by Dan Neil
“I saw her again,” Keia said. “The Woman. She was leading an army against—well, I don’t know who. But they were both powerful spellcasters; I’ve never imagined the sorts of things they were casting.”
Myrddin’s smile deepened.
Keia met the wizard’s gaze. “I think I know who it is. I’ve heard stories about a woman named Lady Rhiannon. Am I seeing visions of her?”
“It sounds like her.”
The corners of her lips pulled toward her chin. “Why is Gaea showing me this?”
“All those who meditate seek the answer to that question. But it is not my truth to reveal; I cannot speak for Gaea.”
Keia released a sigh. Helpful—as usual.
She stood and asked, “Will we be going now?”
Myrddin’s lips curled into a playful half-smile. “I’ve left us some time to talk.”
Keia’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Last time we spoke, I promised to tell you of Rhiannon. I’m sure you have questions.”
Her mouth twitched. “Do we have time for this, Myrddin? My test’s coming up in a few months.”
“There is time for you to ask your questions. A mind as curious as yours surely has some.”
She scanned him for half a second. Then she relented and sat beside him. “Her magic—it was like nothing I’d ever seen before. I don’t know if that’s what she really cast, or if it was the vision, but it felt so real. Do you know what she was doing?”
Myrddin’s eyes trailed off into the distance. “Lady Rhiannon—The Woman Taken by the Wind. I was born some twenty years or so after she disappeared. Not much sticks with you after a thousand years, but the stories people told did—how they told those stories, their eyes shining with hope. She truly was a hero.
“Lady Rhiannon’s connection to Gaea was profound in nature, much like yours. She honed that connection through years of meditation. By speaking to Gaea, she was able to will miracles into existence, if that makes sense.”
Keia thought back to the vision. “She altered reality.”
So that’s why he wants me to meditate, she thought, not that it’ll do much good for me.
“Magic seemed more powerful back then. Was it?” Keia asked.
The wizard leaned back. “Interesting that you’d notice that. More powerful? One could make the case. But magic, as humans know it today, was in its infancy. Food was still grown in the ground, and cities had to be built near water; the seasons were uncontrolled, and only the most powerful and studious knew any spells at all. Even the bones of the ancient forest creatures and dragons, the first form of magic used by humans, had long faded. Among Lady Rhiannon’s greatest gift to humanity is the diversity of magic we know today.”
Keia stared at the ground, fiddling with her wand. “Who was she facing?”
Myrddin’s smile faded. “If you refer to the Great Duel at the Isle of the Gods, her opponent was Caswallon, the so-called Dark Disciple: a man driven by sheer hatred to surpass her. He craved victory so desperately that he became lost in his mad pursuit. Yet despite his prowess, he was merely a puppet of another will—one he could not break.”
“The Masters.”
Myrddin nodded.
Keia met the wizard’s gaze and said, “He was powerful—maybe more powerful than her.”
He stroked his chin. “Some believe it to be so, but the final result was still a victory for the lady—and the free people. Lady Rhiannon didn’t disappear until three years after the battle.”
Keia pondered all of this for a moment. Myrddin smirked, amused by her interest.
“Why was she fighting?” she asked.
“The world was very different back then: humans either enforced the will of the Masters as part of their army or grew food from the ground. The Masters had complete control.
“Imagine their surprise when a girl was born possessing unique magical gifts. Lady Rhiannon represented something they feared: the idea that their secrets—which they saw as rightfully theirs—could belong to someone else.”
“But magic belongs to everyone,” Keia said. “How were they able to hoard it?”
“It did not always belong to everyone. In those days, it belonged only to them; they ensured that none of their knowledge fell into human hands. They invented foul and terrible spells, imposing servitude on all life and destroying cities whose leaders refused to comply.”
A grimace swept across Keia’s face. “So they tried to kill her.”
“They started a war to kill her. There were many people who believed Gaea would send a savior. To them, this was Rhiannon.”
