“The flower of life,” she said. “You won’t find it in those woods. The spirit of that wood-realm is alive and well. That plant only grows where there has been tragedy. There’s plenty in Velmica near Joanae Lake. I'm heading there.”
Explains why there’s a bunch back east. I twisted my mouth and looked forward into the distance, thinking. Twenty leagues southwest would mean another two days of travel—three with having to go to a city or village to restock on supplies. I had little money left after traveling across Endless, going to Lucreris. But I couldn’t go home empty-handed, and Southwood would be inevitably swarming with nasracans. There was no going back there at the moment. Choices were dwindling. “You’re sure the Panacea Lily is at Lake Joanae?”
“Yes,” she answered.
It was a bargain I would take. “I don’t know the way. Will you show me?” There was a long pause. Irvina swept her hair behind her neck.
“A naiad and a man traveling together? You’re very peculiar indeed, Darwin Valkyrie.” She looked at me deviously and then accepted.
“We’ll need to stop and get provisions and probably extra clothes—and a bath.” We rode off into the Vozmon Plains.
The rolling hills were more of a satisfying surrounding compared to the unchanging amber of the Endless Desert’s perimeter. Rafael sprinted at a steady, pep pace, delighted by the drastic terrain change. The air was fresh and comfortably cool. A dampening mist filtered the wind as we traveled closer toward the Tucson River. Majority of the ride was quiet, at least until we came to the tremendous quarter-mile bridge above the broad valley.
On the other side, wildlife of the ongoing plains welcomed us. A lonely tiger lay in the shade beneath a large tree, eating the grass. A mile beyond it was a herd of buffalo down on an isolated knoll. A few hours past the buffalo was the most impressive sight.
Irvina pointed. “Look.”
On a sharp stone jutting from the earth alighted a large animal of the lesser kind—the animalia-hybrid race. A Hippogriff. The eagle-headed creature landed upon the ground with a hop, its gold, elongated fore-talons stretching as it secured its grip upon the earth. The feathered animal was two-toned of white and brown. Its wings spread nearly seven feet in length, and its haunches resembled a horse’s—identical leg structure flowing to dark hooves.
“It is said Hippogriffs don’t land in the same place twice,” said Irvina. “They’re a rare sight; native to the northwestern-most lands of Vail, occasionally, making long flights east. There are many near my city.”
I eyed it. It freed a high-pitched caw in the wind and leaped again into flight taking to the sky with three sturdy flaps. Soon it was a small bird wheeling high above until it’d gone northward. “It doesn’t remain in a place that isn’t its homeland for too long,” said Irvina. It was out of sight.
Decrepit roads of stone scattered the plains as we went westward, marking the nearing proximity of a city called Gemmin. The hilly land tightened.
Two more miles we went. Over a steep hill, we saw it. Gemmin. A mile away were levels of staircases and platforms climbing to the top of a large bridge built into the hills. At its end were bronze double doors, wrought flush into the face of a flat mountain terrace covered in moss and forest. Built on the mountaintop was a castle so massive it hid the entire city.
Gemmin—the city built within a castle. The climb to Gemmin’s Great Bridge was long and tiresome, but the league endless path would be even more so. Every quarter mile there was a flagpole flying the city’s turquoise banner of an orange mountain and hammer.
I kept eyes on the castle only growing larger as we approached. It was magnificently tall, but its width impressed me most. It stretched the entire area of the flat mountaintop it stood upon, like one of the grand fortresses built by Giants.
Twelve flag posts stood before the entrance to the city. At the last post was a statue of a Superior in a long, loose robe, and bulbous trousers. His boots were bulky with many straps and buckles. His face was stern with reserve, and long, well-groomed locks seemed to match his rigid posture. Ladonis: Superior of restraint, perseverance, and constructing. I recognized him by the war pike in his right hand.
