Simon Blackfyre and the Storms of Destiny

by A J Callen

  “Right then. I’ve wrapped and mended Esther’s wing the best I could. She’s been fed and given water. I’ve made a wee bed with a blanket in a leather bag and tied it to my horn cap and saddle. That should keep her safe and secure for the ride.”

  “You did a fine job, sir. She’ll heal in no time.” Simon had enjoyed watching this giant of man gently handle Esther with his surprisingly agile fingers. Never once did she squawk or try to take a bite out of his hand.

  “Let’s get a move on, then, shall we?” Byrch whistled twice.

  From around the far side of the barn loped Shamus, the biggest horse Simon had ever seen. He was gobsmacked beyond words the first time he’d seen the beast but watching the gigantic steed thundering toward them still rendered him speechless. Simon had steered the plow behind many large draught horses but never seen such an imposing stallion as this. It was double the shoulder span of Jesamine and at least three heads taller with black capped hoofs the size of buckets that made the ground quake.

  Shamus stopped in front of Mr. Byrch and lowered his huge white head. “Aye, good boy.” Byrch rubbed behind the horse’s ears. “A man could not ask for a more noble and trusted friend. No insult intended, lad. But ye’ve a long way to go to match this one.”

  “No offence taken, sir. Yes, I have a long way to go.” Simon looked up with renewed amazement and awe at the mammoth, gentle beast. “I saw a painting once, of the Palace square. It had huge statues of great horses like this. I always thought they were a myth.”

  “It’s no fable, lad. Shamus is descended from that same brave line of war horses that galloped across the plains in Miradora’s Age of Heroes. There are only a few breeders remaining in the northern province of Irmengard near the frontier, and they’re very particular who they sell to. And rightly so, I say.”

  He held out his big hand like a bowl; it was filled with oats. “We spoke little during our ride to Grimsby for my thoughts are preoccupied of late,” Byrch said. “So, I forgot to ask if you’ve ever been to the Royal Palace in Avidene?”

  “I’ve never been farther south than Cairnweller with Mister Pumberton.”

  “Well, we’ll certainly have to fix that the first chance we can. Gwendomir Palace and the Temple of Saint Kaja of Palamor are sights everyone should see once in their lives. The streets are covered in small sea shells and the city walls are the highest and strongest in all the known world. Many there still believe the old legends and are happy to tell the tale to any who care to listen.”

  Simon nodded and smiled, though he couldn’t imagine wasting more than a single bloody breath listening to some old crone telling him bedtime stories as if he was still a child.

  He brushed down Jesamine’s neck.

  What did he care about boring, ancient history or about a place he would likely never see unless he was a freeman? He couldn’t just go hopping on a horse and gallivanting all around the Kingdom in search of crumbling old books filled with foolish stories and superstitions. Lord Lionsbury might seek to better his mind and improve his character, but Simon only wanted to learn the practical skills required to help him survive in the frontier should he not receive his promised freeman status at the end of the rites.

  Though he didn’t wish to consider the terrifying possibility, he knew he would not honor his promise to his Lordship should his dream of freedom be denied. “I didn’t think a horse that size could be so swift, Mister Byrch. Jesamine was at a full gallop just to keep up.”

  “Just because something’s big and heavy doesn’t mean it’s not fast. Take a look at me, for instance.” Byrch raised his bushy brow and Simon tried to suppress a smirk.

  The man’s voice sounded again. “Shamus here can race the length of a plain like a thundering wind when he needs to. Remember that, lad.”

  Harlick Pumberton waddled out of the front door toward them, holding something wrapped in old cheese cloth. “You off then, Mister Byrch?”

  “We have to travel over twenty leagues before we make camp tonight.”

  “My, my. Who’d have thought our Simon would have been chosen for such an important service to his Kingdom.” Harlick turned to Simon. “What do you think of that, boy? You’re going help choose the next King of Miradora.”

  “I’ll do what’s needed of me, Mister Pumberton, and hope all will do the same.”

  “Of course, of course you will, and just to show there’s no hard feelings between us, here’s a Frangipane Tart. Rimilda found it hidden under Baxley’s bed. That boy would horde them like gold if he could.” He held out the tart.

