by Erik A Otto
Reniger looked at him sidelong. He leaned in and whispered at a decibel too low for Carmine and the big one to hear, “You know, not all of us are tools.”
And with that he walked away.
It was an unusual thing to say, but Darian was just glad he’d given him back his peace and quiet. Darian continued to push the stick in the dirt, just so. Then he heard the words again in his mind. “You know, not all of us are tools. You know, not all of us are tools.”
Eventually, twilight began seeping into the clearing. Darian had graduated from his stick pushing to building a small pile of thin twigs in case they would have to start a fire.
The others debated more vocally about what to do. Carmine complained, “We should leave. Maybe this is an old flag and we actually missed the objective? We would look pretty stupid coming back the next morning with the worst score ever.”
The brute answered, “Look at the flag, Carmine. It even has today’s date on it, and look at the map. We made it to the right place. More likely all the other trainees are lost. Maybe the marshal, even.”
Reniger interjected, “The marshal knows this area well. He wouldn’t get lost. Something could have happened to him, I guess. Maybe his horse went lame.”
“Whatever,” Carmine said. “Either way, shouldn’t we leave? I mean, how long do you want to wait?”
The discussion went round in circles for a while. Darian had resigned himself to wait, and thinking it might take some time, he began lighting the fire. He set his stick in a knothole and twisted it, letting in just the right amount of air.
Smoke came, and eventually the dry leaves caught fire, in turn lighting the kindling. The others decided to circle around as the night air began to cool. They continued their debate of what to do between bouts of tense silence.
Soon after the fire started, they heard a gallop of hoofs. A big mare trotted toward the clearing through a break in the forest that went up the hillside. On top of the horse was no marshal, or at least no marshal Darian had ever seen. The marshals always wore a red strap across their chest over some assortment of leather. Although this man did wear the green and yellow Thelonian colors, he was covered in heavy chain mail and wore a silverstone helm. On his side a sheathed broadsword bobbed with the cadence of the animal’s gallop.
He pulled up rather abruptly in front of them. The man’s accoutrements rang out in unison, and a healthy gob of snot shot out of the horse’s nose onto the ground in front of them.
Darian watched the gob of snot fly out again in his mind’s eye.
The rider’s face was tight and serious. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?” His horse started trotting in a circle around the clearing.
The brute stood up and answered. “We’re waiting for the league marshal, sir. We’re the victors of today’s orienteering contest.”
“Do you take me for a fool?” the man asked, probing their faces. No one answered him. He examined their uniforms, and his composure relaxed. He seemed to make his own mind up as to the answer he was seeking. “Ah, I see. We thought we’d rounded you all up.”
He continued his circle, the horse’s hooves casting dust about their shoes. The man pulled his canteen out and drank greedily from it. Then he moved his horse to pause at the edge of the clearing where he’d come in.
“I’m Sergeant Case, with the Rangers. We’ve been attacked by a horde of Sambayans through our northern border. We don’t know why. As a result, the orienteering was called off two hours ago, and training is over. Make your way back to camp and await further instructions.”
He nodded, as if they’d acknowledged him, then spurred the horse back the way he’d come, into the fading light.
Chapter 4
The Truthseeker
On the day after the examinations, Sebastian awoke to a bright sliver of sunlight cutting through the window slit in his chamber. It illuminated a piece of ripped parchment that had been slipped under his door. He rolled out of bed and read the parchment with a yawn—it was a quickly scribbled invitation from Nala to go on a ride to the Albondo Woodlands.
At first Sebastian was reluctant to join. He wagered Nala’s energy and intemperance would take them deep into the woods, and he wasn’t sure he could bear being with her for such an indeterminate adventure.
Then he reconsidered. Nala had been an unwelcome distraction before the examinations, but now that they were over, she seemed much less grating. Besides, what else was he to do? Stay in the keep and study? Matteo forgive him, but he wouldn’t be able to stomach reading another page of the Book of Canons, not on this day.
And so he joined her.