Before the gates, Irvina stopped us. “Wait.” Running hands over her face, she altered its shape. The angularness rounded, becoming much more human and the prongs of her ears disappeared, becoming small and round like mine. Her azurite eyes darkened to the natural dullness of midnight, and the luster of her skin departed. She tied thick tresses behind her, and they shortened in length, rising to her shoulders. I quivered from the unnatural mutation. There was truly no difference now between her and a daughter of Men. “We must hide amongst your kind,” she said. I tilted my head. Irvina grinned, her cheeks dimpled. “As I said before, Men can’t control themselves.”
A guard spotted us from a watchtower and commanded the doors opened with a blaring order. Just inside, two nine-foot armored minotaur protected the gate, ready to strike down trespassers with boulder-sized maces. Coldly, they grunted and greeted us and then moved us along the underpass. I felt sorry for the daring fool imprudent enough to sneak in or out.
We got lost quickly in the magnificent acropolis going along its mahogany cobblestone. The pathways were coarse, their design perplexing and chaotic. Hmmm... finding the market in this place will be as difficult as locating this accursed flower. It was a guessing game deducing which road led to what destination. There were stairs, archways, and bridges all in obscure positions. Merchants scattered along the way selling trinkets, delicacies, and homemade remedies.
“Let’s take a moment to rest a bit, to regroup,” I said. We searched for an inn, ascending, and descending elevating bustling roads. Luck led us to a promising corner. On a towering building, a wooden board was blotched with the title: MARVELLI’S INN. After leaving Rafael inside an empty stall across the street, we went into its crowded bar resounding with lively harmonies.
We sat at an isolated table in a far corner. A waitress approached. “Today we’re serving strawberry tonics on the house—a new special we’re peddling. You folks care for a pint?”
“Please. And bread, two bowls of soup, and a bowl of cherries for the lady.”
“Will that be all?”
“Yes.”
We waited quietly. Irvina stared at the line of old geezers sitting around the bar, amused. “So, is this what Men do in times of gathering—drink and dance on tables?” Applause and laughter merged with the commotion. A man hopped on the counter, playing a bubbly tune on a flute as he kicked glasses and booze into the air.
I groaned with embarrassment, “Some of us, yes.”
“Is it a holiday or birthday celebration?”
“No holiday that I know of—could be someone’s birthday, but I doubt it. They’re just old drunkards. Men don’t need a reason to revel or celebrate—especially in a tavern. Booze and social gatherings make life the merrier.”
She was silently intrigued.
“You ever been around crowds of Men before?” She looked down at the table with darting eyes.
The waitress brought the order, “Enjoy.”
Irvina sniffed the sweet aroma of the strawberry.
“It’s good,” I said, after taking a gulp. She drank, chugging it down in seconds and then going on to the cherries and bread. I beamed.
“Thirsty?”
Entering Marvelli’s was a group of five men dressed in dark togs with young, sweaty, dirty faces. They split down the aisles, eyes locked on one another. Two came near our corner table, close enough for us to overhear their conversation.
“It won’t take us long at all to reach Lucreris,” said a tall, bearded man, his long hair tied behind him.
“Yeah, and I’m sure the new general will be quite pleased once this mission is over,” said the other, smooth, square-faced one. “The visit will be unexpected.”
“Another victory for the Shadow Legion.”
I nearly choked on the drink. The Shadow Legion in Memoria? Th
e members of this violent gang were once honorable soldiers of the Militia—men who’d followed a creed of integrity, protecting towns, villages, and cities from Abyssians. They had become, more or less, mercenaries that only protected the innocent for the right price—traitors to men of honor.
Irvina mucked around in her soup.
“Full?”
Her eyes flashed at the two men, and she scowled furiously.
They prattled on. “Where are the others?”
“Off ‘confiscating’ some loot left at the graves of some memorial site in the north. A bunch o’ crybaby twits, these Gemmins. Can’t take your riches with ya’ to heaven or hell.”
