Tear of Light

by Michael Edward Tenner

  The old man spat on the ground beside them. “What kind of a traveler has got no horse?” he inquired with a raised eyebrow. “How old are you anyway? Never seen such a youngling travel on his own.”

  “I don’t know,” Oren replied truthfully. “I was born in Beria sir, parents had no love for me. Threw me into an orphanage. I never learned my real age. With the rebellion that started there, I ran away, first took refuge in Natind, but prince Morael and his men arrived, and I’d rather not see my own city in ruin.”

  From under the man’s beard arose a smile. “I am so sorry, lad!” he said, overtaken by emotion. “It’s a terrible thing that’s happened there. Let us not talk o’ it out here. Come, let me get you a nice beer. You gonna be stayin’ with us here for long?”

  “No, no,” Oren replied. “Just want to buy supplies and quickly leave.”

  With the man, who introduced himself as Baren, the local blacksmith, Oren entered the old inn. After seeing the modest outside, the crumbling buildings, he expected the tavern’s interior to look accordingly. To his surprise, it was beautiful, strikingly very similar to the inn in Natind.

  Polished hazel wood on the walls, the floor clean and bright. Even the tables, very old, but spotless.

  “Biro!” shouted Baren. “I’ve brought you a guest!” From under the bar appeared a man, taller than Baren and similar in the face but lacking the beard. “What were you doin’ down there?”

  “Counting,” Biro replied. “Who’s the young lad?” He looked at Oren.

  Baren showed Oren to a table, pulled a chair, and together they sat down. “You gotta hear this story Biro, this fella is from Beria!”

  The innkeeper walked to them. “Beria? I swear I’ve heard they rebelled. A couple of soldiers stopped by and talked all about it.” He eyed Oren. “Aren’t you rebel?”

  “Yes, but do not worry this boy here, he’s no rebel. He escaped from there.”

  “Did you?” Biro asked Oren directly. “What a brave little soldier you are!” He smiled. “Let me get ya a good jug of beer, sounds good?”

  Oren, taken aback by them, accepted with a hard to hide a smile.

  As Biro ran to bring them all, a beer Baren asked, “Got a cousin in Natind, Ulsa’s her name. Have you two met?” Baren laughed. “She’s an inkeeper, a lot better than Biro if you ask me.”

  “I heard that!”

  “Yes,” Oren said, surprised at how those two people could be related. “I worked in her inn for a few days.”

  For the short while, before Biro came back with three beers, one for himself, Baren and Oren talked of Ulsa and her inn. Neither mentioned what happened to the previous owners, but from what the old man said, Oren figured that Ulsa and they were closer than she let on.

  As Biro returned, Baren grabbed the beer and drank almost half of it. “Forgot to tell ya,” he looked at Biro. “Met this lass the other day, told her she and her two brothers can sleep here on me, so put it on my tab,” he said, sipping on his beer.

  “You don’t have a tab, you get everything for free you leech,” Biro shouted and took a sip from his tankard. “Why don’t you offer the entire inn to someone you imbecile!”

  “Please, do not argue,” Oren tried to stop them, but the argument of the two men wouldn’t come to a stop until about five minutes later when Biro threw the rest of his beer in Baren’s face while calling him a donkey.

  After that, Baren got up to leave, but Biro called him a magicless mule, which made Baren so angry he tripped and almost fell. He left quickly enough to hear Biro and Oren chuckling.

  It took Biro a good minute to remember Oren was still sitting beside him. “Right, you lad. Sorry, I forget about you,” he said. “You can have the room for free, got no people here anyway, but just for a night, you understand. Otherwise, it’s two silvers a night.”

  “Thank you,” said Oren. “But I really have to say no, I’m in a hurry.” Biro tried to argue and convince him, but Oren wouldn’t budge, and so the innkeeper went to clean the spilled beer as Oren finished his own.

  Then, just when Oren was about to leave, the door suddenly burst open. “Laddie I forgot about you!” Baren shouted. “Forgive me, in the fight with this horse-turd, I lost track of why I came here.”

