by Louis Emery
Testing the vine once more, he drew back then swung forward. The air rushed to him, surrounding trees and jungle whizzing by. Halfway through his momentum he developed vertigo and a sense of dizziness. He shook it off and focused on what was up ahead—a cluster of vines. Reaching out, he grabbed what he could and flung himself forward. He felt himself drop a little but otherwise he’d caught hold and tried to steady himself on the large branch below.
This tree seemed even bigger and up ahead he could see the buildings of the training temple, just past a small lagoon. The course had routed him back to its edge, where a cluster of pupils and recruits stood, along with what Gav thought was the master sitting on a dais. Behind him the girl reached the vines to sweep in on him. Gav grabbed another vine from the tree but it snapped and fell to jungle floor. He tried another; it too seemed unsteady. He went further along the branch, which tapered off, making little room for Gav’s footing. As he moved down, he missed his step and fell toward the ground. He reached out to what he prayed was a secure vine. Luckily it was.
He swung forward, everything moving past in a blur. His arm caught a tangle of vines, and he clung to them to avoid backpedaling. A few vines snapped and he heard a crack as one of the banyan’s supporting branches fell from above, and he along with it. Gav let out a cry, knowing this must be the end, plummeting fifty feet to the hard-packed earth. By some miracle his momentum stopped and he found himself suspended midair by the clusters of vines, some of them managing to hold to the tree’s other branches. Looking up he saw the pursuing pupil had landed on the banyan, cowering down at him. She began to descend the tree from the rope ladder on the other side, making her way to beat him with her staff like a rug on a clothesline.
Gav wrestled his way out of the vine cluster and carefully descended, one hand after the other, trying not to look down the remaining twenty feet. He tried to move as quickly as he could. He had to make it past the lagoon to the temple. That was all that was left. By then it would all be over. Getting closer to the bottom, Gav moved faster, sliding the rest of the way. As soon as his feet touched earth, he had to duck from the swinging staff aimed at his head. He heard the whizz and felt the whoosh brush his hair. On instinct, he ran towards the girl, stuck his foot behind her, and shoved, tripping her off her feet. Not hesitating, he ran toward the lagoon and dove in, swimming for the shore near the temple.
He heard the splash of his pursuer behind him, fighting the urge to look back. His feet kicked and his arms stroked as fast as they could. Fighting back the ache in his muscles, from his head to his toes, he kept an eye at the not-so-far temple walls and master’s dais before them. His legs began to feel as though they were beginning to cramp, but he did not stop. Pushing and heaving himself forward, the waters of the lagoon splashed and waked, disrupted by a rampaging animal trying to make it somewhere without threat.
To his surprise, Gav felt the lagoon bank beneath his feet. He made it to the end, but as he did so he heard a splash behind him and then felt the sharp, reeling pain on the side of his back, the pupil striking him with a whip of her staff. He shrieked in pain and ran forward to escape another strike. Reeds rushed to meet him, and he fumbled his way through the overgrowth, desperate and exhausted. Suddenly the verdant brush gave way to mud and dirt and the dais at the back of the temple. To his right at the end of a separate course, another recruit sparred with a pupil holding a staff. An assistant master, along with other pupils and recruits watched the fight.
Gav looked around and noticed the recruits who’d gone before him stood by the dais, battered and bruised, waiting to witness the next session. On the dais stood Master Yentay and his assistants. He looked on in stoic observation, his keen eyes assessing, noticing weaknesses and strengths. The pursuing pupil emerged from the rushes, her weapon at the ready. So this was it, the final test. A sparring to see if he could take her, while everyone looked on. Gav backed away, his fists raised. He knew she had the advantage. She was older, taller, stronger, and faster than him. But he didn’t care. He was here to impress the Master.
The girl swung the staff and Gav dodged. He avoided another swing but she caught him, changing directions with a backward strike. It hit him on the side of his face. He fell to the ground, fighting back tears that welled in his eyes. He tasted and spat blood and got back on his feet. The girl swung her staff in dizzying patterns before striking home again, and Gav hit the ground dazed, his face in twice the amount of pain it felt seconds ago. He tried to get up, but the ground wobbled, his eyes blurred, and his jaw and split lip pulsed. Blood dripped down, crimsoning the dark ground and his pale shirt.
