The Godlost Land

by Curtis, Greg

  He recognised the dryad immediately of course. She was becoming one of his regular visitors lately, as she spent her days riding between Glass River and all the outlying forts. He wasn't quite sure why, save that she seemed to be acting as a messenger, courier and a scout. Maybe it was simply an extension of her role as a custodian. He wasn't quite sure why she visited him so often though – not that he was complaining.

  Truthfully he quite enjoyed her visits. Even as she ordered him around as if he was a child and even from time to time chided him for some imagined mistake, he found her amusing. He liked her. Perhaps it was that he recognised the warrior spirit within her. Something he didn't recognise in himself any longer. And it didn't hurt that she was attractive in her somewhat indecent wardwood armour. What he didn't find attractive just then though was the worried look on her face. More than worried, she looked desperate. As desperate as she had been the first time she'd come calling. And she was not a woman who scared easily.

  “Nyma?”

  “Wizard I need to be armed.” She yelled it at him even as she pulled her horse up just in front of the smithy.

  “Armed?”

  “Armour, weapons. Good steel and fine magic ready for battle. What have you got ready?” She dropped lightly to the ground and then marched on him as if to shout into his face.

  “Some. Whatever you see here. What's happened? What's wrong? And what do you need?”

  “The enemy has struck a cunning blow. They've come south from the Kingdom of the Lion and taken Cut Valley Holding. Midland Heights is now cut off again and my sister and her army are trapped in the city.”

  “Gods be praised!” Harl was shocked. More than shocked. It was a disaster. A turnaround in the army's fortunes more terrible than any he could have imagined. Victory had turned to bitter defeat. “What are you planning on doing?”

  “To ride to Glass River and there to join the army that will be being prepared to strike from the rear. But I need to dress for war.”

  “Of course.”

  Harl understood what she wanted and he knew he could give it to her. But he also knew that it wouldn't be enough. Nothing he could give her would enable her to defeat an army. Especially if, as he feared it was, it was a large one. She surely knew that too. He worried though that she didn't care.

  “I have some light banded armour that should slip right over your wardwood and provide you with some stout protection, and a well spelled sabre with only a modest curve.”

  It was lucky he had them or else she would have been stuck with a basic longsword and cuirass. But he had been working on a few less common weapons in his spare hours other than what he'd been asked for. More out of curiosity and to remind his hands of how to craft the weapons than anything more. There were only so many long and short swords and cuirasses a man could craft before he hungered to craft something new.

  “You will not wear a helm?”

  She shook her head as he'd expected. It was a pity. A good helm could be the difference between life and death. But he knew that dryads would never cover their heads. It was partly about freedom of movement and vision as he understood it – both valid considerations in designing and wearing armour. But he suspected it was also about comfort and trying not to crush their hair, and that was not something someone going into battle should ever consider. Telling her that though was not going to earn him any favours.

  Neither would pointing out the obvious. But still, as he draped the armour over her, checking it for fit, he suddenly knew he had to try. She would be riding to her death no matter how well he equipped her. And he didn't want her to die. She was irascible and critical of him. She was intolerant of his ways and always lecturing him. But he liked her.

  “You know that you will probably be heavily outnumbered.”

  “And so I should abandon my sister?” Nyma instantly rounded on him, fairly much as he should have expected. Naturally she would assume he was advising her to take the coward's path. “Give up and run away? Hide? Like you?”

  Harl didn't answer her. He knew there was no answer he could give that would be right. This was about family, and you did not ever give up on family. And her words hurt him. They cut deeply. Because he had in the end become the very man she accused him of being. A coward. So instead he concentrated on checking the fit of the banded armour and kept his words to himself. Trying to keep her words from destroying him.

  It wasn't easy when she was right. He'd had no choice – he'd told himself that so many times – but he had still done everything she'd said. He had run away and hidden for five years. He had abandoned his family even though they had surely been dead early on. Even though if any of them had survived in the city he could never have reached them. And that even if they'd somehow escaped he could never have found them. He hated that. And maybe that was one of the things he liked in her. That she would not take that shameful path. But after five years on the run it was the only thing he knew how to do anymore. He ran away. With one or two exceptions he had always run. One or two shining moments in five years of shame. It wasn't much to be proud of.

  It took only a few minutes to fit the armour to her. He'd designed it with significantly large gaps in the sides that could be laced together and adjusted to suit. Other armourers liked to minimise those gaps, but in his view that just made the armour heavier and less flexible while adding little in the way of protection. Hardly anyone took a sword in the side during battle. The front or the back yes but never the sides. Besides, the gaps were only a thumb's width. And when he got her to move around in it the armour seemed to flow with her. The bands slid over one another as they were supposed to, and she didn't seem to be restricted in any way.

  “Give me your hand.”

