The little man sprang to his feet.
"I knew it! I knew it! Master Kas Dorian! General of the Army of Hope! Leader of the Free People of Light! The Iron Butcher!" Matthew danced about the barn, stopping every few moments to throw a handful of singed straw into the air and dance underneath it as it fell. The horses neighed and whinnied at his outburst and only the mule paid the Cairtol no mind.
Polas stretched his arms out to his sides, testing their limits. He realized he was still holding the tiny hammer and dropped it on the ground behind him.
"Iron Butcher? I’m not familiar with that one," he said as the little man danced around him.
"Oh, ho, pay it no mind. Just something the darkness has cooked up. Something parents use to frighten their children into behaving. You know, ‘you better be good or the Iron Butcher will drag you off to war, and you will never see your family again.’"
Polas winced.
"I’m sorry," Matthew said, sitting back down with his books. "Sometimes I talk too much in my excitement. I would blame it on my Cairtol heritage, but most Cairtol would say I’m not the greatest example of our kind, and I wouldn’t want to sully their reputations."
"Old man," Polas closed his eyes. "Matthew, please. What happened?"
Matthew opened one of the larger tomes and slid it over to Polas.
Polas scanned the open pages. "The Army of Hope failed. And Exandercrast? Does he still hold power?"
Matthew nodded and, for the first time, sadness claimed his face.
Polas flipped frantically through the book. He skimmed over an exaggerated tale of his own upbringing, skipped over a few chapters about the formation of the Sigil, and stopped at a page titled "The Battle of Eena Grolah."
"The Battle of the Dying Light," he murmured.
~ 1000 years ago ~
Three warriors stood on the edge of the precipice looking down into the ravine. The hot air swirled around them, rattling their armor plates and encouraging them closer to the edge. A burning white sun sat low on the horizon, cooking the landscape and seeking to break their will before the day had begun in earnest.
General Polas Kas Dorian was the first to turn away from the cliff. His face was aged and lined from years of war and constant company with death, but his eyes still held within them an unconquerable spirit. His body was tough and sinewy beneath a light suit of scale armor. He kept his dark hair – now greying – cut short and wore little embellishment on his garb save for the lone symbol of a rising sun. In one hand, he held a token, a lock of hair given to him by his daughter before he left on this perilous journey. He paused for a moment and lifted the braid to his forehead. He closed his eyes and thought of his family back in Maduria.
It had been a three long years since he left them. That would make Leyryl ten and Calec eight. Leyryl had cut her own hair to give him the lock so that he could have a bit of her to keep him company in the darkest times. He remembered promising to return home before the thorn brushes could take their first hen, and how angry Calec had been for those last few weeks together. His son had hidden away in the barn refusing to eat with his father and the other generals on that last night. As Polas left to join the armies, his son had run after him. Polas had stopped, hoping to give the boy one last embrace. Calec’s words still echoed in his memory.
I hate you!
He had to survive this battle. He had to make it back home to be the kind of father that boy needed. How could he have expected a five-year-old to understand the importance of what his father was doing, that he could not be with his son now no matter how much he desired it? How could he see that Polas had left to lead these armies not only for the sake of free people all over the world, but also for the sake of his own family?
Polas set his jaw and opened his eyes, looking out at the army of heroes gathered before him. Weary faces hid beneath pot helmets and leather caps. Spears and swords were held ready, their blades dulled and marked from endless battles. Their armor was patchwork and pitiful, but the heart that beat behind each breastplate was resilient and steadfast. Nearly all the civilized races of Traesparin swelled their ranks. They stood shoulder to shoulder, brothers in this fight for Hope. He could not help but wonder how many of them had left behind a wife or a child knowing that they might never return from the horrid land of Waysmale.
A large hand rested on his shoulder.
"Are you ready, my friend? The hoards of darkness await our blades," General Narci said.
