Cinders on the Wind

by Louis Emery

  Malcolm had never heard of such use of dark magic. Leora’s was one thing, and even hers had weaknesses, but an indestructible group of assassin knights? This was a first. He hoped that he and the rest of the Kingsguard would be ready, should the time ever come to protect his king from this Coterie.

  Leora was quiet a moment and then replied, “I do not know Varick’s machinations. As you’ve seen, I’ve been blind to them. If this Coterie is after those of us in this room, then time is indeed dire.”

  “Your words speak more truth than you know,” King Greenvale said. “With Cintros and Prestonpan Fells and Isles at the throats of the Redwoodians, and the Westers and Crowleys at ours, we also fail to see the threat past the Needle-Tip Mountains, Collapses Deserts, and Deserted Plains. Rumors of the Phozantin Empire conquering to its west are spreading, and its northern neighbors—Gothveesi Hordes—are doing likewise. These are daunting times, and the clock is ticking. It’s time the Rethan kingdoms benefit by coming together. We ignore rumors of dragons and invasion at our peril.”

  The room remained silent as if grasping the gravity of the king’s words, to which he added, “In three days, we conduct the large council and deliberate on matters war-related and how to deal with the Remnants wizards. I hope that effective plans are implemented. For the meantime, this council meeting is adjourned.”

  After King Lionel and Lord Yorkhearst left the room along with their parties, King Greenvale had Malcolm stay behind. Artemis was free to rest at the barracks, and Leora was taken to her chambers accompanied by guards. Malcolm delivered his account of the battle in which he fought Leora, and their subsequent flight into the Southwoods followed by their trek to Em Regis.

  Malcolm could tell the king carried a great burden, his kingdom being under assault, yet he appeared more than glad to have his Kingsguard back. Malcolm asked why Mage-Council Orbist hadn’t been at the meeting. The king said the mage was busy counseling young Ethlin in matters of import, and that Orbist would be called on for advisement in the larger council in few days’ time.

  Before King Greenvale urged Malcolm to take rest at the royal barracks, he told him to be ready to be called forth sometime before the next council meeting. When asked what it concerned, the king demurred saying he’d find out soon enough.

  23

  After being greeted by his fellow Kingsguard—after all the claps on the back, the congratulations, and the questioning—Malcolm gained access to his quarters and collapsed on the feather bed. Beyond his window, the setting sun stained pink, purple, and red against fading blue of the Backland sky. At first, he was dismayed to find sleep did not come as easy as expected.

  His mind went to Leora and what she must’ve thought being allowed access to a room meant for visiting lords and ladies of neighboring kingdoms. Not some outcast enemy princess who, a few hours ago, had been ignominiously brought forth to the king, whose fate was determined by the whims of her captors. He thought of the melancholy she must feel associated with the news broken to her.

  Once Malcolm had gotten her to open up on the Em Regis road, she’d told him that Varick and her always got along growing up. They’d swordfight with sticks found in the Washfold fields. Go traipsing through the castle alleys and alcoves, and horseback ride through the nearby trails through meadows, woods, and valleys. Once they’d both received their gifts from the wizard, it seemed they grew closer in a different way, with a special kind of knowledge few possessed. That of those who know what it means to use the power of magic. When Varick’s father died in battle, he first distanced himself from Leora and her parents, but as grief settled in, he allowed her to console him and once again be a part of his life.

  It wasn’t until Varick began campaigning as general that his attitude toward her began to change. He grew moody and bitter around her, not like the cousin she once knew. He listened less to her council, though on occasion he still sought it. Leora went as far as telling Malcolm that at times Varick was overzealous for power.

  Plain to see that now, Malcolm thought.

  Leora’s father lay in a coma for who knew how long. Malcolm wondered who in King Kieran’s inner circle had betrayed him, who in his hall had poured the poison in his drink or food. He wondered what type of poison it was, and whether it would eventually claim the man’s life. How was Leora’s mother the queen coping with these events? Malcolm thought she must certainly be having a hard time, having assumed to have lost her only daughter in battle, only to have her husband indefinitely unconscious, and her young son kidnapped by her treacherous nephew.

