“My son,” said Drelus, “my days have gone on for many decades and lifetimes of mortal men, and I do believe that these councils will be the death of me one day. But you are patient, taking after your father and mother. You are still a prince to the throne, and will ascend in time soon to come. I do believe also that my reign is soon to end. I am weary, and at last ready to pass the seat of kings to you, my son.”
Duoreod shook his head and smiled at his father. “Father, do you not recognize these feelings? You should know that these feelings are only a passing thought soon to be replaced by happier times to come. But as for my ascension, I will wait until the days for me come. I may be ready, but I will stand aside for however long the Beloved sees wisdom in; for is it not wisdom that guides the Beloved and his people?”
“Indeed it is wisdom,” said Drelus. His smile widened, but only for a moment as his thoughts began to wander into his words. “You know much, and have seen much in these past decades of your life, of which I pray may bring happier times for you. However, I fear the shadow upon our horizon. Some unseen force guides it, as some would say, and carries it in our very direction. I know it not, and therefore I fear it as I fear for the souls of our people who will dwindle in my same fear. As king, it is my duty to see that they have courage enough to protect themselves against the shadows of doubts and fears, though I fear this to be a burden to heavy for me.
“Hear me now! If these are indeed dark times of which heralds have prophesied of in past times, then we must be ready for the coming storm. We must prepare ourselves to defend our people, as king and as prince of this city, the city of Drelus, right and honors given unto us by the Beloved himself.”
Duoreod nodded, understanding the urgency in his father’s voice. He knew all about the mysterious fumes to the west, and questioned their purpose just as much as everyone else had, if not more. But Duoreod did not fear the smoke as his father did, but looked to it as a fighter looks upon his foe, wanting nothing but to be rid of it.
After several thoughtful nods of his head, Duoreod turned a question upon his father, saying, “What will you have me do to defend our people?”
Drelus looked beyond his son and to the double doors leading out into the anteroom of the king’s citadel. The doors were large, white, and strong in their foundation. No enemy had ever broken them down in the records of the king, and Drelus planned to keep such a time unrecorded. This was the stronghold of his people. In dire times they fled into his halls where they were kept safe until delivered by the Beloved. It would remain so as long as he sat in the throne.
Turning a look of sincere value to his son, Drelus answered his prodding question. “I ask that you take with you your finest fellows and go to the Westland’s across the Hilled Valley to where the fumes rise. But I ask that you do not wander to close, for I fear the danger and the consequences of such imprudent actions. When you return, I ask that you deliver a full report of what you see there.”
Duoreod pondered for a moment the request of his father. Then, when he had sorted through the notion, he bowed in acceptance of the duty.
“I shall leave as soon as I may,” said Duoreod when he had raised form his bow. Then sweeping back his cloak he turned round and went for the side passage he had entered through.
“Go with a faithful heart,” Duoreod said to the back of the Adian noble, and then he departed.
Chapter 4
Forsaken Ones
There was once light up there, Neth’tek wondered to himself, lying on his back with the rest of his sleeping troupe upon the ash covered earth, his eyes wide open as he searched the sky filled with smoke. It was a strange light, like thousands of sparkling dots gleaming from a caverns ceiling. Except here there is no cavern. Here, upon the surface world, there is no ceiling. Just wide open space, always filled with light.
It was odd for him to stare up into such a vast expanse of nothingness, and though some among his band would think of it as a disturbance, he did not feel dangerously exposed. In fact, and for a reason he could not explain, he felt more at peace and comfort than he had in the underworld. The Shadow Realms had offered no such comfort as he felt now, staring up into the smoke filled sky, wondering on those gleaming lights he had seen the night before. What were they called?