  She did as he asked without protest and he handed her the sabre. It was slightly longer than her old weapon, but that was a good thing when it was also lighter and sharper. And when she took a few practice swings with it she seemed to understand instinctively how the sword moved. That last was important. It was sometimes a transition switching from a straight blade to a curved one, even if the curve was gentle. It required a different action. Even though the curve was gentle enough that it could still be used to stab, it was mainly a weapon designed for slashing.

  “Weight and balance?”

  “Good.” She made a few pivots and twists with the blade in hand, and he was pleased to see that her footwork was decent. A lot of riders forgot the basics of footwork as they were used to fighting in the saddle. That was a mistake in his view.

  “Now the blade has basic enchantments for strength and sharpness on it but one more; sloth. Whoever you strike with this will be slowed for a few seconds; it should be long enough for him to be taken down with a second strike.”

  It was a useful enchantment though not as dramatic as some of the other enchantments like lightning. But those other enchantments were better suited to those who weren't trained in the sword. They would give them an edge if they landed a lucky strike. Sloth was an enchantment more suited to a swordsman whose first swing would usually hit and whose second swing would never miss.

  “Unfortunately I don't have a scabbard for it, so you'll have to keep it oiled and wrapped in cloth. Now have you been trained with a parrying blade?”

  She shook her head, and though he wished she had been it wasn't unexpected. Most soldiers were trained in sword and shield. Parrying blades were for swordsmen; those who developed the art beyond just that of the hack and slash of a soldier. But the real problem was that she wouldn't carry a shield either. She was a rider. Her left arm was for controlling her horse as she rode. All of which would leave her vulnerable on foot.

  “Then you need to grab yourself a shield and carry it with you. Wear it on your back. If you become dismounted you'll need it. But not against minotaurs. They're far too powerful. Even blocking with a shield could earn you a broken arm. Them you dodge.”

  “You don't use a shield.”

  Was she asking him a question or accusing h
im of something? Harl didn't know. But he knew the answer.

  “I use a great sword. I can parry with it if I need to. But usually I don't need to.”

  Because usually whatever he was fighting would be in pieces by the end of his first swing. On the other hand he had never actually fought on a battlefield against an army. He was a swordsman not a soldier.

  “Now here's a couple of belt knives.” He grabbed them from the rack and handed them to her along with a belt. At least they had sheaths. “These are balanced for throwing as well as useful for close in work, and spelled with a basic fire spell. They'll do a lot of damage.”

  “Not the fire blood spell?”

  “No. You could kill yourself with those far too easily. These if you scratch yourself, will not kill you. Probably.” They were still powerful enchantments of course, and a scratch would still do a lot of damage. But even so, an accidental scratch was survivable.

  “Thank you.”

  She was polite, but distant. Harl understood that. After the thoughtless comment he had made it was to be expected. And yet as she tied the sword to her side he felt the need to say something more.

  “Nyma.” He grabbed her hands in a gesture that was far too familiar and which he knew he should never have done. Especially when he saw her eyes widen in surprise. “This is a terrible thing to say. And I know how wrong it is. How greatly you will hate it. But you have to remember that you have value too.”

  “It took me years to understand it. To move past the pain and grief. And for the longest time I didn't want to live. It was more a habit than anything more. That and anger as I needed and wanted to kill every enemy that came my way. But I know my family would have wanted me to survive. Just as your family will want you to survive. Just as Erislee will.”

  He should never have mentioned her name. Harl knew that even before he saw the anger appear in her face. But he had come too far to stop.

  “Your death will not save her. Remember that. The best chance she has is if you live. As is the best chance your family has and your people. You need to live to keep on fighting.”

  He'd said too much. He knew that when she pulled away from him and then he felt the sting of her hand on his cheek as she slapped him. Hard. Nyma could not hear him. She could not hear those words yet. She might never be able to hear them.

  Wordlessly she turned away from him, strode over to her horse and mounted up. Then without even a backwards glance at him she rode off, pressing her heels into the horse's sides and galloping off. And as he watched her leave Harl had to wonder if he would ever see her again. If he would even hear of her death. If she would ever forgive him for his words.

  This was turning out to be a bad day for everyone. And yet even as he let the gloom settle over him he wondered why he had ever imagined it would be otherwise. They had always been doomed. From the day Lion's Crest had fallen their suffering had been assured. It was just that for a while he had allowed himself to forget that. To dream. To hope. And that was the true mistake. Hope.

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Harl lay in bed staring at the ceiling that night. He couldn't sleep. Not since Nyma had brought him the news that afternoon. It was hard to imagine that just when things had been going so well they could suddenly turn so bad. Or that she would even now be riding off to face her death. It was hard to understand that even the Blind Mistress of Fortune could be so cruel. But then secretly he'd always known that this would go wrong. That the hope had been a lie. It had all been a cruel dream. Years of running and hiding had taught him that. You never let hope rule your life. It would fail you every time. It would destroy you if you let it. The only way to survive was to give away hope. To expect the worst. And to be ready for it.

