by Curtis, Greg
What gave her pause was the fact that she had just made her first important decision as an acknowledged leader in a war. No longer was she just a High Priestess of Artemis or even the leader of a small war band.
She had become a warlord.
Chapter Twelve
It was late and Harl had just banked the fire for the night and retired for bed when he heard the sound of horses outside. Naturally the sound worried him. For five long years he had been either running or hiding, two of those years had been in this very smithy, and in all that time only one person had ever found him. The dryad. There had been a few beasts of course – never in his home and he had killed them all – but only one person. Now however, it seemed that others had found him as well.
Maybe it was time to stop thinking about leaving and actually do it.
He had considered and reconsidered his decision to stay after the dryad's visit. He had done the same a second time after he had freed the High Priestess. And then he had done the same thing once more after he had visited Whitebrook and seen the burnt temple. Each time he had chosen to stay – but it had not been an easy decision.
He had decided to stay for just one more night that first time because he had discovered over the years how capable he was with a blade and he knew that he could defend himself against most threats. At least for one more day. A night while he weighed up what to do about the dryad's sister. Then after he had freed the High Priestess he had decided to stay simply because he'd realised that he didn't know what was going on in the world. One lot of priests were apparently caging another lot. He didn't know why that was or what was happening in the world. He hadn't known what it even meant. But his thought was that as long as there were different priests of Artemis fighting one another, they weren't hunting him. His world had become a little safer.
The third time he had decided to stay because what he had seen in Whitebrook had convinced him that things were going to get better, at least in the short term. As long as the temples, real or false, were being destroyed, it wasn't time to flee.
He was cautious of course. He was far from certain as to how long things would continue to improve. Or when they would end. Because he knew in his heart that sooner or later the murderous priests of Artemis and their twisted beasts would return. It was inevitable. For the moment though it seemed that there was hope. In any event, even if things did sooner or later worsen and the priests and their creatures returned, he would be far from the first of those they would come for. In the end they didn't know who he was nor where he lived. They had no idea what he'd done. And they had enemies much closer to hand. Namely one High Priestess of Artemis.
For the moment he had thought he was safe. He still hoped so. These riders weren't yelling or beating swords. He couldn't hear the snarling of beasts or the harsh sounds of metal on metal though he did hear the horses. But hoping and knowing were different things, and so he grabbed his sword just in case, and then peered out the window across the yard to his smithy.
In the dark he couldn't see much. It had been a cool, wet day and there was heavy cloud cover blocking out the stars and the moon. But he could make out three riders heading towards his smithy where they eventually dismounted and tied up their horses. He didn't have a stables. Once he suspected the property had had some, but they had rotted away over time and all that was left of them were a few rotten posts. Just enough to let him think that the structure had once been a stables. The wood clearly hadn't been well oiled and the roof had probably leaked. Since moving in he'd made sure to at least keep the roofs on his cottage and over the smithy well thatched. As they said, the less water that got in, the longer a building would last. And he also didn't like being wet and cold.
It annoyed him to see his visitors doing what they were. It seemed a liberty to simply ride into someone's home and tie up your horses in the smithy as if it was your own property. But it troubled him more because it suggested that they were planning on staying – perhaps for the night.
Soon the horses were tied up and he knew they would be warm for the night. The smithy had no walls, but it had a large roof and the pit had been fired during the day. It would bring them some warmth and no dew would settle on them overnight.
Harl could make nothing out about the trio as they approached. It was simply too dark. But he knew enough not to just open the door for them. Instead he waited for them to bang on the door and hopefully introduce themselves. Or failing that for them to attack, which was why he had his sword in his hand.
It wasn't long before he heard the banging on the door. Heavy thumping. His visitor had hit it hard enough to rattle it a little in its frame. Still, at least they weren't trying to break the door down.
“Who's there?”
“It's Nyma wizard. We have met.”
“Nyma?” He didn't know the name but he suddenly realised he knew the voice. She had not given him her name before, but then he had not asked for it and the meeting had not gone smoothly. But he knew her as the dryad who had visited him before asking him to save her sister. And that made sense he supposed. Who else would know where he lived? But why would she come calling at night, riding through a forest in the dark.
“The lying dryad.” He probably shouldn't have said it but the words just slipped out.
“Do not think to anger me wizard. I do not lie. It is late and we are tired. Besides, it is you that lie. When I visited you last you swore not to aid me and then sent a soldier to rescue my sister. That is aid. The High Priestess is grateful by the way. Do you pretend this time not to let us in only to do the opposite in time?”
Sent a soldier? What was she talking about? It took Harl a moment to understand. But when he did it almost made him laugh. She did not realise that it was he who had freed her. She did not guess that he could swing a sword. And he would not tell her the truth. The less she knew about him the better he figured.
