by K T Munson
“What are you talking about?” Mohit asked, striding up to them.
“We were talking about husbands for Ashira and how she would eat them alive,” Cain said, releasing her and ruffling Mohit’s hair.
“Do not do that, I am not a child!” Mohit objected, though there was no heat in it.
“What do you want, Mohit?” Ashira asked, smiling through her veil.
“I am to leave tomorrow and wish to pray for the Sacred Virtues to guide me.”
Ashira reached out a hand as she said, “Come I shall walk with you.”
Mohit rejected her hand, and instead, offered his arm to her. She laughed as she took it and let herself be led away, leaving Cain to himself. Ashira listened as Mohit spoke of warriors and their great names in history. She listened until they reached the temple, his face shining with excitement.
“I shall pray as well, I think,” Ashira said, her face carefully serious.
“What shall you pray for?” Mohit said as he knelt upon a pillow before the altar.
“That all you see of battle is the strategy tent,” Ashira said softly, her face set to a grin.
“I will return a man,” Mohit insisted, his lips set to a pout. “Perhaps you should instead pray for a husband.”
“A husband?” Ashira said with a laugh, “What would I want with a husband?”
“You must marry; it is for every woman to marry. You must marry because you will have beautiful babies, and I will teach them how to climb trees.” Mohit’s eyes sparkled, a true boy and no man. “You must find a handsome husband who will give you everything, especially beautiful babies.”
Ashira could not help but laugh before she spoke. “It is as though you speak of a dream. I doubt there is any such man for me.”
Chapter 3
Lancel Storm
“King Eliron,” Lancel said as he leaned over the map of the south, “We will eventually take enough to capture the eastern side of The Knife, but it may take years. Unlike many of the other borders we have taken, the Lakeshore border has the most maintained modern wall, and now that we have taken the others, it is well manned.” Lancel wanted this war to end so that the south might have peace, and Eliron, a quiet reign.
Eliron leaned over the map as well, with different markers showing where their army was and the known positions of their enemies. His brow furrowed and his muscles flexed as he gripped the table; he was a man who held the world upon his shoulders.
“Can we circumvent it like we did the Stone Border?” Eliron asked, looking at the first of the borders that fell.
It had been a truly brilliant attack; he marched his army right around the first wall, through the sands for six days before coming around back. In the past, men would not dare for fear of the predators that hunted below the sands. The sand sharks and the sand snakes were the worst, but they did not like the hot sun of the day, so they were only a danger at night. He had spoken with the People of the Dunes and discovered that they used tar taken from tar-pits in various places in the Dunes.
They spread the tar upon the ground around their camp and lit it on fire, so the sand sharks and snakes would not bother them. Eliron had done the same, marching his men deep enough into the desert to avoid detection before swinging back and attacking from behind. It had been their first true victory, and it had given the men a newfound determination.
That wall had stood unconquered for three hundred years, and yet it had fallen to Eliron. Eight long years later only one of the six walls of Sadar remained unconquered; although it was proving to be the most difficult to overcome. Eliron had accomplished in ten years what his ancestors had been trying to accomplish for centuries. His people believed in him, and in a way, they feared him, but they did not truly love him.
They feared him because of the price that had been paid to get those victories. The lives of many men and women had been lost in pursuit of what history was calling ‘The Endless War.’ Though the army believed in him and loved him for all his greatness, and that he fought beside them, the rest did not. Many even called him the King of Droughts; an insult because they prayed to the Water God.
Yet, Eliron didn’t even hesitate, that was the kind of king he was. He heard the concerns of his people but strove to make Vargos better. Lancel had thought on this for days, as the army had sat, carefully out of range of the archers.
“We cannot. Unlike the other walls; this one extends all the way back to The Knife,” Lancel responded because he, too, had wished their early ploy could be used again.
“What suggestion do you have for me?” Eliron asked. His king was wise and always sought council.
“We offer terms,” Lancel responded and saw the disappointment on Eliron’s face. Just a moment of disappointment, but it was there, nonetheless. “The Maiden’s Harbor for peace.”
“Rodrick is no fool, those terms are not in his favor,” Eliron frowned; he did not like uncertainty in situations.
“He thinks we are winning, as he does not know we have not figured out a way past his walls. We get control of the Maiden’s Gate and the harbor, it is all you ever wanted,” Lancel pointed out.
Eliron stood, and began to pace, restless in his thoughts. He stopped to glance at the map twice before he finally stilled. Lancel waited patiently, confident it was a good plan.
“This is the determination all my Arms made?” Eliron said, staring at the wall of the tent.
“Your Arms were in agreement that this was the best plan, if this should fail we will attempt to take the Maiden’s Gate by force,” Lancel answered, though he did not like the idea of taking such a stronghold by force.
“Walk with me,” Eliron said as he strode from the tent.
Lancel stayed close with him as Eliron moved from tent to tent, from campfire to camp fire, speaking to his men as both their King and their fellow fighter. Lancel followed like a shadow, watching as his presence inspired those around him.
Eliron was a clever man who wanted the best for his people, and having the Maiden’s Harbor would allow them direct access to the North. Now they only traded with the People of the Dunes, and they would only trade their very expensive potions for water. Lancel had to admit, though, that those potions had brought many back from the brink of death.