Within him he felt the swell of resolve and somehow managed to stand. He blinked his eyes, regaining some vision and saw the girl smirk before swiping a third time. Gav swung up his left arm in an anticipatory block and he heard the thunk of the staff connecting with the bone of his forearm. He cried out in pain, throwing a punch that connected with her cheek.
The girl stepped back and brought a hand to her lip, in shock of the small bit of blood touching her finger. Anger surged in her gaze and she attacked fiercely, and all Gav could do was duck the head swipe. She missed up top but followed with a sweep of Gav’s legs and he felt himself leave the ground and land hard, his head bumping on impact.
The world swirled and Gav felt his consciousness slipping. He heard voices from afar. People stood over him, their faces a mixture of blurs and shadows. He recognized the Master’s calm but authoritative voice. Gav felt himself being raised on his feet, which miraculously did not collapse. Pupils held him steady by his shoulders and his vision came into focus on Master Yentay’s face. He stood before Gav, arms folded, his hands tucked under the sleeves of his robes.
“You passed, Gavin,” he said. “Keep hold of the fight within you. Welcome to your training.”
“Thank you, Master,” Gav managed.
Master Yentay paused and a puzzling look crossed his face. “All of this will be for naught.”
Gav furrowed his brows, looking to the others.
“You will betray me,” the Master finished, looking down solemnly then meeting Gav’s eyes. The man’s intense gaze relaxed and he abruptly turned and walked away. In his wake, a few paces behind, stood the girl with her staff, only no longer a girl, but a grown woman with Veela’s face, smirking. She suddenly leveled her staff and sprinted in his direction. Gav tried to get away, but the pupils had him by the shoulders and wouldn’t let go. Veela leapt, her weapon held high in the air, then rushing down.
Gav opened his eyes, the early light peeking in between the flaps of his tent. He slowly got up, stretching his neck, arms and back before walking over to his table and looking down on the letters he’d stayed up reading the night before. The bulk of them were written in Redwoodian script and mentioned the conspiracy of dying masters, in all appearances dropping like flies the last few years. One letter stood out, in the common tongue, from the Cylarnti in Em Regis Veela had mentioned. It too spoke of her concerns for the remaining island masters.
Most likely this was all a ploy, a diversion to distract Cylarnti like himself in service to King Greenvale, meant to make him question the actions of his kingdom and sympathize with the Isles’ cause. It rattled around in Gav’s head this morning like a hangover after a stag party. He could feel the building pressure of a headache behind his eyes. Rubbing them, he thought back to his dream. So vivid, and accurate—all up till the end, when Master Yentay spoke and Veela’s face appeared. Gav shook his head at the thought. It was a momentous memory, making it into the Cylarnti school, a trial of pain and suffering and triumph. Something he was proud of and glad he was able to do before his father left this earth. And now that memory was being tarnished by the stirrings Veela and the letters put in his mind.
He couldn’t delay, contemplating the machinations of an enemy. If the Burden were to make it near Hyanti within a week, Gav needed to give the order to pack up camp. As he dressed himself, his thoughts turned to Naomey. She’d be in the ci
ty that was his destination. Would she be working with the rebels in secret? Or worse, helping hide their lord leaders? The possibility that their paths might cross lingered like the peal of an alarm in the back of his mind. Perhaps she’d be sick of involvement in the war, the politics—sick of all the bloodshed, risk, and loss. One could hope.
Whatever the case, time waned. The sooner Gav and his force got to Hyanti, the sooner they might meet up with General Byers, or if the man could not be found, Gav planned to infiltrate the city, either by stealth or disguise, and seize the rebel lords and cut the head off the snake of rebellion.
25
Malcolm never slept better. He awoke late and learned the king mandated he have a day of rest.
It was unlike Malcolm to idle around, even if just for a day, and he found himself sharpening his sword and cleaning his armor somewhat out of habit and boredom. Not until late in the afternoon did he receive word that the king would like to see him in the throne room.
