by Emmet Moss
As Bider crouched in a small bush near the top of a slight rise, he fondly remembered his attempt to search and find the invading Eagle Runners during his tenure as a recruit. The scouts under Sergeant Shade needed to get one man to the sturdy wooden wall of the encampment before an alarm sounded.
The recruits, of course, had been told that the company would be arriving sometime this week and were expected to be wary and alert. Three of the five years had seen the victory handed to the Runners. Bider’s complement had failed miserably in their duty when the lanky Orn Surefoot nonchalantly appeared in the meeting hall, took a seat beside two surprised soldiers, spooned himself a large bowl of steaming soup, and proceeded to consume it.
Sliding forward while keeping prone and as invisible a target as possible, Bider brushed aside a handful of snow that had fallen on his head from the leaves above. Already winter had sunk its teeth into the land. A native of far harsher climates further to the north, Bider ignored the slight chill that gripped his body.
As he inched closer to the camp, he could see movement to the south. From his vantage point, he spied one of his fellow men creeping skillfully along the edge of some shrubbery that had yet to bend against the weight of the newly fallen snow. The soldier was closer to the objective than he would have expected. Straining to see who it was that moved through the snow cover, Bider gasped, recognizing the smooth movements and sheathed blade poking up nonchalantly from beneath the man’s cloak as he slid forward. Captain Silveron had joined the game.
Although surprised by his discovery, Bider could do little but grin in appreciation at the sheer audacity of the man. The captain must know that if he were to be discovered, there would be no end to the barbs and jokes from the men. With glee, and more than a little admiration, Bider watched Gavin not only arrive at the wall undetected, but also slip over the wooden rampart and into the camp itself. Within minutes a bell clanged loudly from the center of camp. Bider pulled himself to his feet and waved as other Eagle Runners appeared from concealed positions on the outskirts of the camp.
As he joined Garett and a few other friends at the base of the ramp that led into camp, he laughed at the exasperated looks the new recruits had on their faces. And there, just inside the gate, was the captain. Beside him stood a short, barrel-chested man, who seemed nearly as wide as he was tall. His greying beard was scragglier than usual, but the dwarven Sergeant Rockfar was a welcome sight.
Each man paused to congratulate Captain Silveron as they passed under the archway, chuckling at the merry glint lurking in his eyes. The captain was a hard man, often quiet, and to see his broad smile was something special. And so, Gavin Silveron greeted Bider and the cheerful Eagle Runners.
“Welcome to Galen’hide, gentleman. Welcome home!”
WINTER
3AE337-338
Aer, the fundamental catalyst used and manipulated by magekind, is pure energy. As proven by the First Age experiments of the Archmagus Tel’Contell, it is the source of power from which all living things borrow, and the basis for all life in Kal Maran.
—The Silveryn Doctrines, Volume I
Chapter XII
The Shield Edge, Sanctuary of the Silveryn Order
Tel’Andros looked in horror at the mangled bodies that lay scattered across the forest floor. They were little more than children; their smooth faces once alive with the curiosity and wonder of youth. Yet now, under the eaves of the Aeldenwood and within a few feet of the Shield itself, no breath stirred from the eight small corpses.
It’s impossible that this has happened.
In fact, it was a tragedy of the worst kind; a culling of the increasingly rare talent that the Silveryn Order travelled the expanse of Kal Maran to discover. Every year their numbers dwindled, and every year the Shield continued to weaken.
Running his hands along the surface, Tel’Andros pondered the reality of its waning strength. The Shield looked like a shimmering wall of silvery blue water rising from the terrain. The magical barrier reached high into the sky, eventually fading from view as it disappeared into the clouds. An electric tingle quivered beneath Tel’Andros’ fingertips, and the sensation caused his muscles to twitch involuntarily. The feeling was harmless to a mage of his abilities. Unlike most of humankind, a Silveryn mage could walk through the barrier as easily as a man might walk beneath a cascading waterfall.