They meandered through the camp, until they came to the edge, and Eliron stared at the wall. It was a great wall that was marked by the blood of fallen soldiers. It glared down at them, challenging them to try and overcome its greatness. Lancel waited silently, his eyes following the torches of the watchmen that paced out their patrol.
“We should begin the construction of siege weapons and place many of them throughout our ranks, so they know we are planning an attack if they do not yield what we ask,” Eliron said, and Lancel knew his plan agreed with Eliron’s goals.
“As you command.”
“I will leave the battlefront in your care, and I shall return to our stronghold at the Towers. I will have it drafted in my own hand,” Eliron informed him, and Lancel was once again honored by Eliron’s trust.
“What do you intend to offer?” Lancel asked, his curiosity getting the best of him.
“A choice,” Eliron responded vaguely, and they continued to stare at the wall in silence.
Chapter 4
Hadrian
The road stretched out before him for some distance before it turned sharply and was lost to the rest of the woods. He marched with a heavy step and a sober demeanor as a man with no home and no purpose other than to wander. His black hair had been left to grow and fell in coarse locks around his face as straight as wheat stalks. He was a large man by anyone’s standard and carried himself as though he knew exactly what to do with the sword attached to his hip.
He was travel-worn, and his spirit was a heavy sight to bear. For years and years, too many that he didn’t care to count, he had wandered the North. He had drunk from every lake in Itan and bought the flesh of pleasure slaves in Ostapor. He had sat among the camps at Qundor and heard the
ir tales as they shared Firewater. He had seen the Queen in all her finery in Sylon and danced on the streets in Damshir during their festival of light.
Yet none of this brought him any joy, and whatever appeal it once had was lost with time. He had thought once to travel to the Wildlands and give himself up to their Blood God, but even he was not such a coward. His travels had brought him full circle as he walked the road that connected Ostapor to Lorian. He knew he had left Ostapor and its slaves and wealth and empty eyes.
For all of Ostapor’s sins, Lorian was a country of peace and tolerance. In fact, no one remembered what the name of the road was he on now. Everyone called it the Road to Tolerance. Colonies of those fleeing religious persecution were scattered all over Lorian. The Devote ruled over Lorian, speaking about the God of Many Faces. That life and death are but a line of gray cut in the sand of time, one never knows where one is ending and another beginning.
He traveled there now, to see if he could find himself again.
He had found no god that granted him the solace that many seemed to have, and his old faith had died inside him like a sour wine. Hadrian wanted to be born again, like a new skin or a new name; he hoped to wrap himself in a new faith. He wanted to be remade and forget the blood that stained his hands.
He was so lost in his thoughts that Hadrian did not notice as night descended around him. He did not need much sleep, and he had been mobile for the better part of his life because he didn’t have the coin for a horse, a Chinu, or an Eagle. The Eagles were owned by a single merchant who trained these great unmanageable birds of Itan. They were just large enough to carry a man and his belongings.
Horses were few, and most of them were wild in Vargos. The few that were tamed and ridden to places the Eagles could not go, but most were used in manual labor. Chinu, the large cats of the desert, were cheaper than horses and twice as smart as them, but they were not made for the cold and could not stray far from the dunes of their birth. He had stopped at the Twin Teats, a brothel at the mouth of The Knife in the city of Rentas, and tried to decide what to do.
While in Rentas, the east side of the river, Hadrian had watched the men pass their coin and the women at their games. Yet, as he observed them most of the pleasure slaves, male or female, seemed to have this sadness about them. They were happy enough to take the coins, and yet, their smiles were forced, and their whispered promises stitched together with shame. He did not take a woman that night but decided to travel to Lorian—to escape the deadened eyes of the slaves.
It all reeked of oppression.
Though Eswan was worst, more of a military state, it had one ruler: The Commander. They were a brutal people, the Eswanish. Hadrian had fought in one of their fighting rings and won himself a nice fat purse. Now that he was older, he preferred the sadness of Ostapor to the brutality of Eswan.
As the sun set, he heard the cry of a young girl and the shouting of men. Hadrian glanced to the sky and saw that he had been lost in his thoughts again. He hurried his steps further down the road until he came to the bend. A girl held the bridle of her horse, and two men tried to take it from her. The girl tried to yank herself free; her hair was brown and streaked with red, her skin a coppery tone. She was probably from Nymeria, based on her appearance and the buttoned coat she wore. The girl was a long way from home.
He didn’t speak a word but rushed towards them. The girl screamed when one of them took hold of her arm. The first turned at the sound of Hadrian pulling his sword at the last moment, and the hilt met the bandit’s nose with force. He crumbled as Hadrian faced the second man just as he tightened his arms around the girl, and the horse sprung free.
“Release her,” Hadrian said, hearing his own voice come out as a growl.
The man and girl both looked up; they had not heard him in their struggle. The man was ragged; he wore old clothes and had a sword at his hip Hadrian would bet he stole. They were bandits, and not the only ones to raid travelers on the Road to Tolerance.