  Malcolm wondered what Varick would do with Leora’s young brother, Jonath. He didn’t think the rogue would have him executed right away, but perhaps use him to coerce the queen and her father’s cabinet of advisors to abdicate, or maybe kneel to his ascension in Washfold, giving him control of the East Ballardian capitol and its army. Another option was that Varick would have Jonath sent away, exiled far, and kept under watch, possibly in the Outer Northlands or in Phozanti.

  He rubbed his weary eyes and thought it strange he’d fixated on the politics of an enemy kingdom. Reluctant sleep caused him to approach his dinner, which sat on a nightstand. King Greenvale’s kitchen was generous. Perusing the large platter, he found what he wanted and nibbled on venison, potatoes, and cabbage. He’d been on the road for weeks, and meals had at best been infrequent. His hunger satisfied, he lay back on the bed, eyes staring at the ceiling.

  During those weeks of travel, he’d thought at first he might’ve been too harsh with Leora. But in spite of Leora’s efforts to escape during the run-in with the Rousers, he and Artemis didn’t treat her like a common slave, letting her wallow in filth while starving. Subconsciously, Malcolm guessed he wanted her to think if this was the way the Backlanders under Greenvale treated their prisoners, then she misjudged the severity of their demeanor on the battlefield. Malcolm had made it a point to inform Leora of the Backland motto, “Honor above all,” letting her know such principle held true even in defeat.

  Leora told him she'd heard the tales of his courage and prowess on the battlefield. He wasn’t surprised gossip of his skill reached her, due to the fact she was the deadliest blade in all Ballardia. She’d said she looked for him on the battlefield that day when their swords clashed. She’d said she always liked a challenge, and with her vial around her neck and sword in hand, she felt invincible. Of course, she downplayed his fight, saying he defended well, and she’d continued to remind him that if it weren’t for interference, she might’ve felled the great Longstride.

  Malcolm wondered how she’d fare against him without her wizard’s vial. He knew she had great ability regardless, but he had the advantage of strength and height. He wondered when she’d get her sword and necklace back, having handed them over to the discretion of a Nasant knight.

  He knew a little of Ser Gregan through his participation in tournaments, and the rest was filled in by rumors. Nasantium lay less than eighty miles to the southeast of Reed Keep, and King Lionel’s favored knight had his own holdings at the tip of the kingdom. The Nasants were always a neutral people, but fortified their defenses and developed their military in case of assault on their lands. It had been nearly a century since the kingdom went to war, the majority of time spent in preparing for defense and fighting decisively victorious skirmishes of probing rival kingdoms.

  Yet, Nasantium’s prowess in martial strength became manifest in the performance of its champions in Retha’s tournaments. From Cintros to Sydonya, Washfold to Feldsparta, Nasant knights represented their kingdom in melees, jousts, and sword sparring. Malcolm remembered seeing Ser Gregan’s skills in a tournament a few months past, having only lost one joust and being undefeated in the sword. He felt relieved the knight had been entrusted to see Leora home safely and that Nasantium designed to watch over her house. With men such as Ser Gregan on her side, perhaps East Ballardia could teach the Westers and Varick the lessons they deserved.

  Nevertheless, in addition to his reputation wi
th the sword, Malcolm had heard Ser Gregan to be a philanderer of sorts and had fought not a few duels with jealous lords who’d thought him excessively flirtatious with their wives. Would Ser Gregan treat Leora like a piece of meat on their travels? Surely, a princess of a great house and kingdom did not warrant such treatment, but he wouldn’t put it past the man. Whatever the case, he hoped Leora would focus on building her alliances and, most of all, getting home to her people.

  It was strange that a former prisoner of his would keep his mind so preoccupied. His duty, however, was to focus on his kingdom. Finally managing to close his eyes, the relief of being back in his own bed overtook him.