  Simon spotted Baxley skulking around the corner of the house watching their preparations. Step out, you bloody bastard, so you can see clearly.

  Simon accepted the gift, sniffed the tart, and was glad there was no curdled smell. The fruit was dried on top, but still worth eating. He held it up, making certain Baxley could see him take the first bite. The sweetness was almost gone but there was enough of a hint of honey to savor.

  He glanced back and Baxley was nowhere to be seen.

  Rimilda hurried out of the house and joined her husband. “Dear me, where’s our manners? Let’s at least see you off at the front door.” She turned and hollered. “Baxley! Get yourself out here right now and say goodbye! Rude boy!”

  Byrch placed Esther gently inside the leather bag fastened to the wide saddle and tightened the straps. With a single, agile motion he stepped up and swung his stocky leg over the saddle. “Mount up, lad. It’s well past the time we should be on our way. I don’t want to be on the roads at night.”

  With their horses walking at a gentle gait, Simon followed Mr. Byrch out of the barnyard. They rode past the sullen Pumbertons standing outside their front door. Harlick and Rimilda looked greatly relieved to see them leave. As Simon passed by, he slowed and looked down on the furious face of Baxley, tapping his cane against his pudgy palm.

  “That’s right. Ride your high horse in the sun while you can.” Baxley spat onto Jesamine’s leg. “One of these days I’ll put you back in your place and drag you down into the abyss for good, slave boy.”

  Simon paused his horse, resisting the urge to dismount and thrash the venomous cocker to within an inch of his cruel life. “I think you are just as tardy as usual, Mister Baxley, and you have still too much mouth. Unless I am mistaken, it is I who have put you in your place already. And by the way—the Frangipane Tart was still good. I’m sorry you lost it.” He tugged on Jesamine’s reins and caught up with Mr. Byrch and Shamus.

  Byrch paused by the open front gate. “What was that all about then?”

  “Just saying goodbye ... and good riddance.” Simon spat on the dirt.

  Byrch smiled and set off east down the long and winding King’s Road, at a brisk pace.

  Simon pulled on Jesamine’s reins. Do whatever they say and you’ll be a freeman come winter. That’s all that matters now.

  The wind cooled the sweat on his brow and never once was he tempted to look back.

  Not even after the stone whizzed by his cheek.

  Chapter 14

  Something in the Trees

  A midday summer breeze was colder than any Simon could recall, though he was relieved to be out of a long day in the hot sun and under the shade of Aspenvale.

  He followed Mr. Byrch and Shamus as they wound their way through the ancient forest under a luminous canopy overshadowed by poplar, ash, and cottonwood, their crowns allowing cascading lights to shimmer through to the plentiful saplings in the fertile soil below. Thick creepers entwined many trees, and a rainbow of wildflowers—desperately trying to claim the last remnants of light—added spots of color to the uniform green and brown terrain.

  Although the Pumbertons and their odious neighbors lay less than six leagues behind to the southwest, Simon felt so much joy at that moment, it was as if he was on the other side of the known world separated forever by an immense, unassailable ocean.

  He mulled over how he’d never see the bastard Baxley again, and that if he did
, it would be as a freeman and an equal.

  Byrch stopped and dismounted his great horse, leading Shamus to drink and feed on the tall grass by the bank of a gently flowing river. Simon joined them with Jesamine. She had proved a steady, swift-footed mare and he was grateful to have been trusted to care for such a fine horse.

  “I have never been this far east along the King’s road. The air smells so clean compared to Grimsby,” he said.

  “Aye lad, and let’s hope it stays that way.” Byrch looked up at the gathering clouds. “Forbidding skies do not bode well for any journey.”

  With each passing league farther from Grimsby, Simon was emboldened by this unexpected taste of freedom and the single hope of his miserable life of servitude soon coming to an end. He would follow his orders and complete all his set tasks in the Rites of Succession, whatever they may be. Such was his growing confidence that he could scarcely contain his enthusiasm to press on and join the caravan. “Sir, how is Esther faring?”

