by D. A. Stone
“Boy!” snapped the old mage from behind the wall, bringing him back to reality. “There is much to go over and I don’t tolerate stupidity. Follow quickly now! Come on!”
The First Mage vanished then. Tenlon paused, feeling his heart hammering in his chest. After a moment he quickly moved to the far wall and slipped behind it.
Chapter 4
Kreiden moved away from the king’s tent beneath a black sky. Lightning stabbed through thick clouds and his heart was heavy as he made his way toward the message tent at the far end of the camp. The image of the king floated across his mind. That he was loyal to Healianos, there was no doubt. Kreiden wasn’t troubled by what the king had asked of him. He would gladly offer his life for cause and country. It was the thought of what he had to leave behind that distressed him.
He loved Talia and his years with her had been a joy. But there was always a battle to be fought or a nation to march against. He was a man of war, ill-suited to married life, yet she loved him anyway.
Natalia was wildly intelligent and wondrously beautiful, and she possessed a deep strength that was a rare quality, not only in women but in anyone. When last they were together, he had promised to return, for his skill in combat was great and he’d always come home before.
Kreiden knew now that it was a promise he shouldn’t have made.
He thought back to the frightened little apprentice outside of the tent. What was his name again? Trotan? Tarnan?
Whatever it was, he hoped the youth was worth the lives of ten men.
Kreiden dismissed the foolish thought. He was well aware that the king wouldn’t send them to protect the boy if there wasn’t a significant reason.
Kreiden weaved his way through campfires, coming to a group of soldiers he recognized from the light cavalry. They had removed their armor and were lounging around a fire, staring up at the tumultuous sky. One of them saw the champion approach and sat up.
“What say you, Kreiden? Night attack against the Volrathi?” the man called out. “Please tell me we’re going to attack! I need to do something. All this waiting around is torture. And Pallagrian won’t stop pissing on about his eye.” A man on the other side of the fire bolted upright, left eye wrapped in bandages.
“I said it was itchy once, Fenton. Once! So you can eat shit.”
“How is the eye, Pallagrian?” Kreiden asked across the fire.
“It’s good, sir…wait.” The man paused. “The one that I lost or the good one?”
“The one you lost,” Kreiden said amidst light laughter.
“Oh, well…it itches a bit.”
“If it’s any consolation,” Fenton put in, “you were always ugly, but at least now you can pinpoint the reason why.” Pallagrian picked up a burning stick from the fire and surged to his feet, moving towards Fenton, who was now on his side laughing.
“Don’t burn yourself, Pallagrian,” the champion said. “And you,” he pointed at Fenton, “you come with me.”
Kreiden stepped a few paces away from the laughing men.
“I was only jesting with him…” Fenton began, but Kreiden cut him off.
“I don’t care. There is other business I need you for and little time to explain.” He quickly told Fenton of the enemy flanking positions and the escort mission to the coast. Kreiden gave him nine other names to gather, telling him to pack light and to be at the king’s tent in thirty minutes.
“Well, Terk’s out. He caught a spear to the side. Some of the boys and I just checked on him. It isn’t looking good. And let’s see…Vitri, Kaldwell, and Brent are all missing too.”
“Damn it, Fenton! Fill in the gaps for me, will you? Is Desik still alive at least?”
“What do you think?” Fenton scoffed a laugh. “Did you know he fought in the phalanx today?”
“Find him. I want him out there with us. Accostas as well.”
“Desik is coming?” Fenton asked suspiciously. “What exactly is this all about?”
“You just find him.”
“Done. What about Pallagrian?”
“What about him?”
“You said to fill in the gaps. Pallagrian will want in on this. Even with the one eye, he’s still damn good.”
Kreiden shook his head. “We’ll most likely be pursued and I need the men sharp and tight. From the looks of it we’ll be outrunning Blackwolves. A great deal of them.”
Fenton nodded. “Sharp and tight.”
“Find Desik first,” the champion told him, making to leave. “Thirty minutes, Fenton.”