  24

  The fifth and final day of tryouts brought with it the most demands. After obstacle courses of maneuvering around muck and quicksand, climbing over serrated rocks, and scaling precipitous trees, more requirements awaited. After mock training sessions, introducing new, myriad weapons—learning the rudiments, sparring with fellow recruits, then with trained boys older than him—still more trials needed to be endured.

  The latter half of the fourth day contrasted with the physical exhaustion leading up to it, consisting of academic exercise: reading a treatise on the code of being a chivalrous Cylarnti written by an ancient master, followed by a prompt that required a two page essay on his own views concerning the passage and what he thought it meant to be a trained fighter with duties of peacekeeping and necessary killing.

  But this fifth and final day topped them all. Strenuous drills and exercises were required of all participants in the early morning. Master Yentay led them with two adept pupils by his side. Mainly he looked on and wandered around, showing recruits the correct way to do the leg lifts, chest pushes, and intense stretches. His students performed the majority of the demonstrations on the dais in front of everyone, yelling the orders and criticizing those slacking or not following along. After three hours straight of strenuous physical exertion, they were taken to benches to await their turn through the final jungle obstacle course, and the chase.

  He watched as others before him in the line of benches were called forth and led to the jungle’s edge, the beginning of the gauntlet. He bit his nails, shivered despite the heat and humidity, feeling small beneath the former Dragonmother temple that served as Cylarnti training grounds in Hilontera, feeling like an ant beneath the ancient ruins that towered over him and the other young recruits, a behemoth mantis with twisting stairways and hidden nooks waiting to eat him alive with its secrets.

  “Fayne, Gavin,” one of the pupils called out.

  He started, looking up at the Cylarnti student. “This way.” The pupil grabbed Gav by the arm and led him toward the path to the jungle’s edge where an entirely new obstacle course awaited with who-knew-what standing in his way. Likely bramble bushes, hidden deadfalls, sinking mud, and massive climbing walls. He tried to push the thoughts from his mind, focusing on keeping a steady pace… and a lookout for when the chase came.

  “You start here,” the student pointed to the beginning of a path. “It’s your turn. Go.” Gav hesitated. “Now!” The pupil yelled in his face.

  Gav took off down the path which zigzagged through a decline into the jungle depths. As he followed, the vegetation grew on the verges, getting thicker and taller the further he went. Tall shoots of bamboo jutted up on both sides, mingling with thick vines where exotic flowers and tree branches poked out. He had to duck to avoid scraping his head, and each time he had to swerve to avoid another in his way.

  After what seemed like a half hour of mazelike slog, Gav came to a clearing. He paused, looking ahead. Before him, the land turned into a quagmire of swampy pools, likely filled with quicksand and island serpent-gators. His mind flashed to his friends, who were living their normal lives right now, not risking such drastic pursuits. He immediately shook off the thought and scanned the area.

  There was a trail atop hummocks of more solid ground, but squares of rope littered the way, another part of the test. At the edges of the swamp, pupils stood in observance. A nearby young woman pointed and shouted as Gav stepped onto the first hummock, just before the stake-tied square ropes. “You have to step into the squares,” she said. “Master says you can’t avoid them, and we’re to tell him if you do.”

  Gav slowly released his breath, his eyes locked on the path before him. He ran up to the ropes, moving his legs with coordinated effort. He kept steady pace, knowing the master judged him on timing as well as performance. He focused on the rhythm of his movement. Left leg, right leg. Left then right. Each time a gap appeared in the rope course, his legs wanted to cramp up and throbbing increased up and down his muscles. In the lulls he kept up the motion even in the absence of ropes, his legs preferring it to a mere stride.

  Before coming to another set, he realized he was three-quarters the way through this section of the course. He lifted his legs higher along with the rising ropes, intended to challenge him on the final run. He grimaced with each lift, and a sharp pain hit each time he brought up his left knee. The same knee he landed on after playing in too high a tree with his friends weeks back. Ignoring the pain, he continued forward, nearing the last gap of the ropes. As he neared the end of the hummock, he saw a small pool. He approached it cautiously, ready to jump over when suddenly a serpent-gator rose from the water, snapping its jaws, its hundreds of needle-tipped teeth gleaming in the sunlight. Gav stopped his momentum, almost losing his balance and tipping forward into the pool only to become the creature’s next meal.