The sun maintained its strength through the morning as the party of five made their way south from the Old Keep. “Isn’t it a glorious day?” Nala would state the obvious at least once a mile. Not only were the four of them recipients of these volleys of repetitiveness, but each of the timid farmers and townspeople they rode by often heard it multiple times. Sebastian couldn’t help but grin as some were visibly agitated by the unusually outspoken apprentice girl.
Sebastian was glad that Perenna had also accepted the invitation to join them, as he was eager to gauge her impressions of the exam questions. Unfortunately, with Perenna came others. After she accepted, they had run into Colonel Timothur Granth in the stables, who apparently was a childhood friend of Perenna’s. Timothur inquired as to their journey and asked if he could join, and Nala had to accept.
The Granth family was one of the great military families of Belidor, as rich in war stories as lands and titles. He’d read the writings of their house when they were recruiting under their banner for the last Jawhari war—when Sebastian was only a boy. Sebastian had also heard stories from others in Pyros about speeches made by the Granths. Yes, these tales impressed many, but not Sebastian. The narratives would often reference Matteo and the Shepherd as an afterthought, twisting the Canons to purposes that seemed more serpentine than spiritual.
So while he’d heard little about this Timothur, the exploits of his family were enough to give Sebastian pause. Besides, given the choice, Sebastian would always steer clear of soldiers and traders.
Rounding out the troop of five was Hebert Flan, a young boy whose face was mottled with patches of eczema. He served as squire to Timothur, doing all he asked. He was always trailing Timothur at a distance but at the same time always within earshot, as if pulled along by an invisible tether.
The midday heat was strong. Drops of sweat beaded Sebastian’s temple as they finally crested the southern rise before the drop into the woodlands. This crest marked the end of the small townships that stretched across the south end of the northern plain.
In the townships Sebastian noticed a stark order and purpose to the inhabitants. New shelters were being built and banners erected, and mooring lines were piled up near the houses. Some lines were already being tied to hearthstones. Sebastian was glad to see them hard at work. They had less than a hundred days left until the Day of Ascendancy. It was an immense undertaking, so the earlier they began, the better.
The township settlements thinned, and soon enough Sebastian could see only a couple distant farmhouses in either direction. Beyond the farmhouses, the anticipated swath of dark blue wooden pillars topped with colorful verdure came into view: the Albondo Woodlands.
A badge of Belidoran pride, the Albondo was one of the largest remaining woodlands under Matteo’s moon. Given the quality of the blue oaks of Albondo, cutting an old-growth tree without an appropriate license was worse than blasphemy. Patrols ran regularly around the woodlands to enforce the laws.
Nala was up ahead of him, leading the way. Earlier in the ride, he’d asked her for some quiet time. Thinking he might have offended her with his silence, he decided it would be best to initiate a conversation. He kicked the flank of his steed and rode up beside her. “The woodlands are beautiful, Nala. I’m glad I came.”
She showed no signs of being put off by his earlier remark. “I’m glad you like it.
Better than being stuffed up in the keep.”
“If history is any guide, there may come a time when the protection of the keep will be a great comfort,” Sebastian said.
She looked at him with one eyebrow raised. “You worry too much, Sebastian.”
Before he could find words to respond, she continued, “Is it the Jawhari? I thought they renewed the peace-accord discussions.”
Sebastian knew about the discussions, but it was all politics and little substance. Two guards rather than one at the Old Keep’s gates told him more than these discussions could. “My father told me of the Apostle’s meeting a month ago. It’s not the Jawhari that people are worried about; it’s the powers in the east, the Sambayans and savages to the south and east of them. He said that while the Jawhari insult Matteo with their reprehensible faith, there are other abominations we should be wary of.”
There was silence for a time. Nala seemed to have nothing to say for once.
It didn’t last. “I remember—on our ride to the Old Keep—you told me about the Blind Race of Pyros,” she said. “Do you think we should try it here? I still have trouble believing you went all the way to the Great Ocean and back without looking.”