Keia tapped her wand against the ground, deep in thought. “I’m guessing that’s who rallied around her.”
“Yes. They kept her safe—shuffled her around. Helped her develop her abilities. They supported her in every way she needed. Ultimately, she repaid their sacrifices by handing a free world to the sons and daughters of the fallen.”
Another question popped into Keia’s head.
“I saw Lady Rhiannon, and I saw Caswallon. But I didn’t see any of the Masters—I think. What happened to them?”
Myrddin shifted. “There are several theories: some say Caswallon turned on them and seized power for himself, and some think they were imprisoned in the heart of a star by Rhiannon; others say she slaughtered them. No one knows for sure.”
Keia stared at a vein of Skystone. The glow was comforting, but Myrddin’s words disturbed her; Lady Rhiannon was supposed to be a hero.
“Would she have done that?”
Myrddin scratched behind his ear. “She was fighting a war. If it were necessary to win to secure her people’s future, was it not the right thing to do? The Masters could not have been kept alive if the world was to move forward.”
Keia frowned and then released a heavy sigh.
It didn’t feel right when I killed Ulrich—even if he kidnapped me. And Mr. and Mrs. LeBlanc…
She shuddered. The knot in her stomach twisted as the elderly couple’s screams echoed in her ears. Her gaze fell to the ground, her heart beating faster than it should. It was all my fault.
“Are you all right?”
Nearly jumping, Keia answered, “Yes. Just—unpleasant memories.”
Myrddin nodded. “There are times where, however unpleasant, the taking of life is necessary.”
Keia shuddered again, her mind still trapped on the night she dug through rubble, sobbing as she tried in vain to reach the people whose lives she’d taken. She shook her head, but remnants of the LeBlanc’s screaming remained.
In a soft voice, she asked, “Is it time yet?”
The wizard sighed as he flicked his wrist. A portal opened. “After you.”
Chapter 3
New Dawn
Day 96 of the Season of Aion, 1020 YAR
Scipion Gannala II looked over the verdant hills of a land once called Madros Relia. Gentle winds rolled over the sea of grass, while distant mountains presided over the home of his forefathers. As he gazed longingly across the horizon, interwoven memories appeared, forming a tapestry in Scipion’s mind. He loved revisiting those perfect times.
Every day, his mother, Nkisha, had taken him to watch his father, a Valkhar, practice swordsmanship. The lessons were quite useful. The boy memorized everything he saw and practiced with his friend Matalo. They mastered their craft in the maze of tunnels beneath the Sloping City of Sophegion.
The wind whistled as if carrying a song. The haunting melody evoked loss and mourning. Scipion closed his eyes as the memories faded. His heart felt heavy.
This land was once renowned as the birthplace of magic. It was here that Lady Rhiannon led her storied rebellion against the Old Masters and gifted magic to all Gaea’s people. It was named for her: the Gift of the Mother, or in the old tongue, Madros Relia. But that land was no more.
When the Red Fleet arrived on the shores of Xurubia, no one expected Madros Relia to be conquered within nine years. And no one expected the continent to be stripped of its very name. From the rolling fields of Bafana’s Great Veld to the jagged Jaaza Plateaus, the land’s very identity was taken away.
The only law now was power. Bhothar, an old word for a red-haired devil, had commanded the Red Fleet, but he had left as soon as the conquering was done. Lord Yfrayne Mornwas was left to govern the continent and quickly earned the moniker of the Black Heart. Scipion shuddered as images of the Sack of Sophegion flashed through his mind—fire, so much fire, smoke, and giant floating ships carrying men with swords.
Scipion’s musings were interrupted by Matalo, who was combing his voluminous hair with a wolf’s jawbone. His usually kind eyes burned with passion as his hand rested on the hilt of his sword, a cocky half-smile on his face. Matalo was clad in light, ill-made leather armor with tattered cloth beneath. He also wore a red cape drawn up over one of his shoulders to cover a fur-covered steel bracer he had scavenged from a dead warrior.
“Ho, Scipion.”
