by Sam Ford
"Okay, that's it. Hobbes, go get him."
"Why do I have to go get him?" Hobbes complained.
"Because I said so," the other man threatened.
"Oh man." Hobbes splashed into the water, causing quite the ruckus. Several of the other men laughed. "Now my breeches are wet."
Cale let out a yip and jumped in surprise, causing the men to laugh more. Cale pulled his right hand from the water, blood running down to his elbow. Something had bit him, leaving a nasty gash on his palm. He stared at his own blood, not truly believing what he was seeing. Hobbes splashed closer. There was no time to think. Cale tugged again. He almost had the branch free. Just a little more.
"Okay kid, come on out." Hobbes reached into the mangrove roots, his fingers brushing Cale's tunic.
Cale grimaced. It was almost...
"Sorry kid. It's time to--"
Free! Cale swung the branch with all his might.
"... Die?"
There wasn't a sound from anyone. Hobbes stared at his hand. Or rather, what should have been his hand. His arm was missing at the elbow, gushing blood with every heartbeat. Cale stared right along with him. Hobbes' arm floated gingerly in the water, next to the gray, skeletal remains that clung to Cale. With a sound of disgust, Cale shook his arm, the decrepit form landing on Hobbes' arm, sinking them both.
The tree must have grown through a grave. Cale thought absentmindedly. But how did a branch cut him? The tree root, however, could not have been further from the truth. In his hand, Cale held a sword with a keen, double-edged blade, glowing blood red in the last rays of the setting sun.
The shock wore off all at once. The men started shouting angrily. Hobbes screamed bloody murder. Several men drew swords of their own, leaping into the water after him.
"Okay," the head bandit ordered. "Kill him."
Chapter VII
The Wayward Warrior
The light flickered with the torch, dancing on the walls with a play of shadows, creating enemies where there were none. Galway strode through the granite halls, boots clacking on the floor, his guard high. The road still clung heavy to his duster, his horse resting wearily in the stable outside. As one used to the open road and long skies, the cramped walls of the caverns added to Galway's unease.
He had been ranging at Lancepeak near the headwaters of the Sapphire Run when the message came. He had been summoned. Four days of hard riding had brought him here to a secret place only rumored to exist.
The child leading him walked smoothly around the twisted corridors, their bare feet offering little sound inside these echoing halls. With a shiny bald head and ashen skin, Galway couldn't quite decide if the slave was a boy or a girl. He thought better than to ask.
There was a door ahead, and on the other side lay a chamber, brightly lit with benches and tables laid out in a dining hall. And in it stood several men and women, all wearing black oiled leather and embroidered gold or green, all of them Rangers. Though the Rangers had at one time been as close as a family, Galway now only recognized three of them. New members were being added to their ranks daily, those without skill or training, of virtually no practical use in the field. Nepotism and favoritism were issues with every organization, but this was something else entirely. Too many new faces coming in, too few questions being asked.
Someone was raising a secret army.
"Galway! By the Goddess, you made good time!" A tall ranger with a red-and-white streaked beard embraced him.
"I could not ignore such a summons. You know that. I used all haste I had at my disposal. What is the problem?"
"Enough of that. Time enough soon to talk, I think, yes? But look at you. Aren't you a proper sight? Looking every bit the country Ranger. Sleeping on the ground has aged you, I think. Yes?"
Galway did not think he looked as bad as all that. He had seen his fortieth winter pass without commotion and would live to soon see his fiftieth. His beard was speckled with gray but his hands were as quick as ever. Besides, sleeping on the ground kept him limber. There were no country and city Rangers in his view. There were just Rangers. Anything else was an excuse for too many pies and rich meats. Galway had heard similar comments from his comrades far too many times before.
"You should try it sometime." Galway smiled politely.
"I've had enough of that life. I am enjoying my time here. And I am thinking you should enjoy it too, yes? Take some food. I will have your bath drawn. We have a lovely vintage of wine--"
"Jaster," Galway interrupted before correcting himself. "Chief Ranger, please. Tell me why I am here."