“You claimed your sister was being held by the priests. But from what I hear she was no sister of a dryad at all. She was human.”
“Erislee is my sister. We share the same father and he is of mixed blood. But my mother is pure dryad and Erislee's mother is pure human. I do not lie!”
She seemed remarkably certain on that point he thought. In fact she sounded angry. Perhaps calling her a liar had been ill-considered. Rather than try to challenge her on it, even if it still seemed a lie, he decided to turn the conversation to more important matters.
“You said we?” He shouted it through the door at her, needing to know exactly who was seeking entrance to his home.
“Myself, a companion and a prisoner.”
“A prisoner?” That caught him by surprise. If there was one person he would never expect to be brought to his home it was a prisoner.
“Another wizard, captured after the battle at Cedar Lake as he tried to escape in the confusion and being brought for interrogation to Glass River. He was aiding the false priests and he wore their marks. But he is bound root and vine. He will pose no threat to you. Now let us in.”
She shouted the last, annoyance and impatience clearly getting the better of her. And unexpectedly he decided to do as she asked. Not because she asked, but because he was curious.
He had of course heard that there were some wizards working for the temple. The gossip had been rife throughout the town when he'd visited. As had the reports of the battle. Of the priests sending fire and earth magic against the High Priestess. And there had been rumours even before that that some of the priests were wizards. But he knew little about them. In fact for the longest time he'd doubted that they were wizards at all. He'd thought it more likely that they were simply priests who had a little magic. Many people had some magic, but few had enough to call themselves wizards or to undertake training. All he really knew about wizards in the temple was what he had been told by others who, like him, had been fleeing the temple. And what they knew was much the same. It could all just be guesswork. It probably was.
Now the only thing Harl could
add to what he had been told was that at least some true wizards also walked as priests, although why he didn't know. Maybe they were actually priests? Maybe for some reason they had taken the Goddess' vows even when she was hunting them down. He had no idea why. And he was curious as to what might turn a wizard into a priest of the foul Goddess. More than curious, he was angered by their betrayal. Somewhere deep inside he truly wanted to ask that question when it was the temple itself that was a wizard's greatest enemy. How could they turn their backs on their own? How could they join the enemy? He understood fear only too well. But to let it control you and betray your people in its name was too much.
Then too he hadn't seen many other wizards in five years. Those that still lived did it the same way he did – by hiding. Pretending to be the same as everyone else, should they be seen at all. They hid their gift, something that should never happen. Magic was a gift to be proud of. To be celebrated.
Nor had he heard that there had been a battle at Cedar Lake. That was a large town, ten thousand people at least, and the temple there he understood was home to fifty of Artemis' priests and several hundred soldiers. The war between the priests it seemed was gathering pace. So with so many questions biting at him he lifted the bar and turned the handle to let them in.
The three of them instantly pushed past him to go and stand by the fire. It was late and cold out, so he understood that at least. But he understood less that the prisoner walked easily among them. He was bound with his hands behind his back, something that for a true wizard would be no restraint at all. Why had he not escaped? And then he remembered some of his all but forgotten lessons he had learned at his master's feet. She had said he was bound root and vine. By that she meant that he had drunk the tea of root and vine. It was said to sap the strength of an enemy and prevent them from attacking. And it stole away a wizard's magic.
Harl closed the door behind them lit a couple of candles and then went to sit at the table, so that he could study them. But not all of them. The dryad he knew, and he was not particularly curious about her. Not even though she claimed to have some human blood in her – not that he could see any trace of it – or that she still claimed the High Priestess as her sister. Her companion was a part satyr in a uniform of some sort. A soldier though from which realm he didn't know. But he didn't interest him either. He'd seen many satyrs and many soldiers before. It was the wizard that drew his attention.
He appeared to be an older man, though maybe that owed more to the difficulty of his recent journey than anything to do with age. It was said that worry aged a man, and he had a lot of worry lines in his face. He probably had good cause to be worried if he was their enemy. They had killed the false priests as they called them, and he could not imagine that they would be much more lenient with him.
The wizard was also someone who expected certain standards of the world around him. He was clearly unimpressed by his home, such as it was. Even bound and fearing for his life he managed to stare around disdainfully at it, and that surprised Harl. Though maybe he had cause. It wasn't a proud home. A one room shack at best, with a second room added on for a bedchamber off to the side. The walls were all but rotted through in places, the floorboards old and worn. The furniture was little more than fire wood. Even the table he was sitting at was only half a table. The legs on one side had crumbled away years before and he had fixed it simply by cutting their remains off and nailing that side of the table to the wall. But then this place was old. It had been abandoned decades before, and the water had got in. And the little he had done to repair it was only to make the walls water tight with some crude wood shingles and add some new thatch to the roof. The minimum he needed to do to make it habitable, no more.