Although his mind wandered, the harsh reality of the present tragedy forced him to face the grisly matter at hand. With trepidation he returned his gaze to the slain novices. The three girls and five boys had barely seen a dozen summers, and now they would see no more. Kneeling down beside the closest body, Tel’Andros struggled to maintain control of his stomach as it roiled and tossed uncomfortably. The girl’s body had been savagely torn apart. Her left arm hung limply by a thin shred of bloodied tissue, while the hand itself was completely missing. Her soft brown robe was a tattered mess, and deep slashing wounds crisscrossed her torso. The girl’s neck was tilted awkwardly to one side, and the right half of her throat had been ripped out. Dark crimson blood had poured from the gash, seeping into the newly fallen snow. Reaching out a trembling hand, Tel’Andros gently closed the young girl’s eyes and whispered a quiet prayer beneath his breath.
As he moved towards the next victim, he suddenly recalled her name — Tari. She had been a soft-spoken girl with a beautiful smile. Pausing to look at her tortured body one last time, it was all he could do to control the terrible sadness that welled up inside of him. It would serve no purpose to weep now for the fallen. There would be a time and a place for mourning. For now, the mages of the Silveryn Order needed to exact their own measure of vengeance; those responsible would face justice.
As he crouched near the next victim, this one a tawny-haired boy, he heard the soft rustle of robes as someone approached. Ignoring the new arrival, he gently closed the novice’s sightless eyes. What remained of this child was nearly impossible to describe. The pain he must have felt before his passing…
“Pardon my intrusion, Tel’Andros, but you asked me to inform you if we found the remains of Ir’Roland.”
Slowly returning to his feet, Tel’Andros turned to face the speaker. “Thank you, Sasha. If you would be so kind,” he motioned towards her.
“Of course, Magus,” she responded immediately, her eyes desperately trying to avoid the slain children. Walking next to the shimmering wall of the Shield, she led him towards her find.
Less than a hundred paces from the site, the Archmage Roland lay in a pool of his own blood. His gold-trimmed robes were reduced to rags, the remaining pieces barely covering his battered frame. Roland’s command and understanding of Aer had been both profound and impressive. His murderers cared little for such details. Most of his face had been viciously slashed by claws belonging to creatures unmerciful in their savagery. Breathing deeply, Tel’Andros carefully extracted the man’s hood from behind his shattered skull and covered as best he could the gruesome visage.
Unlike the carnage near the young novices, there was clear evidence that Roland had not fallen easily. The burned bodies of at least a score of Gath lay scattered throughout the area. The destroyed forms were a welcome sight to Tel’Andros, suddenly overcome by a dark flash of hatred. Such senseless violence…
For many years now, the Order had been losing strength, while its enemies multiplied. Where once the halls of Dragon Mount had been filled with enthusiastic laughter and the excitement of youth, now there remained only cold stone and empty corridors. Few people cared to send their children to the once hallowed halls of the Silveryn Order. With regret and a slight tremble of fear, Tel’Andros recognized that losing eight novices was a severe blow. Still, this was a stark reminder of the importance of the Shield and the commitment required by the mages to fend off the unnatural forces that threatened their borders.
The vicious Gath had first pierced the magical ward that summer. The
Council believed such a feat to be impossible for such mindless creatures, and yet the leaders of the Order still refused to admit that a second force must have played a role in the breach. The Archmages were silent regarding the dark rumour circulating among the rest of the mages in Dragon Mount. They refused to acknowledge the obvious secret known by all; that only renegade mages possessed the skill and the power to rend the Shield. They, and only they, could be responsible; but Tel’Andros knew the cost of forcing the issue with the Council.
Looking down at Archmage Roland, his body mangled and broken, Tel’Andros realized that matters were quickly slipping out of control. Regrettably, Ir’Roland had been one of the many who had dismissed his suspicions regarding the Fallen as foolishness — and now he was dead.
