by CW Thomas
Brayden shook his head, but he knew right away that Pick wasn’t buying his lie.
“Let me guess,” Pick began, “the Ossartes?”
“You’ve seen it?”
“A bunch of bones arranged to look like a piece of art? No thank you. The dead aren’t meant to be hung on display.” He put his arm around Brayden’s shoulders and steered him toward his horse.
“Brayden!” Broderick called.
His eleven-year-old stepbrother ran up to him, his feet skidding to a dusty stop on the road in front of the chapel. He pushed a few tangled locks of dark hair out of his eyes and huffed as he spoke, “Khalous just said you were leaving?”
Brayden was surprised at Broderick’s level of concern. “Yes.”
“Are you… I mean, will I see you again… when are you—” Broderick stammered.
“We’ll be back in a few days, young master,” Pick said. “Don’t worry, you can go on pretending like you hate each other. We’ll return soon enough.”
“Be careful,” Broderick said.
Pick slung himself up onto his steed, a perhaps too well fed animal that was little more than a packhorse. He checked to make sure the satchels were secure upon the horse’s flanks and then urged it forward with a few clicks of his tongue.
When he noticed that Brayden wasn’t following, he stopped and swung his horse around. “You coming, young master?”
Brayden had yet to even mount his steed. He stroked its neck, running his fingers through its bristly hair. “I miss Arrow.”
“I know, but we have a job to do right now. So put your missing away.”
With his heart still heavy and his stomach empty, Brayden mounted the horse and followed Pick. The trim soldier of the King’s Shield looked comfortable atop his foreign horse, his shoulders lazily rolling with the animal’s uneven steps as they headed south down the road. Pick never seemed to care where he ate or slept or how he spent his time. He was as flexible as a bowstring, and yet as strong and unwavering as a tree branch in a storm.
“Whoa,” Pick said, and he reined his horse to a stop.
Brayden ambled up alongside him and looked ahead. On the road leading through the tall open gate stood a line of solemn priests in drab brown robes. Their heads were bowed, and their hands were clasped in front of them.
Standing at the end of the line was Placidous. He was no longer dressed in the traditional alb of his order, but rather the simple slacks, tunic, and cloak of a humble peasant. He had a chestnut gunnysack slung over his shoulder and a long walking staff in his hand.
“What’s happening?” Brayden asked.
“He’s being exiled.”
Placidous moped down the line of priests. Each of them raised his hand in blessing as he passed, muttering indiscernible words of prayer. Placidous received a kiss on the forehead from Duktori Bendrosi and then continued on through the gate and onto the southern road.
“Why?” Brayden asked.
“I don’t rightly know,” Pick answered, “but it seems there is some truth to the rumors that Placidous very much enjoys the company of women, too much for the church’s taste, I suppose.”
“It doesn’t seem right,” Brayden said.
“What about it doesn’t sit well with you, young master?”
“Placidous isn’t perfect. Nobody is. They’ve all done wrong. What makes them any better than him?”
“Some wrongs are viewed as worse than others, it seems,” Pick said.
Once Placidous had left the monastery, the line of priests dissolved.
Pick and Brayden continued out the southern gate, a tall stone and wood beam structure that could have fortified a small village. They trod over the crude timber bridge, short and low, wide enough for both their horses to cross abreast, and caught up with Placidous on the hills overlooking Halus Gis.
“If you wish to travel with us, you’re more than welcome to,” Pick said from atop his horse.
Placidous lifted his head. His face looked tired and sorrowful. “Thank you, Moreland, but no. I must take this journey alone.”
“What journey?” Brayden asked.
He gestured toward the road ahead. “This one.”
Brayden noticed Pick calling him ahead with a discretionary jerk of his chin. He bid the priest farewell and then urged his horse to quicken its pace.
“May the Allgod bless you and keep you safe, young prince,” Placidous said.