King Greenvale sat on his monumental throne of ornate woodwork and velvet cushions, while Advisors Street and Tunstall sat to the side. Malcolm was given a chair to sit before the king by Ser Lambert who then returned to his guard position near the grand double doors at the entrance.
“I hope you’ve recovered somewhat from your journey,” the king said.
“Yes, my king. A good night’s sleep and hearty breakfast were all that was needed.”
“You surprise me, Ser Malcolm. I’d thought weeks crossing the countryside would’ve seen you fit to spend at least more than half a day keeping your feet up.”
Malcolm smiled. “It’s not in my nature, your grace.”
“Don’t I know it,” the king chuckled, a wistful look in his eye. “Ever since I brought you here from the Winglands, you were always tenacious—just like your father. You didn’t know him much, but I knew him on and off the battlefield, and I must say there wasn’t the slightest bit of difference in his temperament. He was a good man. Like you.”
“I’m honored you think of me so.”
“How can I not? You’ve been my Kingsguard for almost half a decade, rode with me in battle on many occasions, and slain the champions of Backland’s enemies. You are a beacon, Malcolm—to your kingdom and to me.”
“You took me and my sister in, your grace, when I was but a boy and parentless. You gave me food, shelter, learning, and training. You’ve taught me lessons and gave me a cause to fight for and of which to be proud. Most of all, I’m grateful that you’ve given me a home.”
“It will always be your home, my boy,” King Greenvale said, his eyes glassy. “And now, it hurts me to say that I must send you from it, even when you’ve only just returned.”
“Your grace?”
The king sat back in his throne. “Advisor Tunstall, please fill in Ser Malcolm.”
Tunstall leaned forward in his chair when he spoke. “Your king has called you here because the situation in the north is more severe than we thought. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but King Noxton of the Crowleys and Lord Varick have broken through Woodore Pass, the tribes that lived there for half a century having been defeated and scattered into the Southwoods. The Crowley army along with their sellswords and the west wing of Varick’s forces are stronger than we thought. Prince Barnabas and Generals Ildoneron and Grantley will be heading out to the front with reinforcements, but we fear even that may not be enough against our armies—and the dragons.”
Malcolm swallowed hard. “How many dragons do the Remnants have?”
“We believe there are eight, possibly more,” Tunstall replied, his face grave.
“Have they been used against our forces?” Malcolm had not yet heard of the dragonriders attacking the Backlands.
“Not yet, but they will soon,” King Greenvale replied. “They’ve been used against the Furmen at the Pass.”
“How’d we find out?” Malcolm asked. “From here to Woodore is a long journey. How can we know the source is reliable?”
“I had spies sent out,” the king replied. “And then there’s young Ethlin, the Seer—”
“She saw something.” Malcolm heard rumors of Ethlin’s connection with dragons. Something to do with their flames. “Are we certain we can completely trust her visions?”
“You saw yourself, Ser Malcolm,” Advisor Street interrupted. “You thwarted the assassin that was to take Lord Staverly’s life.”
“Yes,” Malcolm replied, “she has uncanny ability, but even she failed to see the assassin’s accomplice, who’d almost cut my throat.”
“We know there are limits to her visions,” King Greenvale said. “Even so, the Mage-Council says she is coming along in her training, and that her dreams and predictions are becoming more reliable. I believe him, for he brought her forth and she told me of the dragonfire well before we received word from our spies.”
“The child is a prodigy,” Tunstall said. “Most clairvoyants do not possess her power, and most who claim the title of Seer are but frauds. But she is different. The Mage-Council has stated she may be chosen by the gods.”
“By the gods or not,” King Greenvale continued. “I believe Orbist is right, that she is special, one of the Seers surfacing every thousand years—which means she will get the wizards’ attention.”
“Which wizards?” Malcolm failed to see what the king was getting at. “Surely not those in Varick’s pocket?”
“No, Ser Malcolm,” King Greenvale replied, leaning forward. “I speak of the Gathered atop Dragon Mount in the Barr Mountains.”
