by JD Hart
Five hours. Morgas rose slowly, his eyes squinting in Hemera’s mid-morning rays that would show no mercy that day. He traced the trail north toward the mountains. In three hours, they had gained less than an hour on the boy. And they had miles of plains to cover in a heat no longer affecting Vault.
Unlike most of Morgas’s quarries, the Eastlander was not spending time to mask his tracks. It was possible the boy believed he was not being followed, but judging by his pace, Morgas doubted that. No, the boy had considered that he might be followed. He was relying on his speed, endurance, and a head start to get him safely into the mountains, where he expected to lose them. Morgas was finding a new appreciation for this boy.
Deep blue eyes studied the condition of the two men and woman, and of their bonds. Winded, their determined stares said everything. They would follow wherever he led, carry out whatever he commanded. They had been chosen for that reason.
Johann and Carlon Narkain were brothers. In their thirties, they had spent twenty years trapping in this region of the Dragon’s Back Mountains. In early spring, Morgas had been assigned by his master to courier a valuable item to Citadel Farlorde across the northern Borderlands when he came upon the brothers with a wagonload of pelts they had collected through the winter. Twenty miles from the city, brigands were attempting to relieve them of their wares and lives. Morgas came to their aid, dispatching three of the thieves before those remaining were convinced the pelts were not worth the cost. The two brothers were honorable, compelled to request servitude to Morgas as reparation for his assistance. An Alpslander, Morgas had been likewise honor-bound. He accepted a year of their service. Both were good men, though Carlon was touched with the Yearning since losing his bond several years back. This task was the opportunity he needed to test their mettle.
Pallia Aldmar was a different story. She had been raised in the same mountain village as Morgas. But when he was taken into Anarchist bondage, duty payment for his village, he had lost track of her. Then, unexpectedly, a year ago he encountered her and her timber wolf bond, Galven, walking the crowded marketplace of Cravenrock. Since then, she had accompanied him on several missions, and they had grown close. Though he had three years of bondage before he would be free, he would on that day claim Pallia as his wife, and she would claim Morgas as her husband. Then they would return to their village to raise many strong Alpslanders.
He smiled, which confused the brothers since they had gleaned the same bad news from the footprint. For them, this was a job. For Morgas, as Pallia understood, this was sport. And it had been a long time since a quarry had challenged him both mentally and physically.
The footprint forgotten, Morgas picked up the chase once more, long brown hair whipping off his neck. He did not look back. Falling behind was not an option. He would press them harder than before, test them beyond their physical limits. He fed off the excitement of the hunt, driving the rhythm of his legs. He could only hope his faith in the boy’s abilities was not misplaced. He had been disappointed so many times before.
On through the rest of the morning Conner ran, stopping occasionally to refill his flask at the many cold streams, or to stretch cramps from his legs. Several times he had thought the trail veered too sharp left or right from the direction of his Calling. Fearing the trail might lead in the wrong direction, he chose to take a more direct route up or down the mountain slope. But each time, he found himself battling through thick underbrush or steep rocky terrain, only to end up back on the trail. After that, Conner stayed on the trail that wove like a brush snake, leading him deeper into the mountains.
By late afternoon, he was heading west, walking along the thin ridge of a long mountain peak. The air was light and crisp, cool on his damp skin, the cloudless sky a brilliant shade of azure. Occasionally he passed rocky crevices and thick wooded patches of trees containing chunks of snow from the previous winter’s storms. He stopped more frequently to take in the scenic landscape that fell away to either side of the trail, his body long past its breaking point. Once he reached the place where the long peak trail started a slow descent down the western side of the mountain, Conner took one last look at the majestic scene behind. To the far right of the trail on to the northeast horizon stretched the eastern region of the Dragon’s Back Mountains. Some of those mountains, snowcapped even in the dead of summer, dwarfed the one he crossed. They made him feel small in a way he had never known on a farm. He could only imagine how cold the mountains got in winter. Left and south, past the smaller mountains and rolling hills, the Narwalen Plains shimmered in the midsummer heat. His eyes traced the sections of the trail he had taken visible from this height, measuring how far he had come in just one day. That was when he caught sight of movement along the southern edge of a mountain he had traversed earlier.
