by Louis Emery
A stool slid beside him, and Lady Riesley took a seat.
Gav sat straighter, noticing how the lantern light caught her dark hair and dark, attractive face. “Surprised to find you here, Lady Riesley.”
“And yet I’m not surprised you’d be here,” she said, removing her feathered cap and setting it on the counter, her hair flowing about her shoulders. Gav caught himself staring, and he thought she did too. She smirked slightly and ordered an ale from the tavernkeeper. “I don’t blame you for drinking alone,” she continued. “I heard you had a few harsh words with the general about the executions. Not an advocate for the order, myself.”
Gav sighed. “You do all you can to fight a war with honor, eyes watching, from your troops, your superiors, your king—and then that honor is jeopardized by things beyond your control. And you return to find your king has narrowly escaped death.”
Lady Riesley sipped her ale, eyes peering at him over the lid of the mug. She set the drink down. “Our king’s safety is a fragile thing—it seems the more we treat his life as precious, the more it is imperiled. But we can only control the things we can control. And regarding orders from our superiors, sometimes we have to accept the actions of our betters.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “Betters in rank only.”
“You’ve dealt with people like generals Byers and Zulltah before. Always overruling you.” Gav suggested.
“Yes. Back in my schooling I had to deal with an upperclassman trying to undermine and overrule everything I did. Eventually, I uncovered my rival’s plagiarism and crimes, exposing him to the board of regents—he practiced dark magic, which was forbidden, but I sniffed him out. And he was kicked out.”
“It must have felt good,” Gav said.
“For a time, yes, but life for us practitioners carries a weight, always. As I’m sure your line of work does.”
Gav smiled, and he noticed Lady Riesley watch him closely, her eyes bright. “You’re right… and if you are right about this assassin, when do you think he will strike?
“That, I’m not so sure.”
“When you fought him, did you get a good look at him?”
“Only his eyes—he pulled down a mask when attacking his victims.”
“Clever man,” Gav said, quaffing some ale. “If what you say is true, and war with a grubbing Phozanti is coming, then that means I’ll be staying on these islands for quite some time.”
Lady Riesley nodded. “Before the rebellion, had you ever been here before?”
“I spent my youth in Hilontera, then served abroad for many years.”
“I lived in Quinlander for a time myself—it’s where my parents and brother live. I moved to the capitol, then was eventually brought back for work.”
Gav chuckled. “Looks like we have more in common than we thought.” Gav raised his mug, his spirits cheering somewhat.
The asker clinked her mug with his and finished her drink. She placed her hat back on and paid the tavernkeeper. “I must get going, Captain.”
“Gav, please.”
“Goodnight, Gav,” she said. “Remember, stay alert.” She flashed Gav a grave look, and he watched her exit the tavern.
The next night Gav received a note written by General Byers, a summoning to a meeting at headquarters. Gav crossed the square lined with soldiers’ tents, some troops being allowed to camp within the city. He entered the great hall, his footsteps echoing up to the vaulted ceiling. A few guards loitered about, straightening at Gav’s presence.
He walked to the back of the building, rounded a corner and entered the general’s war room. He closed the door behind him, noticing no guards on duty in the area. General Byers sat at the end of a long table, maps, letters and memoranda scattered all about. Seated next to him was a younger man in dark common clothes with beady eyes that followed Gav around the room.
“You sent for me, sir,” Gav said, taking a second look at the staring stranger.
“Yes, Captain Fayne,” General Byers gestured to a chair at the opposite end of the table. “Please sit.”
Gav adjusted the sword at his belt so he could sit comfortably.
“This is a friend of mine,” Byers continued. “De Lienne.”
“Pleasure,” Gav said, matching the man’s stare.
“Now, I understand you are upset with me, Captain, I really do. But one must realize we have our duties, foremost of which is to end the rebellion.”
“With all due respect, sir,” Gav said, “the way we end the rebellion will determine if another one sprouts. We must conduct ourselves with a code of honor and honesty, or else the Redwoodians will have reason to set the islands ablaze.”
