Silence followed for a few moments, Abigail staring at her hands, Turock gazing through the western windows at the sprawling camp behind the hill.
“What then?” asked Ahaesarus.
“Then…nothing,” replied Abigail. “All we knew was that if Karak’s soldiers were willing to cross the river and attack our people, it was time to begin fortifying our homeland for the war that was sure to come. We scouted along the river, both north and south, seeking out where the crossing is narrowest, and then we built more of our towers.”
“You’ve built four from what I was told, yes?” asked Ahaesarus.
“Five now,” Turock said, and there was no hiding the pride in his voice. “Tower Green went up just last week.”
“Five towers in six months?” Ahaesarus shook his head, stunned. “Are your students that talented in the art of magic?”
“They are, relatively speaking.” The spellcaster frowned. “Magic in Dezrel is strange. Plentos told me stories of how powerful the Dezren once were, able to summon fireballs the size of houses and form bolts of lightning that could rip across an entire countryside. When drunk, he even claimed that the most powerful elven spellcasters could alter miles upon miles of land, bending the rock and stone to their whim. I’ve tried to calculate the power required to do such a thing, and it seems beyond possible.” He stood and walked over to the central western window. “Here, come look.”
The man chanted a few words, hands held out before him. A ball of fire formed from nothing, two feet wide and spinning inches from his open palms. Pushing his arms forward, the fireball whooshed across the sky, arcing down until it struck the soil on the other side of the river. A puff of smoke rose up in its wake, and the meager shrubbery began to burn. Turock’s cheeks paled.
“That is the largest I can create,” he said, sounding disappointed. “If I try to summon anything beyond that, the spell just…dissolves on me. It’s like trying to lift a weight that’s too heavy for your arms. Yet that’s not quite right, because deep down I know I’m strong enough. It’s like…lifting a small stone that’s somehow been invisibly nailed to the ground. But even with these limitations, I still have hope we can accomplish something special. I have fifty-two novice spellcasters under my tutelage, including those we sent to Mordeina to help Abby’s mother. If we can grow our power and work together, we can build enough towers to man the Gihon all the way down to the fork in no time at all!”
He sighed and shook his head.
It was almost too much for Ahaesarus to absorb. “Tell me more about the other towers,” he said.
“Well, they each have names. This one we call Blood Tower because it was built over the very spot where our people bled. The others are color-coded. Tower Gold, Tower Red, Tower Silver, and Tower Green. Green is ten miles east of Durham, which is the closest settlement.” He lifted his sleeve. “We’re actually starting to run out of colors. I suggested the idea for Tower Violet, as I’m partial to the color, but my students decided it was too feminine. So the next tower we build will be named just that. Each tower is manned by five of my best students, along with twenty men of suitable fighting age. I’m aiming to expand our operation, but our resources are running low. Our little town was home to less than two thousand, and there is only so much labor I can demand of the people. These are common folk, not warriors…though defending your life can make anyone quite adept at doing just that.”
“Very true. When did Karak’s Army begin its attack?” Ahaesarus asked.
Abigail glanced up. “Two months ago. After the long winter ended and summer returned. Arrows began flying from the dark one night, and they haven’t stopped since. Every few nights it begins again. They fire arrows; we fire back.”
“Besides that first night,” said Turock, “when eighteen of our men and women died, we have lost very few. But it’s still harrowing. The attacks seem to happen at random, though always after the sun sets. Sometimes all five towers are assaulted at once; sometimes they are individually targeted. We kill any who try to cross the river. Yet those who cross are small, stunted…runts, I guess you could say. I feel like we’re being toyed with, and I do not like being toyed with.”
“From what I’ve heard, it sounds like your wall of towers is in no danger,” said Ahaesarus, scratching at his temple and staring at Abigail. “Yet Lady DuTaureau told me you feared that the line would break and the soldiers would pour across the river. I see no evidence of this, so why request our presence if you have everything under control? How can we help defend the line if there is no real line to defend?”
Abigail looked to her husband.
“We don’t need you to defend the line, and we certainly didn’t need this many of you,” Turock said. “We wanted a few of your kind for…other reasons.”
“I spelled it out clearly in my letter,” Abigail said, looking frustrated. “Leave it to Mother to get the message wrong.”
Ahaesarus waved his hand at them. “Enough. Just tell me: What is it you wish us to do?”
“I want the Wardens to take a small group of our men into the Tinderlands,” Turock said, rubbing his fingers together. Faint sparks of electricity danced between them. “The majority of the attacks have occurred here, at Blood Tower. Which means that wherever this army has gathered, it is nearby.”