He rested his head back against his satchel, filled with a strange powdery substance, probably the aged ashes of some ruined city in the underworld. The satchel had been given to the Urden’Dagg by a Follower whose name was Maaha Zurdagg, the enemy of the nobles of Vulzdagg, Neth’tek’s family, and had then been given to him as a symbol of peace between the Branches of the Urden’Dagg. Pointless, Neth’tek thought. It’ll never last. Hard work forges an empire, but pride and neglect rust it away. Pride is ever the prospect of The Followers of the Urden’Dagg. How much worse could the Urden’Dagg be then its followers?
Neth’tek frowned, thinking deeply, and he recalled the time he had seen the Urden’Dagg face to face, revealing itself as Diamoad, an Adya. Ezila had seen him too, been there with Vaknorbond Vulzdagg and Maaha Zurdagg, the two rival nobles, and knew more than the Urden’Dagg seemed to appreciate. Ezila, the druid spirit of something she called the Emerald Tree, was kept inside the very satchel Neth’tek rested his head against. He kept her with him, and since receiving it he hadn’t called her forth. He just couldn’t trust her. After all, he wasn’t even sure what she was exactly. A spirit, but the only spirits in the underworld were harnessed to destroy, and Neth’tek had no intention of destroying or being destroyed. Than again, the whole purpose of his coming to the surface was to destroy it. What was he to do, then?
Eventually I will call her out, he decided. Eventually I will dare to know her.
The person beside him stirred, turning onto his side away from him, but Neth’tek’s attention was not withdrawn from his thoughts. Another snored momentarily, but again he did not look to see who it had been, and neither did he flinch when the person beside him muttered. But then he heard voices speaking in low whispers, discussing matters of seeming importance; exchanging words of confrontation as they passed through the drifting haze behind him.
“Not one promotion,” the commander said, speaking in a harsh whisper. “And how long has it been? Ten… Twelve years perhaps? All this time to think and you haven’t figured it out! How much longer will it take for you to understand?”
“I understand enough,” another replied; his tone firm, yet sad in a way. “They are all very much the same. Whether I serve as captain, even as commander, I will still be ordered to kill another. Station no longer matters in this world, and when station does not appeal to the nature of us living souls, nothing matters. Not life, not death. Our destination is obliterated by our own lack of common sense.”
There was a long pause, tension growing in the air; Neth’tek could feel it. But the commander spoke again, his voice low, saying, “I do not understand why the Urden’Dagg has not gotten rid of you like the rest of your condemned people.”
“The Urden’Dagg keeps him because he still serves it.” This voice was very familiar, belonging to Tisla, the captain of Neth’tek’s own troupe.
“Yet he refuses my orders,” the commander said. “My orders come directly from the Urden’Dagg!”
“I never refused,” the sad voice interjected. The three of them paused, waiting for the one to continue, and Neth’tek almost turned over to see what was happening before he spoke up again. “I only said I’d choose a different path.”
“And what other road would you have us take?” the commander demanded.
“We came here to fight against our ancestors – the Adya – so let’s march upon the Silver City!”
“And leave the armies of Valdorin and Hemingway at our backs, ready to drive us from behind the moment we fall upon their allies?” the commander asked skeptically. “I think you are a fool, Vexor Hulmir!”
Neth’tek’s interest increased suddenly, the name of The Follower sparking recollections of some whispers he had
overhead around the camp about a renegade refugee, the last survivor of his desecrated Branch. The Branch of Hulmir, he heard, had been demolished by the Urden’Dagg decades ago. Vexor, he had heard, was the only survivor, spared by the mercy of the Urden’Dagg.
But Neth’tek’s contemplations were interrupted by Vexor Hulmir’s despondent voice. “So you will march us against an innocent people, who threaten us by defending their allies, their sworn friends?” Vexor said.
“Yes,” the commander answered smugly.
“There will be innocent children there!” Vexor exclaimed, his voice rising above their whisperings. They seemed to halt their progress walking along the line of sleeping soldiers, and now stood some feet away, continuing their debate.
“Vexor, please, the soldiers,” Tisla put in.
“Yes, the soldiers,” Vexor growled, ignoring her remark aimed at those sleeping nearby. “You will scar every one of these here with the memory of this murder!”