Malcolm opened his mouth, but there were no words. The Gathered Wizards of Dragon Mount were legendary with their powers and with the might of their dragons. Deemed inaccessible, the Gathered had hidden away for centuries in the mountains along with their beasts, vowing to never rejoin mankind again, in war or peace.
“You think Ethlin will be able to get the Gathered to listen?” Malcolm finally inquired.
“Yes, I do,” King Greenvale replied. “And so does Mage-Council Orbist. We,” he gestured to the advisors at his side, “think the wizards of Dragon Mount are our last hope for defending against Varick and Warlock Grundburr’s dragon-riding wizards. And you, Ser Malcolm, I task to protect Ethlin, the Seer, and Mage-Council Orbist on the journey to Barrport, then on to the Gathered’s fortress.”
“But … my king, I am Kingsguard and a captain of your army. Surely, you have more need for me to protect you. If not, let me serve on the field of battle, cut down Varick’s knights, and capture their banners.”
The king gave Malcolm a fond look. “I knew this would be hard for you. But you are the Backland’s greatest sword, and I need you to guard our kingdom’s greatest asset.”
“Forgive me, your grace,” Malcolm pleaded, “but you are the kingdom’s greatest asset.”
“What good is a king without a kingdom?” the king replied, giving Malcolm an intent look. “Ser Malcolm, if we do not receive the aid of the Gathered’s dragons, the Backlands and our allies will fall. Would you want to see the sabretooth sigil fly over the Gray Keep? The Remnant’s dragons perched on its towers?”
Malcolm shook his head, defeated, then looked up. “My king, it’s just this Coterie. I fear for your safety. Let me protect you from Varick’s dark magic. Or at the very least, let me lead my regiments against the invaders.”
“Your brothers of the Guard will protect me fine.” The king placed a hand on Malcolm’s shoulder. “Our soldiers will fight with fury as if you are at their command. You’re smart, and the best fighter in the lands.” He squeezed his hand, and Malcolm met his eyes. “I need you on this mission.”
There was nothing Malcolm could say. Pushing the issue further would be an offense to his majesty. “I am yours to command, my king.”
The king paused a moment and said, “Another thing, I wanted to tell you. I never told you where you and your parents were originally from—”
“It matters not, your grace,” Malcolm said as the king struggled to arrange his wo
rds.
“Yes, well, I’ve told you the partial truth. That you hail from the Winglands, but I feel I must also tell you that where you are going is where you left at the age of four.”
Malcolm gave the king a perplexed look.
King Greenvale continued. “It’s odd to say this, but you will be returning to the place of your birth—Barrport.”
“The Gatekeeper City?”
“That is where you and your sister were born. Your father was Knight of the Gate, a protector of Dragon Mount. Eventually, he climbed to general of the Barrport Army. Together we fought the Gothveesi when they crossed the Deserted Plains. I thought it appropriate I tell you since you will be seeking entrance through the city’s gates.”
“Thank you for telling me, your grace.” Malcolm knew he was originally from the Northern Winglands, but did not know he was actually born within the great city’s walls. The king rarely brought up Malcolm’s beginnings.
“When you reach the Gatekeeper City, you may find there are people who know of you. The nobility there who rule, known as the Keepers, should give you ample accommodation, for it’s what the son of one of the city’s great generals deserves. By then, you will want to rest. The trek to Barrport will be taxing enough, and you will need to prepare for your ascent to Dragon Mount.”
“Understood,” Malcolm said.
“Very good,” the king said, and then called to Ser Lambert. “Bring them in.”
Through the double doors came Mage-Council Orbist, the young Ethlin, and to Malcolm’s wonder, his friend Artemis.
Seeing the astonishment on Malcolm’s face, the king said, “I thought you could get reacquainted with the Seer since you’ve been away on campaign. Of course, I would not allow Ser Artemis to be without his comrade. You two together are a menace, and do more damage as a pair than apart.”
The three newcomers stepped forward.
Mage-Council Orbist spoke first, “Your grace, when will we begin our journey?”