  He wobbled backwards, falling into the ropes and muck. He got up quickly and carefully scanned around the small pool. On either side were larger pools of brackish swamp water with who knew what lurking beneath. Likely more of the same predator before him. He noticed its eyes locked on his as he stood but a few feet away, trying to devise a plan around it. To the right of the pool, separating it from deeper swamp, was a thin path of muck barely enough to accommodate one foot at a time. That was the only way. If he could somehow distract the serpent-gator, he might be able to pass.

  The thing began to slither back and forth, keeping its eyes on him, either some form of defense or a warmup to striking prey. Gav leaned toward the latter. Losing time, he quickly tore at his shirt sleeve, pulling of a piece of ragged fabric. He tied the cloth in knots giving it condensed weight that would cause a splash. He tossed the ball of sleeve to the creature’s left and it hit water with a glurp that caused ripples. The projectile dipped as if to sink but popped back up and floated on the pool’s surface. The serpent-gator made its move and Gav made his. Moving to what it thought to be lunch, the creature dove down out of sight. Gav took off for the thin trail of mud and muck on the right. He put one foot in front of the other, careful not to slip. He almost made it, when his footing slid and he plunged sideways into the pool with a loud splash.

  He immediately popped his head out of the water and spun to face the serpent-gator which, upon hearing the commotion, forgot the ball of cloth and swam in his direction. Gav grabbed the solid mud at the pool’s edge and heaved himself, only to slip and fall back in. The creature was mere feet away, and he pulled himself up again using all the strength in his arms. He slipped once more, and in an instant came face to face with the lunging beast. He dodged aside, its biting teeth gaping toward his face. Its snout glazed the side of his cheek. Having missed, the thing spun around and swam at him a second time.

  As it launched itself again, Gav established his feet on the pool’s bottom, about four feet deep. The jaws closed in, Gav spun and shoved his elbow to the side of its head. Stunned, the creature hesitated in the water. With all his strength Gav lifted and threw the thing as best he could. He didn’t manage to lift it completely, but the force brought the creature partly out of the pool on the opposite end. The thing measured ten feet long, and he had to get out if he wanted to live. He gave a final heave, digging his hands in sinking swamp, this time pulling himself out. He shimmied up the hummock to the end of the section, looking back on his enemy, rem
aining in its preferred blackwater pool.

  Continuing on solid land, the trail winded its way through thick overgrowth. Gav followed the path as it curved into a small glade. The area seemed eerily calm, and he glanced around looking for signs of trouble. At the opposite end of the open space sat an immense banyan some forty feet high. It perched in the middle of the trail, leading through tree-lined jungle. Approaching, Gav stared upward, toucans, macaws and native peachickens glaring down at him like arbiters of a contest. Straddling the tree’s thick base and leading up a length of four men to the first wide branches was a roped ladder. The jungle being so dense at the tree’s opposite sides made this the obvious way to the end of the course.

  Gav stepped on the first rung and began climbing the ladder. Vines hung down from the treetop and he reached out and grabbed one to steady himself. At twenty-five feet up he reached the large outstretched arms of the tree. On either side they extended so far they disappeared in the jungle, and on the right several vines dangled down. Something caught Gav’s eye as he scrambled to the branch, deciphering his next move. In the glade below he saw a girl, one of the master’s pupils, carrying a staff and racing in his direction. She looked up at him, determination etched on her visage. The chase. She was taller by a foot, older and stronger, and holding a sizable weapon. Gav had to move.

  Up ahead were a line of banyans, and being so high, the obvious and only option available to him was to use the vines to swing to the next tree. He’d swung to trees with his friends many times before, but not at this distance and drop. He fumbled around for one of the sturdier vines that hung out in front of the branch, careful not to plummet to the cold hard ground. He glanced back and saw the girl climbing up the ladder, her staff attached to a strap on her back.