Hyperion's Shield

by Nathan Schivley

  "If I tell you, are you going to kill them?" asked the bartender.

  "If you don't, I may kill you," answered Septa coolly.

  The bartender continued to wipe down the bar slowly and steadily. "I believe that," answered the bartender. "But I fear that I am damned either way. For I am sure that they would kill me for revealing their location to you."

  "Then you have a choice to make," answered Septa.

  "Aye, so I do," said the bartender. He continued to wipe the bar until he had cleared every spot of liquid from its surface. Once he finished, he looked up at Septa with his one good eye. "You aren't worried what they may do to you?" said the bartender. "They outnumber you."

  Septa leaned down so that her face was directly in front of the waif's. He did not budge. Her fierce purple eyes stared directly into his. "Do I look worried?" she replied.

  The bartender looked past Septa toward the severed hand that still lay on the floor. Then he looked back at her. He made his decision.

  "Next building down. Room twelve." As he said this he returned his attention to the bar, grabbed another rag and began to wipe off a stack of dirty glasses. He bet on me against the Reytana, thought Septa. The idea made her smile. She turned and walked out of the saloon.

  The saloon next door was much like all of the others – damp, dirty and full of loud drunkards. This time Septa did not go to the bar, but rather straight up the stairs to room twelve. She considered kicking the door down but thought better of it. She did not know what awaited her on the other side. It could be the twins that escaped from Reysa. It could be a host of Reytana soldiers. The bartender at the previous saloon could have sent her into a trap, although it was unlikely. He seemed smarter than that. Still, she had to be cautious. Lightly, she placed her ear against the door and listened. She heard muffled voices and laughing. There were also female voices – female torman voices. This is no trap, thought Septa. She turned the doorknob, expecting it be locked. It wasn't. Without thinking twice, she burst through the door.

  Sitting in the candle-lit room were three faces that Septa hadn't seen in many years. Their jaws all dropped simultaneously as Septa came through the door.

  "Rankin," seethed Septa as she addressed the closest of the three Gartune men. Each one of them had a scantily-clad waif woman sitting on their knee and a large stein of ale in their hand. One of the Gartune dropped his glass while the other shoved his girl off of his lap. Only Rankin did not budge.

  "Septa," replied Rankin, "it's been a long time. What are you doing here?"

  "I am looking for the Reytana fugitives. And you three fools – why aren't you in Reysa?"

  "We were but then we—" started one of the Gartune but Septa quickly smacked him across the head with her eüroc.

  "I wasn't talking to you," she said, keeping her glaring violet eyes fixed on Rankin.

  "Your brother ordered that we come here to look for the fugitives as well," answered Rankin. He had no sooner finished his sentence than Septa slammed her eüroc into the floor, splintering the wood planks.

  "LIES!" shouted Septa. "I was with Xander AND the king when he ordered Xander to search for the escapees, alone."

  "Then why are you searching for them, Princess?" asked Rankin as he slowly got to his feet, pushing the terrified waif woman off of him at the same time. All three waifs took this as an opportunity to run for the door and they quickly vacated the room.

  Septa's fury was palpable as she locked eyes with Rankin. Sensing a fight may be imminent, the other two Gartune arose from their chairs as well. Unfortunately for them, they had carelessly set their eürocs on the fireplace mantle, a good ten paces from their chairs. They dare not try for their weapons. For a few moments, the four Gartune stood in silence, waiting for someone to make the first move. Then, Septa spoke.

  "You pathetic swine. You come here to defile yourselves with drink and women and then dare to question me? You disgrace all Gartune."

  "But your brother—" stuttered one of the soldiers but Septa quickly silenced him.

  "My brother has made you soft! Reysa has made you soft! Someone needs to remind you of your metal."

