Haladras

by Michael M. Farnsworth

  “Come; let us move from view of any unfriendly eyes.”

  By mid-morning Grim’s prediction proved true; the gray fog resting in the valley and the layer of gray clouds above evaporated under the sun’s rays. Skylar felt glad of the change. Yet the sun’s appearance did little to comfort him. It was a pale sun, set in a washed out blue sky. And though it brought light, a steady northern wind kept its warmth at bay.

  The two travelers skirted the vale, keeping just inside the mountains, where thick growths of trees, large boulders, and hillocks shielded them from anyone attempting to descry them from afar. Grim also hoped that the rocky foothills would make their trail difficult to follow.

  “Although, I doubt it will make it impossible for any servant of Morvath,” admitted Grim. “If they possess the power to sniff us out like an animal hunting its prey, I would not be surprised.”

  Shortly after setting off from Dura Cragis, once safely out of view, Grim had stopped them. He quickly set to work collecting small twigs and branches. These he laid in a pile on a flat boulder, then lit them with a fire charge. No sooner was the faggot crackling in the consuming flames, than Grim untied a tiny small leather pouch from his belt and emptied its contents onto the fire. Instantly, the flames extinguished, replaced by a thick billow of green smoke, which floated higher and higher into the air.

  Despite the wind’s effort, the puff of smoke remained intact until it had risen high overhead, where it slowly dispersed into the air.

  “Too risky to send a transmission,” said Grim. “Morvath's servants will be spying the airwaves. Our smoke signal just may escape their notice, or their interest. Let us hope our companions see it.”

  They did not rest at noon to eat. Grim urged them to keep moving at a rapid pace.

  “I will feel better once we’ve rid ourselves of this valley,” said Grim, as they walked. “It does not bode well for us so long as we remain here.”

  “I, too, will be glad to be out of it. I don’t like it. Though, I can’t say why. There’s something dark about it...lonely.”

  “It has not always been so,” said Grim in a voice that sounded as if he were speaking to himself. “I’ve been in this valley many times. I know it well. A pleasant place it used to be—full of life. Yet life seems gone out of it. Morvath’s presence here has done more than inspire fear into the people of Dura Cragis. Even the rocks, trees, and animals sense the evil.”

  The wind whipped up. Skylar shuddered and drew his cloak tighter around his body.

  They walked until well after nightfall. To Skylar the night with its deep shadows felt more menacing than ever, as if every rock or tree hid some malignant creature, waiting to fall upon them as they passed. An eerie howl floated through the air and made Skylar halt in his tracks. The frightful sound was rejoined by two more howls.

  “Vangre wolves,” said Grim in a low tone. “It would be wise to stop here for the night. A fire should keep them away.”

  Despite the blazing fire which they built in short order, the howling of the Vangre wolves persisted. They could even be heard tracing the perimeter of their campsite, rustling through the brush and plodding lightly on the ground.

  “Are you not afraid of an attack?” questioned Skylar.

  Grim sat on the ground near the glowing fire, his back resting against a mighty tree trunk.

  “You have no need to fear, my prince,” he said calmly. “They shall come no closer. They fear the fire too much.”

  “All the same,” said Skylar, “I wish I had a sword like yours.”

  A faint smile broke on Grim’s face. “I am your sword, my prince.”

  This he said with such confidence and conviction that Skylar felt more at ease. He sat down by the crackling fire. Questions which he’d been saving suddenly rushed to his head.

  “Grim, that sword you carry... you told the governor that King Athylian, my father, gave it to you. You knew my father well, then?”

  Grim’s gaze remained fixed on the fire as Skylar finished his question. As Grim began to speak, he maintained that pose.

  “Your father gave me that when I was but a year or two younger than yourself. A gift for my birthday, and a kind of promise that I should join the order of his royal knights when I came of age. His knights were called the Keepers of the Kingdom. They preserved the peace and fought against the enemies of the empire. I had longed to be one ever since I was old enough to understand what they were. My father was one of them.”

  “You father was one of Athylian’s knights?” said Skylar in amazement.

  Grim nodded.

