee?” Mayhaps whispered.

  “That’s one name,” Dissy replied.

  “A ghost,” Erie muttered.

  “Not a spirit. They are fay creatures, faeries,” Lauril said. “A blood faery to be precise. A Fuil-Sie in Old Elvan, or Blod-Faierie in older human tongues and as corporeal as we are but with one foot in our world and the other elsewhere.”

  “Is it true they predict the death of others?”

  “It is.”

  “And what of the tales that say if you suckle a banshee she must grant that person a wish?” Mayhaps asked. “True or lore?”

  “If death is your wish it’s true. Don’t touch a fay creature without permission.”

  Hearing no more from the creature, Lauril resumed their trip. Minutes later, she led them into a small clearing and suddenly stopped. Ahead, in the middle of the trail stood a small figure.

  “There’s your banshee,” Dissy said.

  Waist high to Dech, the fay was a wrinkled dark grey with short legs and arms that reached nearly to the ground with sparse black hair covering most of its body. A short snout over the wide and lipless mouth served as the creature’s nose. Cloudy red eyes scanned the group as they gathered at the edge of the clearing.

  “Much blood will flow and soon,” the creature hissed in a grating voice. Pointing at Dech, the blood faery said, “A long trail of blood lies behind you, slayer.” Pointing at Dealan, she continued. “You as well, sorceress.”

  “Enough divining, creature,” Lauril said. “Speak or clear the path.”

  “Creature am I? You know me, elf. Did I not tell true of your father’s death? Did
I not warn of your lover’s demise?” the creature asked in a jovial tone.

  “Speak your truth if you have any,” Lauril said harshly.

  “Very well, petty one,” the banshee said with a smile that revealed large yellowed teeth. “You head for a blood-letting, that of your enemy’s and your own. Not just here, but north and south. Not just nations, but this fine place will taste darkness. It comes. Red will run and at least one of you before me now shall die, this I know and freely tell.” The creature coughed a long laugh. “One at least. You, slayer, you once foolishly fought and strove to save everyone, but you know better now, yes? The fight for the sword of cold, a duke’s betrayal, and the two ladies that withered at Limodan taught you that, yes?”

  “I learned that lesson long before then, Fuil-Sie,” Dech said coldly while his rage flared for a moment. “And no, I do not know better. I still seek to preserve life, even if it is unlikely. Still I pursue it because it is a worthy quest. I will pursue it until my end. Have you more hurt to sow? If not, clear the way.”

  The banshee’s eyes narrowed as it snarled. Saying nothing else, it raced away into the dark shadows of the forest.

  “That’s a first,” Lauril said quietly.

  “Dech has that effect on people… banshees too apparently,” Mayhaps said.

  Lauril led off once again.

  As the group passed through the clearing, a deafening wail poured over them.

  “A blood-letting!” the banshee’s voice called.

  As the shrill waves of the creature’s voice faded, thunder rumbled from the south. A look that direction brought a look of displeasure to Dech’s face.