Narci stood two feet taller than Polas. The towering general was also at least twice as broad at the shoulders and covered with a thick black hair marked by two white streaks bleeding down from his eyes and across his cheeks. Even his heavy fur could not hide his imposing musculature and the strength in his legs and chest. He was an Eryntaph, a powerful race of reclusive warriors known for their strength and honor by some and feared for their ferocity and indomitable nature by others.
"I was hoping Exandercrast himself would taste our steel this day," Polas said. "We are within striking distance of his bastille."
"We will simply have to draw him to us." Narci grinned as he turned back toward the cliff. "Come, Kittah!"
A creature usually relegated to myth leaped forward from behind a row of tents and wagons. The great cat stood eight feet high at the shoulder and had two saber-like teeth that could rival a scythe. Its fur was dark brown with black streaks and carried a great deal of scars and bald patches from previous battles, and its vulpine eyes were deep amber.
Narci whispered an ancient blessing in the Erus tiger's pointed ear and climbed on its back. The duo made a formidable pair.
The third general led a pair of horses over to Polas. General Ranar was the shortest of the trio, but not the smallest. His skin was a dark and mottled blue-green color and strained with the effort of holding in his innards around the waist. His eyes were large and bulbous, and he had a looming forehead. Like most Faldred, Ranar was a gifted tactician, but lacked the ordinary torpor and languidness associated with the race. In fact, he was quite agile despite his portly frame. He wore light armor made from leather and had a quiver of bolts strapped to his back.
As he climbed atop his horse, he checked his crossbow and patted the steed on the neck.
"The sun is fading," Ranar said.
"Could be a Valai'ree coming," Polas said. "Food will be rationed, farmers will adjust their crops, and people will be ready. This is not the first Age to end, and it won't be the last."
"Still, a Valai'ree begins just as we wage our final battle against Exandercrast? I think it's a bad sign."
"I’ve never cared much for omens, Ranar," Polas replied.
Narci chuckled lightly and scratched behind Kittah’s ear.
The trio watched as undead filed into the valley through a narrow pass at the northern end. The throng was endless. The air boiled above them with the acrid stench of decomposing flesh and rotten meat. It was impossible to tell what each being had been in life; they were so far decayed that many looked like masses of grey-green leather drawn tightly over humanoid bones.
"So begins the end," Polas said. "Our last battle after these long years. The end of an Age, and the end of the war."
Narci nodded.
"Maybe you should give another speech," said Ranar. "Something to steel the men’s will."
Narci laughed. "A more rousing speech than he has already given? No, let us delay our victory no longer."
A young boy no older than fifteen pushed through the gathered masses behind Polas and cleared his throat. His hair was unkempt and greasy, and his armor was little more than padded peasants’ garb. On his shoulder, he wore the badge of the healers’ unit.
"Master Kas Dorian, sir," the boy stammered, trying to raise the courage to speak directly to the man who had been a hero to so many. "I thought you might need this."
From his tunic, he pulled a small phial of shimmering blue liquid and held it out to Polas. The general took the phial and mounted his horse.
"Boy,
don’t you know magic doesn’t --" Ranar started, but Polas cut him off with a gesture.
"Thank you, young sir. What is your name?" Polas asked.
"Mahk, of Tonrea."
"My farm is not too far a travel from Tonrea," Polas said. "I’m sure the people there will be happy to have you as their hospitaler once all of this is over, Mahk."
Mahk flushed and bowed his head before turning back to the crowd.
"You’re their hero, you know," Ranar said. "All of them. They’re all here for you."
Polas shook his head. "No. They are here for Hope and to put an end to this Exandercrast's rule."
CHAPTER THREE
Matthew watched as the legendary general ran his finger back and forth across the page. He noticed the man’s strength even in his broken state. He watched the man's eyes straining to soak in every word and could see the tempest building within him as his mind fought to make sense of what he read.
When Polas finished the section, he slammed the book shut and threw it across the barn. The horses whinnied and strained against their stall doors.