Wildlife was bountiful in the mountains, so he was about to dismiss it as a female bear and her cubs or a small herd of elk he had heard roamed the region, but something about the apparitions forced him to take a harder look. Even at this distance, he could tell they were human. But there was something more. They were taking the slope with a pace that made his run seem like an afternoon stroll with Pauli. Men did not run that hard unless they were being chased ... or were chasing something. A chill ran through him, the kind he got when he and Pauli were moments from sinking hip deep into trouble.
Four figures, maybe more. The forms disappeared behind a patch of thick trees blocking further view of the trail. He froze, struggling to recall how long it had been since he’d taken that slope. Three hours at best, possibly less. Well, Kriston had kept them briefly at bay.
His heart began to race, pains and aches forgotten. He swallowed hard, fighting to control the fear knotting his stomach. Three hours of light remained, so he attacked the long, steep stretch of trail with new energy in an effort to match the speed of the pursuers at his heels.
Valmer panted contently, his black eyes closed. The white wolf enjoyed Morgas’s hand on his forehead even more than the cooler air along the mountain peak. Like Valmer, Morgas felt alive up here. He grew weary of the petty selfishness and backbiting among the weak Narwalen people, and no place brought out such qualities better than Cravenrock. He was mountain born, raised by a rugged people with a history and legend stretching back longer than the Seven Realms. There was a toughness about him, a hardness in the eyes and confidence in his stride that guaranteed him personal space, even in the most crowded city streets. His father had often told him, You are an Alpslander, Morgas. You have mountain granite for feet and mountain snow for blood. So each time he made his way back into the mountains, he found his true feet and blood. His eyes wandered to the northeast, where the snowcapped peaks outlined the darkening sky, toward the place he called home.
Reluctantly, he pushed the distracting thoughts away and considered Vault’s behavior that day. Morgas had hoped for a better challenge, but his initial assessment of the boy had been wrong. While he was clearly strong and agile, Vault had no mountain experience. Judging from his tracks, the boy was weary, and weary men make mistakes. That would be his failing. The boy had been foolish enough to attempt bypassing the mountain switchbacks in favor of a direct path, and now the Eastlander had taken to a more leisurely stride, losing valuable time.
Squatting at the end of the long mountain peak trail, Morgas turned his gaze west, down the steep descent of the trail barely visible in the long shadows of the thick evergreens. The boy had stopped here, probably to take in the scenery. He studied the next heel print—here, Vault’s pace had changed drastically. He had taken the west side of the mountain like he was afire. Morgas glanced back, where the trail ran along the southern edge of the mountain to the east. So the boy had seen them. No matter.
Morgas examined the condition of the trackers. They had been stretched to their limits, and still the boy had several hours on them. They would continue to the bottom of the mountain. There, they would set up camp and get an early start to snare their young quarry. By his calculations, Vault w
ould be bound and heading back to Lacerus by noon the next day. Luckily, given the boy knew he was being hunted, stealth was no longer a concern. Morgas could finally enjoy a bath and a hot meal in front of a fire to stave off the night’s cool mountain air.
Sheer will kept Conner’s feet moving up the incline. But as darkness set in, he faced a new demon. Thick clouds rolling in from the west at dusk obscured the full face of Erebus, which would have offered enough light to continue. He wanted to make the summit of the mountain before stopping, but the vision of unwittingly stepping off the edge of a cliff forced him to reconsider. He would either have to stop for the night or risk casting a Night Vision spell to press on. His Thieves Guild mentor had mentioned that others capable of manipulating Earth could sense a clerical spell, but he had no clue what the range was or if those dogging him were capable of such detection. Taking a deep breath, he whispered the words he had been taught. “Ora energi anakafanos.” The edges of trees, grass, and trail flared to life. Eyes aglow from the spell, he trudged on another hour.
