The Children of Isador

by Sam J. Charlton

  Brenna was a rough town—it was the sort of place where even during daylight, women were careful. Even the prostitutes never walked about at night un-chaperoned. The girl was mad, walking into a tavern alone at this hour—a tavern full of bored, drunk men.

  The tavern-owner’s wife intercepted the girl as she purposefully made her way across to an empty table near Jennadil. “Do you need lodgings?”

  “Yes and a meal as well if it is not too late?”

  “I’ll bring your supper up to your room. Follow me,” she tried to usher the girl towards the wooden stairwell but the girl turned away and took a seat at a table.

  “I’d prefer to eat here,” she said.

  The tavern-owner’s wife gave her an exasperated look before disappearing back into the kitchen. The girl settled herself in her chair and nonchalantly pushed back her hood. Brown curls framed a pert face. Jennadil felt a tickle of recognition. Had he seen her before? She reminded him of someone.

  Every man in the tavern was staring openly at the girl. To her credit, she ignored them blithely, instead looking around the tavern’s interior with curiosity. The men who had been playing Death Dice were sniggering amongst themselves and making crude comments. Jennadil wondered if this girl was stupid or just looking for trouble. If it was the latter, than she had certainly found it, for her presence was causing a growing ripple of excitement.

  The tavern-owner himself scuttled out of the kitchen, bearing a plate of food and a mug of ale. He was a small, nervous man with bright, darting eyes, like those of the hare on the sign outside the tavern.

  “Are you certain you would not prefer to dine in your room my dear?” He said in a hushed voice as he placed the girl’s dinner before her. “This is not the place for a young girl.”

  The girl shook her head, “I prefer it here thank you.”

  The tavern-owner gave her a helpless, pleading look that she ignored before he retreated into the kitchen. The girl ate hungrily. Jennadil noticed however, that she ate neatly with good manners, despite her obvious appetite. That, and her well-bred accent, hinted she came from a class that closeted its women rather than letting them eat alone in taverns.

  Jennadil felt he should intervene.

  “Excuse me.” He leaned forward and tried to get her attention. “I think you should heed good advice. You should not be eating in here. You are attracting far too much attention to yourself.”

  The girl turned in her chair and fixed him in a cool, hazel-eyed stare. Jennadil was reminded even more strongly of someone, but before he could make the connection, she spoke. “I shall eat where I please. Mind your own business.” With that, she turned back to her meal.

  Meanwhile, at the table of dice-players they had obviously thrown dice to decide who would take first turn with the girl. The tall, meaty fellow with deep-set eyes, who had just lost nearly all his gold, swaggered over to where the girl sat. He pulled out a chair next to her and stared rudely while she ate.

  “Yer hungry?” he leered. “I have somethin’ ya can eat!” His cronies at the nearby table broke into cackling laughter and Jennadil winced. This was going to turn ugly. Despite that Jennadil did not feel at all chivalrous towards this female, he was going to have to intervene, and in doing so draw attention to himself. He bitterly regretted his decision to set foot inside the White Hare—The Stag and the Ox may have been a long walk but it was not full of nasty surprises.

  The girl looked up from her dinner and gave her harasser a glare of disdain. “Get away from me you slack-jawed cretin!”

  This drew howls of laughter from most of the men inside the tavern. Even Jennadil could not suppress a grin of mirth. The girl had a tongue like a viper. Unfortunately, the slack-jawed cretin in question had not found her comment amusing. “I can find much better use for yer pretty mouth,” the man hissed, his eyes narrowed into pinpricks. “We’ll see how feisty you are when I get ya alone!”

  Not waiting for another cutting response, he grabbed the girl by the hair and yanked her to her feet. Screaming in outrage, she kicked and struggled, but he was twice her size and held her easily.

  “I’m takin’ her upstairs,” he bragged to his friends. “If ya wanna turn ya’d better queue outside the door!” His promise was met with roars of approval.

  He turned, dragging the kicking and yelling girl behind him, and made for the stairwell.

  Unfortunately, he found it blocked by Jennadil.

  “Get outta my way!” he snarled, “she’s mine!”