  “Get out,” Biro shouted and threw a cup at Baren who caught it and threw it right back, breaking some glass wine bottles Biro had nicely put on a shelf behind him.

  And so the argument broke out again. This time Oren pushed himself through and quickly left the, by chaos, consumed inn.

  With his stomach still, empty Oren set out to gather supplies. He almost didn’t and ran away to avoid more Biro and Baren fights, but he couldn’t travel so light.

  First, he went to a general store where he bought the most basic of supplies. He was offered some magical trinkets but refused; not only were they expensive; he also didn’t have a need to always smell like lavender. A lot of bread and three flasks to fill with water were far more critical.

  Then to a store selling weapons and clothing. There he was afraid he could run into Baren but hearing the commotion, the shouting from the tavern assured him he won’t be there. He picked out an ordinary sword, and all that came with it. Not always, he wanted to swing around the bright, magical blade for he knew not whether the people would think it uncommon.

  Besides that, he bought a new set of leather clothing with parts of it armored. It was by far the most money he has ever spent during a single day.

  It came to him while shopping that possessing the cyan coins was most unusual, something Narra forgot to mention. Both stores he left with his purchased items but also with a nice large bag of silvers and coppers for one-quarter of Ae-ria, the cyan coins he had that until then unknown to him could be split in four, were worth two-hundred and twenty-five silvers. The prince gave Narra a fortune, at least that explained why she was so happy.

  With all of that nicely packed in two large bags, both of which he got for free in the general store, he walked to the stables.

  There he was greeted by a woman with long legs and a stoic expression. “Hello again, young lad,” she greeted him.

  “Hello,” Oren replied, trying to hide his surprise at seeing a woman at the stables. “I want to buy a horse. I’m not sure if there are any for sale, but I can pay well.”

  She laughed. “There are! I do have to warn you, they are very expensive. Most of them are here for rent by the locals, so selling prices are on the high end. I hope that’s alright.”

  “I can pay,” Oren said, maybe too sure of the value of the cyan coins. “Not looking for anything too special. A horse that’s easy to control and a comfortable enough saddle. All I need.”

  “No worry.” She showed him to the first horse, a beautiful white mare. “She’s called Delia, a young orphaned one. Her parents died in this freak accident. No matter. With a saddle, it’s a hundred silvers no more no less.”

  Oren touched the horse. She had a gentle skin, soft like clouds. “Fine,” he said and from his bag pulled a stack of silver coins. He counted them, one by one, the woman carefully watched. “One hundred,” he said and handed them to her.

  “Thank you very much. It will be a few minutes.”

  With more money, then he knew what to do; he mounted Delia and headed out of the village. Yet before he could leave no other than Baren stopped him. "Sorry!" Oren shouted from atop Delia. "Ought to leave quickly."

  "Where ya think you headin' lad?" the bearded man asked. Biro came from a building nearby and joined him.

  Oren looked at them, confused. "As I said, I am in a hurry. The journey to Tristicia is long."

  "Aye. It is long and hard, is it not Baren?" said Biro, his hands folded by his chest.

  Baren nodded. "Well said Biro, well said. Now, is this lad going anywhere?"

  "No, he is not."

  "What are you two talking about?" Oren shouted his question. "Look, I've not the slightest idea what is wrong with you, but I'm leaving. Stay aside."

 
; "No!" Baren shouted and drew his sword. "I will cut off the horse's legs if you move an inch."

  Angry Oren jumped down from the saddle. Holding the hilt of his verdant sword. "What do you want?" he asked them, his voice confused and exasperated.

  "Thief's askin' what we want." Baren laughed. "Don't play these games with us, lad. Give us what you stole, or we will have to take it."

  "I did not steal anything," Oren argued. "All I've got, I bought with my own money."

  They laughed. "Right, a poor as dirt Berian's got a purse of Ae-ria. What a great joke Oren, if that is even your real name."

  "It was given to me!" He could not believe it, the two were so different than before. "Besides, it's none of your business," he decided to argue, "the money was a gift."