  Suddenly, one of the soldiers made a motion for his eüroc. With stunning speed, Septa smashed hers into the floor. The wooden floorboards buckled and piled onto themselves as they raced towards the fireplace. The pile of wood reached the mantle at the same time as the Gartune and it smashed him into the wall before he could grab his staff. Septa then swung around and smacked the second Gartune in the head with her eüroc before he had a chance to even think about reaching for his own. He crumpled to the floor in a heap. With his companions unconscious, Septa turned her attention to Rankin, who still had not moved.

  "Wait," said Rankin holding up his hand. "I do have some information. Information about the Reytana. I will gladly tell you if you spare me the sting of your staff."

  "You always did have a flair for politics, didn't you, Rankin?" replied Septa. "I see your time playing with my brother in Reysa has only encouraged that character flaw. How about this; you tell me what you know, and I'll decide if it warrants a greater or lesser beating."

  "Of course, of course. It's only that... I haven't had time to follow up on it myself, you see. But there is a man here who knows something. They say he's been helping the Reytana. He might even know where they're hiding – all of them, not just the runaways. You go and ask him. You'll see."

  Septa stepped closer to Rankin. She had not decided if she would beat him or not. "Where is this man? And if you tell me 'I don't know' you might as well just start bleeding right here and now."

  Rankin took a small step back. "He's just next door. The bartender. We were going to go question him... after we were done."

  Septa swung her staff to the side of Rankin, stopping a fraction of an inch from his ear. He flinched. When he realized that he had not been struck, Rankin bowed his head in shame. Septa then ran her eüroc through the handle of the beer stein sitting on the end table and doused him with the contents. "You're done," she said and then stormed out of the room, leaving the Gartune captain dripping.

  Septa's anger had been building since she entered the city, and now it was at its peak. To think that she had been led astray by a torman, and a waif at that, was maddening. She splayed the swinging doors of the previous saloon open with such force that she ripped them off their hinges. This time, the piano player stopped playing. Every conversation came to a halt. The only sound was that of Septa's boots marching straight toward the bar.

  There stood the bartender, wiping down his grimy glasses just as he had been when she left him. He did not look up when she approached.

  "You made a dangerous mistake, bartender."

  "Did you not find them?" he replied.

  "Right height, wrong color," replied Septa.

  The bartender continued cleaning his glasses. Septa's patience had ended. She swept her arm across the bar sending the glasses crashing onto the floor. The bartender didn't look up, he simply grabbed another rag and began to wipe down the bar where the glasses had been.

  "I know you know where they are," whispered Septa directly into the bartender's ear. "This is your last chance. Tell me where the floaters are. Now!"

  "I... I know where dey are... or at least where dey might be..." said a quivering voice. It came from a man at one of the card tables. And it wasn't just any man. This one had a crude bandage wrapped around a bloody stump where his hand used to be. Septa turned to face him.

  "Speak," she said as she pointed her eüroc directly at him. The waif recoiled at the site of her staff. There was blood on the end of it. His blood.

  "Der's a man in Wood'aven. He goes in and out of Reysa, carryin' messages and such. Dey say he talks directly wit da governa’. Dey say he knows where da floaters is hidin'!"

  "What's his name?" said Septa as she approached the man until she was directly over him with her staff inches from his throat.

  "D-d-declin. His name is Declin."

  "Very
well," said Septa. She lowered her eüroc. The waif breathed a sigh of relief. Now that he didn't have a eüroc shoved in his face, he gained back a bit of confidence. He looked at his severed hand still lying on the floor, then back at his bloody stump. His brow furrowed as a thought crept into his dull waif brain. And then he made one, final mistake. He couldn't help it – he was a waif, after all.

  "So, do I get anything fer dat valuable information?"

  Septa turned on a dime. She grabbed the cowering waif by the collar and drug him out of his chair.

  "Wait! I was just kiddin'! No comper'sation necessary!" gasped the waif.

  "Oh yes there is," said Septa as she continued to drag the man across the floor and out into the street. A crowd, including the bartender, followed them wordlessly into the cool night air, doing nothing to stop the Gartune. The stench of stale beer and urine was just as strong outside as it was in the bar. Septa shoved the man into the muddy street, face first. The crowd formed a circle around them. The waif got to his knees, holding his bloody stump pathetically in his hand as if to say "haven't I been punished enough already?" The look on Septa's face indicated that he hadn't.