Matthew crept over to them, shushing as he went. His reserved movement was not only for the horses, but also to afford Polas a brief peace as the world caught up with him. He was somewhat surprised to see the general’s shoulders shaking as he held his head in his hands, nearly tearing the hair from his scalp. In all his years of dreaming of Polas’s return, he had never really thought of the hero as a being with a life, with a family that would be left behind. He had studied the man’s complete history - at least that which was recorded - so he knew of his wife and two children and of the close bonds of the Sigil, but it had never truly struck him that Polas might return to the world broken.
Legends always painted their heroes as great men sweeping in on horseback and trampling nations and dynasties to restore that which was lost. Matthew chided himself for not realizing sooner that Polas would be very much a man in need of answers before he could be a leader of men.
"How much? How much did I miss? A year? More?"
Matthew sighed and looked down at the dusty ground. "No, my friend, you have been dead…" Matthew caught his tongue and looked at Polas, but there was no reaction. "You have been missing for a millennium."
Polas stood and limped out of the barn.
Matthew followed quietly behind him.
The bright sky met him with a blinding wave and caused Polas to stumble as his eyes adjusted. His hands found the edge of an old well ringed with stone, and he sat. A small bucket attached to a long rope lay on the ground nearby. The well was barely wide enough for the bucket to fit smoothly, and its edge was mere inches above the grass, but the stones were cool and helped to keep Polas’s mind from falling into the abyss.
Polas clenched his teeth in an effort to control the swirl of emotions welling inside him. His mind spun and left him nauseous. Were it not for the bandages he would likely have vomited all over the ground.
"Impossible," Polas said. However, he knew that it was not the least bit impossible. Incredible and improbable most certainly, but he had dared to challenge a god. Very little fell into the realm of impossibility when one stood against Exandercrast.
The Cairtol seated himself on the ground in front of Polas and waited. The two sat in stillness for an hour while Polas tried to wrap his mind around what he had been told. The air was warm as it swirled about the tiny glade. The Cairtol’s house and barn filled the clearing between the trees, and there was just enough room for Matthew to be close by without invading the general’s private thoughts. At the back of the house, a small vegetable garden delighted in the sunlight, growing kavrin beans and waterstalk plants. The house had only two rooms with one open window each. The roof was thatched, and the doors were made of dark hymarion wood.
Birds came and warbled greetings and went on their way. A few squirrels played about the ground and chased each other up and down the tall trees, completely ignoring Matthew and Polas in their game. Insects buzzed around a cluster of white flowers behind the barn, and the horses and mule continued their own conversation despite the silence between the two men.
"One thousand years?" asked Polas. "How is that possible?"
"In all truth, I had hoped you might be able to answer that question."
Polas gave a defeated shrug in response. All he could remember was preparing for war, the hellish landscape of Waysmale, the struggle toward Firevers, and somewhere within him, an unending pain.
"My family? What happened to my family? Please, at least know that," Polas pleaded.
Matthew shook his head. "No one knows what happened to your wife and daughter after your army was defeated. But, to be fair, history rarely checks up on those left behind. It is possible they lived out their lives in relative peace," he added with an unconvincing smile. "But I have found no record of them after the war."
An uneasy quiet floated between them. Polas let his head fall into his hand and stared at his feet.
"And what of my boy?"
"Your son…" Matthew looked down toward the ground, as though the grass blades were suddenly very interesting.
Polas looked up. "Yes. What about my son?"
Matthew rose to his feet and walked toward his house. "A drink. I think I’ll have another cup of tea."
Polas stood. "What do you know, Matthew? What of Calec?"
Matthew turned but refused to meet Polas’s gaze. "The same legends that speak of you as the Iron Butcher hold that the Son of the Iron Butcher was given eternal youth in exchange for eternal service as the Guardian of Exandercrast."
Polas fell back against the well and slid slowly to the ground. He clasped his hands tightly in front of him and shook his head as though his denial might repeal any truth the statement held.
"The same legends? Then they are surely untrue," Polas said. "Lies spread to rob men of their faith."
