Exiles of Forlorn

by Sean T. Poindexter

  “I’m fair,” she replied with a sigh.

  “You don’t seem fair,” I said after a brief silence. While she gazed listless upon the sea, Roren’s watery tomb fading in the distance, I had occupied myself with the scent of her hair. The sea breeze caught a few loose strands and threw them against me. One chanced to land on my lips, and I tasted it. Her hair was salty with dried seawater and sweat, but I relished it all the same.

  “I’ll be fair soon enough.” Her voice betrayed ripe vulnerability. A lesser man might have pounced. That wasn’t my way. It certainly wasn’t the way I wanted her. If—when she came to me, it would be by her choice. I had faith in that end, and faith that I would prove I possessed all the characteristics she looked for in a man. I was passably handsome, or so I’d been told, and clever above that. I was the son of a lord—a thirdson, and therefore entitled only to a pittance of my lord father’s wealth in even the best of circumstances, but Reiwyn was not one to be impressed by that. In fact, it might well have counted against me. But I would be rich, someday. Roren had seen to that when he’d chosen us to complete his lifelong ambition: to be the first to plunder the Ruins of Xanas Muir.

  “I didn’t realize he meant so much to you,” I said, attempting to hide my glowering; I failed. She stepped away from me, not fast, but brisk enough that I barely had time to adjust my balance. Lacking her as support, I almost fell to the rail. A bit clumsier and I might have tumbled into the sea after her lost love.

  “He meant as much to me as any of you. You think I would mourn one friend less than another, were it you gone to ashes on a raft in the middle of the sea?”

  I shrugged, unable to meet her eyes. She stood with her back to the sun, its dying orange glow casting blinding rays through the same loose strands of her hair that I’d dared taste only moments ago. “I suppose not.”

  “Why would you think otherwise?”

  She was crafty, and being as pretty as she was, adept at evading men’s advances. Here she had just told me that Roren was no more than a friend, but the main message was obvious, despite being unspoken. I was a friend, and only a friend, no more or less than Uller, Antioc or Blackfoot. At least she was consistent. I took comfort for the stinging in my chest from her simultaneous rebuke of Uller and Antioc; though they had not been present to take it. At least I would not have to suffer the indignity of seeing her in the arms of one of my friends . . . for now.

  “You were with him for a while,” I said, not thinking that through enough before speaking. I quickly corrected my error . . . or tried, anyway, “I meant that maybe you felt some kinship with him, or he to you that he didn’t share with the rest of us.” Perhaps he had a daughter Reiwyn’s age, I thought, but didn’t say. It would have sounded obvious by then. “That’s all. I didn’t mean to imply . . .”

  “It’s fair,” she said, crossing her arms and turning to the sea. She took her time before going on, giving me a chance to catch my breath and let my pulse slow. “I liked him as I like you and the others. You’re all fine friends . . . usually. But it wasn’t for him.”

  She put her hands on the rail and leaned slightly, letting the ocean breeze catch her hair. The same breeze brought her scent to my nose again, and once more I found myself urged to draw close to her. This time, I did not give in to it and stood out of arm’s length, in the place of a friend.

  “What do you mean?” I asked, my sweaty brow furrowed, “What wasn’t for him?”

  “When I left the river folk, I hoped to be spared another downing-in-ashes.” She gestured to the sea. “My father,” she explained, quietly.

  It made sense immediately. Her father had been a river pirate, and there were customs that seemed universal for those who made their lives on the water.

  “I watched him go to ashes much like this.” she said with a bittersweet smile. “I was ten. After that, I saw many more, including five brothers, two by blood the others by ward.” She looked at me. “The river folk do that, care for the children of their fallen mates. It’s our way. My adopted father was a kind man.” She gave the sea a wicked little grin. “For a pirate.”

  I smiled at that, which she seemed to appreciate. We enjoyed the sunset in peace. Before joining our friends below deck for dinner, I swallowed a lump of apprehension in my throat and broached a subject that I’d already rendered sore by my petty jealousies.

