by Robert Day
That left the kitchen to be searched. He dashed across the taproom, kicking aside chairs and tables in his rage. The large door to the kitchen was closed but he kicked it forcefully, bringing a tearing of wood from beyond as it cracked ajar. He kicked it again, resulting in a crash of pots and plates as he stepped through.
The kitchen was well lit from narrow window slits in the walls. It was also empty. With a curse he returned to the common room.
The ugly woman he had seen on first entering the Inn the previous evening was crossing the room in an attempt to silently make it to the exit. With a cry he leapt towards her.
“Where is my gear? Where is Kaz?”
The woman paled, however, and gave a choking scream as she tried to duck away, but Valdieron was before her in an instant, sword raised. Had she been in on it too? He had not seen her the previous evening after she greeted him, and he assumed she was a cook, but by the intelligent caste of her eyes he guessed she was more than that. With a growl he raised his sword menacingly to emphasize his question.
“Valdieron, NO!” The pleading command halted Valdieron's raised sword as he spun. Not that he was going to use it on the woman, but by his appearance it would have seemed such. He recognized the voice instantly, and turned to see what answers he could unravel, but his gaze met nothing as he spun. Kaylara was nowhere to be seen, and when he turned back, the big woman was gone also.
With confused disbelief he tried to speak, to call to Kaylara, but he knew she was gone. But where? It had been her voice, of that he was sure, but she was nowhere to be seen.
He finally found his equipment locked in a cabinet beneath the bar, but he pulled it free after smashing the door open with a table leg. Still there was no sign of Kaz, however, but as he hoisted his saddlebags and pack onto his shoulders he heard a distant roaring, as easily recognizable as Kaylara's voice had been, but this time he knew it came from the stables at the rear of the Inn.
Dashing from the building he found Kaz crouched menacingly before two men dragging at Shakk's bridle, trying to draw the big stallion from the stable. One had a whip, and was using it across the black beast's neck and back as they pulled his head down after each rearing protest. A third man was keeping Kaz at bay with a rusted pitchfork. All had the appearance of common thieves, but he knew that appearances could be deceiving after what he had just been through. They seemed vaguely familiar, however, and guessed they had probably been in the taproom the previous evening.
Leaping forward, he raced to the two men holding Shakk, sheathing his sword as he ran, despite the anger he felt at their attempted theft. The thieves did not hear his approach over the stallion’s protesting snorting and pounding hooves.
He caught the arm of the man with the whip as he recoiled for another lash, grasping the leather cord in his other hand and wrapping it quickly around the stunned man's neck as he turned. Before he could react, Valdieron grasped the length in both hands and twisted, flipping the choking man over his arched back onto the ground. He landed heavily, the wind rasping through his constricted throat as he clawed at the cord, trying to free himself. He had no visible weapons so Valdieron turned away from him.
The other man holding Shakk's reins turned with a curse, one hand going to the hilt of a rapier at his side, but in doing so he forgot about Shakk. The horse reared, jerking the man from his feet, sending the rapier flying as he screamed before Shakk's flashing hooves descended on him. Valdieron turned away quickly at the sickening sound of the horse's crunching hooves, before he turned and reached out for the stallion to settle. Snorting heavily the beast complied, though hesitantly, as Valdieron ran a hand over his neck, mindful of the stinging lashes that marred his glowing hide.
The third man was not having the best of times also as he saw his companions go down. Defiantly he thrust at Kaz with the pitchfork, but the agile Cat arched out of its path before striking forward with the speed of an uncoiling snake. A large paw swept across the man's right thigh, leaving behind thin trails of blood beneath the rent fabric of his trousers. He screamed with pain and stumbled back, throwing the fork at Kaz. The Moorcat leapt it easily, twisting in the air to land in stride after the man, but Valdieron's whistle halted him, though reluctantly, as he swung his wide head around to regard Val questioningly.