Sebastian smiled. It was indeed a great victory for him, a happy time. “It’s called the Blind Journey,” he corrected, “and I told you that Matteo guided me but also taught me many lessons…mostly in the form of nasty bruises. I think we best not test Matteo’s benevolence while on horseback.”
Nala laughed. “No, I guess not.”
“You seem to know this route well, though, Nala. I would certainly be led astray, but perhaps you wouldn’t need Matteo’s guidance to ride blind here.”
She laughed again. “I love a challenge, but I don’t think so. Yes, I came to Albondo many times when I was younger, but not from the keep, rather from the East Road that runs through Aston. I remember singing songs by the campfire at night and exploring the woods early in the morning. Sometimes we would go all the way to Pomeria and back—before they outlawed camping in the woods. It’s really too bad…” She paused, looking contemplative. “But if it helps preserve the woods, I understand, I guess.”
Sebastian heard a snort. It was Timothur’s horse pulling up alongside them. For most of the ride, the colonel had been hanging back, speaking with Perenna, a conversation Sebastian had been trying to hear without success. Sebastian noticed that Timothur was just as upright in his saddle as when they had left an hour ago, and unlike Sebastian’s tunic, no sweaty salt stains marred his collar.
Timothur looked forward as he spoke, not making eye contact. “Sebastian, Perenna was telling me your father is a renowned Apostle in Pyros. Is this true?”
Sebastian was surprised Timothur didn’t know of his father, but common folk were taught only a fraction of what apprentices and Sandaliers were taught. Plus, Timothur was from the east, perhaps too far away to have heard the stories of the west.
Here was an opportunity to dispel this ignorance.
“Yes, it’s true,” Sebastian said. “Did you know the narrative of Thyros Harvellian is being nominated for inclusion in an annex to the Book of Canons? It’s a great honor. Would you like to hear the story?”
“I would, Sebastian.” Granth nodded, still not facing him. “But a summary only, please.”
Was it normal for common folk to respond in such a gruff manner? Sebastian tried to ignore the rudeness and began recounting the story in as simplistic a form as he could. “Thyros Harvellian is a demure and pious man, speaking only fact and never coloring his words. He lost three brothers and one sister in the Third Jawhari War. During the conflict he had stayed as clergy in Pyros to protect the townsfolk and pray to Matteo. But rather than offer condolences for his grievous losses, the people of Pyros, particularly those few who returned from the war, branded him a coward. They said his faith gave their town nothing and he was a fool to spend all his time in the temple of Pyros.
“While the farmers of Pyros mocked Thyros, he persisted in citing the Canons with diligence and objectivity. While the farmers blasphemed, drank, and swore, Thyros acted only upon his faith. And when they finally challenged his devotion by claiming the temple of Pyros was a blight on the town, Thyros went on a pilgrimage across the land to find proof of the Shepherd’s path during the Crossing.
“When he returned, following the Canon of Humility, he said nothing to the townspeople of Pyros. No one asked him what he’d seen, and in their ignorance, they assumed his silence to be indicative of failure. So the farmers mocked him. They belittled his continued support of the Canons. Once he was beaten by a rabble of naustics for no apparent reason other than the vulnerability of his seclusion. At its worst, they burnt the temple to the ground.
“Years later, a curious teenage girl confronted Thyros. In all the time since he’d returned, she was the first to ask him about his journey with sincerity. In accordance with the Canon of Truth, he told her all he’d experienced. He told her about the trek through lands filled with distorted faiths. He told her of the Snail Mountains, the bleak uncharted lands across the Prosana River, and his arrival at the Rim of Fire, where the land was contoured by canyons filled with liquid fire, just like it is described in the Tale of the Crossing. When she looked at him in disbelief, he showed her the burn mark on his foot, which he obtained from a deliberate footfall on the Rim of Fire. It was a scar that he’d borne despite the pain, despite walking on it for leagues upon leagues, just so that he could one day show someone the truth of what he found. The girl had read the Book of Canons and knew that such burn marks with their orange hue could be from no other source.
