The Innkeeper's Son

by Jeremy Brooks

  Sim was watching those mountains, the first he’d ever seen, with a sense of humbled awe when a sudden movement in the fields to his left snapped him back to attention. He searched the plains beside the road for some sign of what he thought he had seen but nothing moved. Nothing stirred.

  “What is it, Sim?” Enaya asked, pulling away as she sensed his sudden tension.

  “Nothing. I just thought I saw something moving out there,” he answered.

  Enaya peered out and shook her head. “I don’t see anything.”

  It flashed by again. Sim wasn’t sure what to call it. It looked for a moment as if he were staring through a pool of water which moved across the field bending his view of the ground it passed.

  “Did you see that?” he asked Enaya. He looked around to the others to see if anyone else had noticed it, but Nehrea was the only one who had stopped.

  She stood rigidly, staring white-faced at the same spot where Sim had looked. When Sim looked again, dozens of similar hovering distortions dotted the countryside.

  When he first looked at them, they all seemed too large to bare the shape of anything recognizable, but now as he studied one spot nearest to him, Sim began to understand what they resembled. They looked like horses.

  “You don’t see that?” he asked Enaya absently, gazing with awe upon the increasing congregation of horse-shaped apparitions.

  Enaya strained her eyes at the countryside. Everyone had stopped. Both Farrus and Givara closed in around them.

  “What are you looking at?” Farrus and Givara asked, near simultaneously.

  “You don’t see it either?” Sim asked.

  “See what?” they answered in unison.

  “Nehrea, do you see it?” Sim asked.

  “You are not the only one.” she replied seriously. “It looks like some kind of horse to me.”

  “Yes!” Sim practically shouted with excitement.

  “I don’t like this,” Farrus warned, drawing his sword and facing the field.

  “Sim, what are you seeing?” Enaya shook his arm imploringly.

  He swung his arm and motioned to the whole countryside. “I don’t know how to explain it. It's like ghosts or specters. You can see right through them. They’re shaped like giant horses.

  Just then, two of the apparitions took form. They were indeed horses, impossibly tall and majestic. Each had a brilliant white coat, shimmering and clean, as though dirt had never touched them above the hoof. One horse had a thick, flowing mane of dark brown hair that tossed about in an almost choreographed dance on the steady breeze that slipped across the plains. The second horse, noticeably smaller than its companion, though easily ten feet high if it were a foot, had a mane of brooding blue hair. Both horses had a glossy golden bump on their head, just above their chocolate colored eyes, that looked as if it had been polished by hand.

  No-one knew what to do. Farrus stood dumbfounded, sword in hand hanging limply by his side. Enaya’s lips moved making soundless tokens of disbelief. Sim took his eyes away from the approaching horses long enough to spare a glance at Givara. Her normally stoic scowl had been replaced by outright awe, and her eyes glistened with the sudden emergence of tears.

  “The Dahara,” she breathed reverentially.

  “Impossible.” Sim could hear Quinn repeating to himself over and over again.

  “Are you certain, Givara?” Enaya whispered.

  “I am, my Lady. One who has stood in the presence of the Dahara can never forget their majesty,” Givara answered.

  The two horses trotted up to the road, coming to a stop before Nehrea. The sleepy-eyed beauty gazed upon them speechlessly, her open hands incessantly wiping at the tears that stained her face. For several moments the two horses stood in silence, regarding Nehrea in an almost human way. Then, unexpectedly, each horse, parried a front leg, and bent their heads in a bow of deference, remaining prostrated until Nehrea spoke.

  Her voice trembled with embarrassed incredulity.

  “Please no. Please, you mustn’t. It is I who must bow,” she stuttered, falling to her knees with her head down and her arms spread out to either side.

  “Rise Nehrea Alla’Dushura,” the brown-maned horse said in a deep human baritone that seemed to resonate in Sim‘s head. He hadn‘t seen the horse move its mouth, but the voice was unmistakable.

  Nehrea’s face was stricken. She looked up from her bow in disbelief. The eyes of everyone in the party fell upon her. “You know my name?” she strained to say.

  “Nehrea Alla’Dushura, we have read the signs of your coming in the clouds,” the blue-maned horse spoke with a feminine tone. “I am the Uellade, and this is the Mierentheon. We are the leaders of our clan.”