“We have to get out of here,” advised Valdieron, though realizing he had just spoken to a cat as he would a person. He disappeared briefly into the stable, returning with his saddle which he settled softly on Shakk's tattered back. The horse flexed tenderly, but allowed Valdieron to tighten it securely then tie on the saddlebags.
He half expected to be detained by the local guards or militia, if there was indeed one, as a sizeable crowd had gathered around the Inn as he rode out the front. Fingers pointed his way and shouts went up as heads turned, though there was no move to detain him as he clicked Shakk into a canter through them, parting them easily. He wondered what embellishments were already being passed about his actions in the Inn. He knew there was no way he could appease them, and rather than wait for them to rally against him, distance was his best ally, and he made for the gates.
Luckily, word did not pass as quickly as a horse, and when he came in sight of the gates there was no indication of the mayhem he had left in his wake, though he wondered why no audio signal had been given, like a bell or a whistle. Yet even as he wondered this, a whistle did indeed begin to sound in the distance.
Two guards flanked the gate, armored men with pole-arms. It appeared as if they had not heard the distant whistle, probably due to the helms they wore, so he was close by the time another guard, this one armored but with no helm, ran from the guardhouse beside the gate, clutching a sword in his hand as he gazed out over the city, obviously knowing the reasoning behind the whistle and the necessity of hasty action.
“Close the gates!” Other guards began to run from the guardhouse, drawing out weapons and affixing armor and helms, making Valdieron curse. Fifty paces lay between him and the gate, as the two guards leapt to close them.
He called sharply for Kaz as he urged the big stallion forward. With hooves suddenly cracking on the hard road the guards heard and spun, some reacting quickly to the possibility of him being linked with the alarm and moving to block his path, while the two others were already swinging the gates inexorably closed.
Not bothering to draw his sword Valdieron crouched low over Shakk's mane and urged the horse to greater speed. The guards moved to intercept, and he knew they would be close to cutting him off, where one blow could stop them. One blow to either him or Shakk...
They were through as he let out a whoop of joy, the dark gates flashing past before he drew Shakk in slowly and turned in the saddle, expecting to see Kaz flash past them, but the cat was nowhere to be seen.
A roar back inside the gates caught his attention and he spun to see Kaz come soaring over the ten foot high wooden gates, paws kicking off the top before he arced downwards, landing in a skidding run. Back inside, he heard someone ordering the gates reopened and horses brought, so he turned Shakk again and set off to the south. The more distance he put between himself and the city the better, and he might need a head start if they came after him.
Calling Kaz again, he put the city behind him and gave Shakk his head, knowing the horse would have him far away in no time, while the tireless Kaz loped steadily alongside.
Chapter 3
It was a strange little precession that slipped out of the gates of Thorhus, veiled by the evening darkness and their thick cloaks. A slight drizzle fell, which would have appeased many unwanted eyes, thinking they merely sought comfort and protection from the wet.
Yet none who watched them would have guessed the two riders in the center of the four horse line were the youngest heirs to the Rose-and-Crown Throne of Ariakus. The man in the lead seemed bent over his horse's neck, while the trailing figure's height was noticeable beneath his dark grey cloak, and a careful eye would have noted the haft of an axe pressing beside the saddle o
r the longbow looped over the pommel beside a quiver of arrows.
To outward appearances, it was yet more warriors leaving the city after the tournament, albeit a little later than most. They followed the damp road that swept over the flat western plain, before climbing the steady rise to the wooded lands beyond.
Atop the rise the two nobles reined in their horses and turned back towards the city, giving it a last longing look. Andrak loosed his hood as he turned in frustration to the man leading them.
“Tell me again, Ka'Varel, why must we accompany you on this fool errand, and why were we forced to hide ourselves while leaving the city?” He sounded impatient, as if homesick, though there was a tinge of wondrous anticipation in his voice.
The old man halted his mount with a whispered command and drew out his pipe, while Tyrun at the rear skirted their position at a distance, as if expecting unwanted pursuit as he scoured the bush land.