“After that, the precocious girl’s mouth flapped like a gull’s wings over the Great Ocean, and word spread in Pyros. Many had shunned Thyros for his supposed cowardice, but no one ever doubted his honesty, and his burn mark proved his story. The injustice of his treatment sank deep within each soul it inflicted. As years passed, people no longer mocked him, and some would come to him for guidance—or simply to hear his story again. Years later he was made municipal Apostle, and those who mocked him bowed before him. Those few who failed to see their folly were so ostracized by the townsfolk that they were made to cower in the outskirts or had to take up with the Fringe and naustics.”
Sebastian paused, again glancing at Timothur. “That’s the story of Thyros Harvellian, my father.”
Although Timothur fidgeted, he had been nodding throughout the story. He said, “Well told, Harvellian. It does sound like a narrative in the Book. You’re privileged to have come from such a proud lineage, Sebastian.”
“Thank you, Colonel. But my family’s contribution pales next to that of the Granth family and all they have done protecting Belidor.” Sebastian closed his eyes and bowed as low as he could in his saddle.
When he opened his eyes, Timothur was frowning at him. The colonel continued to another topic. “I’m curious, Sebastian, what’s your impression of the rumored alliance between the Jawhari and the Fringe? Your home in Pyros is only a day’s ride away from Niknak, isn’t it?”
Niknak spanned a slice of land between Jawhar and Belidor. It was one of the only lands the Fringe could truly call their own. The Niknak people were more organized than most Fringe, and could even be considered a sovereign nation…if they weren’t heathen savages. “It is,” Sebastian replied, “and the rumors are troubling, but I have heard similar rumors for many years. To be honest, in Pyros we know little of the people of Niknak. Like all Fringe, they are an odd lot—of questionable piety and allegiance. One day they deal with us, the next with the Jawhari.”
“Hmm…yes, like any Fringe.” Timothur had been looking ahead again, scanning the horizon as Sebastian spoke. Now he peered directly at Sebastian. The colonel’s azure eyes were somehow magnetic, and Sebastian found himself staring. Then Timothur reached out and grabbed Sebastian’s arm, nearly pulling him off his horse. “So you’ve heard and seen nothing, then?”
Sebastian was jarred by the abrasive co
ntact, but said, “By Matteo, I…I’ve heard and seen nothing of any Fringe-Jawhari alliance.” And Sebastian looked down again, his eyes leveled to Timothur’s stirrups in a gesture of humility.
“Interesting,” Timothur said, and he casually released Sebastian’s arm. When Sebastian looked up, Timothur looked down in turn, but perhaps in thoughtfulness rather than humility. Then, to Sebastian’s relief, Timothur decided to pull ahead on his steed.
Sebastian was discomfited by Timothur’s aggressive behavior but he knew to not question the ways of common folk.
As they approached the woodlands he caught his first scent of the red blossoms that tended to grow near the edges of the forest. It made Sebastian remember the orchards near Pyros that he frequented with his mother. He allowed himself a smile at this small reprieve. Maybe it was a good idea to get out today.
They took a well-used path into the woodlands, with Nala’s pace only picking up speed. Shortly after entering, she took them on a little-used trail branching off from the main artery. Soon they were deep in the forest, where few shards of light could penetrate. The group rode in silence for a while, made shy by their more shadowy surroundings.
They rode this way for some time. Nala broke the silence by making the occasional remark about this or that part of the forest, but little else was said. Despite Nala’s running commentary, Sebastian began to wonder if she really knew where she was taking them. There were places one shouldn’t go in Albondo; places that were protected, places that were dangerous.
Sebastian decided it would be best for him to probe into the matter. He had a sense for Nala’s impulse for adventure, but the others might not. He called out from behind her, “Nala, perhaps you could tell us where we’re heading? I’ve enjoyed the ride so far, but my curiosity is getting the better of me.”
“Oh, Sebastian, will your well of worry ever run dry? I really don’t think I should tell you—it would wreck the surprise.”