  "See, Oren," softly said Baren, his sword drawn. "We don't trust ya. Nobody's ever seen you here before, claim to be a traveler with no horse or supplies. Aye, all very peculiar." He walked closer. "

  With a sight, Oren looked up. He couldn't match Baren's height, a foot taller the man was, but he was still able to see the alcohol in his eyes. "Move aside. I do not want to fight you, Baren, please. There is no need for it to come to violence."

  "Violence ey? Fine!" He attacked Oren with his old and heavy sword. The steel blade hit the ground.

  Oren chuckled. "Slow, so very slow." With a smirk, he drew his blade and attacked in a way Baren could parry.

  The old man did as Oren intended; he could see his smile. Yet it lasted such a short time. It was hard for him not to laugh, seeing Baren's expression the moment his sword shattered into pieces.

  He fell, and Oren put the tip of his blade to his chin. "I did not steal any money." With those words, he returned the sword to its sheath.

  "Time will come, thief when you'll be caught. Do not think we shan't report it."

  "Maybe I should kill you both then," he said sternly. "I won't because I'm not a criminal." He jumped on Delia. "Before attacking innocent people in the streets, you should think."

  "Who gave it to you?" asked Biro, shouting. "These coins are not common!"

  Riding out of the town, Oren shouted back his reply, "Aelir Vi Dera!"

  It was not true, not exactly, the prince gave it to Narra, but that mattered little. The money came from him. He wanted to blame Baren and Biro; after all, they attacked him, but he knew that they were trying to do good. If anything, it was a lesson not to flaunt his wealth around.

  Scarlet Prelude

  Sitting in the rubble of Natind Vikar and Morael were approached by commander Arter with a good few dozen of men behind his back. “Your Majesty, lord Vikar.”

  “Arter,” Morael replied. “You may rest, the threat has been dealt with.”

  “Many of us saw that, sir.”

  Morael chuckled and laid down onto the sharp rocks. “Say Vikar, can Istra handle Natind’s people?”

  “There are empty houses. Won’t be as comfortable, but they will live. Take it Natind will be rebuilt anyway?”

  “Yeah, it will, but I have doubts as to how many will wish to return.” He looked to Arter. “Have some of your men escort the people to Istra. Vikar, you go with them. Make sure they are taken care of. Definitely offer substantial financial aid. We’ll pay it back.”

  The archon sighed. “Of course.” He climbed to his feet. “See you soon, Mori.”

  “Bye.” Morael waved and closed his eyes. “We continue on schedule.” He jumped to his feet. “There must be no setbacks. Time is nigh.”

  “Are you sure?” questioned Arter. “A town was destroyed, it surely is acceptable—.”

  “No. It’s not,” Morael interrupted him, “we are the Eternal Empire of Sesteria. Our blood conquered a continent! We do not yield to any threats. The city will fall just like the creatures that attacked us did. We are a nation to be feared! Over my dead body, we delay.”

  The commander was not pleased, but the soldiers were. Cheers and clapping came from the back. “All hail Vi Dera!” they shouted. “All hail, Sesteria!”

  Two days passed quicker than one could tell. Morael used a little of his power to help clear out the rubble and what was left of Natind. Some valuables were found and stored so they can be returned to their owners, but where once stood a town, now was but a stone plaza.

  There commander Arter’s soldiers gathered the night of the assault. He seemed displeased standing next to Morael, who wore the signature golden armor of his dynasty. The phoenix proudly shined in the moon’s light as did the scarlet gem of his staff.

  “Eight thousand men,” Arter began his speech. “What more is there to say? A single Sesterian could bring that city down! They are only rebels, fools who dare to stand against our might. It will be a simple and quick fight. I’ve got nothing to say to you. How many mock battles have we won? Our magic is a tool that makes the world kneel. Today we remind the people of Beria of that simple fact.”

  The soldiers cheered and clapped, their armor clinked like singing the music of war. Their shouting lasted a good few minutes until Morael raised his hand. It was his turn to speak.

  He smiled at the commander, who still bore no love for him, and then turned to the crowd. “Today, we are not here to deal out revenge. The people of Beria are our people. Not all are rebels. I urge you, I command you to be cautious and not to take life for nothing. Restrain yourself. This is not a mock battle.