Fenton set off to gather the rest of the riders.
Kreiden turned and walked away, having one more errand to complete.
***
The champion moved through the Amorian camp on a direct path for the closest messenger tent. He stepped over sleeping bodies and gave quick acknowledgements to soldiers he passed. The storm above was growing stronger, the rumbling thunder and lightning seeming to have gained intensity since his conversation with Healianos. His pace quickened.
After a few minutes he arrived at a message tent. Several flickering torches lit the cluttered station. There were numerous empty wagons and a small tent with the flaps closed, illuminated from within by the glow of a lantern. All around were dozens of wooden crates stacked high on top of each other, filled with softly cooing pigeons. The intensifying breeze of the storm was swirling around thin little feathers like dry leaves in autumn. Kreiden looked around for the handler.
“Hello?” he called out.
At Kreiden’s voice an old, balding man shuffled out of the tent. He wore an ankle-length white tunic pulled tight at the waist with a thin belt of leather. The man’s wrinkled face scrunched up as he peered at Kreiden. Giving the champion a quick look, the old handler recognized the First Sword of Amoria and slightly dipped his head. Kreiden returned the nod, telling the man he needed a message sent to the capital.
“Should be easy enough,” the handler’s paper-thin voice told him. “And I’ve got just the right pigeon for the king’s champion.”
He motioned Kreiden towards the tent and lifted a flap over the side. There was a worn table with several vials of ink and quill pens. The handler opened a leather-bound book and slipped out a piece of paper so tiny and thin it looked like it might flutter away to spin into the wind with the other feathers.
“Where to?” the old man’s voice inquired. Kreiden cleared his throat.
“Lady Natalia of the Baelik house. District Three.” The old handler nodded his head and dipped a pen in the ink, carefully scribbling an address code on one side of the paper. He blew the ink dry before gently handing over the paper.
“You have the one side. Not much space, I’m afraid, but it will have to do.” Kreiden bent over the table and began scribbling his message.
“It’s enough.” In a moment he was done. “Is the storm going to affect the birds?” he asked, hoping the handler couldn’t sense the worry in his voice. The old man carefully rolled the message and placed it in a small tube.
“They can fly in any weather and they have an almost perfect return rate to their home loft in Corda. We’ve lost contact with Stonewall, but the capital is still receiving messages. Your note should reach its destination.”
***
Kreiden’s spirits were a little higher after visiting the message station. He didn’t want to leave camp before getting word to Natalia and, now that he had, there was only the ride to the coast on his mind. On his way back to the king’s tent, he stopped by his own.
The interior was lit by a single oil lantern and Kreiden used it to quickly light four more candles on a small table. His sleeping quarters were much smaller than Healianos’s and lacked the fashionable hardwood floor and rugs, but it was still a step up from the tents common soldiers shared. Then again, he never was one for extravagance. It was something Talia had always found quite amusing. When they had first met, she was appalled at the lack of decoration in his home and did her best to bring a little warmth into his lif
e.
Inside his tent, he twirled off his green cloak and draped it over a chair near the side wall. He doffed his heavy riding breastplate, grieves, and curved saber, leaving them on the bed next to a dented helm from earlier. Stripping, he threw his clothes into a corner and quickly changed into a fresh pair of leggings and riding boots.
He searched around for a leather shirt reinforced with iron plates in the shoulders, finally finding it in another open chest at the far corner of the tent. Lacing up his boots, he paused and stared at his curved saber on the bed. Imagining the terrain they would be riding through, he closed his eyes and thought about what to bring. Kneeling down, he pulled a wooden chest out from beneath his bunk.
There were several daggers and knives placed on top of larger swords wrapped in thick leather. He pulled out a baldric of three throwing knives and placed it to the side, continuing to dig through the bundles. Taking three larger ones out, he placed them on the floor and pushed the chest back.