Jaster lounged back on a bench, his long fingers folded neatly, giving Galway an appraising stare. There were no more smiles.
"You were always good at the academy."
"So were you."
The Chief Ranger waved his hand. "My father forced me into it. Said it would make me strong, yes? He was interested in the political connections. And right he was, they've served me well. I was good, but not like you, yes? First of your class, youngest instructor ever, most confirmed kills, most rescue missions. You served with honor in the Ranger War. You solved Uruk's aqueduct crisis. You put us all to shame, I will admit. But... are you truly the best there's ever been, I am wondering?"
The silence hung thick in the air. Galway should have made Chief Ranger years ago, but opportunity had passed him over after the incident three years past. He didn't want the position as a reward for doing dirty work. Not like that.
"Do you know where we are?"
Galway looked around. "I would say a subterranean cave system, some ten leagues east of The Mine. I'd say we're somewhere around..." His eyes widened.
"King's Crown, yes."
"What, in the name of all that is holy, are we doing in this godforsaken place?" hissed Galway.
"Relax, my friend. I have brought you in the back way so you did not see. But much has changed. The Mine is wide and the tunnels run deep. But that is not why you are here." The Chief Ranger stood. "Are you sure you will not have some wine?"
"Jaster!"
"Fine. Let us go see to your summons." Jaster drew the word out into a mockery. "But you will not like it, I am thinking. Yes?"
Galway was a cautious man, measured and calculating. He did not scare easily and liked to know from which direction the wind blew. But this place was another matter entirely. King's Crown and the lands surrounding the former capital of the old kingdom were cursed, damned and haunted. He liked nothing about this. As they wandered deeper into the catacombs, the air grew colder, staler. The heat dissipated into the rock itself, along with the last of Galway's calm.
They walked for what seemed like hours, though Galway knew that was not the case. Even so, he found his legs tiring and his chest short of breath. Rounding yet another bend, they reached the doors with armed guards keeping sentinel. Large, ornate mahogany doors inlayed with gold glistened in the torch light; they appeared both heavy, yet brittle with age. Jaster knocked once and waited for the door to open.
Another shorn child easily opened the weighty door, this one with ashen skin and eyes as black as thunder. They shrank back from the light, shielding their face. The Rangers handed the child their sabers and were ushered quietly inside. This room was colder still, death lingering everywhere. The stale air stank of rot. Though tapestries and rugs decorated the walls and floors, nothing could cancel out the cold chill of stone nor alleviate the weight of an entire mountain above one's head. Galway continuously reminded himself not to duck or flinch as he moved.
Upon the far wall hung a massive mirror of polished steel stained black as soot. It gleamed darkly, beckoning in the pale light. There was a crack perhaps a foot long, right down the middle. The torches caused the surface to dance and shimmer, reflecting Galway's image back at him, and more. If he stared hard enough, Galway felt he could see his entire life laid bare before him.
It pulsated, drawing the viewer in. It was not a thing Galway cared to stare at and turned away. From the corner of
his eye, the mirror rippled, something dark lurking just beneath the surface.
In the corner of the vast room stood a four-poster bed piled thick with down pillows and the finest woolen blankets. And in the center of the room rested a large wash basin. The paint old and faded, it depicted a happier time of spring and flowers, out of place in this Orphene underworld. The water, filled to the brim, was black and murky. The glow root clinging to the rim offered no hint as to what lay below. Galway was entirely uncertain the oily sheen was actually, in fact, water.
In the middle of the bathtub, rested a frail and feeble old man. His skin was like parchment, and what remained of his feathery hair appeared yellowed and brittle, while his unkempt beard touched the water. He was attended by two more shaven slave children. Though these were entirely naked, Galway still could not ascertain their gender. Whatever had once been between their legs had been either cut off or sewn up.
"Ranger Galway," Chief Ranger Jaster intoned quietly with all the gallantry for which the occasion called. "May I present to you King Ares the first, Ares the Ageless, Lord Protector of the land and King of Ras Shamara and the Gelid Sea."