“Because the Ashar'an are everywhere, son of Dhoric. If you disbelieve my previous description of them, I am sure your sister will be able to tell you how helpless you would be against them.” At the Prince's side, Kitara nodded with a cold shudder, remembering the Assassin who had paralyzed her in the royal garden.
“And as for why you are with me, suffice to say it is written that you should, and your father has permitted it.”
Andrak only bristled at this evasive answer. “What our father agreed to was not accepted by us, and if it is written, where is it that it is so important?”
At this, Ka'Varel hesitated, then dug briefly in one if his saddlebags before pulling out a large leather bound tome. Its corners were enforced with metal and the frayed tip of a golden ribbon extended from the bottom. He held it almost reverently, before turning to toss it to the watchful Prince, who caught it with a bemused frown. He held it up and studied it.
“What is this?” To all appearances it was just an old tome, with a single strange circular symbol on the top left corner of the front cover: a cross inside a circle with another filled circle in the center.
“It is a book of prophecies, scribed by my hand from the many chronicles across Kil'Tar.” Ka'Varel sounded proud of this, and seemed slightly offended when Andrak merely eyed him questioningly. “It contains hundreds of prophecies concerning this era and possibly the next.”
Andrak pulled open the book to about the middle, peering with sudden interest at its content. “What is this script? It looks Elvin, but no Elvin I know; maybe Ancient Elvin or some older clannish dialect?” He showed the writing to Ka'Varel who nodded thoughtfully.
“Not quite Prince, but it is indeed similar. It is the Language of the Kay'taari, long forgotten in Kil’Tar. Each of these prophecies I have translated into the Universal Tongue, and also in Elvin.” The strange old man let out a sigh then, as if remembering the painstaking hours this scribing in triplicate had cost him.
Andrak was about to ask Ka'Varel how the old man had translated the Kay'taari script, but was distracted by the sheer volume of prophecies, from lands far and wide and people he had never heard of before. There were Dak'marian passages, which were more numerous, and ones from long dead sailors or beggars, down to extensive pages from Scholars and historians. Each prophecy was indeed written in its original tongue, revealing its origin in most cases, and then copied in the other languages.
“And these prophecies are meant to hold the reason why we are going to Lloreander with you?” The Prince sounded incredulous, as if suspecting Ka'Varel were mad.
“Amongst other things,” shrugged Ka'Varel, nudging his horse into motion once more, maybe to be away from the Prince's questioning, but Andrak pursued him doggedly.
“But surely these cannot all relate to what will come to pass?” insisted the Prince, flicking through the hundreds of entries, from two or three page entries to one sentence entries of extreme vagueness.
Ka'Varel shook his head. “No. But each may hold something of vital importance we may need in the times to come. Think of them not as prophecies, for as a whole they are, if you could read them all, but picture them as foretellings. Omens! They tell us what may come to pass, or what is more likely to come to pass providing certain criteria are met. Thus, if we desire a certain one of these omens to come to fruition, then should we not meet all of its criteria? It would be no good fighting this war without say, a weapon to fight it with. Using these omens, we can decipher what will help us, and what we will have to do.”
Feeling he understood what the old man was talking about, but growing more confused the more he thought about it, Andrak shook his head with a sigh and handed the book back to Ka'Varel. “Are you trying to tell me that we are mentioned in these omens?”
Ka'Varel waved for him to retain the book as he nodded. “Yes, though with a cursory observation it would appear as enigmatic as a riddle, without the necessary knowledge of the histories of the pertaining script.” Seeing Andrak's bemused frown he slowed again. “Turn to page thirty seven. Read the third line of the third passage.”
Andrak fingered the pages across until he found the desired page and scanned quickly for the passage Ka'Varel had indicated. It was only several lines in length, with an unknown author and date of utterance, though it was shown as being Dak'marian in origin. He looked to the third line and began to read. It was in both the Universal Tongue and Elvin, but he decided against reading the Elvin script as his understanding of it was not as good as it should have been.