“Ho, Matalo,” replied Scipion, turning to face his friend.
“You were right. Jomar Day has encamped near Elduston, and he has people working the Nertha fields as we speak. Douglas and I saw him with our own eyes.”
Scipion nodded. The Day brothers, alongside Arno the Madman, led a cult called New Dawn. Jomar, Julius, and Anton Day were cruel and forced people into servitude to work in the fields of nertheria flowers. The Day brothers kept their business alive with savagery and brutality. They masked their true nature behind a religious veil, claiming their atrocities in the name of Malthas, the god of death.
“You’re worried,” Matalo said. “You were staring off into the distance again.”
“Ah, yes.” Scipion snapped back to attention. “Forgive me. There’s much on my mind.”
“There is no need to worry.” Matalo smiled. “Unless your demons are as strong as your head is big.”
Scipion chuckled. “It’s better to be smart than handsome.”
He was a homely man with pale brown eyes and a chubby face set on a large-framed body. Without hair he stood four inches taller than his friend. “Was Arno there?”
“Not that Douglas or I saw,” Matalo answered. “Jomar and his men seem to be picking up a harvest to produce Nertha. Far as anyone saw, his brothers weren’t with him.”
Scipion nodded. The Day brothers’ Nertha was a scourge upon the lands; the sooner they were rid of it, the better.
“We should burn the fields,” Matalo pressed on. “Sow confusion among their ranks.”
“What were their numbers?”
“Sixty. Maybe seventy.”
Scipion scowled. And we have forty; that’ll have to do.
“How many archers and mages?” he asked.
Matalo shook his head. “None, from what we saw.”
“How many horses?”
“Only Jomar’s and four for the cart. Seems they’re planning on walking.”
Running a hand through his hair, Scipion asked, “Did Jomar send out any scouts? Is there any way he could be aware of our presence?”
“No. His men were all stationed with him today. None came or went.”
This will work. But only because our enemy is stupid.
Scipion nodded. “Ambush is the greatest strength against superior numbers. But if we set the fields on fire, they will surely scatter.”
“We’re going to light the field anyway. We may as well do it first,” Matalo insisted. “Scatter them, and then fall upon them when they least expect it.”
“Patience, Matalo,” Scipion urged. “If they scatter, some will escape and give word to the other Day brothers, and then we will never ambush them again. I want to wait for one thing. We still have all of our horses, right?”
“Twenty for twenty men. What could you possibly want to wait for?”
“I want to see them load the harvest. Once the workers clear the fields for the day, his soldiers will pack the flowers up. I need to see the direction they’re going. If the field catches fire after they’re organized, they’ll run in the direction they were supposed to go anyway. They’re all on foot, except for the wagons carrying the Nertha and Jomar Day. We’ll send our horses to trap them from one side and fall on them from the trees on the other—make forty soldiers feel like a hundred.”
Matalo nodded. “And that way, they’re blocked in.”
“Precisely—we cannot let Jomar escape. I’ll lead the mounts. Once we see the direction of their travels, I’ll lead to intercept them from the woods. Light the field and lead our troops against their flanks while I block their path.”
“Do you think it will work?”
Scipion nodded. “I know nothing else will.”
Matalo smiled. “The gods have blessed you with a great mind, Scipion. I hope that one day, you can lead against more than the likes of the Day brothers.”
Ignoring the praise, Scipion pointed toward the sunset in the distance. “Look, the fields will be vacated soon for dinner. Have Douglas keep an eye on them, and be ready to relay the signal.”
Matalo’s signature half-grin spread across his face. “Shall we begin, then?”
Scipion nodded and followed his friend to their encampment. The Nertha fields were close, blocked from view by a thin strip of hilly forest. They roused their camp and informed them of the plan. Douglas Hari, a stout young man among the first to join, scrambled for his bow, quiver, and ignition powder. He was followed by Denna, a muscular young woman who was fierce with a war ax. She moved quietly, and her eyes sparked with fury.