  Jennadil sighed apologetically. The apology was sincere; he really did not want to intervene. However, his sense of decency could not allow this oaf to rape the girl.

  “I do apologize but I am afraid I cannot move aside.” Jennadil sighed again. Please let her go.”

  The man snorted in disbelief before he made to shove Jennadil out of the way. Instead of doing so, he howled in pain. The girl had sunk her teeth into his wrist, and clung on like a terrier as he tried to shake her off. Turning his attention away from Jennadil, the man clubbed his captive across the side of the head with his free hand.

  The girl released his wrist and sailed into a nearby table. She crashed into it and sent a flagon of ale smashing onto the floor. Her attacker grabbed her once more by the hair, put his head down and charged at Jennadil, intent on running him over. He never touched Jennadil however, for when he was no more than an a foot from him, a bright green energy bolt exploded from Jennadil’s staff and knocked his assailant flat on his back.

  The on-lookers collectively scrambled to their feet, including the bounty hunter. There were cries of “wizard!” along with more worrying shouts of “reward!”

  Real panic seized Jennadil now that realized he had irretrievably blown his cover. There was a hefty price on his head, which many in Brenna obviously knew about. He cursed himself for getting careless.

  Jennadil’s mind frantically scrambled about as he tried to decide on the quickest way out of the tavern. However, his thoughts on escaping were interrupted when the tavern’s front door crashed open.

  Three soldiers dressed in the green and black armor of Serranguard stomped in. The signs of a fracas inside the tavern were evident but the soldiers did not appear to notice. At once, Jennadil saw the terror in their eyes that they were valiantly trying to hide.

  “The Morg!” One of the soldiers shouted as if they were all deaf. “They are marching north and are but one hour from Brenna. Flee while you can! There is no time to pack your possessions. Leave immediately!”

  After delivering this devastating news, the soldiers turned on their heels and marched out of the tavern.

  There was a moment of shocked silence inside the White Hare while the news sunk in—before an eruption of panic. Jennadil chose this moment to make his escape. Nimbly, he leaped over the still prone body of his attacker and past the girl who was picking herself up off the ale soaked floor and wiping blood off her mouth.

  The dice players were shouting and scrambling over each other to get their share of the gold pieces they had bet. The gold sat in a pile at the table’s center and it scattered as they all lunged for it. The scene turned ugly and knives were drawn.

  Reaching the door, Jennadil saw the bounty hunter get to his feet in one fluid movement, and he would have reached the wizard in moments, had the dice players not blocked his path. He tried to elbow his way through their brawl but, thinking he was after their gold, the dice players turned on him. Suddenly, he too had to defend himself from wildly slashing knives and meaty fists. Jennadil disappeared into the street.

  Inside the White Hare, Gywna Brin shakily got to her feet, pulled up her hood and made to follow the wizard outside.

  “Where do ya think ya goin wench? We aint finished with ya.” One of the men made a grab for her.

  Gywna took hold of another earthen jug of ale off the table next to her and swung it in his face. It crunched against her attacker’s nose and shattered. He screamed and let go while Gywna dived for the d
oor.

  Outside, she caught a flash of green disappearing up the street. He was getting away. She had to follow him— staying close to the wizard would probably save her life. She had felt so courageous after escaping from the Temple but her experience in the tavern had shaken her badly. That oaf would be raping her right now if the wizard had not intervened. Pushing the terrible thought aside, Gywna gave chase.

  It had previously been a tranquil evening but, as news of the Morg’s imminent arrival rippled across Brenna, the town burst into life. Panicked towns-folk flooded out into the narrow streets, jostling each other and trampling anyone who could not keep their feet.

  Everyone was moving, en masse, northwards towards the lakefront.

  Gywna sprinted through the narrow streets. A stitch stabbed her side but she forced herself on; she knew if she lost sight of the wizard it would be nearly impossible to find him again in the jostling crowd. Soon he was just a short distance in front of her. His green cape swirled around him. He ran in long, loping strides and appeared to be slowing his pace. He was clutching his side as he jogged—like Gywna, he appeared to be suffering from a stitch after running with a stomach full of food and drink.