“It will be a memory of their honorable service to the all great and all powerful Urden’Dagg,” the commander said. “A memory, to them, just like the memory of the fall of your Branch is to their fathers and mothers: Service.”
“Commander Taganar,” Tisla said, her tone firm, “That was inappropriate.”
“All the same, it is true,” the commander said offhandedly. Neth’tek heard him turn away from Tisla and Vexor, striding swiftly onward in the direction they had been walking, and turning his head just so slightly he could make out Taganar’s figure disappearing behind the thick clusters of smoke.
Turning slowly onto his stomach, Neth’tek looked to where the voices had been coming from, and saw Vexor Hulmir and Tisla standing beside one another, looking in the direction commander Taganar had departed. Tisla was shaking her head slowly, scowling.
“He is a fool to say such lies,” she was saying to Vexor. “Pay no heed to him; he knows not what he speaks.”
“No,” Vexor said quietly, though Neth’tek could barely make out the words from the distant roar of flames. “No, he is right… It is true.”
Vexor turned and began walking west, away from the encampment. Tisla followed close at his side. Neth’tek, having caught a glimpse of the face of Vexor Hulmir, now understood The Follower’s pain. He let his head sink into his arms folded on the ground in front of him, weeping silently for the similar agony he and Vexor were going through, both houseless followers of the king who had destroyed them. Forsaken, serving the remainder of their days in payment of their families depts. Vexor Hulmir – unlike many of The Followers Neth’tek had encountered – had a heart that cared.
*****
Stylinor turned onto his side, restless, his sleep becoming more and more impossible to grasp as the days passed. It felt almost as if something was beginning to happen, something awful, and his mentality was trying desperately to warn him each night he laid down to rest. And, for the moment, Stylinor believed it. Ever since the smoke in the west appeared, blackening the heavens, he had begun losing sleep. But what was it? What was he supposed to do?
Turning onto his back, his eyes wide as he looked up at the rafters of the ceiling of his room, he wondered privately what mysteries were concealed behind such clouds of blackness. Whatever it was, the more he thought about it, the more he felt that it was coming for him. Then again, anyone could have been feeling that way.
But it was such a profound sense of restlessness!
Chapter 5
The Strong Arm
Andril strong arm, the private smith of king Drelus, had been Duoreod’s closest friend throughout their days as children in the Silver City. Long had been their years together, and throughout those long years had there been many times when their friendship was tested at the utmost limits; and each time they proved true to one another. Duoreod could not dismiss the heed to call upon his dearest friend If trouble was about in the land, and Duoreod was to investigate its substance, then he would want none other then Andril at his side.
They called the smith “strong arm” for his skill in crafting the finest weapons and tools seen in the realm; and that was why the king had chosen him as his personal craftsmen, to forge his armor and spear. And so it was the Duoreod found the infamous crafter at his usual hard work in his smithy.
Andril was stooping over a grindstone, carefully putting a sharp edge to a sword blade, when Duoreod entered through a small door off to one side of the roofless building, and stood a short distance away behind the busy smith. Set upon racks on the walls, or stacked in neat piles on wooden or stone tables, was set many variations of weapons and tools crafted by Andril; and when reaching to touch one, Duoreod found that they were still warm from recent work.
Andril turned round to set his latest piece of work down upon a table, and noticed Duoreod gingerly toying with a dagger he had picked up from a nearby table.
“I’m surprised one of your carelessness hasn’t already cut off his own hand,” Andril teased from where he stood, grinning at the surprised arrival of his friend, though most of Duoreod’s visits to the skilled smith were at random.
Duoreod laughed wryly at Andril’s comment, and then returned the dagger to its place before turning to face the smith, who showed nearly every sign of a smith’s hard work. His hands and face were soiled with soot and grease, and his leather apron was more so. His golden hair was dirtied nearly brown, and was singed at the edges where it hung nearer to the ashes of the furnace.