“Leave well enough alone, old man,” he said.
Hadrian raised the sword, ignoring the gibe at his age; he was just older than the moron in front of him. “Leave her be.”
The man released her, and when she tried to flee, he backhanded her. She crumbled to the ground as Hadrian fell into a water dancer’s stance. The man faced him with the brute force of an untrained outlaw. When the man fell on him, Hadrian moved and allowed the man to stumble past him as Hadrian hit across his shoulder blade with the flat side of his sword.
“I am sure you know the deadliness of this sword,” Hadrian said as he turned and waited for the man to recover.
The man paused then, his eyes burning with hatred, but he looked at the blade in Hadrian’s hands. It was folded metal, the strongest steel worked hours and days into the deadliest of blades. Hadrian saw the hesitation in the man’s eyes and lurched forward. The man took a step back and fell.
Hadrian laughed, the sight made him suddenly merry. “I would run now, before my blade grows hungry for blood.”
The man stumbled to his feet, abandoning his unconscious friend. Hadrian stood watching as he disappeared around the bend before he turned back to the girl. He found her mounted with a short dagger in her hands. He could see the blood gathered at her lip and the quiver of her hand. It was not the first time she had been assaulted on the road, nor saved, only to be treated wrong by a self-proclaimed savior. Payment, he was sure, for a deed done.
He sheathed his sword, the girl could do little enough to him, as he strode around her. “You can come along, and no harm will come by you.”
Hadrian could feel her eyes scrutinizing his back as he paced ahead of her. Her horse side stepped nervously as the man on the ground groaned, alerting them both that he was coming around. Hadrian continued on, waiting for the girl to come to her senses. She gave no reply but urged her horse forward to follow him.
The horse soon came abreast him, with nearly the entire road between them. He glanced over at her only to find that she was staring ahead. They walked in silence as the dark fell around them, night had come, and he knew he would have to stop soon. The moon was only at half-light, and it did little to warm his face in the chill of spring. Though his beard did well to cover most of his face from the cold, his nose always bothered him; it was hard to tell that it had been broken because it had been set right to heal. Regardless, it felt the cold more acutely.
“Come along,” Hadrian said and turned off the road, following an old deer path in a short distance.
“Where are you going?” she asked with her horse set firmly in the middle of the road.
“Setting camp,” he answered and continued in deeper until he was in the woods a good amount.
He did not look up to see if the girl followed or not, she had to make her own choices. That is all they were; blood, bone, muscle, chance, and choices. Hadrian was a strong advocate for will and the use of it. They would be nothing more than mindless vessels if it were not for the ability to choose. He set his pack down and set his sword atop it before sitting cross-legged on the ground.
He reached into the side pocket and pulled out smoked beef. The taste was peppery, but he was running low on provisions. He heard a twig snap and glanced towards the girl as she led her horse down the deer path. He took another deliberate bite from his hardened meal and chewed slowly as he watched her. She was a thin little thing, with little breasts and narrow hips, but she was tall and young. She still had growing to do, she couldn’t be more than 14, but her height had first led him to believe she was older.
She put the horse’s tender next to a small patch of grass and sat across from him. She crossed her legs, the britches pressed into her thin thighs, and he could see that she would soon outgrow them. He studied her, his face that of stone while he waited.
Her gaze held secrets, sadness, and a glimmer of hope. Hope that things would get better, that she had seen the ugliness of the world and only happiness could be left to her. He had known that expression;
it had haunted him every time he looked in the mirror. Memories could be suppressed, but the more you suppressed them, the more they were seen on your face.
When she finally spoke, her voice was careful and calm, “What do you want?”
“More importantly, what do you want, and what do you have to give?” he countered and saw her stiffen, but he did nothing to elaborate.
“I want protection as far along the Road to Tolerance as you are going,” she said, and then she shifted her entire body as though it was fighting her decision. “I have little enough to give, but I can cook and fix your clothes.”
“I am going to the Checkered City,” Hadrian said at once.
“As am I,” she answered with a whisper of uneasiness.
She seemed interested in listening to the sounds of the forest. “Do you know how to start a cook fire?”
“I do,” she said, her every movement weary and her fingers seemed to strum for the dagger on her hip.
“Ever killed anyone?” he asked pointedly.
She shifted and answered, “Yes.”
“You need to lie better,” Hadrian answered, watching her face as the edge of her lips pulled back in a grimace. “You shall do all that you said, and I will protect you along this road.”
She stared at him, searching his face before she asked, “Are you a Monk?”
“Are you making the cook fire?” he countered taking another bite from his jerky.
She stood, and he watched her leisurely while she gathered wood and started the fire. She used an old flint box; it was dented and covered in scratches. It worked well enough as the dry grass she gathered at the bottom caught fire. The girl blew on them and the fire spread. Water and fire; that is what his world was.
Chapter 5
Celia
The wagon jostled her as it bumped along the road. She stared at the road ahead as women sobbed around her. She glanced back at the other wagon at the men in a cage, chained and beaten. She had fought as well, but a woman’s fists are not as feared as a man’s. Her lip was stiff where it had split, and there was a trail of blood across her chin where she had tried to wipe it away.