Irvina snapped her attention toward them throwing her chair behind her. She knocked over the bowl of soup, and it cracked against the floor, spattering the broth. The pub quieted, and everyone froze. She started for the door and almost made it out until one legionnaire grabbed her by the arm—a black-haired, long coated ruffian with cuts and battle wounds on his face. “Excuse you, woman!” he blared. “Seems you’ve earned yourself a lesson in keeping the peace.”
Irvina grabbed him by the arm and whipped him over her shoulder, slamming him through a wooden table. Startled townsfolk jumped from their seats. The other legionnaires started for her until she struck them with a burning glare that reverted her human eyes to the whirling glow of naiad blue. She swung the dangling chakram from behind her into her grasp and unclipped them with a firm yank. The members halted with rising hands.
The barkeep yelled, “I won’t have ya’ fighting in my bar. This place is a civilized establishment,” he announced. “You there,” he called to Irvina. “Leave before I call the guards.”
She stormed out. I followed, grabbing Rafael. She’d gone northward along less crowded streets.
“Hey,” I called out. “What was that about?”
Her eyes flickered with a liquid glow. “Those men they... they weren’t good men.”
There was something more to the answer. I didn’t pry. “You’re probably right, but that was no reason to cause a scene. Not to mention, you wasted both our lunches.”
“They were foul men—like those who enslaved and...”
“No worry,” I reassured her. “Let’s just get what we came to get and leave before they come looking for us. Trust me, we don’t want that.”
For the rest of the late afternoon, we went to the market going first to a leather shop, where I bought another saddlebag full of traveling goods to include food, water, two bedrolls and the customary hunting tools. A horse would make things a lot easier—eliminate the need to drop our gear and risk the possibility of losing it. Hours sped by. I was surprised to find I still had a little money left over. Gemmin had a hearty market—fairly decent goods set at reasonable prices, much better than the crooks one would encounter in most prestigious cities.
Night snuck overhead. Law permitted no one in or out. The gate was to remain closed for the city’s safety, so we had to find refuge elsewhere. Most places were shut down for the night, but as we went down an alleyway, we caught sight of a building still lit. SLEEPY CORNER, was the name on the crooked sign above the door. We tied Rafael to an outside post and went inside.
It was an empty, dim bar spotless and neatly organized. “We’re closed,” said a familiar, hard voice from behind the counter. There was a lonely man with a gray beard and darker gray hair reaching around the sides of his head, wiping a small glass with an old rag. I recognized him as a retired Fox of the Militia. “Chief Geronimo?”
The man set the glass down, looked up, and twisted his mustache in his fingertips. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, eyes beaming.
I went toward him, nodding to Irvina he was a friend. “What are you doing here, Chief?” I remembered the last meal the old cook made for the Militia before retiring several years ago.
The old man smiled. “How did I know you were going to ask me that before saying hello? You could at least greet me before you start your interrogations. It’s sometimes allowed.”
We shook hands.
“Pretty jaw dropping seeing me off that old boat, huh? You’re still used to watching this guy slave away over the burners. Well... I was—somebody—before joining the Militia, sport.” Now here was a man so respected in the Militia that even our general once submitted to his wisdom. As esteemed a warrior as he was a chef, Geronimo was a cultivator of morale and an idol of victory on the battlefield. He carried many names to the Foxes. To me, he was Chief. To others, he was Gramps. The second title fit him as well as the former. He was easily someone to make proud—his old wisdom alluring and life-changing. “Gemmin’s my home, sport,” he said. “I returned after my retirement and put what little money I had into this place—just an old fool’s dream of a peaceful existence.”
“I had no idea you were from Memoria, Chief. I never would’ve guessed it.”
“Where would you have guessed? Some trench somewhere?” he joked.
“Don’t know, just not here.”
The chief smirked. “Hrm? I don’t know whether to take it as an insult or a compliment. I’ll be optimistic seeing as I have that privilege nowadays. What brings you to this neck of the woods?”
“Supplies. And I guess we waited too late to leave the city. We’re stuck until morning—suppose we would’ve made it out had we not run into some of the legionnaires earlier at some inn called Marvelli’s. What’s the word on them?”