"Your Grace." Galway took a knee. Ares the Ageless, perhaps better known to history as Ares the Uncrowned. Of course, Galway had heard rumors about their once and future king. The boy who had betrayed his family in a lust for power, only to slip into infamy and fade away. There were always whispers, for as long as Galway could remember, from his father and his father before him. Ares would come back. Ares would return the kings to the land. Ares was gathering an army. Ares' rebellion had failed. The Red Knights had spirited him away to unleash pestilences upon the land. On and on they went in unceasing order for generations.
"Arise, my Ranger." The voice was rough and shrill, like that of a boy, unbecoming for an old man, much less a king. "You know why I summoned you here?"
"I... do not, your Grace."
"Long have I lingered in the dark, my Ranger. I am old, you know, but I can still hear. The whispers, they have grown louder as of late. They have always been there, oh yes. They talk to me. Their tongue I do not always know, but they are always there, just out of sight, just out of touch."
Galway glanced at Jaster, who waved him off with a shake of his hand.
"They promised me. And they fulfilled it, oh yes they did. The whispers are true. I presented them my Sword, coated in the blood of my Lord Father. And my fallen brother. Even sweet, little Bella. None would listen to me. The sacrifice required blood, so much blood. But it was not always so. No. There was a time, I remember, a miracle could be bought with a single drop of blood. But mine? I had to burn an entire kingdom for mine. Their power is waning. Or mine is waning. So someone is...
"Immortality is a costly thing, you see. It always has its price. I asked for mine, to live forever. And the spirits and gods saw fit to grant me my curse. For two hundred long years I have persisted in this form, locked within these four walls, a king of no kingdom, a timeless man with no time. I was a fool of a youth. I should have pleaded for eternal youth. What a cruel jape it is to grow old and never die.
"They are gone. Dead! Dead I say. Listen well! They are gone, but still the whispers persist. Still they remain. I have slain them but they grant me not a moment's peace. And the dreams! Oh, the dreams, my dear Ranger. They frighten me so. I am slain, yet I do not die. That is why you must find them."
It took Galway a moment to realize the King had ceased speaking. He and Jaster looked at one another, attempting to suss out the meaning in a feeble man's prattlings.
"I... Your Grace? Find who?"
"The one I see in my visions." The King appeared truly afraid, slinking back into the water. "The fiery Sword, aflame yet unburnt. They whisper to me. They tell me it is my undoing. They fear the Sword, you see, so I fear it most intensely. Find the Sword, that I might be free of them. Find the Red Knight. Find the Sword Talker."
"'Sword Talker?' You mean an Imperial Knight? I thought they were extinct?" Galway looked to Jaster, who shrugged in agreement.
"Yes! Yes! That is what I tell them. But they do not listen! They scream at me. Find the Knight! But I have killed all the Knights. I have. They bid me, and I did, all for the price of immortality. My hands are covered in blood. Yet still they torment me! They call me names. The Boy who would Never be King, they laugh. Smelly Old Goat. They leave me not a moment's peace.
"Please, Sir Ranger, I beg you. Good Ranger. Sweet Ranger. The Thirteen tell me you are the best tracker in my kingdom, second to none. Find this Knight. Track him down. Bring me the Sword, and yours shall be whatever you ask. A blood sacrifice is all that can undo my curse. Yet there is no blood strong enough left. It must be a Sword. The Knight would have the power, if they yet live. I must take my father's place. Repent and bond, as destiny bids me once more. I must."
"Yes, your Eminence." Galway bowed. Jaster as well. Then both backed out of the room.
"I long for my youth once more. Yet when I sleep, I dream I am a boy not yet a man. Never a man." The boy king called Ares, trapped in an old man's body, slowly sank beneath the unmoving water. He left only his mouth above the surface before vanishing without even a ripple. "I do not even remember my mother's face..."
The walk back down the corridor was quiet. Galway felt as if he were waking from a dream.
"What will you ask for?" inquired Jaster. "Were it I, I would become Chief among the Thirteen. But you are not such a man, I am thinking, yes? I am thinking you would ask to be reunited with your family."