  “Any rebels, if possible, should be captured. There is information they possess that is imperative for us to learn. You all saw what happened a few days ago after lord Vikar arrived. The answer to what those things are lies in that city with the rebel leadership.”

  Everyone was silent, but in their eyes, burned a fire. “Now we go, not for glory, not for revenge but in the name of our eternal empire! Let’s go!” The people cheered yet again even louder while screaming his name.

  Under Arter’s command, they began their march towards the city of Beria. Morael rode beside him and watched the beautiful city on a hill be lit up by the azure moon. So small compared to Sesteria, but still, it had some beauty.

  Then, within the city, he noticed a flash of verdant green. His worst suspicion was confirmed. A’stri was surely there, or someone possessing that wretched power. He was ready, his weapon on his waist. This time she’d not escape.

  The battle began as they arrived to the city. Beria’s massive wooden gates could not stand against their magic, and neither could the stone walls. In unison, their inquisitors brought the front wall down, killing the few stationed on battlements.

  Again, the green light. Morael faced the commander. “My time,” he said.

  “Be careful, Your Majesty.” The commander eyed the blown open gate. “If such an enemy is hiding there, are you sure you need no help?”

  “I am sure. Thank you, commander. Worry not. We will be victorious.”

  He rode away with upmost haste shouting for the soldiers to allow him to pass. The brown horse that was given to him only barely made the sharp turns. How he wished to be reunited with Inearme, his personal steed.

  Still, he made it far enough until he arrived at a barricade. From the buildings beside people watched. He dismounted, and his golden shoes touched the hard rocks of the main street.

  The city was in chaos. All around him were soldiers running around, avoiding the barrier. Soon he heard fighting begin.

  With a wave to the people watching from the window, he flicked his fingers, and the barricade caught on fire.

  Under his feet, he placed much of his power and propelled himself up. Now he could see the rebels gathered in the square. His weapon became a spear, still his favorite weapon of choice.

  He landed right in the middle of them prepared for a fight. Yet not one attacked. Dozens of pairs of eyes looked at him, but not a single one of them dared to a swing a sword. Only when looking back, he noticed.

  They were no soldiers, he doubts they were even rebels by choice. Most were at most seventeen, all young boys. Not one of them was supposed to b
e there, put into such danger. “Where are they?” he asked. “The leaders.”

  No answer came, but in the back, behind them all, he saw a warm yellow light emitting from inside an old building. A sign, The Crawling Guardsman, it read. It seemed like a tavern with a particularly terrible name. He sighed and walked in that direction. “The barricade will burn down shortly. Once it does, our soldiers will come. If you attempt to fight, you will die.”

  With those words, he left them and made his way to the suspicious tavern. The door, the walls all of it dirty beyond even what he imagined. He could not comprehend how the Berians lived there. It gave so much more perspective to what Efri told him; the Berian people never witnessed the greatness of the Empire. Something was amiss with how the city was governed, he made sure to remember.

  He pushed the door open, wondering if Efri ever went there; he hoped she was safe.

  Inside, by the most central table, sat a man with more muscle than hair. “I take it you are not here to serve me a drink,” jokingly said Morael closing the door behind him.

  “I expected to watch and laugh at how you slaughter those fools outside. Shame, I guess my evening plans are canceled.”

  “Will you tell me where they are?” asked Morael. “I don’t have time to chat sadly.”

  The man shook his head. “My name is Irpen,” he said. “I know you don’t care, but I will tell you anyway. I was an innkeeper, right here, but before then, I was a soldier. I fought in the last war. One child, barely a teen, decimated almost an entire army. I treated the burns that he left on my friends and family. Even today, during some nights, I see the metal armor melted on my comrade’s bodies. Those who survived have scars that never healed.”

  “The Everflame,” said Morael. “The fire that burns the hottest, the magic of Nariel Ul Ren.”

  Irpen sighed. “We never knew what magic looks like, at least not in battle. All we thought it to be were tricks and a lot of lies. It wasn’t.”