The chief sighed. “They’ve been taking control of cities in Arkhades. Real tyrants, that bunch. There’ve been some changes in their leadership recently, though. With all this grief about Abyssians, the royals only care about living as long as they can on their high horses. They’re none too concerned with the legion or any scoundrels, other than those soul-suckers. There have been quite a few meetings between the regent and his council, concerning the people and the war.”
Irvina’s stomach growled, and I was getting hungry again, too. Geronimo faced her with a warm smile and then turned with a shaking head. “Where're your manners, squire? You going to introduce us? Beautiful women aren’t the kind to be ignored.”
You can introduce yourself. “Geronimo, Irvina. Irvina, Geronimo.”
The chief looked lasciviously and twisted his mustache again. “You hungry, little lady? I can whip up something on the house.”
She gave a nod.
“No need for gratitude, just doing m’ job.” He tossed us plates of berries and bread and heated a batch of finely cut salted pork, which I devoured just minutes after Chief set the dish on the table. “Save some for the lady,” he said, beaming at her again. “Don’t mind him. He’s young, so sometimes he forgets his manners.”
Irvina’s peach cheeks reddened, and she fought a smile. “I’m not a meat-eater.”
“Really? Shame—I can scorch some rather exquisite fowl.”
She yawned, and her eyes sank. Geronimo grabbed one of many gold keys hanging from the hooks between his shelves of beverages. “Go on upstairs to bed, madam. There’ll be fresh towels, and a cozy little bath readied for you in the room at the end of the hall if you’ll be needing one. All the rooms are empty except the first. My helper, Ginger, sleeps there.”
Thanking him, she went upstairs.
“It’s about time you’d gone out and found you a lovely lady, sport,” said the chief.
“It’s not like that.”
“What? What do you mean, ‘not like that’? She’s got to be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen walking around Gemmin.”
“Not my type.”
“Oh, and what is—a sharp stick with a point at the end of it? We’re Men, son. We don’t marry swords. We marry women.”
“No time for that.”
“Why, ‘cause you’re obsessed with Abyssians?” The chief laughed. “You’re just like the general, kiddo, always picking up the sword instead of the woman. Least he’s got his reasons—all those mommy issues. But what excuse have you got—you a man or what?”
; “Got a lot of things going on,” I said, rising from the stool.
Geronimo shook his head again. “Here, sport, take your key. Hopefully you’ll dream about finding some blasted sense. There're more important things in life than war.”
“Maybe.”
The Abyssians, my family’s safety, and my mother’s condition were what I thought about in the late hours. I’d had my fair share of romances, but love was a foolish idea, something the least bit interesting; nonexistent in my life. It was at one point I suppose, back in my younger years.
Isadora Rose. She was once a close childhood friend and the woman most of the townsfolk expected me to wed. She was a gem amongst commoners that trounced the elegance of any noble girl of Lucreris. She’d turned down many names of high status for me. It was a bitter ending—more for her than me. For the first three years of my being away with the Militia we wrote back and forth—I, the brave and gallant warrior, and she, the patient inamorata, hoping for my safe return so we could one day marry. It was an emblematic lover’s tale.
She wrote me the fourth year, but I never responded. I’d become... different. Estranged. Forever changed by the currents of dreadful war. In her last letter, she tried forcing my hand, having not seen me for a year, telling me she was growing eagerly old to wait much longer. Still, she went unanswered. We never spoke again. Whenever I visited home, I never sought her. Our families too let it be.
Four years ago was the last I’d seen her—in Lucreris. I had lost my way home, going down the street in circles when she stormed out of the door of a clinic. She was wearing an ankle-length, wool-like dress and a white scarf over long, crimson tresses tied behind her. A bloodied smock hung from her neck, falling over a poking belly. She took a deep breath, and then her tan face twisted in pain as she pressed hands into her lower back.
She’s pregnant. I walked toward her. “You’re round,” I said. A hawkeyed gaze befell me.
Enigma: Awakening Page 8