When the effects of the spell wore off, he stopped to make camp. Not knowing anything about nocturnal wildlife in the mountains, he selected a large oak for his bed. He might not be at home on the rocky mountainside, but he was definitely at home in a tree. During many hunting trips, his father had taught him how to turn a tree branch into a reasonably safe and comfortable place to sleep. After several failed attempts to negotiate the oak’s lower branches on exhausted legs, he took a series of progressively larger boulders leading to another branch and leaped into the tree’s welcoming arms. After a little effort, he was settled in, his back pressed against the massive trunk, backpack and food secured.
The night was cold. Even with additional clothing pulled over his legs, he shivered. He forced his thoughts from all his physical pains, and soon he was thinking of home. He thought of his warm soft bed, the smell of his mother’s cooking, and evenings at the dinner table discussing the events of the day. He wondered what had occupied the Stonefields at dinner that night. No doubt, it was his sisters’ progress in schooling. He hated to admit it, but he even missed Miyra and Sayra. Ten days since he had stepped through the iron gate, his parents would soon begin to worry.
His eyes turned north, though he could not see his hand in front of his face. The Calling was tugging harder, demanding his attention. Somehow he knew his bond was close. Maybe tomorrow he would find it. But he had no energy for excitement. His light jacket pulled tight over his shoulders, Conner forced his eyes closed. He just wanted to be heading home, back to a normal life.
Sleep came in fits. Some part of him worried he would oversleep, to wake with a band of seasoned trackers under the oak, poking him with long sticks and mocking his feeble efforts to get away. In his dream, the faces of the trackers morphed into those of the angry city guardsmen shaking their fists while he teetered on Cravenrock Keep’s wall. Just like on the wall, he fell backward, his fingers gripping clumsily at the edge of sanity. And he fell into the nightmarish arms of his subconscious, where he spent the night with snarling, hungry bears biting at his ankles. On through his dreamscape he ran, his deer eyes white with fright.
It had been a long time since Morgas had dried his wet, naked body in front of a mountain fire. But the contrast between immersing aching muscles into the snow-fed stream and heating them beside a fire brought them back to life. The four had eaten heartily from their rations, expecting to hunt live game after they snared their quarry. While he had pushed his comrades past their limits, the warmth of the fire, full bellies, and aimless talk kept complaints to a minimum. Even Valmer’s spirits were lifted. And the two wolves slipped into the night for a late night hunt.
The evening wore on and talk dwindled with the embers of the fire. The cool night air and sounds of mountain life descended upon the camp. When the wolves returned, Morgas assigned the brothers to share evening watch; Pallia and he would take the morning shift. Nothing more was needed to be said, so he bid the brothers good night and slid under the thin covers behind Pallia. Reaching over her waist, he rubbed Galven’s thick timber wolf fur, pressed against her chest and stomach. Valmer took his customary place against Morgas’s back, and the camp slipped quietly into the bosom of the mountain night.
The Serf Who Would Be King
King Jonath of Griffinrock pursed his lips and slapped the letter against his thigh in frustration. Beggar, the king’s spotted owl bond, had sensed his growing tension while he read the finely etched lettering and decided to watch the growing storm from a safer distance. Feathers ruffled, she stared down at the tall man outside the entrance of the royal bedchamber. Round, black eyes on a flat tan-and-white face reflected the flickering evening torchlight, giving the owl the appearance of a jester, though there was nothing comical about the moment. Next to the king, the royal messenger was a statue; her white-gloved hands holding an empty, intricately etched silver tray.
Jonath held the end of the letter to a nearby torch. He considered the implications of Ranger Loris’s letter as it blackened. Turning, he extended the remains of the parchment over the tray until it was nothing more than ash and dripping sealing wax. So far, the only conclusions he had drawn from the unfortunate news was that Veressa would be the death of him.
So the girl had gone on her trek without a company of the royal guard. He knew better than to blame the Ranger; he should have seen this event coming. No, he was certain Annabelle had tried to stop the girl. But the princess had too much of her mother in her. It was a full-time job to keep from getting crushed between the queen’s unyielding determination and the princess’s gritty independence, leaving little time or energy to clean up after either.