“I can understand that,” Byers said, pausing. “You know, King Greenvale would have lost these islands a long time ago if it wasn’t for my armies quashing earlier insurrections. I have been Military-General of the islands for nearly a decade. Sure, I have followed orders around the world, but in my absences and my returns to the Prestonpan Isles, I have supervised the islands with effective leadership. Soon the rebellion will be crushed. Tell me, Gavin, have you seen King Greenvale or Lord-general Zulltah showcase such examples?”
“Sir…” Gav hesitated, a welling fear growing inside him. He’d served under Byers before, thought him a man of unflagging loyalty. But now, he was not so sure.
Byers waved him off. “Gavin—get your mind out the gutter! Lord-general Zulltah is losing his foothold on the northern borders to Varick and the Ballardians. King Greenvale is getting old and weak, and his son has no mind for rule. Do you really think the king’s heir and Zulltah’s council can hold up the kingdom when the time comes?”
Gav’s mouth moved up and down with no words. This was treason.
“I have friends in the noble council and guilds—powerful friends backing me, Gavin. Our friend, De Lienne here, represents Phozanti. They have offered to split the Prestonpan Isles between them and the Backlands, once their armies help me put down opposition to my lordship over Em Regis.”
Gav raised a hand. “So, it wasn’t Greenvale or Zulltah who gave the order to execute Veela.”
“Who? The Cylarnti girl? Come now, Gavin, she was the enemy. You are a friend. I will need leaders like you on my side. Honorable people with your skills.”
“And what of the dead Cylarnti masters? Is that one of your machinations?”
Byers shrugged, giving Gav a serious look. “That was Phozanti’s doing. But you understand, Gavin, the islands needed to be made secure. Phozanti doesn’t want to take risks in battling rebel masters.”
“Not all of them were rebels,” Gav said, his voice rising.
“Like I said, my friends weren’t so sure. And they don’t like risks. So they had to play it safe.”
Gav had heard enough. He bolted upright, drawing his sword, pointing it at the general. As soon as he did, De Lienne rose with a bleeding palm and Gav felt himself fly through the air and hover above the end of the table. De Lienne gestured with his hand and Gav’s head slammed into the table’s edge. Gav felt blood rush down from his temple, blurring his vision. Brought back up to a hovering midair position, Gav felt a searing pain in his skull, as the sorcerer casted a slow, burning spell that buzzed inside his head.
He could barely make out the general’s voice amidst the noise. “I’ll give you one more, and only one, chance, Captain. Serve under me, as you have in the past. Support my cause, and you will live. I will even make you a general.”
Gav struggled in midair, and suddenly felt himself drop. He looked up and saw a hole peeking through De Lienne’s chest. Smoke swirled upward, while De Lienne’s body plummeted forward. Beside him, Asker Riesley knelt on one leg, hands glowing with sorcery. Gav wiped the blood from his eyes and saw General Byers leave through one of the side doors. Gav could not let him escape. The man would have his bodyguard overwhelm and kill him before he could voice his side.
Gav rounded the door only to see the general with his arms raised. Sergeant League and Sergeant Trammell held th
eir swords pointed at Byers.
Asker Riesley followed closely behind saying, “I knew I could use help from you two.”
Gav looked over to her, and she said, “I asked around. They told me they were friends of yours.”
Gav noticed League and Trammell panting. Looked like they made it just in time. He turned to General Byers. “General, you are under arrest for treason.”
Sho touched back in Quinlander a few days after uncovering the treachery of General Byers and his cohort, the Phozantin assassin, De Lienne. Part of her felt bad about making Jaster’s daughter a widow, but the feeling didn’t last long after she thought of all the widows De Lienne made of the Prestonpan lords’ wives. After that night, Gav was beyond grateful for his life and was surprised she had spied on him nearly the entire duration after they first met in Hyanti’s City Hall.