Brayden felt bad leaving the broken man behind them, but Pick later explained that they had no choice. Placidous’ journey was one of atonement, he said. If a morally compromised priest wished to remain a part of the order he would travel what they called The Temple Road seeking mercy from his brothers and forgiveness from the Allgod. If, on his journey, he failed to conquer his demons he would not be allowed to return.
The whole thing didn’t make much sense to Brayden.
For a good part of the morning he followed Pick south over hills of tall grass and valleys of slate rock. They munched on hunks of dried beef and drank mead and water from leather canteens.
“I want you to remember something,” Pick said, as the sun began its westerly arch. “If we come across any black vipers you are to say nothing. If they detect your accent, they’ll know you’re from Aberdour. If they absolutely insist that you give them your name, call yourself Nab.”
“Why Nab?” Brayden asked.
“It’s a common name of Edhen, and one not typically associated with Aberdour.”
“What should I call you?”
“The Great Moreland Fields. Master Pick. Your Grace. Any of those will do. Oh, and if I tell you to run, I want you to run. Understand?”
“But I can fight if I have to,” Brayden said, trying to sound brave.
“Of that I have no doubt, young master, but this isn’t about proving how well you can fight. This is about staying alive, which, in your case, is more important than you know. Let me do the fighting. You just run.”
“Do you think we’ll come across any black vipers?” Brayden asked.
Pick’s shoulders rose and fell. “Hopefully not, but Khalous wants us to see how active the enemy is in some of the southern towns, so that’s what we’re going to do.”
“Sir, do you know why Khalous wanted me to go with you?”
“He trusts you,” Pick answered. “He believes in you. You may not know it, but you’ve got a strong mind, Brayden, and when you set your will on something you’re not easily deterred. Khalous sees this in you and he admires it.”
Brayden thought the idea of an old war veteran like Khalous Marloch admiring him sounded ludicrous. “Khalous sees all that in me?”
“He does indeed. Says there’s the makings of a leader in you somewhere.”
Brayden supposed Pick’s words should’ve encouraged him, but instead they weighted him with the fear of responsibility. He didn’t want to be a leader. For some reason the idea carried with it images of his father lying prostrate on the ground, his life blood fleeing from the arrow wound in his neck to the filthy street.
They dismounted their horses just before the sun dropped below the graceful tree covered hills. Pick led the way off the beaten trail to a grove of softwoods. There they gathered wood for a small fire and withdrew some food from their satchels while the horses took water from a nearby stream.
Pick reclined on the ground with his back against his saddle and started gnawing on a piece of days old bread. “Khalous sees something else you, young master, if you don’t mind my sharing.”
Brayden shrugged. “You can say it.”
“He says he sees fear.”
Brayden felt his insides twist in embarrassment. He hated the way he always felt afraid, and had always been afraid of others noticing it. He glanced down at his feet as he sat in front of the fire, hoping Pick wouldn’t see the red flush on his cheeks.
“It’s all right,” Pick said. “You’d be a fool if you weren’t afraid of something.”
“Do you feel fear?” Brayden
asked.
“All the time. And Connell, he feels fear. We all do.”
“What about Khalous?”
Pick thought for a moment and then shrugged. “I’m not sure the captain feels anything.” He looked at Brayden, a joking glint in his eyes. “Honestly, when he was leading you and your siblings out of Aberdour, there wasn’t a single step he took that he didn’t feel fear.”
Brayden wasn’t sure he believed that. Khalous was strong, brave, a man who could stare down a dragon and not blink. He had fought in many battles and earned a number of scars. He never flinched and he never complained. A man like that, Brayden presumed, didn’t wrestle with childish issues like fear.
“Khalous is courageous,” Brayden said. “I–I don’t have courage like he does.”
“Wrong,” Pick said, almost cutting Brayden off. “You don’t choose to have courage like him. In the same way that fear is a choice, having courage is also a choice.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Having courage doesn’t mean you don’t have fear. It’s doing what you know is right in spite of fear.” Pick stuffed the last of the bread into his mouth and shifted onto his elbow. “Let me ask you this,” he began, spitting crumbs. “Do you think the Black King is afraid?”