"I’m sorry, Master Kas Dorian," Matthew whispered. "I’m afraid that I myself have confirmed the veracity of this legend in my own travels. Your son was taken to the Sea of Dreams in the Reveriet Mountains, a place outside of time and age. I too have been there, and though I did not see him myself, one whom I trust beyond my own life witnessed his presence there."
"My boy..." Polas stared at a passing cloud, watching it billow then break apart into velvety ribbons. "But then he is alive, at least."
"Alive, but lost to the darkness."
Polas stood. "I’ll find him then. I’ll find him and bring him out."
Matthew‘s mouth moved, but no words came. After a moment, he simply nodded and forced a thin smile.
"Exandercrast." Polas pulled back his bandages and spat upon the ground. "You’ve taken everything from me, but you will not have my son." Hatred and sorrow boiled within him, and his heart was bent toward vengeance. He stumbled back into the barn and returned moments later leading a horse by the reins. He patted the creature on the neck and climbed onto its back.
"Where are you going to, General Kas Dorian?" Matthew asked.
"How far to Flarcant?" Polas asked.
Matthew cast a hand over his eyes as he looked up into the autumn sky. A string of wispy, low clouds drifted high above, moved by an unseen wind.
"Several days ride," Matthew said, looking back at Polas. "You must follow the desert east along the Urones until you reach the pass at the northern edge of the Ajares Mountains."
"Just south of the Rhamewash Forest?"
"Yes."
"I can find my way from there."
Polas kicked and steered the horse past the well and away from Matthew’s home. He kicked again, urging the horse forward faster, hoping to leave his nightmare behind with the old Cairtol.
CHAPTER FOUR
For two days, he rode hard against the land. He pushed the horse to its limits, only stopping when it needed water or rest. The arid expanse of Olagon rushed past him, and a small voice within called for him to give in to its embrace. It begged him to return to the sand, to fade away, and to be for
gotten. He knew, somehow, that the hereafter would be his only chance at peace, for he had lost himself once to war, and he knew that this time could only hold for him the same destiny. But he could not surrender yet, not until he knew the truth. Especially not if his son was truly still alive.
So he rode as though the answers lay beyond the ever-elusive horizon.
The desert mocked him as he traveled the first day. At the end of the second day, he reached Oladair's Pass and passed through to southern edge of the Rhamewash Forest. A strong desire gripped him that night, for he knew he was close to Narci’s homeland. His old friend had always been his most stalwart and loyal rock. Perhaps if he could find the Eryntaph general, he would be able to make sense of this world and of this time. He shook his head, pulled at the reigns, and stopped the horse. Surely the old Cairtol was sewing mistrust and lies. He would be home soon enough, and then he would know.
Polas camped a short distance from the forest, near a wagon road that ran north to south. A jagged string of broken moons dotted the western skyline, painting the landscape in blues and soft whites. Those cursed moons and the vile suns kept reminding him that this new world was his reality. In the time he knew, the sky had only one white sun and two purple moons.
He laid back and closed his eyes, remembering the nights he had sat alone with Finadel under those very moons. He could almost smell the fields of Madurian barley under the autumn sun. He itched to feel the gentle caress of her hand in his. He desperately wished to open his eyes and find her beside him staring up at those familiar violet moons. Of all the things missing from this land, those moons were the saddest reminder of his family’s absence. He and Finadel had named their daughter, Leyryl, after the smaller moon. They had even built their home so that they could watch the rising moons cool the fields each night under their lavender glow.
He knew the sky had changed before, and he knew it would change again. Each Age saw the final setting of its daily sentinel and the departure of its nightly hosts and faded into a long night when not even starlight reached Traesparin. The span between ages was difficult, but people knew how to survive, and the promise of a new dawn kept them from surrendering to the Valai'ree. New ages would come, and new dawns with new suns. He hated this sky, though. It was too dark in the day and too bright at night. The three suns never rose fully into the heavens, but always remained lazily in the south while the north lay in unending twilight. The broken moons were like burning shadows and reflected an eerie light that kept eyelids from closing completely. He counted only three whole moons, but at least four or five broken pieces trailed from each like tears.
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