“You want us to strike at them?” asked Ahaesarus. “That is suicide!”
“No, not strike,” replied the spellcaster, holding up his hands in a calming gesture. “I simply wish to discover the size of the force assembled there. That information would go a long way toward planning our defense tactics, especially if the letter sent by my wonderful and perfect mother-in-law told the truth and Karak is invading from the east as well.”
“She does not lie,” Ahaesarus said. “Karak’s Army has crossed into Paradise, and even now they set the northern fields of Ker aflame. We Wardens are needed in many places, so why summon us for a simple scouting party?”
“Look at you,” said Turock, holding his palms out as if what he was about to say were plainly obvious. “You’re bigger than us, more agile, more capable in almost every way. You taught us nearly everything we know, helped grow this civilization from infancy. The entirety of what I know of the Tinderlands I could write onto the back of a dung beetle. Whatever dangers are out there, I trust you to handle them. More importantly, I trust you to safeguard the lives of my men.”
Turock reached out and squeezed Ahaesarus’s shoulder.
“I cannot afford to lose many more men,” he said. “Should even a single tower fall, the village beyond will certainly fall next. I can’t stand the thought, so I must assess the strength of my enemy. I am sending a party of four into the Tinderlands to do just that. If the same number of Wardens accompanied them, it would greatly reduce the risk. A full-out assault is building—I can feel it. I just don’t know when, and I don’t know where.”
“Only four?” asked Ahaesarus.
“More than that would be too noisy to go sneaking around in the darkness. The rest will stay with me and help form the first line of defense should another attack come.”
Ahaesarus bowed his head. The odd man made sense. Just as Isabel had implied, the Wardens were expendable. If their skills could ensure the people of Drake endured, then so be it. It was a risk he would gladly take. Besides, he couldn’t stand the thought of dodging arrows from an unseen foe for even one more night. Better if he could at least be on the move.
“We are sworn to protect and guide you, and so we shall,” he said, bowing his head. He swallowed hard, thinking about the night when Ashhur and Celestia had rescued him and his many brothers from Algrahar. There would be no such rescue should events turn sour this time. Yet that is our lot, he thought. We were given a second chance at life for a reason.
Abigail rose from her seat, taking her place beside her husband. Ahaesarus knelt before them.
“It would be a great honor for me to join your expedition, my friends,” he said. “My brothers and I are at y
our beck and call.”
“Oh, get up,” said Turock. “We’re not your masters.” He started chuckling, then said, “How good are you with a sword? Those stone axes you brought are pretty cumbersome, and I don’t think they’ll last long against real steel should it come to that.”
“My training with any weapon is modest at best, but why a sword?”
Abigail winked at her husband.
“Because we have swords to give you, Master Warden.”
“Ah, yes. From pilfering the dead.”
Turock laughed and smacked him on the back. “Not in the slightest.”
Ahaesarus stared at him, confused.
“Not many who try to cross the river even carry weapons,” Turock said. “I told you, I’m a driven, hardworking bastard with a brain as sharp as my looks are good. We began mining iron on the other side of the cliff a few months ago, and smelting it soon after.” His smile grew wider. “Amazing what you can accomplish when an ancient elf decides you’re a worthy student.”
Ahaesarus shook his head. “I…I am speechless.”
“I’m full of surprises, so get ready to feel that way a lot more often over the next few weeks,” Turock said. “Assuming you don’t die in the Tinderlands, of course. So! Let’s get you a sword to try to keep that from happening, and maybe refresh whatever training you had. Step one: Shove the pointy end in the fleshy bits of your opponent.”
“And step two?” Ahaesarus asked as he followed Turock to the staircase.
The spellcaster shrugged.
“That’s all I got. For me, step two is to shove a fistful of lightning into their face until the smoke escapes their ears. I figured you Wardens would have a more elegant solution.”
With that, he was gone, and Ahaesarus cast a baffled look to the man’s wife.
“You do get used to him,” she said, kissing the Warden on the cheek. “I promise, he’s really not that strange.”
“Could have fooled me,” Ahaesarus said, following her down the steps to see what other surprises Turock might have in store for him.
CHAPTER
24
The guiding pyre burned brightly, casting a beam of rippling light over the dark ocean waters. Bardiya stood beside it as he did each night, watching the sea for any sign of Ki-Nan. His friend had been gone for so long now that many days he felt ready to give up hope of his return. He shook his head, banishing the thought. Ever since Bardiya’s parents had been murdered, Ki-Nan had been a reliable friend and advisor. When in his more frustrated moods, Bardiya sometimes saw him as the only real friend he had; all the rest were like children in need of nurturing or aged parents in need of protection.