  "You ask for compensation, and so I will give you the greatest gift that I can think of." Septa was speaking to the waif, but she was really addressing the crowd. "I give you freedom from this pit of defilement that you call a city. I free you from your drink and your gambling and all of your other maladies." She raised her eüroc above her head and pressed the button. The bloody blade sprung from its tip. "I release you."

  In a second it was over. The waif's limp body crumpled to the ground. No one said a word. Septa looked around at the blank faces of the crowd. She saw no emotion. No anger. No fear. No pity. Nothing. Septa's anger rose once more. The students require further teaching. Septa addressed the crowd.

  "This man was a coward. And this is how cowards die – on their knees in the street!"

  She looked around at the crowd. Still nothing. It was as if they agreed with her; like it had just been a matter of time before this particular waif ended up dead in the street. His death had not been a punishment, merely a formality. They still have not learned their lesson. The students require further teaching.

  "There is only one thing worse than cowardice," Septa continued as she scanned the crowd looking for a particular face. She found it. "And that is defying your masters!"

  She pulled the bartender out of the crowd. This time, a couple of people gasped. Everyone's face showed concern. Good, she thought. The bartender allowed himself to be drug into the center of the circle. He did not fight when Septa shoved him down next to the dead waif. Septa looked back into the crowd. This time, she had their complete attention. They're learning.

  "You people think that because you live outside of the walls of Gartol that you do not have to abide by its rules? You think that you can disrespect and lie to your Tormada masters and that there will be no consequences? Let this be a lesson to anyone who thinks that they can deceive a Gartune!"

  Another audible gasp arose as Septa lifted her eüroc again into the night sky. She paused a few seconds for dramatic effect. As she did, she looked down at the bartender. He raised his head, his one eye staring directly into hers. She waited a few more seconds, allowing them to share this moment. Good for you, she thought as she swung the death blow, separating his head from his body. His torso crumpled over the remains of the one-handed waif. The two of them lay on top of each other, their blood mixing with the mud of the wet, dirt road.

  Lesson over.

  “On the day of separation – the day which the tormans chose to follow either Rey or Gar’on – some chose to remain neutral. These waifs, as they were later called, were forced to fend for themselves in the forest while the great cities of Reysa and Gartol were constructed.

  The waifs soon found that life was much harder when they didn’t have a deity looking after them, and they began to look for ways to ingratiate themselves back into the good graces of the gods. When the Tormada were created, the waifs saw an opportunity.

  This is why the waifs chose the fork of the Aeil River as the location for their first real city, Woodhaven. They knew that the spot was special. For, it was here that a Tormada in the first stages of the river’s incubation was designated as either a Reytana or a Gartune.

  The waifs believed that such an important location should be guarded, less the process be tampered with. They happily volunteered to be the protectors of the newborn Tormada.

  But the gods already had someone to protect the Tormada babes as they traveled to their home cities and Lyse did not require any assistance.”

  - Chapter Five of The Crescent Wars, by Nicholas Baston

  Chapter Twelve: Woodhaven

  Xander woke later than he had intended. Sleeping in late had become habitual for the prince while he lived in Reysa. He woke when he wanted; he was the prince, after all. Most mornings he didn't rise until everyone had already eaten breakfast and gone about their day.

  But now that he was on a mission – where time was of the essence – he planned to wake before the sun rose and continue pursuing the escaped Reytana. Unfortunately, his internal clock betrayed him. In fact, if it weren't for the sound of two quarreling pipkens wrestling for a nut, he would have probably kept on sleeping for another hour or two.

  Xander rose to his feet and groggily brushed some leaves off of his tunic. His back ached from sleeping on the ground and his stomach turned with hunger. Maybe they're right. Maybe I am getting soft, he thought to himself. He looked around for his companions, but they were nowhere to be seen. There's no way they left without me. No way.