“What would he possibly have to be afraid of?”
Pick thrust a finger at him. “You.”
“The Black King fears me?”
“He fears the power in your name, fears that you will rally the people to rise against him. Oh, yes. He absolutely fears you.”
Brayden had never considered the power of his name before. Thanks to his father and grandfather, the family name of Falls was regarded quiet well throughout the realm. People far and wide knew the Falls to be honorable, trustworthy, and fair.
He had also never considered the power this gave him over the Black King, a power, he had to admit, that made him feel good.
Pick sat up and leaned toward Brayden. “You make this decision now. If you choose to be afraid you’ll be afraid for the rest of your life.”
Pick’s words sat at the forefront of Brayden’s mind long into the night.
When sleep finally took him, he dreamed of being surrounded by pale skeletons. His saw his siblings lying dead in a field of bones, and his father’s corpse, white and cold, hung like a piece of art in the crypts of Aberdour. He saw the Black King, tall and powerful, covered in jagged armor as black as a starless night. The high king pursued him through the tunnels of Aberdour until he cornered him in the cave of bones beneath Halus Gis. Courage sat on the edge of his soul, but fell as fear overcame him.
Brayden awoke with a start to a clap of thunder, feeling like he’d just been hollowed out.
Scattered raindrops filtered down through the leaves above and pattered the dampening forest floor. Pick was already up, swishing eggs around in a frying skillet held over an open flame.
“Bad dreams, master Brayden?”
“You don’t have to call me that anymore,” Brayden moaned. He rubbed his head, hoping to scrub the lingering images of his nightmare out of his mind. “In fact, you probably shouldn’t, especially if we come across any black vipers.”
“You’re right. Sorry. Old habits.”
They ate quickly and in silence. Then Pick dressed the horses in their tack while Brayden disassembled their campsite.
He threw on an old dingy cloak that had been given to him by one of the priests of Halus Gis. The garment clearly hadn’t been worn in many years for it rank of old wood and dust.
They continued south on The Border Road, following a winding river that connected many towns up and down the northeastern edge of Advala.
Their hope of avoiding black vipers was dashed the moment their eyes fell upon the town of Pelnon. Even through the light rain that veiled the distant buildings Brayden could see the soldiers of the high king on the bridge that crossed the river into Pelnon.
Pick brought his horse to a stop on the downward slope of a gentle hill. “Bloody bloody,” he whispered as he surveyed the cluster of guards.
“Blood bloody?”
Pick looked at him, seemingly unaware that he’d spoken his thoughts out loud. “It’s what the men of the King’s Shield say to rouse themselves for battle. It’s habit, I suppose.”
“Bloody bloody,” Brayden muttered as though test-fitting the words on his tongue. “So what do we do now?”
“Get something to eat.” Pick looked at Brayden. “I’m hungry. Aren’t you?”
With a click of his tongue, he urged his horse to continue down the road. Brayden followed close behind, his eyes nervously watching the black soldiers through the mist.
The road dipped and rose again around a bend of forest that had previously hidden a crowd of merchants. Farmers selling produce from two-wheeled carts had gathered around the bridge to take advantage of passing travelers.
Brayden followed Pick’s lead and dismounted his horse. They meandered up the line of merchants until Pick found a fruit stand. He grabbed two apples, tossed the farmer a coin, and handed one of the red orbs to Brayden.
“Wait here,” Pick said as he passed Brayden the reins of his horse.
The young soldier wandered up the street, munching on his apple and pretending to scour the hanging rugs put on display by a local artisan. Brayden watched him draw near to the guards that were mucking about at the bridge entrance.
“What were you doing?” Brayden asked, when Pick finally returned.