“He fought well, Magus,” sounded a voice from behind. “The Gath will think twice before attempting another raid through our defenses.”
Tel’Andros ignored the new arrival as he brushed some dirt from his robes, staring balefully at the twisted carcasses of the terrible beasts. He suspected that the First would be unimpressed by the report she would soon receive detailing today’s slaughter. The Gath should never have been able to breach the barrier, let alone attack with such strength and ferocity as to slay one of the Order’s highest ranking mages.
The black-armoured soldier waited patiently to be addressed. Tel’Andros knew him well. He was the Koriani Third, and Andros was pleased that the elite guard from Dragon Mount had sent one of its finest to investigate the tragedy. The First would be wise to consider this a matter of the utmost urgency.
He was clad in the customary garb of the Order’s private guard, including black leather armour embossed with a slash of silver at the sleeves. The warrior looked grim in the weak morning light.
Tel’Andros soon realized that the forest behind him was crawling with soldiers, most crouching to better observe the bloodied ground.
“Deowyn, I will need your men to scour the forest immediately. If any of the Gath remain in the area, I want them hunted down,” Tel’Andros ordered in a calm yet menacing tone. “Ir’Roland did cast his distress spell only moments before he fell. He died here hoping that the creatures would consider him the only threat so that his young charges could escape. Something must have gone terribly wrong…” he trailed off.
“My men are already tracking fresh Gath movements along a trail to the west. If the creatures can be caught before they leave the boundaries of the Order, they will be destroyed,” Deowyn replied confidently.
“And your take on the battle site, Third?” Tel’Andros asked.
“I believe you are correct, Magus,” the soldier nodded sadly. “Once the archmage discovered the Gath within the boundaries of the Shield, he reacted to protect his pupils.”
“But…” Tel’Andros prodded. He could tell that an unspoken addition to the Koriani soldier’s hypothesis was forthcoming.
Clearing his throat, Deowyn continued. “All signs indicate that the mage was the last of the party to be slain. The placement of the Gath bodies,” he indicated with a gauntleted hand, “is consistent with a battle being fought towards the clearing, not away from it. The Archmagus was trying to return to the clearing, not flee from it.”
“But why?” Tel’Andros asked, confused by the suggestion. “Ir’Roland would have known that the children, as much as his counsel had always been valued, were more important than his own life. The novices are the future of the Order.”
“He did so because he was not the target,” Deowyn averted his eyes. “The children were.”
A light drizzle began to fall, penetrating the thick forest canopy overhead. Lifting his face to catch the cold rain, Tel’Andros closed his eyes and shivered. It took a moment to realize that it was the Koriani guard’s comment that had caused the sensation, and not the rain.
The children… He agonized in silence.
Here we are again old friend,
a journey’s rest, a road, an end.
In darker times, we will wander,
to tear the fears of men asunder.
A yarn of glory, love, and pain,
a warm respite from pouring rain.
For t’is my calling, passion, and way,
as my mistress, your songs I’ll play.
—‘The Lute’, Shenro Taleweaver
Chapter XIII
Briar, Northern Council
The blizzard tore through the shuttered and empty streets of Briar with a ferocity that worried even the hardened old-timers.
For three days and three nights the winds howled, and the snow fell as a thick blanket on the northern town in amounts never before seen. The shrieking gale hampered sleep, and many grew short of temper. For a folk that thrived upon the outdoors even in the dead of winter, the forced confinement had many a family arguing and fuming with each other about everything.
Even the Lumbers, regarded as the hardiest of men, were forced to endure a certain incarceration of their own. They were trapped miserably within their camps and away from their families. By the third day of the storm, the townsfolk were carefully monitoring their wood piles for fear of running out of fuel. It was fire that warded off the deadly cold that managed to slip through the cracks of the homesteads in Briar.