  But, thinking more about it, he realized being left behind was entirely possible. Damnar and Damina didn't need him to track the Reytana. They could do that perfectly well on their own. However, they wouldn't have dared to disobey the prince of Gartol. Unless... Belkore. He could have convinced them to leave Xander. But why?

  Xander closed his eyes and listened to the forest. The gurgling of the Aeil River made up the majority of the early morning sounds, but he thought he heard movement coming from a clump of trees not far down the river path. He turned one ear in that direction and concentrated on the sound. There it was again, this time unmistakable – the sound of muffled voices, and familiar ones at that.

  I knew they wouldn't leave me. Xander opened his eyes, relieved. Internally, he admonished himself for even considering the possibility that his companions would abandon him. He was the prince of Gartol and betraying him would have had dire consequences.

  Fueled by a renewed sense of self-worth, Xander's mischievous side returned and he decided to sneak up on his companions. Softly, he tip-toed through the trees until he had reached the location where the three Gartune were huddled. They were undoubtedly trying to conceal their voices as they spoke in hushed tones. Xander decided to eavesdrop a bit before surprising them. He crouched down in the brush just a few yards away and listened to their conversation.

  "I'm telling you, he won't do it," whispered Belkore. "I've known him longer than you two have, and it's obvious that something has changed. Living in that damn city has made him weak. I can see it in his eyes."

  "Even if he has changed, he'd never risk crossing the king... would he?" asked Damina nervously.

  "Xander isn't dumb. He knows what will happen if he sends those Reytana back to Gartol. And he knows what will happen to us if we let them escape. That leaves only one option; and I know him – he doesn't have the stomach for it."

  "But we can't just—" started Damina.

  "Yeah," interjected Damnar. "What are we supposed to do?"

  "You leave that to me," said Belkore. "When the time comes, you'll know it."

  "And then what?"

  "Then, you'll have to make a decision."

  Xander crouched motionless in the bushes, processing what he had just heard. He thought for a few moments before slipping out of his hiding spot and returning to the campsite. A few minutes later, B
elkore and the twins returned to find the prince stoking the ashes of the small fire they had concocted the night before.

  "Ah, there you are," said Xander pleasantly. "I've been thinking about it, and I feel bad about pushing you all so hard yesterday. There's no need to rush. You're right – the Reytana are clueless. We'll probably catch them by midday at the latest. What do you say to a nice breakfast before we head off? My treat."

  Damnar and Damina exchanged confused looks while Belkore frowned at the prince. Xander merely smiled back at them with a disarming grin. Suddenly, a puff of smoke rose from the ashes Xander was prodding. "Ah, there we are!" he shouted happily. "I'm assuming you two can hunt animals as well as people?" he said, pointing to the twins. "Why don't you see if you can wrestle up a few nimbers while me and grumpy here put together a spit."

  The twins nodded silently and then hurried off into the woods. Once they had gone, Belkore sat down across from Xander and stared at the prince. The fire between them began to crackle and burn. Through the rising flames, Xander looked back at his old friend. The two Gartune sat, unblinking, while sparks of red and yellow reflected in their dark, violet eyes.

  Two days had passed and still, Loras, Regan and Tinko had not reached Woodhaven, although Lem kept assuring them that it was "just up a'ways." It had been two days of non-stop walking with the occasional duck into the forest to avoid an oncoming traveler when the twins got nervous. Lem thought they were being childish for doing so, but he grudgingly joined them in hiding while the travelers passed.

  They ate in the morning and at night. That was all. Nobody mentioned anything about missing lunch, although Tinko became noticeably irritable during that time of day.

  The sun was still new in the sky on the third day when Loras, Regan and Tinko were woken by the smell of roasting meat. Lem had caught two fresh pipkens earlier that morning and was cooking them on the spit he’d built the night before. With his mouth watering, Tinko grabbed at one of the pipkens like a wild animal. The meat was too hot to hold, however, and he ended up with a burnt hand and nothing to show for it.