She told him she suspected something when Byers ordered the swift execution of the rebel Cylarnti officers. The man seemed to be scheming something, and she figured he had enough bodyguards and soldiers surrounding him if that wasn’t the case. Gav, on the other hand, thought he could handle things on his own. And in many instances that was true—but this time was different. Undoubtedly a stubborn man, but then a Cylarnti Captain had reason to be regarding protection. Sho knew Gav’s combat skills and that bodyguard of his, Heinrich, weren’t enough to defeat De Lienne. In so many instances it took sorcery to fight sorcery.
Back in Quinlander, Sho decided to pay her parents a visit, thinking it now safe to do so, before going to the Defense Guild meeting rooms to find out her orders, which were likely associated to dealing with the Phozantin threat. She wanted to request to remain in Quinlander. She liked being close to her family, and she felt her powers could be of use on the struggling island.
Before she stepped out to see her parents, Lady Hoskins brought up a letter from Hyanti. Sho eagerly opened it, which read:
Dear Lady Riesley,
Again, I am in your debt for saving my life and calling upon my friends for aid. The King and Defense Guild must consider themselves fortunate to have a person of your talents in their service. It has been an arduous month, with all the travels, all the fighting and politics, but I think things will settle here and on Monterim. With the defeat of their armies, and the spreading rumor of war with Phozanti, the rebels are feeling overrun. Stuck between a jagged cliff and flowing lava, if you will.
Lord-general Zulltah is on his way to Kontera from the capitol. I have corresponded with him and he thanks both of us for our part in dealing with Byers. Once he arrives, I will be able to take a ten-day leave, as the other generals all agreed without reserve. When I do, I plan to visit Quinlander. I also plan to call on you, if it please you, of course.
Until then, I remain yours in writing,
Gavin Fayne
40
After a few days travel, they approached a well-defended farming village. They learned from the local watchman that the Darien Sect’s army had been taking over the adjacent settlements outside of Barrport. They had indeed invaded the great Gatekeeper City and were trying to take complete control over it, but were met with opposition from the Guardians of the Gate—Barrport’s elite army. The Sect had sacked the front end of the city, while the Guardians—and the noble council members who escaped the first attack—held their ground at the back end of the city. The two opponents were separated by the city’s middle ramparts and man-made barricades.
The watchman of the small village said the Sect was manipulating trade and resources of the neighboring populous to aid their army. Rumors were going around that the Sect had allied with Varick and his Wester army of West Ballardia. There were also rumors that the watchman’s village was next to be overrun, and Ethlin pitied the nearby families who’d have to give their hard-earned crops, livestock, and supplies to an oppressive enemy imposing their religious, martial law.
After conversing with the beleaguered watchman, Ethlin heard Malcolm give an alternative to Captain Halarn, telling him that he and his men did their duty by seeing them through the Thornvine and that he would not think less of them if they chose to take the river and the long way back to Farmington.
To Ethlin’s surprise, the captain said he and his men planned to remain for the full extent of the journey and that it held precedence over his ruling council, for it held the fate of all southern kingdoms of Retha.
The next village they approached lay beneath the Sect’s banner. They could see from afar the sigil flapping in the wind and the effect it had on the downtrodden populace—farmers standing slouched, wheeling their carts as if they no longer carried purpose, their harvest going straight to an invading force.
Malcolm had pulled a farmer aside off the road, giving him money and convincing him to smuggle their party into the village underneath the tarpaulin of his great wagon. Once inside the village, they entered a tavern inn through the back entrance and took up rooms. That evening Ethlin and Orbist waited while Malcolm and the others ambushed a patrol of Sect guards. According to Malcolm and Halarn, the only way to infiltrate Barrport was to dress like the enemy. Later, they came back with the tunics and mail worn by Sect patrols. Ethlin did not ask about the bloodstains.
That night Ethlin could not sleep. She lay in bed staring at the Sect tunic and armor she’d be forced to wear as they infiltrated the enemy’s Barrport holdings. She couldn’t even stand to look at them. After all they’d been through in the Thornvine, they now had to deal with the very cult who wanted to take her captive and do who knew what. The cult who wanted to attack the priestesses and followers of the Dragonmother. The cult who tried to kill her adoptive mother.
