by T B Phillips
The old man realized Taros’ intention. “We are smaller in numbers than we were, Shappan. Even if Felicima allowed us to attack them, we are few.”
“She does not decide for us in this matter,” Taros replied. “I do. I will that we seek shelter in Weston city. If they do not offer it freely, then we will take it. We are few, but the Pescari are many and we will gather-in the scattered.” Taros removed his hand from the elder’s shoulder and turned his back to finish tending to Falia.
A shout brought him to his feet, and he saw Teot riding fast and hard toward him. His uncle wore a look of concern on his face and his mount screeched to a halt in front of his nephew.
“What is it, uncle?” Taros felt alarm rising in his gut.
“A war party is approaching!”
Taros jumped into action, quickly removing the hobble from the leg of Falia while Teot rounded up the warriors. In a moment, nineteen men were mounted next to him, riding to meet the attackers.
The raiders were from a tribe as desperate as his, having fled and left their belongings behind. Mostly opportunists, they were more dangerous than hungry wolves. Squinting to see farther, Taros scanned and saw dust kicking up from the plain. Approximately fifty riders were pursuing two of Teot’s scouts, each pushing their horses to near-death speed. The attackers were closing.
Felicima had not yet set beneath the horizon, and an orange glow lit the plain. Turning to his uncle, Taros ordered, “Nock arrows, but do not release unless I cannot hold them back.” Teot looked concerned but relayed the order with quick hand motions. Meanwhile, the scouts were gaining ground and nearly joined with Taros’ meager group. The pursuers pulled back on the reigns and nocked arrows of their own. One of the raiders, a large man on a blazing black steed raised his hand and the boy chieftain marked him as the leader.
When the opposing shappan dropped his arm, arrows darkened the sky and began falling as a cloud toward the small group of men. Each of the warriors felt afraid, but the man-child stood tall in the saddle before them. Anger filled Taros as the arrows flew, and he thought about Lynette laying in her litter where he had left her, rambling on about some distant memory with his father. With one motion of his hand, the arrows burst into flame. Simultaneously, every campfire in the campsite blinked dark without even a wisp of smoke as Taros took the heat from the burning logs and dung.
The raiders nocked again and fired, but these arrows met the same fate. Frustrated, the other shappan ordered a charge, and the men began to close the gap of fifty yards at a sprint. Taros rode out a few more steps, then focused his energy. All of the enemy’s wooden weapons burst into flame. Each man screamed and cast their arms to the ground. The horses bucked in fear at the flames on their backs, flinging men through the air and onto the ground.
Slowly, Taros rode toward the other chieftain. The man lay on his back and looked up with dark eyes full of fear. “I am Taros, Shappan through the right of Shapalote. Tomorrow I lead my family across the forbidden waste to demand succor from the people of Andalon. I order you to bring your people to join with us, or to curse them to stand alone and face the wrath of Felicima. But if you try and molest my people, then you shall face my wrath.”
He motioned for the man to rise. Terror filled the warriors and they huddled in front of the boy. Their former chieftain knelt before their new Shappan and the others followed suit. Taros dismounted and walked toward the man with his hand outstretched, placed five fingertips on the man’s face and branded him with his inner flame. He then walked among the warriors, and did the same to each, making them his own. After he had finished and remounted, he led his men back to camp after dispatching the branded to recruit. “Bring every Pescari to me so that I may lead them to Weston.”
The next morning, Taros and his uncle looked out with shock at the new faces that had joined them in the night. Fifteen tribes had joined in all, swelling their numbers to more than two thousand, of which more than nine hundred were mounted warriors. Teot had agreed to take a team of scouts back toward the steppes to gather and spread the word to others about the Shappan’s power, and to bring them across the desert. They were free from Felicima’s wrath and would create a new life on the Andalonian side of the waste.
The Pescari slowly began their trek each daybreak amid a parade of misery and hard-faced determination. They slowly moved away from the rising eye of their goddess, and, when she settled her gaze ahead of them, they were forced to make camp and wait for her to sleep. Thus, they rested every night until she awakened behind them, allowing them once again to travel across the hot and barren desert that lay between their steppes and the Imperial city.
Taros rode, flanked by his branded followers, reflecting on the surrealism of his position. Outwardly, the youth displayed strength and stalwart confidence. Inside he boiled and steamed with such ferocity that even the goddess of the caldera should tremble at his wrath. He felt as if he were in a dream, wandering through the waste with his people. Occasionally, he would return with brief clarity and speak with an odd confidence when his people asked him for guidance. They were his people. By the fire of Felicima, they had become my people! He felt driven to protect them with as much determination as he had when he pulled his mother from the burning village.
Thinking of Lynette, he glanced behind Falia at the sled she dragged. His mother rested on the skid, looking up with a serene smile as she watched the goddess’ eye. Taros worried about his mother. She was not physically harmed in the fire, but she had not yet recovered enough of her wits to walk on her own. The elders feared that, although she had been shielded from the flames by her son’s grace, her mind may have been boiled by the heat. She stared up at the goddess with an odd smile that troubled the boy.
