by Kal Spriggs
Amelia frowned, their words made sense, yet to imagine time on that scale made her head hurt. “I can understand that, I suppose, yet it seems illogical to hate me over events that happened so long in the past.”
“Three thousand cycle grudges only set the stage for some of it,” Jasmine said. She spoke softly, as if in pain. “Simonel's father was much beloved. He led us here, into exile and helped our people to heal our wounds, after... well, after the rise of Andoral Elhonas. He ruled our people for almost five thousand cycles, yet he was felled in the attack which you, inadvertently, were part of.”
Jasper spoke, his voice soft, “Then there was the Enchantress, Amonel. She was the best of us, beautiful, wise, and kind. She mastered the skills of the mind and rose to be acclaimed as our Enchantress and proved her maturity before the Council at the age of fifty. We all loved her, she was at once both mother figure and trusted confidant to us all. Not one of the People did not value her judgment or heed her words... She acted as a mother figure for Simonel and as a mentor for Tirianis... and too she died in the same attack that shattered the Veil.”
Amelia felt her heart sink. No wonder people hated her, “People blame me for their deaths?”
Jasper answered her, “No child, people fear you may supplant them both in Simonel's heart.”
***
Amelia
Amelia almost ran into Tirianis as she rushed out the door. She saw surprise on the other woman's face. Amelia rubbed at the tears her face, “Excuse me.”
She tried to push past, but the taller woman reached out and caught her arm. “Amelia, my friend, what is wrong?”
“Let me go,” Amelia said. She wiped at the tears that ran down her face. Of all the people to run into, why her. Amelia just wanted to run away, to hide. She had been made a fool. People she had trusted had hidden truths from her, even the very fact that some here saw her as little better than a pet.
“Tell me what is wrong,” Tirianis said, her voice firm. “Did Jasper make one of his offensive jokes? I told him...”
“Let me GO!” Amelia shouted. She jerked her arm free. “I am not a child, nor am I a fragile doll to be protected. I am a grown woman, who deserves to know about things that affect her!” Tirianis stared at her. Amelia heard a mutter of conversation and turned to see a number of the Wold had stopped and many stared at her with expressions that ranged from pity to suspicion.
“I–” Amelia shook her head. She wiped at the tears in her eyes again. “I need to go.” Tirianis would not, could not, understand, Amelia knew. She was too gentle, too focused on healing. Worse, in a way, was how the other woman had sought to protect her, rather than letting her grow.
She turned away, and Tirianis did not try to stop her or talk to her.
Even if Amelia wished otherwise.
***
Aerion
Watkowa Village, Duchy of Masov
Seventh of Tremarn, cycle 999 Post Sundering
Aerion felt his spirits fall on the final day as they rode into to the mountains.
His companions seemed to catch his change in mood. Josef grew more quiet. Walker talked enough for the three of them. Quinn seemed uncertain. Twice, Aerion saw him ride up next to him, almost as if to ask a question, then drop back. Aerion almost wished the other man had started a conversation with him, anything to distract him from his misery.
As they reached the base of the hills, Aerion started to notice familiar landmarks. Now and again, he saw Katarina look back down the line, and somehow, he knew she looked at him. I'm not sure what is worse, he thought, feeling this way or having everyone around me treat me like I'm fragile or weak.
“I'm going to go up and see if they need any help,” Aerion said. Josef seemed to understand and just gave him a solemn nod. Quinn and Walker glanced away, as if they didn't want to intrude. Aerion pushed his horse to a canter and quickly caught up with the head of the column. He slowed down next to Gerlin. “Do you need...” He had to clear his throat, “That is, would you like me to help out with finding a path?”
“Not real certain where we're going yet, lad,” Bulmor said. “But help is always appreciated.” The older warrior's gruff voice was a comfort, with none of the pity that he saw on the faces of some of the others.
Gerlin gave a nod. “I know it's not easy coming back, but since you know the area, I could use your knowledge.” The halfblood kept his tone light, yet there was an edge, almost a challenge in his voice.