In the Black Boar, Alessan’s world had been reduced to two simple chores: stoking the fire and monitoring the large black pot dangling over the flames. Even his mother’s inn, a well-built and well-maintained establishment, felt the cold bite of the incessant winds and driving snow. Early on the second day, Alessan and Varis had painstakingly covered each and every window in the large common room.
His mother wanted to block out as much of the storm’s chill as possible. Alessan wondered how some of the outlying homes were faring in the midst of such a powerful blizzard.
Local business had been slow, but the arrival of a large merchant caravan returning from the south kept the common room partially full, if not a little boisterous. With nowhere to go, the men and women of the party had chosen to drink themselves into a stupor. Even now at the crack of dawn, three men diced in the corner with an almost empty bottle of spirits at their side. A few of their companions lay sprawled across one of the wooden tables, with their snoring clearly audible from the far end of the room.
As always, Alessan was overlooked as he struggled to carry an armful of dried logs through the mess and clutter. Carefully avoiding the majority of the dishes and food strewn about the floorboards, he reached the hearth with a sigh of relief. His body, but especially his weakened arm, tended to throb painfully when the colder weather settled in for the season. Rubbing his arm for good measure, he headed back to the kitchen.
His mother would be expecting him at the breakfast table. It was a rare treat to be able to eat together with Varis, his sister, and his mother, as they were almost always busy serving the customers. With the common room still in use, the Black Boar’s workers had some time to pass before the remainder of the merchant party retired. His mother decided that cleaning the room could wait.
“Did I hear voices coming from the front, Ally?” his mother asked as he sank into one of the wooden chairs at the small dinner table.
“Yes, Mother,” he nodded, reaching for a steaming homemade biscuit. “There are still three of them awake and dicing. The others are… sleeping,” he added, taking aim at a crock of butter.
“Are they still drinking?” Kayla frowned.
“One of them has been drinking since he arrived,” Varis cut in. “Nothing much to do while cooped up I suppose. Not my choice these last few days, but a popular one around town I’d be willing to bet.”
“Quite a disgusting display of behaviour if you ask me,” his sister replied.
“But one that fills the coffers and pays for our food,” Varis answered.
“Let it be. We’ve seen worse, and I’d rather sp
eak of something else besides the storm and our guests,” Shani Oakleaf said, passing a thick slab of cooked ham to the old man.
Alessan noted the tired expression on his mother’s face. It had become quite common to see her this way ever since he had mentioned the prospect of leaving with Corian Praxxus. She appeared defeated, he realized with chagrin. Although a hard woman, harder after the death of his father, Alessan had been raised in a loving household. His mother had never beaten them, nor had she demanded more from her children than could be expected. She seemed to believe that should Alessan depart, he would never return. She was saddened by his enthusiasm to leave his family behind. A stranger, she had argued one night, had earned his trust and confidence more easily than those who had loved and accepted him all his life.
He knew what she meant by the remark. He was a ba’caech in the eyes of the world; half a man who could do little to support either himself or others. Without the Black Boar to run after her death, Alessan knew she feared for his future. It was a loving and realistic response for the son she had sheltered since his birth. Strangely enough, although he dare not speak such thoughts, Alessan was confident his father would have supported his desire to see the world. Twice now, those very words had been dangerously close to the tip of his tongue. Turning away when his mother was angry had always been the best course of action; and when speaking of his dead father, it was the only course to follow.
“Karli Burnaise is expecting soon,” Kayla said, breaking Alessan’s train of thought.
“The Fey’Derin lieutenant’s wife?” his mother asked.
“Yes, I met her in the market last week. Some say it could be twins with the size of her belly,” Kayla commented.
“That will be her seventh and eighth, no?” Varis asked. “Seems the Drayenmark are of a hardier stock than you and I. That woman must have seen close to forty-five summers, and yet here she is ready to bear twins! Wasn’t much I wanted to do at forty-five except eat, drink, and sleep,” the man laughed, glancing at Shani.