  “What did he tell you?” I asked, stepping close again. This time, she did not retreat, only hesitate.

  “Nothing,” she replied. She sounded as surprised as I was at the admission.

  “But . . . why did he see you if he had nothing to give you?”

  “I didn’t say he didn’t give me anything,” she replied, bending low. She took the leather ties that ran up the side of her short leather britches and pulled. As they came undone, I thought for a moment she was going to undress right there before me—at least I could dream of such.

  She stopped once the laces had come undone enough to reveal her thigh, long and thin with subtle cords of muscle under tight, lightly tanned skin. She had faint scars running up her legs, and a few tattoos here and there, each of varying age, color and quality. I’d seen them all before; the sea serpent, the skull and the lacy twirls that ended in a dead rose, laced with bloody thorns like the spikes of a mace. It was the tattoo I hadn’t seen before planted firmly on her hip that caught my eye. It was a perfect circle, the size of the bottom of a wine bottle with elaborate patterns scrolled around a center that seemed rather like a stylish image of a sun casting long beams out to the rim of the design.

  “The jade disc? He tattooed it on your thigh?” I puzzled, daring to touch it. She indulged me for about two seconds then swatted my hand away.

  “It’s not a tattoo,” she replied. “If it were, I’d have been in there much longer, and I wouldn’t be showing it off so soon.” On this, she was an expert. She had more tattoos than most of the men I’d met. This was no tattoo. The lines were raised, as though pushed from below. The color, a dark green like the older copper coins of Morment, seemed to press through as her skin strained to hold it in.

  I wasn’t able to examine it closely enough, but its style seemed ancient. Satisfied that I’d had enough of a look, Reiwyn tightened and re-laced her britches.

  “He didn’t tell you what it was for?” I asked, more surprised than incredulous. Roren was not a common sort, so it wasn’t hard to imagine him doing something that made no outward sense.

  She shook her head. “He told me just that I was the only one who could carry it, and that I’d know what it was for when we needed it.”

  “How did he do it? If it isn’t a tattoo . . . how did he . . . ?”

  She held her breath for a second before answering, gesturing nervously with her small, strong hands. “He . . .” She closed her eyes as if to search for a better way to say it. She must have failed, because the explanation sounded perturbing, “He put it in me.”

  She opened her eyes just in time to see me grin. It wasn’t intentional, I swear, but I didn’t feel guilty either. “I see.”

  “It’s not like that,” she continued, looking around. Satisfied that no one on deck was paying her any mind, she stepped closer to me. She pressed her thumb to my chest. “He put it to my thigh and—well, it just sunk in.”

  My eyes widened. “He was a wizard? He said he’d picked up some magic.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so. All the same, I may have Uller look at it as well.”

  Yes, I thought, suddenly jealous again, I’m sure he’ll be more than happy to examine your thigh. As if sensing my rancor, she gave me a fed-up look and began to walk away. I followed.

  “It’s near time to eat,” she said, adjusting her britches as she walked. “Should we dine on deck again? It may be the last time for a while, since we’ll be exiles on Forlorn and not likely to afford another sea voyage for some time.” She looked over her shoulder and caught the sun in her eyes.

  “And the sunset is lovely.” I said with
a grin. Truth was, I didn’t give two spits about the sunset, or about where we ate the bland gruel that passed for chow on this Daevas forsaken wooden tub. But if that was where she wanted to eat, that was where we would eat. Well, most of us would. Uller would try to eat and then gurge over the side of the ship, if the pasty-browed no-wizard showed up at all.

  2.

  I’d known Antioc the longest. We were both partly responsible for the other being on a barge to Forlorn. For his part, he’d tried to convince me we’d be better off in the Northern Isles, where the weather was fair and the war would never reach. For mine, I was the reason he still had a head on his shoulders, rather than on a pole.

  I am the thirdson of Lord Olune Standwell III, and like all sons of a lord I had a highly specific role to play in the traditions of the Morment feudal system. I was supposed to die.