“We were thinking of moving past your village, perhaps taking the old trade route to the north. Do you know any places along there that we can set up a camp?” Lady Katarina asked. Aerion looked over at her and saw sadness in her blue eyes, but also a comfort that made him feel somewhat better.
Aerion nodded slowly, and then spoke, “Yes. There's a valley, just off the old trade route that is hard to spot and there should be plenty of room for us and the horses. There's water there and some supplies that we put there, just in case...”
“In case you needed someplace to hide,” Gerlin said softly. “Yes, a wise precaution.” The halfblood seemed to understand. The village had always been prepared for Noric raiders or bandits to attack. They had expected to see such attacks coming, though, to have some time to either retreat or at least withdraw. Aerion felt tears fill his remaining eye and he wished that his village had the time to run to their retreat. Maybe, he thought, maybe some had escaped there.
In his memory, the place was somehow preserved, in a dusty warm summer state, better than it had ever been. In that memory, he forgot how lonely he'd been and he remembered the kindness of old Taggart and his mother's protective nature. Those merged with the smell of fresh bread and cooking stew, the warm spring days with the cool mountain air, and even swimming in the cold river that ran through the valley.
The trail rose up over a small pass, and then opened up into the valley where Aerion had spent his childhood. Some things remained the same. The white top of the Watkowa Peak still shone brightly in the light of day. The clusters of orchards still marched in their silent rows. The green pine trees still clustered around the slopes of the valley and the birds still called the same songs he remembered.
But the fields had gone wild, he saw Old Man Linder's wheat field overgrown and choked with briars. The low stone wall that edged the road had tumbled in places.
As they neared the village itself, the color seemed to leech from the world. Black soot stained the ground, white bones glared up from spots, here and there. To the side, Aerion saw where the inn's stable had burned and the white bones of the dead horses lay scattered across the blackened remains.
The stone walls of the inn had tumbled, Aerion saw. The wooden roof and interior had burned and left a blackened shell and a deep hole where the cellar had collapsed. To the north of it, he saw that someone had burned the roof of the forge, and tumbled the stones. Aerion moved his horse into a gallop and rode up the hill. He dismounted next to the ruined forge. His hands dug frantically in the ash until he found what remained of old Taggart's tools. Either heat or malice had bent the tongs to uselessness. Only the head of his hammer remained. His other tools bore similar signs of destruction. I have nothing, Aerion thought, I could save nothing, not even this.
“You alright, Aerion?” Gerlin said. The halfblood had rode up behind him. He waited patiently, an expression of shared pain on his face. His blue eyes contrasted with his dark-skinned face in a way that made him seem alien and out of place.
Aerion wiped at the tears running down the left side of his face. “Yeah. I'm fine.” He made no effort to put any energy into his voice.
“There's no bodies, no human ones. Someone came back to give them burial,” Gerlin said.
Aerion shrugged. It didn't seem all that important. He knew the hills held a number of small families, many of whom had relatives in the village. Perhaps some of them had done it. The evidence that no one survived lay in the total destruction of the village. People would have returned if they had survived, he
felt.
“You said that valley is up the old trade route to the north, right?” Gerlin asked.
Aerion nodded and wiped his dirty hands on his pants. “Yeah.” He wiped at the tears on his face. He figured with the soot, he must look ghastly, like some spirit of vengeance risen out of the ashes. Well, in a way, I am, he thought. He turned and gave Gerlin a slight nod, “Thanks.”
The scout clasped Aerion's hand, “If you need to talk...”
Aerion shook his head. He did not want to share the thoughts that boiled through his head right then. Something in him wanted that, wanted solitude to contemplate the thought, not just of justice, but of revenge.
Aerion moved over to his horse, which had wondered a short distance in search of something green to eat. He noticed it cropped at a cluster of flowers which had burst out from under the soot at the north end of the ruins of the forge. He recognized the columbine flowers and felt the tears well up again. They were his mother's favorite, he knew. She planted those same flowers on Taggart's grave in the early spring after he died.