“It's cold out.”
The dryad was trying to make conversation he guessed – he wasn't sure why. But Harl wasn't really interested in polite chatter. He could have told her that it was spring, not yet summer and that things got chilly in the hills. These were the Rainbow Mountains after all. The entire realm was the same. Highlands with pastures and trees and coloured mountains all around. But she surely already knew all of that. And there was only one thing on his mind.
“Who is he Tree Mother?”
Harl asked, not just because he was curious but also because there was something familiar about the man even if he couldn't place him. Maybe it was the fine robes he was wearing that made it difficult to identify him. Heavy woollen fleece from angora rabbits if he wasn't mistaken, woven into a thick coat that ran down to his knees, and thick tailored leggings as well. His boots were well crafted out of the best leather. It was the sort of expensive garb he hadn't seen since Lion's Crest had fallen. This was clearly not a man who had suffered greatly for the past five years.
That in itself was suspicious. Everyone Harl knew had suffered. Most were dead. This man though looked as though he had had an easy life. Perhaps a care free one. And maybe a thoughtless one. If he had wanted to creep away unnoticed after the battle for Cedar Lake, then wearing such expensive clothes had been a mistake.
“He has refused to speak his name. But he casts water and fire according to our sages.”
Water and fire. An unusual combination for a wizard Harl knew. More usually those who cast fire were also gifted with the magics of the sky, lightning and wind, while those who cast water also cast the magics of the land. But it wasn't unheard of. In fact there had been one wizard in Lion's Crest known for that particular combination. Tyriole, or Tyriole the Grand as he'd styled himself. He was a member of the Circle and a man who'd loved to wander around the city dressed in flamboyant robes and a huge shimmering cape.
This man wasn't him. Tyriole would have been over a hundred years old if he still lived, and this man was nowhere near that age. He was perhaps forty. Harl had thought he was older originally, but now that he could see the man relaxing in front of the fire, he knew he wasn't.
But Tyriole had had an apprentice who would be about this man's age, Harl suddenly remembered. One gifted in the same arts, and one who could often be seen by his side. He looked about right too Harl thought. Not the same exactly but close enough. It took a while for the name to come to him.
“Geron?”
Harl spoke the name and immediately the man turned to face him, and in that moment he knew it was him. Fatter than before. Much fatter. More heavily lined. His hair cropped back far more sternly and with a touch of grey here and there. But it was him.
“You know this man?” The dryad rounded on him suddenly, suspicion in her words.
“Geron, apprentice to Tyriole the Grand. He was at Lion's Crest.”
And more importantly he had been there when the city had fallen as far as Harl knew. So how had he survived? Few had got out, and those who had, had run like him. None of them as far as he knew had worked for the temple before the attack. But maybe he'd been captured and turned afterwards? The wizard certainly didn't look as though he'd been doing much running. “He was there when the city fell.”
“And who are you knave that you should name me?” Geron tried to growl at him threateningly, but in the end what came out of his mouth was more bitterness than bile. Disdain too. “The wood nymph claimed you were some wizard in hiding. But clearly she spoke too fondly.”
Wood nymph? The wizard was risking a beating for that. Dryads tended to get upset at being described as any sort of nymph. Nymphs were strange, timid creatures. Sometimes innocent, sometimes licentious, but always simple. There were a few colonies of them about, though none anywhere nearby. Dryads though were far more bold and complex. They lived in towns and villages like most others, not in trees or copses by little lakes. They wore clothes and ate more than just nuts and fruit. They were educated. They had their own realms and their own governments – if that was what the Great Assembly truly was. And above all else they were proud. To be called a nymph was an insult to them, and Harl could see Nyma's jawline stiffening with anger. But he didn't really care about that just then. He had a wizard in front of hi
m who might be able to tell him a few things about the fall of Lion's Crest.
“Only a student and never a true wizard.” Harl wasn't surprised that Geron didn't know him. His few memories of the man were limited, but still they told him of a man of great arrogance. Not someone who paid attention to those around him. Not unless they mattered in some way. He was the sort who sometimes threw coins at boys in the street to do his chores but never actually looked at them as they worked. He just expected them to do as he demanded. And while he might be of an age where most would be masters in their own right, he had still been only an apprentice, though with the arrogance of a master. But then he would no doubt claim to be an apprentice to a Circle wizard, one of the most powerful wizards in all the five kingdoms. Harl decided to use his arrogance.