  The firstson, my brother Olune Standwell IV, would inherit the bulk of the family’s holdings, including Standwell Keep . . . which was really more of a walled village with a couple of towers, but why change a good name? So Olune IV trained as a knight to fight in the long-running war with the neighboring country of Illyr. He even got a big long sword and a proud suit of red plate armor. It was all for show. The firstson would never really get into dire circumstances lest Standwell Keep fall at the feet of whatever Illyrian fighter managed to take his head in a challenge—as was the ancient and wholly stupid custom of our people. Jests aside, I hoped Olune (Ollie, as we called him) kept his head to himself. I liked my oldest brother a great deal. He was strong, brave and honorable; three things I wasn’t and never would be.

  The secondson was my brother Ferug Standwell, so named for my mother’s father. Unlike Ollie and myself, he had the look of my mother’s people: fair hair and dark eyes, like my friend Uller, traits common to those with blood from the high East. Ferug was to inherit what was left of the family holdings after Olune IV got his. Before any of that happened dowries had to be paid to marry off my sisters: of whom I had four, each more lovely and vapid than the last. By custom, dowries had to be paid out of the secondson’s inheritance. Ferug didn’t stand to inherit much from our father, unless Ollie died, but as the secondson he was also in succession for inheritance from my mother’s fair-haired folk, the Yarleys of Yarholm. As old Ferug Yarley had no living sons of his own, there was a good chance he’d absorb a nice keep in the east for his trouble. That assumed he lived through the war, which wasn’t near as certain as Ollie. It was ironic, since my eldest brother would have gladly forsaken his inheritance to charge headlong into battle with the Illyrians, while Ferug—a more craven sort, like me—wanted to be as far from it as possible. To hear him tell it, in panicked tones with shaking hands, he was being thrown to the front, death looming over him like a ravenous strangle-snake, licking its lips with a forked tongue. The truth was far less dire; he was closer to the front than Ollie, but no true risk to his life would be had. He’d give some orders, point his finger around while astride an armored steed, and receive all the credit for the deeds of the men under his command.

  Still, it was a fairer lot than I’d drawn.

  After me, there was the fourthson, who was sworn by tradition to the oracles. The odds of a fourthson getting anything out of an inheritance was so forgone that there was little more he could do but join the faith. Tradition had to make some allowances for a line to continue in the unlikely event that all three other sons died in battle or son-less. So one son must be admitted to a vocation that would ensure his safety, which meant he would become a priest and a scholar. My little brother Midth was barely twelve, but he was a spitting genius. He was well suited to the role chosen for him. For that, I envied the little brat.

  With the first and second sons only playing at war, someone from the noble families had to actually go out there and fight it. The peasants and middlelanders wouldn’t be happy if they were the only ones to lose sons to the war. So, the nobles long ago decided that their thirdsons would be the ones they actually put into the war with a reasonable expectation of losing to an Illyrian lance or one of their wicked barbed arrows. And that role fell to me. Further, having a fighter in the family who actually got to fight was all for the glory of the house and my lord father. That kept his peasants happy, especially if I died in battle. Which, all things considered, I probably would have.

  I wasn’t much of a soldier, much to my father’s chagrin. I was fit enough, and I’d learned to fight with a sword and wear armor along with my older brothers. I just took issue with certain aspects of the soldier’s life . . . specifically the part about taking orders and “listening” to my “superiors.” More often than not, the officers were puffy secondsons like Ferug . . . or worse, even puffier thirdsons like me. They’d made me an officer, as befit my lordship, however minor, but I was only slightly better at giving orders than I was at following them. So much for the glory of the Standwells this generation.