  “Where is he now?”

  “My father is dead.”

  “Oh,” replied Skylar quietly, feeling uncomfortable for bringing up a painful topic. “I’m sorry. I—”

  “Not long after your father gifted me this sword,” Grim went on, easing Skylar’s feeling of awkwardness. “Tarus betrayed him. When Tarus crowned himself king, he began secretly eliminating all of the Keepers.”

  “What! Why would he do that? Didn’t they serve him?”

  “One who steals a crown thinks of little else but how to keep it. Being a traitor and murderer, he believed all around him were likewise traitors and murderers. He did not trust the Keepers. He saw them as a threat to his power. And so he began striking them down through Morvath. My father was one of the first to fall victim.”

  “Are they all dead, then?”

  “No. Some realized what was happening and went into hiding. Now they rove throughout the empire, helping victims of injustice wherever they can. Krom was one who escaped.”

  Skylar looked up quickly at Grim, but he did not speak. Krom? Skylar’s reaction spoke for him. Grim answered with a nod of his head.

  “When my father was murdered, Krom…adopted me, you could say. I’ve been with him ever since. He’s like a father to me. I owe my swordsmanship skills to his diligence and patience in instructing me. But all that time we were waiting for you. Waiting for the chance to serve the true heir to the throne.”

  Silence fell over the conversation. Skylar turned his gaze back to the dancing fire, his thoughts far away. Grim stood and went to get another log for the fire. The sparks and ash rose into the air in a spiraling column of red, orange and white.

  “Have I earned your trust, my prince?” said Grim.

  Skylar looked up, startled by the question. Grim’s eyes were fixed on him, an expression of complete earnestness on his face. “Do you trust me?” he repeated.

  “Of course, Grim.”

  “Then you must promise to obey whatever I tell you until you have safely rejoined the others.”

  “But Grim—”

  “I implore you, my prince. I cannot be sure of your safety unless I have your promise of obedience.”

  Nothing in Grim’s insistence or tone brought comfort to Skylar. Grim hadn’t said until we have safely rejoined the others. Skylar wished to speak of something else. Grim would not back down on this, though. Of that he felt certain. It was almost as if Grim knew something he wasn’t telling Skylar.

  Reluctantly, and with a sinking feeling in his stomach, Skylar nodded his head. “I trust you, Grim. I will do whatever you tell me.”

  Grim’s expression relaxed. “Thank you. You should sleep now. We have quite a long journey on the morrow. I shall take the first watch.”

  SEVENTEEN

  WHEN GRIM WOKE Skylar, it was still dark.

  “Time to be off, my prince. Morning draws nigh,” came the low voice of Grim like a visionless dream.

  Skylar yawned and forced his eyes to open.

  “Morning?” mumbled Skylar. “But...you were...supposed to wake me...for—”

  “You needed your rest more than I. Now come.”

  It was the same gray, fog ridden morning as yesterday’s. The fire no longer burned. Only a pile of ashes and charred logs remained. Yet the smell of it still clung to the air around their campsite. No sign or sound of the Vangre wolves lingered from the night before. In Skylar’
s mind, however, they were still lurking in the shadows.

  Grim handed him a small corn cake from the provisions Barryman had given them. It was nearly frozen from exposure to the night air. Skylar ate it as quickly as he could manage, chased it down with two drafts of icy water, and then set off behind Grim into the fog and mist of another day of flight from his enemies.

  By noon they reached the base of the Boldúrin Mountains below the pass that Grim intended for them to cross. The Nape of Sauros, Grim called the narrow pass running between two fearsome swirled peaks, which loomed over the whole vale like the cruel horns of a stone monster. The very look of it made Skylar’s confidence falter. Though the pale sun beat upon it, it was as dark as though a storm cloud brooded over it, threatening to unleash its pent up anger.

  The trek up the mountain, though grueling at times, proved not too difficult. The pair made steady progress up to the pass, following along a narrow pathway which mostly ran its way along sheer cliffs. At times the path grew so narrow that they were forced to press themselves against the rock face to keep away from the edge. Once, Skylar stepped on a loose rock which broke free under his foot, sending him teetering precariously. Had Grim not grasped his arm, Skylar felt sure he would have plunged to the jagged rocks below.