While Matalo stirred his twenty footmen, Scipion gathered his twenty riders and ran with them to the horses, stabled far enough away so as not to be heard. Upon their arrival, they donned full armor and readied whatever spears, lances, and swords they had. Scipion wore his Grythos Steel helmet. The metal was incredibly rare and impossibly strong—blacksmiths used ancient magical techniques to remove impurities. It was distinctively colored with bright circular patterns, no two of which were the same. The dead man Scipion whom had scavenged the helm from had been lucky—for a time.
Scipion approached a gray mare and produced a carrot from a pocket sewn into his armor. She gladly accepted as he rubbed her neck and whispered her name, which meant valor, into her attentive ears.
“Eritar. You’re the fastest, aren’t you?”
Eritar’s ears perked up as she sniffed his face and exhaled. Scipion’s eyes met hers for a moment before he saddled and mounted her. He urged her forward with only a word.
Scipion looked to his soldiers: there was Kasha, the funniest of the lot, and Ubonu, the newest to join; Ibari was the best fighter, but no one rode their horse like Nevashi.
“Ready,” Scipion said as he raised his lance into the air. “We ride soon.”
They waited for what seemed like eternity. The riders shifted nervously until Deriol, the fastest runner, popped into view and waved his arms to the east. He then turned to join Matalo’s infantry, while Scipion led his cavalry to cut New Dawn off from escape.
Distant screams pierced Scipion’s ears as he spurred Eritar into the forest. The temperature in his armor rose as they hurdled toward the fight. The fields were ablaze.
Perfect.
Scipion halted further down the road once they’d outpaced their enemy. The distant screams, and the sounds of horses galloping with wagons creaking behind them, drew ever nearer.
Scipion waited until the first cart came into sight and shouted, “Turn! Charge!”
His lance was raised high as he led the attack. Eritar did not hesitate as the twenty mounts emerged from the forest and descended upon the panicking forces of Jomar Day. Trapped between the fire and cavalry, with no formation or cohesion, they tried to ready thei
r swords. Some of Jomar’s men broke off immediately—a few even braved the fire, falling within seconds. For those remaining, it was already too late.
As his cavalry collided with the enemy, Scipion impaled one of the men controlling a wagon. His lance stuck in the man’s chest; so, Scipion drew his sword and hacked at the next foe. Within a few seconds, fifteen of Jomar’s men lay dead as the horses carved through their scattered front.
“It’s a trap!” one of the New Dawn soldiers called out before he was pierced through the heart by a lance. Enemies ran backward, only to be cut down as Matalo’s force emerged from the trees. Denna buried her ax in a man’s skull and picked up a sword, while Matalo’s blade carved through several opponents’ weak armor with swift, precise strokes.
Scipion hacked his way through their disorderly ranks until his eyes fell on another rider, Jomar Day himself. He was pale—not uncommon in these lands—with piercing blue eyes and thin, bloodless lips. His hair, flowing beneath a steel helm with no faceplate, was brown and well-groomed. His eyes, at first clouded with confusion, began to smolder with hatred the moment they settled on Scipion.
Does he get it now?
Jomar gave a blood-curdling shout and charged with his own steed, pointing his wickedly curved sword. Scipion whispered Eritar to battle, and he readied his own sword for impact.
The duelists’ blades clashed at full speed, ringing out. They both turned, the field of battle clear between them as Jomar’s forces were routed on either side of him.
“Malthas is with you today, son of Scipion,” Jomar spat out. “I’ll see that your friend joins you.”
“You’re going to lose your bowels in front of your men when I kill you.”
Jomar hit his horse’s ribs with spiked boots. The beast cried out as it was forced forward. Scipion whispered into Eritar’s ear as he readied his sword. He was so sure of Eritar’s course that he placed the reins between his teeth. Sparing not a single moment, Scipion used his free hand to unsheathe his short sword and block Jomar’s incoming strike. At the same time, he smashed the hilt of his other sword into his opponent’s uncovered face and unhorsed him.