Unrolling each, he laid two double-edged short swords on the floor next to a longer and heavier one-handed cavalry saber. He slid one of the short swords behind his lower back into special leather rings that were attached to his reinforced shirt. The sword was secured to the heavy leather, parallel to his waist. The hilt jutted out to his left side and could be pulled out easily while riding without it getting in the way.
Returning to the pile of clothes thrown in the corner, he retrieved his belt and slid it through the heavy saber’s scabbard, buckling it around his waist. Attaching the knife baldric to his back, he grabbed a small pouch of gold coins from under his pillow and stuffed it into a riding bag.
In the bag he also placed some dried fruit and meat, two oranges, a small canteen, and a few bandages. Returning to the open chest, he drew out a deep-hooded, crimson cloak. Spinning it around, he tied it at the neck and scooped up the last short sword on the floor, throwing the riding bag over his shoulder.
As an afterthought, he grabbed a loaf of crusty black bread for the walk back to the men. Blowing out the lantern and candles, he tore off a chunk and began to chew, exiting his tent without looking back. He’d been in and out in less than three minutes.
Chapter 5
Tenlon’s mood improved considerably after speaking with the king’s First Mage. Braiden had taken him into a smaller chamber sectioned off of Healianos’s tent to a disheveled area crowded with tall stacks of leather-bound texts and congested with glass jars and vials of various mixtures. It was a strange workstation, and one that he would’ve enjoyed perusing for an afternoon under different circumstances.
Shelves were everywhere, brimming with unusual items in no discernible arrangement. Lizards peered at him with beady eyes from wire cages while rabbits stared motionless from their wooden crates. The spicy smell of dried herbs permeated the air, both sweet and sickening all at once. Piles of parchment rose all around them, the pages yellowed and brittle as late autumn leaves. Strange stones, too, were scattered amidst the mess, exotic in color and clarity, with many glowing from within as if they were jagged chunks of stained glass backlit by the setting sun.
The edge of his eye even spied a copy of the Book of Aramid. It was the oldest known collection of magic from the West and, arguably, the most dangerous. A labyrinthine world of spells that interwove and folded over each other; it was easy for one to believe they were unlocking the secrets of a particular incantation when in fact they were unleashing something altogether more sinister and hazardous to their bodies. Many were the minds that fell into those pages only to return changed, mentally corrupt, or fatally ill. It was said that the Danaki mystics had used this book on Kra-and’s egg, which eventually sparked the Pestilent War.
Tenlon had thought all of the outlawed texts destroyed, but of course Amorian scholars would have kept a few, wouldn’t they? If studied properly he imagined fantastic strength could come from such a text, as well as great power.
Returning his focus to Braiden’s instructions, he absorbed everything the First Mage said, locking away each word, inflection, and flourish of the hands he spoke with to be referenced later. Tenlon’s mind captured all, which was one of the reasons he excelled at the academy. While mildly gifted in the Arts, his talent was academia and in this world he prospered.
Braiden schooled him on the minor spells the artifact would need during the journey, all of them basic enchantments learned by every student at Iralic. Everything was covered at breakneck speed, but they were simple things—trivial spells of protection and concealment, just a bit of camouflage to obscure any vestiges of magic the artifact may give off. He was made to repeat various instructions over and over until they were securely burned into his memory: Ebnan, port city of Korando, Broken Shield Inn along the Western Quay, a mug of ale and a mug of milk, Darien and Lesandra Foll.
We cannot see the stars because we are in the shadow of the mountain.
Tenlon was able to change out of his gray robes and was given soft leggings of leather, a plain white tunic, fur-lined riding boots, and a striking blue cloak that was finer than anything he’d ever owned, and it was all just handed to him. Not that he would be forced to sell any of it for lack of funds, since he was also given a leather pouch weighed down with a small fortune of gold.