  As they ascended higher that same sense of foreboding grew stronger in his heart. To match it, the winds swept down on them like a wall of ice trying to bar their passage.

  Still they pressed on, higher and higher.

  Grim, sure-footed and impervious to wind or fatigue saw to it that they made it to the top. Near midafternoon they came within easy reach of the Nape of Sauros. The sight of it cheered Skylar’s heavy spirits. Any sense of darkness—and even the winds—lifted. So close. Soon they would be rid of that evil valley.

  As they approached the pass, Skylar could see where the path leveled out briefly before disappearing behind a bend, where it doubtless began its descent down the other side of the mountain. His hopes mounted. Just as they attained level ground a figure stepped out from around the bend, blocking their path.

  Skylar stepped back, startled by the figure’s sudden appearance. Instantly, the dark pall returned. He shivered. The figure, which stood like Death itself before them wore a long cloak of such impenetrable blackness that neither crease nor fold were visible in it. The hood of the cloak was pulled over its head, face hidden. By the coldness chilling his soul, Skylar knew this was one of Morvath’s servants.

  A second figure stepped out into their path and took his place just behind the other.

  “A pleasure to see you again so soon, Grim Galloway,” said a voice from within the depths of the hood. The voice had nothing of pleasure in it.

  “I’m afraid I cannot reciprocate the complement, Lothor.” said Grim calmly.

  “Tsk, tsk. Where are your manners? I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Your corpulent innkeeper friend wasn’t well-mannered either. We taught him a lesson, though.”

  “Let us pass, Lothor. You have no business with me. And I have none with any servant of Morvath.”

  “Morvath?” replied Lothor with feigned indignation. “We serve King Tarus.” He drew himself up to his full height.

  “Tarus is no better than a tyrant. He serves himself, not his people”

  “Careful, careful, Grim. Those are treasonous words.”

  “Yet I am no traitor. I serve the empire.”

  “Then we have no quarrel. Besides,” said Lothor as he and his companion drew back their hoods. “We’re not interested in you. Your young friend is who we want.”

  Two pale blue eyes bored into Skylar’s. A look of intense, unwholesome hunger was in those eyes, like a starved animal fixed on its prey. Lothor licked his thin upper lip.

  Skylar took another step back. Despite his fear, he couldn’t help but notice how normal Lothor and his companion appeared. Save for their pale skin and Lothor’s unnaturally white hair, only their eyes—their cold, lightless, eyes—betrayed their true nature.

  “He is my page,” said Grim coldly, stepping between Skylar and Lothor. “He’s no concern of yours.”

  “Page, is it?” sneered Lothor. “What do you think of that, Gyle? Grim Galloway, the titleless knight claims to have a page. He looks to me more a prince than a page.”

  “He does indeed,” responded Lothor’s companion, menacingly.

  Unexpectedly, Grim shed his gray cloak, letting it fall to the ground and unsheathed his sword. In response, both Lothor and Gyle did likewise.

  “Try to take him at your peril,” said Grim, raising his sword high and charging to meet Lothor’s blade. A crash of steel rang out sharp and clear.

  For several seconds, Skylar stood frozen to the spot. What could he do? He had no sword or weapon of any kind. Yet he had to help Grim. He, too, threw off his cloak and went to work searching for some form of weapon: a rock, a staff, his jetwing—something.

  Meanwhile, Grim fought with a prowess that far exceeded Skylar’s expectations. Like a whirlwind he seemed, parrying blows and sword thrusts from his two assailants, whilst delivering fiercely in return. His strikes were like strokes of lightning, blindingly fast and unexpected. Yet for all his ability, he was but one man against two. Lothor and Gyle were powerful swordsmen as well.

  How long they fought, Skylar could not guess. Hours it felt, so tense were his nerves and every muscle in his body. His attempts to aid Grim had been unsuccessful. Of the rocks he found handy, none was large enough to do anyone much harm. Had he found one, he would have feared to employ it; Grim for all his swift movement, made sure to keep himself positioned between the servants of Morvath and himself.