"Ras Shamara is a large country," Galway interrupted. "Nearly four hundred leagues from Last Keep to the Fire Mountains. And half that still across the breadth. It doesn't matter how good a tracker I am, if I don't know what I am tracking."
"We listen to the stories of old men. The Knights rode the land, ill deeds in their wake. Many wrongs they caused, yes?"
"Or righted them, depending on who you ask."
"The darker stories are truer, I am thinking. My point stands. Ill or fair, head for trouble and you will soon find your Knight."
"I will need men and supplies for the road." Galway thought for a moment before smiling. "And I think I will have some of your wine, yes?"
Chapter VIII
Plans and Prophecy
The inn was a dusty mess, stinking of mildew and rot. Though she knew nothing of houses, even Jazreal could see the dilapidation. Last spring the river had thrown its banks, flooding the first story. The innkeeper, a portly man who espoused the virtues of natural living and possessed a substantial fear of soap and weakness of smell, had done little to repair the damage. Perhaps he had been too busy impregnating the younger of his two wives. The equally rotund girl was almost Jazreal's age.
Red Hair and the woman bandit spoke to the innkeeper while his two wives passed out meals to the remaining slavers. Jazreal's people were offered none. Those who had it chewed on their leftover breakfast. The slaves, little more than human cattle, were rounded up in the sheep corral, still chained in trains of six. A few of the guards sat along the fence rails making sure no one wandered off. There were more people now. They met up with a second party by the river. Jazreal had been excited to see more of her people but soon realized the men had turned savage, barbarous. These were no longer her people.
The afternoon was unreasonably hot in the valley. Dust clouds kicked up from the corral choked the air as trains of slaves wandered in search of water, or rest, or restlessness, just to wander like beasts. A particularly nasty duo laid claim to a water trough and demanded sexual favors from any woman who wanted to drink. Jazreal made sure to stay far on the other side of the corral, but apparently the itch was contagious, for soon the sound of rutting filled the air. Less than a week in chains and her people were already treating their own kind like animals.
Red Hair approached. He had removed his armor to show a torso covered in blue geometric tattoos. "You, medicine woman. Old woman. Come." The female slaver leapt the fence and unlocked the collar on O
ld Mother's neck.
"We need to come too," Jazreal called.
"No. Old woman. Snake bite. Come."
"If she needs her medicines, we will need to come. She cannot see," Lydia argued diplomatically.
"She walk this far. She see fine."
"Hello? Lydia? Jazreal?" Old Mother wandered around, feeling nearby people, searching for her granddaughters. Jazreal hid a smile and almost laughed. Almost. "Where are you? I am old and cannot see."
"You see fine. Come. Hurry." Red Hair waved again. The female guard could not get close to Old Mother as she spun around, flailing while searching. It was turning into a debacle and they were quickly drawing the attention of those around them.
"She needs us to go with her," Lydia urged. "We can help."
Some of the angrier prisoners were taking notice. Red Hair noticed too. "Fine! They come. Hurry."
The chain unlocked, Jazreal rubbed her neck, free of the iron weight for the first time in days. It fell to the ground with a heavy thud. Jazreal's lip curled in disgust and she kicked it, stubbing her toe. "I swear by all the ancestors of old, I will never be shackled again."
She looked around at the remaining faces of her tribe. There were so few staring back now, the once mighty People of the Plains. So few and so scared. It made her sad.
"Nice going, Princess." Jazreal smiled at Lydia, taking one of Old Mother's arms while her cousin took the other.
Inside the inn was slightly better than the outside, but not by much. The damp and rot permeated the lower levels, but upstairs it was more bearable. In the back room, lying on a bed of stagnant hay, a young man writhed in pain. He must have been about Lydia's age, fair skinned with golden hair. Faint whiskers clung to his face, so light they may as well have been feathers. She took note of his bare chest, which was covered in fuzzy, golden hair as well. And pink nipples. Jazreal stared in fascination. She hadn't realized they came in that color.