  “Sleeping like a bird in her nest. She hardly made a peep the whole time.”

  “So, tell me Mister Byrch. Now that I am to become a great protector of the realm, when might I come into the possession of a fine sword to match my horse?”

  Mr. Byrch relieved himself against a dead aspen stripped of its bark. “Novices aren’t allowed to carry swords,” he called back.

  “A novice? Am I expected to take religious vows too?”

  “You must train hard, undergo your initiation, and prove yourself worthy of sacred Miradoran steel before the sword chooses to be by your side.”

  Simon chuckled. “The sword chooses its master?”

  “Aye, so it is said, and if it be the right one you can count on that blade to save your life and the lives of the ones you love on that darkest of days.”

  “Sounds to me that you speak of magic, sir.”

  “Call it what you will. You’ll be thankful, though, when your hand grips the hilt and it feels a part of your body and soul.”

  “I mean no disrespect, sir, but all enchantments are evil and none more so than those who practice them.”

  “Who said anything about enchantments and sorcery?” Byrch turned and tied his trousers. “Do you think his Lordship fool enough to give you a blade before you have gained his trust?” He knelt by the river and washed his hands. “As a rule, men sleep more soundly when they know their throats won’t be cut before morning.”

  “Well then, sir, trust or not, what is to prevent such a terrible thing from happening or someone escaping from the caravan?”

  Byrch pulled his double-headed ax, his great and ancient labrys, from his belt. “This,” Byrch said, more than a touch of irritation in his tone.

  Simon took a step back, afraid he’d insulted a warrior against whose wrath he had little defense.

  “Hunting men puts me in a foul mood, lad. It rots the soul like a festering wound that can never be cleaned. I don’t have the stomach for it that I once had. These days, I prefer to ride in fellowship, yet we all have responsibilities to those who depend upon us to be men of our word.” Mr. Byrch lifted the ax over his head with two hands and whispered. “Don’t ye move, now. Don’t ye move a muscle.”

  Simon drew a quick breath and jumped back, crouching in terror, hands raised. “Please, Mister Byrch, I meant no offense! I only—”

  “Oh! Shut yer bloody gob.” Mr. Byrch swung around, growling like an angered bear and with a mighty heave, threw the labrys head-over-handle through the air.

  It struck something catapulting in midair, its legs outstretched toward Simon’s head. The impact propelled the thing back with such force the ax struck the aspen with a loud crack; it cleaved deeply into whatever was now sliding down in putrid-smelling pieces against the dead tree. “Now be a good lad and fetch Gertie for me. I want to feed Shamus his turnips.”

  He grinned and belched as though nothing at all had happened. Simon blinked rapidly, struggling to regain his breath. “Fetch… who? Who?”

  “Gertie.”

  Byrch pointed to the ax stuck in the tree. “That’s Gertie. And before you start on about that, she’s named in honor of the previous owner—my wee Granny—may she rest in peace. A real battleax in her own right and a fearsome protector of her clan.”

  Simon tried not to breathe through his nose and stumbled toward the tree without saying another word.

  “And be careful how you take it out of the tree. It smells bad enough and you don’t want to get any of that loathsome shite on you.”

  Simon reached for the ax handle and stopped. The blade had split some sort of gigantic spider-like creature in half. The body was the size of a monstrous rat, each leg as long as a tail.

  Mr. Byrch stepped beside him holding a burlap bag. “That baneful beastie is a long way from its lair. I’m surprised it could survive the winter.”

  “Is it a spider? I’ve never seen one that big before.”

  “Some call them crypt crawlers, giant spidery creepers from the deepest caverns in the earth. Old stories say they look for warm places to lay their eggs, like inside a man’s stomach.” Byrch scanned the immediate area around. “They’ve never been seen this far north above ground, at least not in all my born days.”

  “Where do they come from?”

  “Not from Miradora, lad, I can tell you that.” He withdrew his dagger and carefully scraped the remains into the bag.

  “It attacked like it was ... hunting prey.”

  “Or you bloody well scared it because you wouldn’t keep still or yer mouth shut like I told you.”