  Still, the change in fortunes was shocking. And it had come so swiftly. The High Priestess had been winning. Two of the Circle wizards were dead. That left only ten. And they had taken Midland Heights only two weeks before. The Rainbow Mountains were free. It had been a miracle to him. To the entire realm.

  And now he found that it wasn't a miracle after all. It had just been a lie. A dream. And he had finally woken up. Harl still couldn't quite come to terms with that. Nor with what was surely coming. It was going to be bad. For everyone.

  Now it seemed that the High Priestess was besieged, trapped in Midland Heights with her army, a city that no longer had any useful walls. The Circle's beast army would break through their lines soon if they hadn't already. And when they did, when they had destroyed their army and captured or killed the High Priestess, things would swiftly return to how they had been. In fact things would probably be worse than before.

  The chimera would return to the land along with the soldiers and the false priests. In fact there would probably be more of them than before. They would rebuild their false temples and once more crush the people under their heels. Whitebrook would be devastated. And as for those like him, they would be hunted even more relentlessly than before. He would be hunted. Harl would once more have to get used to being alone. And this time the burden would be harder as there would be even less outcasts to call friend. After all, most of those who had lived in exile in the wilds had joined up. Most of them were in Midland Heights, waiting to die. There were probably very few wizards and priests left free in the Rainbow Mountains. They either worked for the demon following Circle or they were about to die.

  Harl would have called the turn in fortunes a disaster save that the word truly didn't describe the horror that he knew was about to befall the land. He wasn't sure that there was any word that truly did.

  As for him, there was nothing he could do. He wanted to fight. He truly did. The rage and pain and hatred was moving within him as it hadn't in five long years. Not since he had stood on the wall with Rickarial. But he knew he couldn't win. Not that way. This was not a battle that could be won by one man with a sword. It was a war. It needed armies. They needed an army. They needed the gods themselves. But all he had to offer was himself. And the only thing he could do was what he was doing.

  It wasn't enough. Harl hated that but it was the truth. He could craft night and day. He could give the soldiers everything he had to give. Still, it wasn't enough. It would never be enough.

  And when it ended as it would he would have to run. It was no longer a choice any more. People knew about him, They knew about his smithy. And the path from the southern track to it had been opened up so that anyone travelling south would see it. He was going to have to run again. And this time he would probably have to leave the Rainbow Mountains all together. Maybe it was finally time to take that last step and head south into the wastelands and seek a new life beyond the five kingdoms? Maybe it was time to give up.

  But he didn't want to run. He hated the idea with all that he was. To run was to admit defeat. To fail the memory of his family whose bones now lay somewhere in Lion's Crest. He could not fail them again. He wanted to fight. He wanted to kill. He wanted to hunt down and rip the hearts out of the wizards who had murdered his family and his home. But he just couldn't. They needed to die, but he was too weak to kill them. Some days he wished he was a powerful wizard. That he could throw around fire balls and lightning bolts as others did. But he never had been that and he never would be.

  All night long he had tossed and turned as those thoughts ran through his mind. Torn between hatred, anger and fear. Between the desire to kill and the need to run. And possessed by the feeling of failure. Every time he closed his eyes he could feel the breath of a chimera on his neck or hear the baying of the cerberi in the distance. He could hear the cries of the people back in Lion's Crest as they were hunted down and torn to pieces. And he could hear the dying screams of his family. There was no peace for him. He feared there never would be again.

  He had prayed endlessly to the gods; nearly all of them. Over and over again. But of course he had heard nothing. He was not a faithful man though, so why should he expect to? His family had raised him to follow Hera, the Mistress of Home and Hearth, and he had
always made his offerings and said his prayers. But he had never truly believed. Not that she was there, for he knew she was. Just that she would care about him. She had always seemed a quiet goddess to him. Most of the gods were.

  Maybe it was time to find a new god? One who actually rewarded the faithful for their belief? As he lay there Harl thought on that. Not so much that it was fickle and probably pointless. But who should he chose to give his prayer to? Who would reward him for his faith?

  Most wizards followed either Prometheus because they claimed that magic was something beyond all understanding and when he had brought fire to the world he had also brought magic. Or they followed Apollo because knowledge was such a huge part of being a wizard. But the benefits they gained from their faith usually weren't that great. A little knowledge, an unexpected way of looking at things, the odd spell. Useful but not life changing. And he needed life changing. He needed world changing.

  He needed a war god on his side. Because war was what he was facing. He needed a god who could grant him the power to destroy his enemies. To crush them underfoot. But Ares could not help him. The God of War served armies, not single warriors. He brought courage to the men, and leadership to the war masters. He guided the blades of his followers in battle. But that wasn't enough. And unfortunately his temples had been destroyed along with those of all the others. His followers had died with the others. His priests had been killed too. Against this false temple the God of War was not enough.