  “I don’t understand.” Nehrea shook her head and wiped away the tears that wet her cheeks.

  “There is much you won’t understand, Nehrea. The heritage of your line was lost long ago. But we remember,” the Mierentheon said. He swung his gaze toward Sim. “And we remember you as well, Harven.”

  “You know me?” Sim asked, drawing a host of quizzical looks from the others in the party.

  “What are you doing, fool?” Enaya whispered fiercely.

  He looked at her in confusion. “What do you mean?”

  “She cannot hear us, Harven,” the Mierentheon said.

  “Why can’t she hear you?” Sim asked.

  “She is human,” the Mierentheon replied.

  “Who can’t hear who?” Enaya asked.

  “The horses. You can’t hear them?” Sim asked her.

  “Of course not, they’re horses, Sim,” Enaya told him angrily.

  “Can you hear them?” Sim asked Farrus. He shook his head no. Givara as well.

  “Quinn?” he asked the old man.

  “Are they speaking?” Quinn wondered.

  “Yes. They said they know me and Nehrea,” Sim said.

  “Would you keep quiet!” Nehrea hissed.

  “Nehrea Alla’Dushura, long have we awaited your arrival,” the Uellade said.

  “Why her?” Sim asked.

  “She is the Collora,” the Uellade replied, with a slight bow of her head.

  “What’s a Collora?” Sim asked, drawing a gasp of disbelief from Givara.

  “Nehrea is the Whisperer. We are bound by an oath to the Creator to obey the will of the Whisperer,” the Uellade answered solemnly.

  “What’s going on, Siminus?” Enaya questioned, suddenly realizing that something indeed was being said.

  “Uellade,” Sim told her, pointing to the blue-maned horse, “says that Nehrea is a Whisperer and that they have to obey her.”

  “Rise Collora,” the Uellade instructed Nehrea a second time.

  Nehrea was on her knees fixatedly staring at the two Dahara who had come to see her. In some ways she looked like a lost child with Sim’s oversized coat hiding her voluptuous curves and the streaks of tears wetting her flushed cheeks. She looked uncertain and afraid.

  Sim went to her side and took her hand. It trembled gently. Her soft, sleepy eyes held his, risking vulnerability in her search for strength. Sim smiled at her reassuringly, pulling her to her feet to stand and face her calling. Around them, Farrus, Enaya, Givara and Quinn huddled closely, drawing together to witness these legendary horses of an age long past.

  “Tell me everything they say, Siminus,” Enaya whispered, placing a steadying hand on his back.

  The Mierentheon stepped forward and spoke. “In a time long ago, in a forgotten age, the Dahara lived in peace with man. We were left to our plains, free to graze and run without fear of man’s burdens. Then the stain of corruption gave life to new races of creatures, twisted and evil, given only to the destruction of light. Among these desecrations rose the Daikhir. At first they acted as wolves testing the strength of a flock of sheep. Only by the strength of our clan numbers were we able to balance the losses from these attacks. Then the Daikhir changed. A leader emerged, Klavensheer, bloodthirsty and terrible. He organized the Daikhir and set out
to destroy our brethren. We called upon the mercy of the Creator to protect us and a way was found. She led us to the first Collora, a human who could hear our words and wield the power of Earth source through the combined strength of our clan. The Collora brought the human armies to our defense, and in a final battle on the slopes of Mount Khabhal, the Daikhir were defeated. For many years afterward the Dahara lived in peace, protected from darkness by the Collora. Then Desirmor came to power, and the peace between our clan and the world of man was broken. We have existed in hiding awaiting the return of a new Collora. One who would stand for the Dahara and help end the darkness that veil’s our world.”

  “What are they saying?” Enaya poked Sim in the back impatiently. He had been entranced by the tale and forgotten that only he and Nehrea could understand the Dahara.

  “Mierentheon just told us a short history of the Dahara and a little bit about the Collora.” Sim whispered to her.

  “But please, Great One, I can’t be your Collora. I’m not a trival,” Nehrea pleaded.

  “You can do much, Nehrea Alla’Dushura, and we will help you learn,” the Mierentheon said.