“Tough day?” asked Duoreod after examining the appearance of the smith.
Andril shrugged carelessly as he began to sort through a stack of swords on a nearby table. “Can I help you with anything? I don’t suppose that dainty sword of yours needs sharpening; its edges are looking at bit blunt.”
Duoreod glanced down at the silver scimitar hanging on his belt, then shot a quick glare back at Andril as the smith began to chuckle to himself, and shook his head in disregard to the minor insult to his weapon.
“I’ve only come for you, Andril,” Duoreod replied as he broadened his shoulders before the smith. “My father, the king, has asked that I, his son, take some few of my choice with me to investigate that smoke rising to the west.”
Andril paused for a moment, considering Duoreod’s reference to the black fumes. Then pulling a short sword from the stack of weapons he turned its blade upon the grindstone and began to turn it and chip away at the delicate metal.
“What might a smithy do among the company of a prince and his best fighters?” Andril asked over the sound of grinding metal.
“I cannot say for certain,” Duoreod said to his bent back. “However, a smith will be of good use on a long trail where swords are to become dull.”
“Why, are you expecting much fighting on this road of yours?”
Duoreod shrugged. “You never know.”
Andril nodded in agreement. He breathed a sigh of regret as he slowed the grindstone to a stop. Without turning to face the prince, the smith asked in a weary tone, “what is it that you ask of me, Duoreod son of Drelus?”
Duoreod shifted his posture into a straighter frame at the mention of his father’s name, and smiled in amusement as he knew that Andril knew what he was about to ask him and was simply being stubborn as usual before accepting any requests. They both knew how much Andril enjoyed the intensity of such ventures that the two of them had carried out in past years.
“I ask only that you accompany me on my errand into the Westland’s, where danger most undoubtedly awaits those of whom will accept my grand offer,” said Duoreod in a tone that only heighten the anxiety of the adventurous smith. “If you accept my offer, I shall count you as the first of my company. One, perhaps two others will join us, if we are lucky.”
Andril spun round quicker then an ignited spark, and flung his newly sharpened sword at Duoreod without warning. The prince instinctively ducked away from the sharp blade as it passed overhead to embed itself into the frame of the doorway. Duoreod rolled to the side and jumped to his feet, his si
lver scimitar drawn and at the ready as he faced the ever surprising Andril.
The smith only threw back his head and laughed heartily at the reaction of his friend, and the terrified expression that had passed over his once proud visage. Regaining control over his humorous attitude, Andril waved away the drawn scimitar in Duoreod’s clenched grip, and began undoing the laces of his apron behind his back.
“I will not hurt you,” said Andril with a wide smile as Duoreod returned the blade to its scabbard at his side. “But come; tell me more of your errand so that I might better prepare my belongings. Are we to battle against those monsters which bring forth the fume?”
Duoreod shook his head. “If we are to encounter enemies upon the road, we are to avoid fighting at any cost. Light and few we will go to where we may see for ourselves the flames that bring to pass such clouds of smoke. It may be unlikely that monsters brought forth the storm; though I wonder myself whether or not danger awaits us . . .” his voice trailed away as he fell into deep thought.
Andril, frowning thoughtfully as Duoreod went silent, folded his apron and set it aside upon a counter, dusted off his dirty garments, and turned to a rack where was set on display the crafted possessions that he saved for himself. A two handed sword with a long thin blade was set upon the rack, and an unstrung long bow made from the wood of an oak was there also, along with a quiver of many slender arrows.
After privately contemplating which weapon he preferred more, Andril Strong Arm took down the oak bow and held it in both hands; feeling its lean frame with thumb and index finger.
“Monsters or no monsters, my friend, I shall prepare myself in like manor as though they await us at this very hour,” Andril said as he turned round to face the puzzled expression of Duoreod. He carefully strung his weapon, and then held it up to emphasize his point.
War of Shadow and Light: Part Three of the Redemption Cycle Page 3