  The streets sloped downwards now, in the last stretch before the lakefront. Gywna finally drew level with the wizard.

  “Excuse me!” she gasped.

  He swung his head round and his eyes narrowed when they fixed on her. “You! Why are you following me?”

  “Since you saved me back there,” Gywna panted. “I’ve decided to stick with you until I get the chance to repay the debt.”

  Panic spread across the wizard’s face. “There’s no need for that!”

  “Yes, there is. No argument. It’s decided.”

  “Look here young lady,” the wizard snapped. “Nothing is decided—I travel alone.”

  “Not anymore.”

  The wizard opened his mouth to argue the point further but the sight of the waterfront ahead of them suddenly diverted his attention.

  It was bedlam.

  Townsfolk were seizing any available craft and scrambling aboard. Fights had broken out and boats were capsizing. People shrieked as they plunged headfirst into the year-round, icy water. Oblivious to the townsfolk’s plight, Lake Farne’s still waters twinkled in the moonlight, in a serene backdrop to the chaos onshore.

  CHAPTER SIX

  AN UNEXPECTED ALLY

  The moon was riding high in the night sky when the unknown creature carrying Lassendil descended towards the earth. Lassendil fought against a growing feeling of unreality and the sense that this whole ordeal was merely a hallucination. He was light-headed and had started to shiver violently, from both shock and the cold. Although it was not yet autumn the air high above Isador had a bite to it.

  He felt his feet brush against treetops and then, suddenly, the fearsome grip on his shoulders released and the ground rushed up to meet him.

  Lassendil hit springy, dew-covered grass and clambered stiffly to his feet. He still clutched his sword and he intended to use it. However, when his gaze fell on his abductor, the sword slipped from his nerveless fingers. Lassendil’s knees went rubbery and he stared.

  The moonlight bathed the surrounding landscape in silver, giving the setting an otherworldly glow. Lassendil stood in the center of a wide clearing, surrounded by oak and ash trees.

  Before him stood an enormous owl.

  The creature stood at least ten feet high. It stared at him unblinkingly; its eyes two great lamps in the darkness, its soft blue feathers glinting silver in the moonlight. Lassendil had heard of these fabled birds, for they were said to dwell in the upper reaches of the Saffira Mountains, in the southern reaches of the Ennadil Territory. The Giant Blue Saffira Owls were part of Ennadil folklore. Few men had ever seen one of these birds, and lived to tell of it, however, for the owls were territorial and reclusive. The sight of the owl’s enormous hooked beak and shiny black talons made Lassendil take a tentative step backwards.

  The owl cocked its head and blinked.

  “Do not fear, Lassendil, if I had meant to devour you I would have already done so.” The owl spoke the Ennadil tongue in a soft, hooting voice.

  Lassendil’s heart flipped in shock.

  “How do you know my name?”

  “Your father told me—you look much like him at the same age.”

  “You know my father?” Lassendil whispered.

  “I knew your father,” the owl corrected, “I saw him fall this eve, for I was circling Aranith during the battle.”

  Lassendil stared uncomprehendingly. He had been through so much in the last few hours; his muddled brain refused to take in any more. Finally, the owl gave a hoot of impatience and decided to explain itself.

  “My name is Grey-Wing. Years ago, when your father was a young man, younger than you are now I believe, he left his family behind and set off to explore the Ennadil Territory. His journey took him up into the Saffira Mountains where he fished in the streams and hunted in the forests. He journeyed high into the mountains and it was there that he found me.” The owl paused a moment, never taking its golden stare off Lassendil, “I was little more than a fledgling. I had been attacked by a hawk and my wing was damaged. I would have perished if your father had not taken care of me. He stayed for over two months and nursed me until my wing healed.”

  “My father told me of his journeys in the Saffira Mountains,” Lassendil murmured. “He mentioned saving an owl but I’m sorry to say I didn’t pay much attention.”