  “Why can I hear you?” Sim asked.

  “You are a Harven. You are born of Earth source, just as we are,” the Uellade explained.

  “I don’t understand. Does that mean I‘m not human?” Sim shook his head forlornly.

  The Uellade and The Mierentheon studied him stoically. Nehrea regarded him with eyes full of questions.

  “We must ask you to come with us, Collora, to partake in the Ritual of Cerseay. We ask you to come as well, Harven,” the Mierentheon said.

  “Not yet,” Sim said, looking at Enaya. “We are on the run from men who hold allegiances to Desirmor. They hunt us even as we speak. We've been without food and water for more than a day. There is a town down the road with an inn where our friends can find rest. I need to make sure they're safe before I will go with you.”

  “Your friends may come with us,” the Uellade told him. “We can provide sustenance and soft ground for rest. But they must stay away during the ritual. The Ritual of Cerseay is for the Collora and beings of Earth source only.”

  “What do you say, Collora?” Sim asked Nehrea who still had the stricken look of someone who was completely in shock.

  “How can we say no to the Dahara?” she seemed to ask herself. She looked at Enaya for some kind of reassurance, but Enaya had no answers to give. She merely shrugged obliviously, impatiently waiting for someone to fill her in on what was happening.

  “What say you then, Collora? Will you come?” the Mierentheon asked.

  “Of course, Great One,” Nehrea answered with a solemn bow of her head. “Please lead the way.”

  ******************************************************************

  Baneur Deuseau led the way down a filthy street lined with ramshackle buildings in the section of Nal’Dahara known as the Barrio. Navan Prianhe walked a few steps behind, searching the broken windows, doors and the dark alleys, teeming with garbage and refuse, for any sign or scent of the fugitives. So far their search had proven fruitless.

  Every so often Prianhe would curse angrily and complain about the foul scents and urine-soaked streets. While Baneur wanted to find the fugitives as desperately as the loathsome Reikkan, he enjoyed watching Prianhe suffer. Anything that wiped that smug entitlement from his black, wolfish face was a welcome joy.

  Of course Baneur had his own reasons for finding the fugitives. His Master had been very clear that their apprehension was the only thing that mattered. For that alone he would have chased these vermin to the ends of the Earth, but there was something else as well. He was in love.

  Ever since he had first laid eyes upon Nehrea Alla’Dushura, with her thick black hair, dark sleepy eyes, and perfectly voluptuous curves, Baneur had been absolutely enchanted, obsessed even. In his whole life, he had never desired anything more. Standing in her presence left him breathless and weak. He was willing to do nearly anything to have her. Even, perhaps, disobeying a direct order from his Master, if it ever came to that.

  Somewhere in the twisted dwellings of his mind, Baneur was certain she would feel the same for him, if only she could get to know him better. She would disregard their differences in race, and overlook his diminutive stature. She would. She had to.

  Turks never married out of their race. It was against the laws of his people. Over the centuries there had been a handful of instances where a Turk had been found to be carrying on with a human. Execution had been the result of each case.

  But Baneur wasn’t afraid. He had left his homeland when he was barely a teenager, taken to the Castle Desirmor by his parents when his ability had manifested. Once a year, he traveled back to his homeland to see his parents. That was the only contact he kept with his people. Being home reminded him that he wasn’t human. As far as Baneur was concerned, he was as good as any human. Better even. His strength in the power alone made him better.

  Trivals were extremely rare among his people and those that showed any ability were quickly identified and sent to register. Baneur was perhaps the strongest trival ever to come from the Turkan Hills. Desirmor should have killed him. Desirmor had murdered trivals that showed only half of his strength. But the king had seen something in him and allowed him to live. That rare show of mercy would have been enough to completely ensure his loyalty, but Desirmor had gone a step further, casting a spell of compulsion that was as good as enslavement. He was bound to obey his master. He simply couldn’t resist. He didn’t want to resist. That is, of course, until he met Nehrea.