  I wasn’t completely useless, however; I did have a knack for contraptions. In my youth, I’d built all manner of mechanical devices, usually for fun, but occasionally to aid in my chores, like the time I constructed a horse-drawn spinning wheelbrush to hurry along the task of re-tarring the northeastern side of the Standwell Keep library. Tar was important, you see. It kept the rain off the books. I’d been charged with this task one year, and so rather than climb up with a bucket of tar and a polebrush, I devised a way to have a horse-powered crate with a spinning contraption complete the task for me. The device functioned just as expected, but I had not anticipated the frailty of the library’s ceiling. It proved unable to support the weight of the horse, which was already unsteady about being on top of a slanted roof in the first place. The end result was a tar-filled library, an angry horse and an even angrier father. Nonetheless, I was confident that the concept was sound, and swore to my father that my next prototype would allow the horse to do the work from the ground . . . he need merely provide me with longer shanks of wood and a new horse—the old one wouldn’t come near me anymore. His response was a beating . . . which was fair, I think.

  Little did I expect that my aptitude for engineering had a tactical application. Turns out, men at war have need for all kinds of contraptions. Traditional examples included catapults and giant crossbows. Less known were big moving towers and portable buildings. I was even once called upon to design a horse-mounted, repeating bolt-launcher for an ambitious secondson officer who wanted to lead a cavalry charge of mounted archers. He believed the movement of the running horse could be converted into power for the crank-and-load mechanism of the two-man turret crossbows that often lined fortress walls. The horse would unwittingly take the role of the second man while the rider would occupy himself with steering the horse and aiming the weapon. It wasn’t my idea, and despite my protest that such a device was “impractical” and “beyond extremely stupid,” the lordling lieutenant was insistent. So I built it, and he died. Unfortunately, so did the horse. I felt bad for the horse.

  Still, I was very young for an engineer, commissioned at fifteen, like most men in our kingdom. Most of the time, soldiers that young are good for one thing only ─ dying. I’d proven my worth as an engineer very quickly, a profession that generally went to soldiers with years of experience. That was all before my exile, an event which led to disinheritance and my predicament with Antioc.

  Antioc was rather like my firstson brother: tall, strong and courageous. Unlike my brother, he wasn’t born well. Not even a middlelander, his people were common. As common as one could get, really - unlanded farm folk from the Centerwest region, where the soil was light and full of sharp rocks. Growing up with farm labor had made him powerful, but took most of the time that a better blooded man would have spent learning to read and ride and talk down to his lessers without them realizing he was doing it. I was really good at all three of those, by the way.

  For a boy so born, there were few escapes. If you were particularly good looking or could sing, you might make it into a troupe of bards. Antioc wasn’t
unattractive, but he wasn’t what the noble ladies would have called “pretty” and, so far as I knew, didn’t have a singing voice in him. He was strong, though, and didn’t fear much. So, he took the more common escape and became a fighter. He was well suited to it.

  It was Antioc’s lack of gentility that led to his exile. It would have been his death, if not for my intervention. I don’t have a lot of things that I’ve done of which I’m particularly proud, but saving Antioc is one of them. The matter involved a surly thirdson officer and his ungallant behavior toward a watergirl. At least that was what I gathered. Contrary to sworn testimony, I did not witness the event in question.

  I was called to trial the same day as him, and our sessions were close. Mine was first, ahead of his by three. We were set before a lord magister to decide the fate of all military prisoners. Most were there for the same reason as me: desertion. There were a few present for other crimes: theft, insubordination, a few assaults and even one or two murders. The crime didn’t really matter; the punishment would be the same, only differing with respect to one’s blood. Noble born could choose exile—with forfeiture of land and title—or imprisonment. Middlelanders and common folk didn’t get a choice. The former were sent to prison, the latter executed. It sounds harsh, except that the bulk of common folk enlisted in the King’s army after being captured for some other crime and given a choice to join the war in exchange for a pardon. The rest were conscripted. Antioc happened to be one of those unfortunate common men who joined the army voluntarily. Noble, but it wouldn’t save him.

  So I sat, watching Antioc give his account of the events to the bloated magister. Antioc had been dismissed from his watch, where he’d been assigned after being wounded in battle. On his way through the yard, he came upon an officer and two of his minions harassing a pretty, little watermaid near her post at the well. Antioc, being the do-right sort, intervened. He was ordered to stand down by the officer, a snotty thirdson named Claster. He refused. In the ensuing fight, he crippled the two men and broke Claster’s arm and nose.