  The owl blinked in response before continuing its tale. “My kind are proud and independent. We do not accept help from outsiders—but without your father’s kindness, I would have died. I was indebted to Padrell Florin and I told him that if he was ever in need, he was to send word to me and I would aid him. Years passed and I all but forgot about my promise—until your father sent a wizard to deliver a message from Aranith three days hence. Your father wished for me to observe the battle from afar and only carry you away if you were in mortal danger.”

  Lassendil’s shock turned to bitterness. “He should not have done it! What honor is there in being the only survivor on the losing side of a battle? I chose to fight at his side and that’s where I wanted to die!”

  Grey-Wing only stared solemnly at him in response. The owl could neither share nor understand his bitterness and sorrow. Eventually, mastering his anger, Lassendil looked around the clearing in which they stood. “Where have you brought me?”

  “You are on the southern edge of Delm Forest near the shores of Lake Farne. You are out of danger’s way, for the time being at least.”

  “Delm Forest! But I don’t want to be out of danger’s way,” Lassendil exploded. “It will take me days to travel back to the Ennadil Territory. I command that you take me back to Aranith!”

  “Aranith has been taken by the enemy,” the owl replied patiently. “I will not take you back there. I have fulfilled my promise to your father, although I must say you are highly ungrateful. That is quite a temper you have. I think I will take my leave of you now.”

  The Giant Blue Owl lifted its wings.

  “Wait!” Lassendil rushed forward. “Please wait a moment. Don’t leave me here. Please, I need your help.”

  Grey-Wing observed the young Ennadil warrior for a moment before answering. “Even from high up in the Saffira Mountains we owls have seen the invaders. They crawl from the sea, burning the land and the trees, and enslave man and beast to do their bidding. For now they neither know, nor care of our existence —and we would prefer to keep it that way.”

  “But the Morg are trampling Isador! You can’t just ignore it!”

  “Then you must find a way to stop them.”

  Lassendil’s shoulders slumped as anger, fatigue, grief and desperation brought him near to tears. “You will not help me?”

  “The owls cannot aid your plight,” Grey-Wing hooted softly. “For thousands of years my kind have watched while Isador was set
tled, invaded, and fought over, and now invaded once more. We will not interfere in the world of men and beast. Look to the people of the land in which you stand for help—there is still strength and courage left— you just need to find it.”

  Lassendil watched helplessly as Grey-Wing flapped his wings and rose up into the air. “Farewell Lassendil Florin.”

  The owl disappeared into the night.

  Lassendil sunk to the ground and stared blankly out at the night. Grey-Wing’s words brought him no solace. It was over for the Ennadil – they had fought and lost. The Morg had taken his father away from him, and his hope. His body felt cold and weak, and grief was a vice crushing his chest, making it difficult to breathe.

  Lassendil lay down on his side in the empty clearing and wept.

  ***

  The sunrise brought with it another scorching day. Isador had not been blessed with such hot weather in years, and day after day of cloudless blue sky went unnoticed. The Morg seemed to take the heat for granted and Adelyis could not concentrate on anything as trivial the weather.

  Like the day before, the Morg trussed Adelyis up and slung her over the back of a Yangtul. Today they travelled south along the banks of the Serran. The river was too deep and wide to cross at this point, and the nearest bridge was half a day’s ride south—the Bridge of Valdorn. The Bridge was the only location where Ennadil and Orinian culture existed, albeit uneasily, side by side – and it was the main route by which Orinians and Ennadil crossed into each other’s lands. Ennadil populated Valdorn’s west bank, while Orinians lived on the east bank—and they rarely mixed.

  It was humid in the lush river valley. Adelyis’s clothes stuck to her skin and she was sure she was starting to stink; not that her captors would notice—not with the carrion-stench of these birds.

  The party halted briefly when the sun reached its zenith. The Morg fed Adelyis a cold broth, dried meat and more stale bread. Throwing her manners aside, Adelyis fell upon the food. The Morg observed her as she ate and made comments of obvious disgust—they found cooked food as disgusting as Adelyis found their feasts of fresh meat. After a year of ravaging the Ennadil Territory and taking its people prisoner, the Morg had realized that most Ennadil would rather starve than survive on a typical Morg diet. Hence, they had been forced to provide their prisoners with their own food.