“I needed to be close enough to hear them,” he said. “They’re scrutinizing everyone passing into Pelnon. They’ve got the seal of the Efferousian emperor on their cloaks, which means they not only have the highest approval in the realm to be doing what they’re doing, but they’re planning to be here for a long time.” He appeared disappointed. “With this many men stationed outside a town as small as this, it’s clear the Black King is sending a lot of resources over here to find you and your siblings. This isn’t good.” He took the reins of his horse back from Brayden. “We should go. One of them seemed a little too interested in me.”
They continued south until the rain thickened and the road became sloppy. Veering for the shelter of the trees, they made a small camp out of sight of any travelers.
“I don’t think we’ll venture any further south,” Pick said as he warmed his hands over a small campfire. “The soldiers at the gate were talking about a contingent of black vipers that were to be returning from Krossous. If we keep on this road we’re likely to run into them, and I’d rather not.”
“Are they going to find us?” Brayden asked. “I mean, what if they come to Halus Gis?”
“That’s a possibility we need to prepare for, yes,” Pick said, which did little to comfort Brayden’s fears.
“Maybe we should leave. We could take a ship to—”
Pick’s hand flew up, a gesture that demanded immediate silence. His head jerked to the side, listening.
Brayden peered around through the fog-veiled trees in the dim evening light. He strained his ears to listen, but he heard nothing except the soft splashing of rogue raindrops slipping through the forest canopy.
Then, from somewhere beyond his gaze, a tree branch snapped.
Pick shot up straight like a deer about to sprint. His left hand went to his sword.
Brayden saw the first black viper creep toward them through the trees behind Pick. The man’s sword was visible, a shiny line of silver cutting a sharp edge against the backdrop of dark forest.
Pick turned around to face the man as two others drifted out of the fog to the north, then a third to the south. Six in all surrounded their camp, swords and cudgels at the ready, rain pinging off the angles of their sharp black armor.
“Greetings gentlemen,” Pick said. He lifted his hands in a sign of peace. “Gave us a fright, you did.”
“Might we have the pleasure of your name, stranger?” said one of the vipers. He was a thickset man with a long tear on the outer hem of his dark cloak. He had
a broad forehead, a thick jaw, and massive fists that clutched the hilt of a long sword.
“My name is Moreland Fields. This is my son, Nab.”
“Your son, is he? Where you from?”
“The Thanadousi Mountains. We’ve grown tired of the wind and cold and we’ve come seeking work. We mean no harm.”
The viper considered his response. “Your words have the taint of an Edhenite.”
“So do yours.”
“You’re going to have to come with us.”
“Is it a crime for a traveler to rest on the side of the road?” Pick asked, gesturing toward the campfire. “We were merely trying to keep warm.”
“We have orders to detain and question everyone from Edhen. You’re coming with us.”
Pick frowned, exhaling a long breath as he cast his gaze to the ground in thought. “No. No, I don’t think we are. You see, I’m under orders too.”
Brayden caught a glimmer of the knife as it slipped from Pick’s sleeve, spiraled through the air, and impaled the eye socket of the nearest soldier. By the time he had refocused his gaze back on Pick, the young warrior had already sliced his sword through the throat of the viper at his back. He plunged his blade into the belly of the large leader, yanked it up and to the side, ripping a massive hole in the man’s gut that emptied his bowels onto the forest floor.
“Run!” Pick barked.
Brayden ran for cover, his eyes as round as dinner plates and his chest heaving in panic. He cowered behind a tree stump, shivered, and watched.
Pick flipped a second sword up with the toe of his boot and caught it in his right hand. Brandishing two blades he dispatched two of the three remaining soldiers in a bloody display of severed limbs and cut throats.
The final black viper rushed at Pick with teeth bared. He was a huge man. He grabbed the young soldier from behind with arms as thick as tree boughs. The two wrestled on their feet before falling to the damp ground and tussling through the underbrush.
When they rolled back toward the campfire, Brayden could tell that the fight was not going in Pick’s favor. The big man had a death grip on his throat and Pick’s face was turning purple.