Aerion pulled the horse's head around and then put his foot in the stirrup. Once he mounted he kept his eyes on the road to the north. He rode away from the village and kept his eyes firmly ahead.
He did not look back.
***
Lady Katarina Emberhill
Katarina looked over at Bulmor as he pressed his horse closer to hers. “What's wrong?” She had wanted to stay and watch over Aerion, perhaps find some way to comfort him, but Bulmor had urged her to continue on and Gerlin had offered to stay back. “We're being watched,” Bulmor said.
Now Gerlin's horse moved up on her other side and Gerlin spoke, even while his gaze remained on the trees. “Since the village. At least five of them and they know the area.”
“Survivors from the village?” Katarina asked.
“Maybe,” Gerlin said, his voice neutral. “But they don't move like villagers, they move like scouts or raiders. I don't like it.”
“Should we ask Aerion?” Katarina asked. She glanced back over her shoulder. The boy looked rough and Katarina turned around and forced herself to take slow breaths. The thought of his misery made her want to burst into tears. He had lost everyone he had known and loved in one tragic event. Katarina knew that pain and had experienced it first hand. The wounded part of her wanted to seek him out and comfort that same ache he felt.
“The lad's out of it,” Bulmor said. “I can't blame him. What those bastards did there is unforgivable. That kind of thing could drive anyone insane. He's a good kid, but I think he needs some time to collect himself.”
“Arren, you knew these people, right?” Katarina asked.
The old man looked up in a distracted fashion, “What? Yes, I've visited before.”
Katarina looked at him expectantly, “Could you call out to them, tell them who we are?”
“If they are the villagers,” Bulmor said. “That might work. If they're bandits or worse, Norics, then we might just draw more of them.”
“Norics?” Katarina asked. “I thought they normally keep to more isolated...” She broke off, “Of course, with the village abandoned they may have moved in. And Hector's men wouldn't be too concerned about that, would they?” Katarina bit off a curse.
“It's a possibility, my Lady,” Gerlin said. “I'm honestly not certain. Whoever they are, they keep to the trees and the only reason I know they're there is a couple glimpses of movement.”
“This hidden valley that Aerion mentioned. Can we make it there, maybe hole up and defend ourselves if they're a threat?” Katarina asked.
“Yes,” Bulmor said.
“That could work, especially if they're new to the area, they may not know of the place,” Gerlin said. His tone was thoughtful.
“Arren?” Katarina asked.
“What?” The old man shook his head. “Oh, the valley. Yes. I think that would be a good idea.”
Katarina wanted to growl at him, but then she realized that he'd known some of these people too. Perhaps the sight of such destruction had rocked him much as it had Aerion. She looked over at Cederic. “Any insights from the wizard?”
Cederic shrugged, “The wizard has no idea. I don't sense any magic aimed at us and I don't know anything about this place. I'll defer to Master Gerlin.”
“It's just Gerlin, wizard,” the scout responded sharply.
Katarina wondered why her companions all seemed to have fallen apart so quickly. “Very well. We'll head for this valley. Gerlin, find out if Aerion is up to leading us there.”
***
Admiral Christoffer Tarken
Aboard the Ubelfurst, The Boir Sea
Eighth of Tremarn, cycle 999 Post Sundering
Admiral Christoffer Tarken paced around the large war golem and then turned to face Master Lorens. “Impressive though they are, I remain somewhat unconvinced as to the effectiveness of these new weapons.”
The wizard nodded, “I understand your concern, my Lord. However, I assure you that these constructs far exceed anything previously fielded. We've extensively tested them in combat conditions.”
“Yet they have yet to see actual combat,” Christoffer said. He glanced over at where Siara Pall stood with an attentive expression and a packet of documents relating to the two constructs. “The Admiralty has a pending agreement with the Iron Wizards over the purchase of twenty more of these. Your brethren seem to think that these weapons could break the siege.”