As she thought, she began to cry. It all came in a rush, as it so often did when she was alone and afraid of what was ahead. She used her pillow to muffle her sobs, in the hopes she would not wake her companions.
She heard someone step into her room. So much for not waking anyone, she thought.
“Lady Ethlin, what’s wrong?” a familiar voice asked.
She could see Ser Royce in the shadows. Moonlight streamed in through her window, casting a soft glow on his face.
“I’m afraid,” she replied. “We’ve traveled all this way, so close to where we need to be—and then Darien’s bootlicks stand in our path.”
“That won’t be a problem, Ethlin. Rest assured Ser Balliol and I will protect you from harm. Don’t forget, Sers Malcolm and Artemis are the two best Backland fighters.”
“You don’t know the Sect as I do. They’ve tried to take me hostage twice now, and they nearly succeeded both times.”
Ser Royce shook his head. “Yes, but we’ll be disguised as them. They won’t even know who you are. We will all blend in.”
Ethlin groaned. “I can’t stand their hideous clothes,” she pointed to the sideboard where the tunic lay, “let alone having to wear them … And there’s dried blood on mine.”
Ser Royce walked over to the clothes, trying his best to inspect them by moonlight. “Aye, I believe there’s dried blood on all ours—it’s the only way we could get them.”
Ethlin sat up and rubbed her eyes. “I don’t want my blood mixing with theirs. I don’t want to die. We’re so close to Dragon Mount, and all I want to do is go back to Em Regis. I want to go back to my temple, back to shelving books in the library—back to my own bed.”
Ser Royce sat down again and scooted his chair closer to Ethlin. “You know, when I was little, I grew up on a farm. We had sheep, some goats, and cows too, but my father’s bread and butter were turnips and cabbage. Our family’s tenants were all hard workers, and our harvests were abundant.”
“Did you perform farming duties as well?”
“Oh, sure. I did whatever I could to help, whenever I wasn’t playing with sticks as if they were blades. On most days, my main chore was to fetch water from the well. We needed water for the livestock, washing clothes, taking baths, and drinking. I got so used to the well that I didn’t even care how far it dropped below ground. I’d s
tand close to the edge of stones where the rope holding the pails was lowered. I’d dance along the edge as I pulled up the pails until my father would notice and scold me.”
Ethlin giggled. “Even at that age, you had an affinity for danger.”
“Oh, oh, aye,” Ser Royce laughed. “I was always one to climb the roof, hop on the backs of unbroken mares, or venture into the woods after dark. I was fearless—but it came with a price.”
Ser Royce leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking. He continued, “One day, I had the entire farm to myself. You see, my mother and father had left for a few days to the city to sell our harvest with the rest of the tenants. I was charged with looking after the place. I could tell my father was reluctant to leave a boy of nine, soon coming on ten, alone, and left to his own devices. “Stay off the well,” he’d warn before leaving. Well, I should have heeded those words.”
“Boys are foolhardy, so I did what any foolhardy boy would do, and I walked along the edge of the well. I traipsed around the circle, pulling up the pails of water as if I were an adept expert. Around and around I went, without a care in the world—until one misstep. I wasn’t paying attention, and I slipped and fell in. It was a long way down. As I fell, I reached out blindly, grabbing the rope, which tore the skin off my hand with the friction. It slowed my progress, but I still got scraped up pretty bad and dislocated my shoulder.”
Ethlin gasped. “How did you ever manage to escape? Did anyone help you?”
Ser Royce shook his head. “I was all alone down there. My parents and their tenant farmers were all gone to the city, and the tenant families lived close to the village, a mile or so along the road. At first, I cried. I screamed and hollered, the pain being too much. I had a bad rope burn on my palm, a gash on my head, and my shoulder stung as if a giant wasp stuck its stinger into it.
“I did what only a boy could do in those circumstances. I twisted my arm and popped my shoulder back into place, using the well’s stone walls. I passed out from the pain only to wake up with the faint light of day still peeking through the funnel at the top of the well. I knew I had to try to climb my way out. Fortunately, the well stones were all uneven and could fit small feet the size of a young boy.”