He regarded the messenger for the first time while she waited patiently for the king’s command. He noted the finely sculpted features of the girl’s face, the precisely combed shoulder-length blond hair pinned behind her ears. The elegant blue surcoat with red trim and gold buttons, one of Chamberlain Nantree’s designs, accentuated her fine features. She was about Veressa’s age. But while the girl’s features could have easily passed her off as Veressa’s sister, their stance and demeanor were as night and day. If he commanded this girl to ride to Kallzwall Castle nearly two hundred miles to the northeast tonight with a letter, she would have hesitated only long enough to change into riding clothes. Why did the Cosmos not give him a daughter like this?
He sighed. “Thank you, Claris. You may go.” The messenger curtsied with a slight smile and disappeared quietly down the long narrow hall with the silver tray of ash.
Jonath examined the royal bedchamber door looming before him while Beggar gazed down from her perch with her perpetual frown. The two royal guardsmen standing diligently at either side would offer no protection against what awaited beyond. He struggled to call forth the same confidence that had made him Griffinrock’s Champion of the Realm. Resolutely, he pushed the gold inlaid handle down. The thick door swung open, groaning as if to mock his mood.
Queen Izadora was so busy perfecting the position of her hair and clothes that she hardly noticed her husband standing nearby. She looked inquisitively at him through the mirror. “You are going to have to hurry if you are to be ready in time for evening meal, Jonath. And don’t give me any excuses about how you forgot my sister would be arriving tonight for tomorrow’s Midsummer festivities. I am sure she will be exhausted and no doubt wanting to retire early.”
He asserted to her reflection, “Why, my dear queen, how could I possibly forget such an important evening as one spent with the royal family?”
Izadora’s hands stopped midway through straightening a particularly stubborn crease at her waist. He should have responded like dragon’s breath in midwinter, blowing an icy chill down her back. Instead, his voice was the warmth of a summer breeze carrying the scent of honeysuckle and roses. The thought of having a congenial dinner with both her husband and her sister, the Duchess Mariette of Kallzwall, was a delusion she had abandoned years ago. Such formalities were a requir
ement of a royal family, so she persisted in keeping their tempers in check. But putting the two in the same room was comparable to setting a box of Illuminaries on fire, then waiting around until they went off. You could never tell when the explosion would occur, only that it was inevitable.
She scrutinized her husband. Jonath was a tall, well-built man with soft facial features, a sharp contrast to the combat skills that had made him her champion. His wavy black hair he wore combed back and shoulder length. The slight graying at his temples, which he affectionately referred to as “Veressa’s Mark,” gave him a distinguished, commanding look. And the steel-gray eyes that looked into her ... She turned to examine her dress in the mirror before she got lost in them again. “All right, Jonath, what is it?”
He replied calmly, “Why is it that every time I try to reach out to Mariette, you think I am up to something sinister? I have always wanted an affable relationship with the duchess, as I did with your parents before they died. But you know your sister—and her husband—could never look past my roots to see me as your champion—or your husband.”
Izadora gazed at the man in the mirror who had championed her heart shortly after he had won the honor of championing her safety. The serf who would be king, Jonath had been born to indentured servants under allegiance to Lord Terrerus Calaman, grandmaster of the Warriors Order and landed knight within Griffinrock’s Warstag fiefdom. At the age of eleven, Jonath surprised and impressed Terrerus so much with his ability to control Air elemental that the knight fostered the boy as his page. For the next five years, Jonath traveled with Terrerus to every order tournament in the Harmonic Realms, watching, absorbing, and learning the skills of the competitors, secretively practicing the art of missile combat. After Jonath bonded with Beggar, Terrerus conferred upon him rights to petition for entry into the Mystics Order, where he rose swiftly through the ranks. After several difficult assignments along the Borderlands, he was selected to be the Champion Advocate for the Mystics Order. Ultimately, Jonath won the champion’s competition in a hard-fought battle following the reclamation of Izadora’s mother.