“The last son of the lion shall fall under the influence of the treeborn, and with the daughter of the slave unite-” The passage ended there, as if Ka'Varel had ceased to continue. Maybe the script had been untranslatable, or whatever came after was not important, but he looked to the old man questioningly, and found his gaze being returned with an unblinking inquisition. “I have no idea what that means.”
With a curt nod and a smile that was only slightly mocking, Ka'Varel took the book and returned it to his saddlebag. “As it was meant to be, for not everybody is meant to know of these prophecies nor understand them. Who do you think the treeborn are?”
Frowning at the sudden question, Andrak immediately answered “The Elves,” knowing most Elves were born in the Forest of Lloreander, an ocean of trees against the western coast. Ka'Varel nodded approval, though something about his dark visage spoke of something beyond the answer, but he continued quickly, the look passing.
“Good. What about ‘The last son of the Lion’? Who would he be?”
Andrak frowned at this. He had not heard of any creature or races that were Lions and men. He guessed it might relate to a man named 'Lion', but the link was obscure. It was Kitara who answered, however, nudging her horse forward with a laugh at her brothers pained thoughtfulness.
“It is you, stupid.” She flicked the tip of her reins at him as he looked at her incredulously, but a look from Ka'Varel told him she was right.
“How do you know that? What does it mean?”
Ka'Varel turned to her then, that same question asked by his raised brow, the look of surprised pleasure evident.
“You have not read our family history as I have, but when father was young, he fought border skirmishes with the Darishi. Being the second son of the King then, he used the Lion banner of his mother's family. From that time on he was referred to as ‘The Lion’, for he fought with strength, pride and courage throughout the battles, making quite a name for himself.”
Andrak eyed her with wonder. She was right in that he had not read about their family histories, though when he wondered where she had, he realized it was more than likely due to her extensive studies.
“Indeed that is true, Kitara,” said Ka’Varel. “Your wisdom should not be overlooked, I see.” It was a compliment, she knew, but it also sounded like a warning to himself for the future, that maybe he would not divulge some things she might have the chance to decipher or think through.
“But surely there are many possibilities with even those words?” asked Andrak hopefully, suddenly weighed by the t
hought of carrying the burden of future prophecy on his shoulders, however small or insignificant it might have been.
“Aye, but we must take the more likely choice when there is an impasse, to give us the chance of bringing the prophecy to life. If we choose wrong, then we go to another and another, and hope those we get right are for the betterment of the final prophecy. Almost like glass. Many grains of sand are needed for even the smallest of windows, but if a few grains are not sand or impure, there will be an undermining of the window’s strength. Too many of these impure grains and the window will be useless, but if only a few there are, it will still function as should be.”
“But are there also prophecies opposing the prophecies we would see come to pass?” asked Kitara with a pensive frown. “Do the Ashar'an have their own prophecies?”
Ka'Varel nodded regretfully. “Yes, but like the window, if we have more of the pure grains, we can still make the window without obvious flaw.”
The implications of this were oppressive, and there was a silence between them as they drifted apart, picking up the speed as Tyrun urged them forward from the rear. It was agreed upon beforehand that they would travel as far as possible the first day to reduce the likelihood of being noticed. As such, Andrak and Kitara were forced to ride with their hoods raised, even when they came to an Inn for the night, disappearing quickly into their room upstairs.
They spoke haltingly about prophecies late into the night, tired after the day's riding but enjoying the chance to speak together as they used to.
“From what Ka'Varel has said, I think we are heading for dark and difficult times.” Kitara spoke softly, lying beneath the warm sheets on her side, cradling her head on her hand. “Do you think we will have much say on these prophecies he speaks of?”
Andrak lay on his back, bathed in the glow of moonlight beneath the window on the opposite side of the room. His hands were clasped beneath his head, and his eyes were closed in thought. He had brooded for most of the day over these mysterious prophecies.