  “Why would something like that be afraid of me?”

  Mr. Byrch tied the end of the bag. “Always asking bloody questions! Well, don’t stand there gawking. Gertie isn’t going to pull herself out of the bark, ye know.”

  Simon grabbed the ax handle. He tensed his arms and shoulders and yanked the labrys blade free with great effort, almost falling backward on the ground as it gave way and swung free.

  Mr. Byrch slipped the weapon back into his belt and they walked back to the horses. “So which man are you, Simon? The one who keeps his word or the one who doesn’t?”

  Simon adjusted his saddle straps. “If each man were equal, sir, his word would be trusted as well as the next and you wouldn’t have to hunt down runaway slaves.” He mounted Jesamine and patted her neck. “In a world like that, I suspect you would never have to be in a foul mood again.”

  “Oh, that I should live so long to see it, lad.” Byrch grunted and shifted his huge body in the saddle. “We’ve still a good fifteen leagues to ride before we’ll be joining the caravan at Lundy’s Hill.” He surveyed the shadowy woods around as though searching for someone or something.

  “These lands have become unsettled of late and I don’t wish to be riding near dark.”

  The bloody darkness, again! Simon never truly understood this preoccupation with the color of the sky; dark was dark, light was light, but the world didn’t just stop every time night fell. Yet so many times he would hear how it was vital to arrive some place before the night came.

  “Why do we have to worry, sir? Doesn’t the King's Council have regiments stationed up and down the entire length of the road?”

  Mr. Byrch patted Shamus on his massive shoulder. “Aye, even the most wanted highwayman feels safe knowing he can surrender himself to the Council Guard in any town.”

  “Then what, sir? Surely an imposing warrior such as yourself has little to fear from any brigand fool enough to challenge you.”

  Byrch rubbed his crevassed forehead as though a great weariness had come upon him. He gently stroked Esther still sleeping on Baxley’s blanket in the leather saddle bag. “It is not the things standing plain and clear before my eyes that vex me.” He pulled back on the reins. “Let’s get a move on. We still have to pass through Ironfield. After that, I’ll feel better once we catch sight of a welcoming campfire and a familiar face.”

  The day lengthened and the brilliant blue sky of morning clouded
over, the sun’s warmth fading into the damp coolness of the afternoon.

  Not a single bird or animal was heard as they rode through the eerie, soundless trees, and at times it felt as though something unseen, an inhuman presence, was shadowing their journey through the forest.

  Thinking of the crypt crawler, Simon recalled the hooded man in the woods outside of Grimsby, growing ever more anxious to reach the caravan. In the company of others chosen for the same purpose, there would be protection and the chance to gain knowledge of his new, puzzling situation in life.

  “I’m curious, Mister Byrch, sir. What does Missus Byrch think of all this?”

  “I don’t know.” He scratched his beard as though considering the question. “I’ll have to ask her if ever we meet.”

  “Sir?”

  Mister Byrch chuckled. “Look at me, lad. What woman in her right mind wants to wake up every morning to a great, hairy beast like me?” He looked away to the side of the road.

  “You are too hard on yourself, sir, and do not give a lady her due. I’ve seen many with gentlemen of every description possible and some quite shocking to the eye.”

  “Aye, lad, but I be no gentleman and are the worse for it.” He pulled on the reins. “Enough now with the idle talk. Mind the road and keep your eyes open front and back.”

  Simon scratched the eye-shaped brand burned into the flesh of his chest and looked back for the first time since leaving Grimsby. Who or what he expected to see, he didn’t know, but he was surely relieved to see it wasn’t there anyway. Hearing too much talk of the evils of darkness was a curse.

  * * *

  Simon did not think there was a town dirtier, noisier, and smellier than Grimsby until he had the misfortune of making poor Jesamine clomp through the foul, hoof-deep mud of Ironfield. Stinkfield would have proved a better name for this place.

  The town was covered in ash and soot from the belching foundry and the face of each scowling person he passed looked to be smeared with oily grime. The smell was something else, something overwhelming and industrial. The air carried a sharp and acidic, acrid undertone on every gust of wind.