  Everything had been set up perfectly only a day earlier. For such a long time, Baneur had bided his time, waiting for the right opportunity to bargain for Nehrea’s services. When Cantor began to exact his plans for the forced nuptials of Lady Relador, Baneur knew Cantor would give him anything he wanted in return for his help. He had been so close. Now she was a fugitive, running from him with a group that would surely be put to death once they were caught. Was there any way he could convince his master to spare Nehrea’s life? Baneur could only stay quiet, let Prianhe and his filthy Reikkan's nose lead him to Nehrea, and hope his master would grant her clemency.

  Prianhe stopped suddenly in front of a dilapidated building that looked as if it had at one time been home to a butcher. He sniffed the air several times, inhaling deeply as he examined the interior through a broken window.

  Baneur watched him closely. Though Prianhe had performed this same routine at least a dozen times since they had begun their search, Baneur knew Prianhe would find it eventually. They called him Desirmor’s Hound. His ability to track was legendary.

  Prianhe took several steps down the street away from the building, sniffing repeatedly. He circled around to the opposite side of the street then came back to the broken window and leaned his head inside.

  “This is it,” he announced, confidently.

  “You’re certain?” Baneur asked.

  “I am never wrong, Turk,” Prianhe smiled darkly.

  Baneur seethed inside, but let the Reikkan’s blatant disrespectfulness slide.

  “Are they still inside?”

  “No. The scent is faint, but their trail definitely ends here,” Prianhe replied. There was a heavy contingent of armored soldiers searching the buildings behind them. Prianhe waved to Commander Corsia. “Round them up,” he told him. “This is the building.”

  Corsia signaled for his men to assemble and await further instruction, then came to stand with Baneur and Prianhe. Baneur guessed that there were about 2oo men forming into ranks.

  “You think this man ‘Beck’ is a traveler, yes?” Prianhe asked, staring down an alley that ran along the side of the building.

  “I believe he is,” Baneur replied.

  “Then you and I will enter the building with a few of Corsia’s men. Be prepared to trap him. If he’s in there, and…,” Prianhe went to the window and sniffed around again, “someone is in there. A man. Sweaty. Thi
s man Beck has the answers. He will tell us where he took them, what they said to him, everything. We can’t let this man get away. Am I clear on this?”

  Baneur and Corsia nodded. The Commander called for five of his men to come over. When they were ready, Prianhe led them down the alley along the side of the building.

  At the back corner of the structure was a door. Prianhe silently motioned for Baneur to take care of it. The Turk prepared himself, mentally going over his own plan of attack. Using fire, he quietly began to heat the handle and locks until the iron began to melt and drip to the ground. When he was sure that the door would swing freely, he slowly pushed it in, letting it open carefully. Once he had enough space, Baneur squeezed his head in and took a peek inside. Behind the door was a short, thin hallway that led into a room lit by candle light. He couldn’t see any movement.

  Then Baneur pushed the door open, just enough so that he could slide in, and closed the door gently behind him. He took a few steps toward the main room and saw a fat, youthful looking man, asleep on a chair set up on a shallow dais.

  Unwilling to tempt his luck any further, Baneur lashed out a flow of air from where he stood that enveloped the man and forced him to sit up. Shock and terror flashed across his face as his eyes snapped open, and he realized that he was trapped.

  “I’ve got him,” Baneur called out, walking into the room and facing the terrified young man.

  “You must be Beck?” Prianhe asked, striding in and shoving Baneur aside.

  The fat young man shook his head furiously in denial but couldn’t find any words to utter. His bottom lip quivered as he looked into Prianhe’s yellow eyes.

  Prianhe stepped up onto the dais and got right in his face.

  “Do you know who I am?” he asked, severely.

  “Yes,” the young man stuttered.

  “Good. That will make things easier. If you know who I am, then you know that they call me Desirmor’s Hound. I don’t really care for the moniker, but for today, it will suit my purposes.” Prianhe leaned close and took a deep inhalation next to the young man’s face. He closed his eyes and exhaled, smiling darkly. “You’ve recently had intercourse.” The man’s eyes widened even more. “Do you know how I know that?” Prianhe didn’t wait for an answer. “I have a very keen sense of smell. Very keen. My sense of smell is so refined, in fact, that I can smell when a person is lying.” The young man trembled visibly and his face went pale as if he might sick up. Prianhe seemed to sense it and took a step back. “I will ask you only one more time. Just once. Are you the man they call Beck?”