Taros hated that his mother looked so reverently upon her goddess. To him, Felicima was a jealous woman. She cast judgment on those who walked openly with strength. She was no better than Cornin had been, using her strength to oppress the weak who cowered beneath her. Tradition demanded that the Pescari people hide their strength from Felicima in humility and reverence, but Taros had begun to think differently.
Daska rode along with the elders, away from Felicima’s eye. Occasionally he raised his hand to his shoulder and felt where the boy had touched him, feeling the hot and flushed skin. His deepest fear had been confirmed, that the blaspheming child intended to challenge the wrath of their goddess as well as that of Andolan. The old man felt tired and weaker than he had since the eruption had begun. Taros would have to be stopped and order must be restored.
After the procession had camped for the night, he dismounted and walked slowly to his sled, old bones aching as the temperature continued to drop with the onset of night. Stooping over his belongings, he flipped over furs until he found a wooden chest. The vessel was very old. Older, Daska believed, than his own people. His bent fingers tripped the latch and drew out a hide, rolled and tied with a leather strap. With the dying light of Felicima, his weak eyes focused on the drawings. Each depiction was of a boy standing in fire, the eye of the goddess burning overhead. The angry deity watched in dismay as the boy stole her power and destroyed her people.
Daska focused on one drawing which showed the boy standing elevated above the walls of an Andalon city. Fire welled around and swirled in cyclones, anger pouring out of his eyes in the form of flames. Before him lay an army, burned and black with steel weapons laying useless in the ash. Off in the distance, a much larger army marched with drums and banners bearing a sea creature rising from the water. Wolves and birds alike fled before the army as it marched. With trembling hands, the feeble fingers of the old man rerolled the skin and returned it to the box. Tears rolled down the old man’s face as he realized he fought against a god.
Chapter Seven
Robert Esterling stepped into the fighting pit. His shield was heavy in his left hand and the leather armor restricted his movement. He could barely breathe against the straps around his
sides, and felt claustrophobic from the pressure on his chest. The sound of the sand crunching beneath his boots pounded in his ears under the padded leather helmet as he tentatively walked toward the hulking man facing him.
“Lift the shield and keep your sword elbow up.” boomed General Reeves on the sideline. Robert complied, but the sword felt so heavy that the tip dragged atop the shield. “Not so low on the tip, Princeling! That’s it. Small steps. More of a shuffle. Now halt!” The men on Robert’s left and right halted alongside of him, feet stomping and setting in the sand. His own left leg braced against the shield. “Now, shield … wall!” The two words gave both a preparatory and a command and all three shields set into the sand with a clap as Robert and his companions squatted into a ready position against them. Two more shields slammed overhead, and Robert could barely see the opposing man. He ran directly toward him, shield up as if he held a battering ram.
The impact of the collision shook Robert and he fell hard against the man behind him. He lost the hold on his shield, and he collapsed on the ground, causing the men on his sides to fall atop him with the full weight of the opposing soldier. He felt his sword tip fall into the sand, sparks of pain flashing through his right hand as his wrist bent in an awkward manner.
“Stop!” The general’s voice bellowed. “Dammit, Robert! You must brace against the shield on the left, not the right! Strength to the left! Reset and begin again!” The older man ran into the pit as he shouted, lifting the armored men off the boy as if they were sacks of flour. Reaching his hand toward the prince, he grasped his jerkin and pulled him up with one arm, bringing him to his feet.
“I… I’m sorry. I always confuse that.”
“Then pay closer attention! You can’t allow a single man to break the wall. What would happen if an entire line of men had hit you instead? That was one man!” Robert again lined up, and the men shuffled in the sand as before. “Shield … Wall!” This time, he braced to the left, wedging his shield properly against that of the man on his right. When the man behind him set his, he felt more stability in the line. With a roar, the opposing man again threw himself into Robert’s shield, which thankfully held. “Much better, Robert! Thank you, men!” The general beamed. “The princeling has learned enough for one day. You may return the practice gear to the armory and head to dinner.”
Robert fumbled against the straps of his jacket and tossed it atop his shield laying in the sand. He turned and looked toward the general, flinching under his gaze. “I’m sorry, Maximus. I am trying my best.”
With a grunt, the older man walked over and slapped him on the back. “It could’ve been worse.”
“How do you suppose?”
“You could have had a breathing attack again.”
“Yeah. That is true.” His private lessons with the general were mostly due to his breathing disease. He trained with a special cadre of his private guard, handpicked for their loyalty and, most importantly, their discretion. “I know what to do.”
“I know. But it isn’t about knowledge, my lord. You know everything about warfare. Your problem is strength and execution. You lack both.” Maximus Reeves was like a father to Robert, and their relationship centered on honesty.
Robert shook out his black hair with his hands, airing the sand back into the pit. After he was certain most of it was gone, he turned his dark eyes back to the general. “I’ll never be strong like the others, will I, Max?”
“Perhaps not, but strength also lies in wisdom.”
“If you ask my family then you’ll know that I am lacking in that area as well.” Robert looked down as he said this, kicking at the shield with his foot. “They judge me because I struggle to learn.”
The older man sighed and put his arm on his shoulder. “Yes. You read slowly and remember little.”