  Then suddenly the fight turned. Grim blocked a blow from Gyle then knocked him sprawling to the ground. Fast as a blast of fire, Grim whirled around to meet the downward stroke of Lothor’s sword, but did not raise his sword to meet it. Dodging to one side, Lothor’s blade struck the ground, sending its master staggering forward.

  It was a fatal mistake. Lothor knew it.

  Grim stepped forcefully onto Lothor’s sword, wrenching it from Lothor’s grasp, then struck him across the face with this hilt of his sword. A crack of bone and a howl from Lothor filled the air.

  Lothor stumbled back, like a drunken man. Grim had him. He was a dead man. But Grim did not strike. Taking advantage of Lothor’s temporary disorientation, Grim rushed upon him from behind and brought the sword to Lothor’s neck.

  “Drop your sword or your companion’s life is forfeit!” cried Grim.

  Gyle, who had just recovered from Grim’s blow and regained his feet, froze. With a look of scorn, Gyle cast his sword to the ground, where it clattered and clinked.

  “Alright, Grim,” he said, “you win the sword play. But swords are for ninnies, anyway.”

  Gyle reached into the breast of his black tunic and drew out a small metallic device. Smiling victoriously, he pointed the glinting device directly at Grim.

  “I prefer using this,” he gloated. “Much simpler. Now, as you’ll be no use to your page if you’re dead, kindly release Lothor.”

  Grim stared at the blaster. Then he looked at Skylar. An expression, half apologetic, half resigned flashed across the strong features of this face. It pained Skylar to see it. Slowly, Grim moved the blade away from Lothor’s neck, backed away, then tossed his sword to the ground.

  In a moment, Lothor had the sword in his hands, with the tip at Grim’s throat.

  “You always were a fool, Grim Galloway. You should have killed me when you had the chance.”

  “You are the fool, Lothor,” replied Grim, without the slightest hint of fear in his voice. “I pity you. You are so blinded by the blackness of your own deeds. Can you not see that Morvath will destroy the Empire? Strip its people of their freedom; enslave them to the whims of a craven king?”

  “I care nothing for the people,” said Lothor. He spat on the ground. “They mean nothing to me. The weak deserve what they get. Morvath rewards strength and loyalty. If you offere
d him yours, he might spare your life.”

  “A thousand deaths would be more welcome than any gift from Morvath.”

  “So perhaps you shall receive. Enough of this!” Lothor turned to Gyle. “Do the test. I wish to be sure he is the one.”

  Gyle nodded and produced an object shaped like a phial. He approached Skylar, wearing that same mocking smile.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, “I just need a little blood,” He pressed an invisible button that released a needle point from the end of the phial. Instinctively Skylar drew back, edging himself closer to the brink.

  “Grab him!” ordered Lothor. “Keep him away from that edge. Morvath will feed our flesh to the ravens if the boy is—”

  Lothor suddenly broke off, for in the moment he had turned his attention to Gyle, Grim knocked the sword from his throat and threw his full weight into Lothor’s chest, sending him toppling to the ground. Gyle, ignoring Skylar, turned and took aim at Grim’s back. Acting so quickly he surprised himself, Skylar kicked the blaster from Gyle’s hand.

  “Ah!” Gyle cursed and brought his fist up. “You little brat. I’ll teach you to meddle.”

  Gyle struck Skylar across the face with a blow that made his ears ring and his eyes see scarlet. He fell to the ground.

  Gyle bothered with Skylar no further, but went straight for the blaster. Grim was upon him before he reached it. The two began grappling on the ground.

  “Fly, Skylar! Fly!” shouted the strained voice of Grim, as he struggled against Gyle. “Remember your promise...”

  Skylar reached his hand for his jetwing and decoupled the two thrusters. He hesitated. How could he leave Grim?

  “Fly! Fly!” pleaded Grim in desperation.

  Lothor, having recovered and regained his feet, made straight for the uncertain prince. Skylar felt rooted to the spot.