Master Lorens nodded slowly, “I can see your concern. That many will be a massive expenditure of funds.” The wizened man frowned as he stared at the constructs.
“Indeed, and they wish to make my endorsement of them public in order to boost morale in Boirton,” Christoffer said. He left unspoken how dire the situation must be that the Admiralty wanted him to endorse their actions. Then again, thanks to a solid crew and excellent officers the Ubelfurst has made the best of a bad situation, he thought.
“Would you like a field test of the war golems?” Master Lorens asked.
“I'd like a battle to use them in, but the Mircea boarding required we take the ship intact and we have yet to reach the Ryft where we plan to face more of the enemy,” Christoffer said sharply. “Failing a proper fight, I want your honest opinion. Not as an Iron Wizard, but as a citizen of Boir. Would you spend the cost of an entire battalion on twenty of these?” Christoffer patted the steel shoulder of the nearest construct.
Master Lorens frowned in thought. He looked up at the pair and Christoffer followed his gaze. Both looming constructs towered over them, eight feet in height and four feet wide. Both war golems had some basic resemblance to armored men, except their squat, heavy frames looked boxy and the bodies lacked a head or neck. Both arms ended in oversized weapons, a pair of six foot swords on the one and a pair of massive studded clubs on the other.
“My Lord Admiral...” Master Lorens said, “I honestly cannot say. I am certain that they will be useful, but I cannot say if they will prove to be of such worth as that.” He sighed, “Truthfully, they have limited function out of immediate combat and they are best on the offense, where friendly forces can stay safely behind.”
“They can be a threat to our own people, can they not?” Christoffer asked.
“Yes,” Master Lorens shrugged, “They have some ability to recognize sides, especially when we pass out tokens to better identify our people. But once they get moving, it is very hard to stop them. And to be honest, the power supply on one is good for at most an hour.”
“After which time, we need to recharge them, correct?” Christoffer frowned.
“Yes. These we can power through heat most easily, but it takes days to build up a good charge in them,” Master Lorens said. “I would have to say, as much as I value them, they are a very specific weapon.”
Christoffer nodded, “Thank you, Master Lorens. I appreciate your honesty.” He sighed, “I shall recommend that the order be put on hold until we can better evaluate them in comba
t.”
The wizard gave him a nod and Christoffer turned and walked out of the hold. He heard Siara Pall's footsteps behind him and he waited until they drew away to speak, “What do you think of them, Doctor's Assistant Pall?”
When she spoke, he heard something like hesitation, “I think that they are interesting. I agree with your decision to wait until you see them in action.” He heard her pause. “I had not realized that the southern wizards made such weapons, I thought the Darkstar unique in that.”
Christoffer stopped so suddenly that Siara ran into him from behind. He stooped in the low corridor and turned to face her. “The Darkstar have war golems?”
The shadows of the passageway made it hard to read the emotions on her face, “They have many weapons of war. Their own creations are... very different, more advanced, possibly.” She shrugged, “I don't know much about this form of magic, but I have seen their runic warriors accompany such constructs into battle.”
“To battle against your people?” Christoffer asked.
She nodded slowly, “And against the Sepak Armen. They make use of many weapons against us, both in conquest and in... testing.” Her voice grew rough at the last word, and Christoffer thought he saw tears glitter in her eyes.
“I see.” Christoffer said. He turned away, against a sudden urge to comfort her. Though her people might be the enemy, she herself had proven nothing but useful and it pained him to see her distraught. He continued down the passageway and then stepped into his own cabin. He nodded at her to take a seat in her normal spot, even as he sat behind his desk. He saw no signs of her previous distress. “What do you think of our own weapons then?”
“I think they are crude, by the standards of the Darkstar,” Siara Pall said. “Which does not mean they would not be effective. The Darkstar constructs make use of weapons like your casters and the Darkstar use them to lead spearheads of their assaults.”
“I see,” Christoffer said. “That is something we had not heard. Truth to tell, we hear little about the Darkstar, beyond rumors and the occasional exile who turns up in our lands.”