“The words get all mixed up on the page, and the letters play tricks on my eyes.”
“That doesn’t mean that you lack wisdom.”
“That’s why she hasn’t agreed to relinquish the regency, isn’t it? She thinks that I am a simpleton.”
“Robert, you’re seventeen years alive. The law of succession clearly states that you’ll have a regent until you are eighteen if you pass the trials. Twenty-one if you cannot.”
“No. If I can’t pass the trials, then a witan may or may not choose me at twenty-one. It’s not guaranteed. They may even choose her over me. Worse. They could choose my brother.” Tears welled in his eyes as he thought about his family. It had been two years since his mother had sent him to the frontier. She had wanted to ‘toughen him up enough to be worthy of his father’s crown.’
The general squeezed his shoulder in a fatherly way and then slapped his back with pride. “See? Wise. Who needs to read when you have a full grasp of the law of succession?”
“I would rather have strength of body and mind.” Robert could not help but smile up at his friend when he spoke. But the smile faded quickly as some dark thought formed.
“What is it, son?”
“She isn’t going to abdicate to me, is she? She is going to keep it for herself. I know it.”
Maximus Reeves lost his own smile as he met the boy’s eyes. “No. She probably won’t, not if you can’t pass the trials and prove your worth to her.”
Robert contemplated his friend’s words as he rolled up his sword in the jerkin. “Would you fight alongside a weak simpleton, General Reeves? Would you support my claim to the title if it came to civil war?”
“My lord. You’re like a son to me, but I look up to you as my liege. You have my loyalty now and will have it forever.”
“Then I’ll see you back in this same pit in the morning. I have to practice my footing if I am to pass the trials. And, I will have to pass them if I want to keep you from dying for a weak half-wit.” He picked up his shield, sword, and jerkin and walked to the armory with a smile flickering on his face.
A few hours later Robert had bathed and put on a simple linen tunic and pants. He always wore silk or linen, since the breathing sickness attacked him when he wore wool. Under his left arm he tucked a large volume of Common Law and Trial and left his chamber to walk toward the kitchen. As he passed the dining hall, he heard the commotion and revelry. As appealing and fun as the laughter sounded, he fought against the urge to join in. He had a lot to think about, and the crowded hall of the Weston governor was the worst possible place for reflection and study.
Life in the governor’s palace was not too bad, even if you considered that it was on the western border of the Steppes of Cinder. The grassland prairie that rolled westward was dry and windy, preventing many trees from growing. The rivers were mostly alkaline, meaning they were not fit to drink and could cause a man to shit out his guts. Robert privately thought that the steppes were beautiful and spent most of his time outdoors, looking west toward the glow of the distant caldera. It had been eight hundred years since the last eruption, but it had been glowing hotter and redder in the past month.
Not all his days on the frontier were good days though. Sometimes the wind chased him indoors when it blew from the west. On those days, the hot westerlies breathed smoke and dust, choking out his lungs and causing him to wheeze. When he had first travelled to Weston, he had hoped the prairie air would help his breathing. But more frequently he dreamt of returning east to the cleaner water and air free from ash.
Robert rounded the corner to the kitchen and froze in his tracks at the door. Sarai Horslei sat at the breakfast nook with two plates of food and two glasses of milled wine in front of her. She met his shocked look with a warm smile and motioned to the empty seat across from her.
“It’s about time you made it down here. When I heard that you were drilling late, I assumed you would not want to eat with the others.”
Robert warmed and forgot about his melancholy when she spoke. He always forgot to fret when she spoke to him. Just being around her caused
him to forget even to breathe sometimes. “You brought me a plate from the feast?”
Her smile turned shy and her cheeks reddened when he sat down at the vacant seat across from her, setting the large tome on the table. “I figured you’d be hungry.” Before he could respond, she snatched up the book and feigned interest in the words on the pages. “You pick the strangest bedtime stories, Prince Robert.”
“I need something way more interesting than fairy tales if I want to distract my mind from your beautiful yellow hair and gorgeous blue eyes, Lady Sarai.” A thought flashed in his head. “Sarai even rhymes with eye. Sarai’s gorgeous eyes!”
“Oooooo! Scandalous flirtation!” Her smile deepened, and her eyes shone with laughter as she chastised him. “How dare you try to woo me without a proper chaperone, sir!”
“The scandal would be to let you fall for another suitor, My Lady.”
Abruptly, Sarai stood and leaned across the table, kissing Robert on the lips. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Prince Robert.” She sat down and looked at his expression. “Don’t look so shocked. You’ve been wanting me to do that for two years.”
“I… er…”
“Oh stop.” She said as she picked up her wine glass. “We both know we’ll be betrothed soon.” Pausing mid drink, she eyed him coolly as she looked over her glass, “unless you don’t want to admit that you are madly in love with me and choose instead a pretentious upstart from Eston over the royal belle of Weston.”
“Royal belle? Don’t you mean royal pain in the ass?” He laughed and ducked as Sarai threw a bread roll at his head.
Their laughter abruptly stopped when a figure barged into the kitchen. Looking up, Robert and Sarai saw the strained expression on the face of the page boy.