Finally one of the king’s guards entered Braiden’s chamber to hand him a long hunting knife and a short, double-edged sword and scabbard. The sword was the hacking and stabbing sort the infantry carried in the phalanx—two feet of sharpened steel and a leather-bound grip—while the knife was thick and blade-heavy with a similarly sharpened double-edge. They were crude but effective weapons to be used up close. This was the first time Tenlon had ever held either, although he would never voice the thought aloud. Instead he chose to grip the weapons at his side, uncertain of what else to do with them.
After being drilled on the enchantments needed for the journey, the artifact was wrapped in a silk cloth and placed in a leather shoulder carrier that had been worn soft through what looked like years of use. Tenlon rubbed his hand down the material.
“This bag has seen distant lands and carried artifacts of great power,” Braiden told him sternly, tightening the strap across his chest. “But what it carries now pushes them all to shadow. Few days in your life will ever be as important as the ones soon to come.”
The weight of the bundle was uncomfortable at first, though he quickly grew used to it. Still clutching the knife and sword, Braiden took him out through the king’s main chamber. The candles and braziers from earlier now burned low, the open space chilling in the damp night air. The chamber was dimly lit and there was no sign of Healianos.
“Remember, tell no one what it is you carry,” the First Mage stressed. “Your escort won’t ask what it is, so do not speak of it until you meet Lesandra and Darien at the port city. You have nine days to get there. They will meet you at noon on the tenth. Darien is fat and bald and his sister Lesandra is black-haired and full of fire. They are waiting for you. Remember the phrase and do not write it down.”
Tenlon understood, having heard it all before.
Braiden led him out of the king’s chamber, past the guards, and down the steps of the raised platform. Once again he found himself under the dark, thundering sky.
Tenlon stood before several men in light armor and green cloaks, already mounted on great horses. They spoke quietly to each other, though all conversation ceased as he appeared.
Feeling uncomfortable amongst the large men, he turned around for Braiden, but the First Mage was already gone.
Walking out to the waiting warriors, he stood as tall as he could, unsure of himself. The black sky rumbled with powerful thunder, and lightning burst through the clouds, hammering down on him from above. The milling soldiers on horseback parted as a figure appeared through the darkness, leading a saddled horse towards him.
“It seems our path together has not yet ended, little mage.” Accostas was holding the reins with a wide smile. “We will see you to the coast with s
peed. And even Desik is here with us. Oddly enough, I think he may be growing fond of you.”
Tenlon looked over to the dark-haired warrior perched on his horse with spear in hand. The man said nothing, choosing instead to hack and spit to the side.
“Isn’t he charming?”
Tenlon could hardly hear Accostas’s words. He couldn’t. All of his senses were absorbed by the stunning dark bay stallion he brought forth. Tenlon’s eyes swelled wide with wonder.
“Ah, yes, I nearly forgot. When a man rides into the unknown, he needs a good horse,” the tall warrior said with a wink. “The king insisted that you take him to the port city. Even though he was in battle all day, Darkfire will still outrun the fastest horse in the cavalry. He is strong, he is fast, and he will never quit. Trust his instincts, little mage. He fears nothing.”
With that, he handed over the reins.
Tenlon felt his heart beat faster as his hands took the leather straps.
“Darkfire,” he whispered.
The rumbling above seemed to grow as it rolled across the sky, gaining momentum like a rogue wave.
“He will ride through dragon’s fire for you. You need only show him the way.”
Tenlon swallowed hard. “And are we…expecting such a ride?”
“Time will tell, young mage,” the man answered. “But if it’s through death we ride, you are most certainly on the right horse.”
Tenlon dropped the sword and knife to the grass, running a hand down the horse’s flank, feeling the energy and strength lying dormant beneath the coat. The horse’s arch and posture were perfect, the muscles of his shoulders and legs like stone sculpted by a master. Patches of scar tissue marked his sides and upper chest, the dark skin beneath pocked and twisted where hair no longer grew. This horse had seen battle, he thought. This horse had carried a king.
Tenlon began whispering to him in low tones.
“You are a great horse, Darkfire,” he said softly. “I am honored to ride you. I think you will take care of me, and we will be good friends.”