A ghostly form appeared at the base of the cliff. Bardiya knew from the exaggerated swing of the man’s arms that it was Onna, the old seafarer who sometimes joined him during his vigils. Onna crested the rise, huffing as he rested his old bones on a weather-beaten stone bench beside the pyre.
“Still waiting, eh?” he asked.
“I will always wait,” Bardiya replied. “For Ki-Nan, for anyone.”
“You ask me, it’s a freeman’s farce for you to think that boy could survive out there for this long. Be more than a little bit of a miracle.”
“He is fine. I’m sure of it.”
Onna laughed. “Is that optimism or just plain stubbornness, big fella?” His eyes narrowed. “Even worse, maybe it’s a lie. Not that it matters to me. Spent enough years on the ocean to know all the dangers that wait out there when the waves start a-rollin’. A man could get lost at sea quite easily, and then…”
Bardiya looked down at him.
“Stories,” he said with a sigh. “When will you ever give me anything but stories, Onna? You, my friend, are the only man in all of Ker who would rather spend his days rocking on the waves than on solid ground, yet you love telling tales of how dangerous it is. It’s a wonder you’re alive at all, if even half of them are true.”
The older man shrugged. “I might fancy my stories up a bit, but each one of them is more than half true. Your children may not take well to the sea, but beyond Ker there are others who are more willing to risk the dangers.” He glanced up, the firelight dancing in his eyes. “Like the easterners whose corpses washed up on shore not far from here.”
Bardiya grunted and shook his head. “Ki-Nan is cautious, and better equipped than foolish sailors from the east. He will return to us, and he will be well.”
“Even if he found the lions?”
Bardiya’s mouth snapped shut without saying a word. The argument was folly, for there was no guarantee Ki-Nan would return. It was just wishful thinking at this point, something he indulged in often as of late to offset his new pain. Bringing the elf boy back from the brink of death seemed to have affected him in unexpected ways.…Each day his soreness grew more unbearable, joints grinding together, muscles pulling and stretching. The spiking headaches behind his eyes were so severe at times that he needed to lie still in the dark to keep from vomiting. His heart raced at odd intervals, as if struggling to keep pumping blood through his massive form. He wondered if he had altered the natural order of things, if by thwarting the elf’s death, he had been sentenced to a slow and painful demise. Or perhaps this was his punishment for turning aside Patrick when his friend needed him most. If that were the case, if everything he believed was wrong…
“Well, I’ll be,” Onna gasped beside him.
“What is it?” he asked, stepping in front of the pyre. He had been staring into the flames, and red and white blotches blotted his vision.
“There, coming closer,” said Onna. “A boat. I’m sure of it.”
Bardiya blinked rapidly, and slowly his eyes readjusted to the darkness. At first he saw nothing more than the reflection of the pyre and the undulating waves, but then a speck of black passed over the lighted ocean. He squinted and took another step, coming so close to the edge of the cliff that he heard pebbles clunk off the rocks below. His vision cleared, and then he saw it: a long, yet slender vessel glided atop the surface of the water. Excitement filled his gut, making him forget about his physical discomforts.
My friend is home, his mind cried. Ki-Nan has finally returned.
His exhilaration dulled as he slid down the edge of the cliff, drawing near the crude jetty to which Onna’s Kind Lady was tethered. The approaching skiff was moving too quickly and advancing at the wrong angle. Though it was dark, he could swear the figure on the boat was slumped over, his hand weakly grasping the tiller of the lone sail.
“Ki-Nan!” he shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Ki-Nan, is that you?”
The figure stirred, slowly straightening and taking a firmer hold on the sail’s guiding tiller. Though he made no verbal reply, he raised a hand in greeting. The rudder was turned to the side and something dropped overboard, slowing the skiff’s approach. Bardiya jumped into the water, waves lapping at his shins and sharp rocks beneath the surface scraping his giant feet. He waded forward while stooped, his arms held out to catch the skiff if it suddenly picked up speed once more.
It did not. The stone craft slowed, bobbing to a stop mere feet in front of him. The anchor—Ki-Nan had dropped the anchor. The bow was greatly damaged, split nearly down the middle and scored with scrapes and gouges. Several arrows protruded from the port side. Fear gripping his heart, Bardiya sloshed through the water and grabbed the moaning figure whose hand was still wrapped around the tiller. The hand fell limply away as he scooped the man up like he would a child.
“Is it him?” Onna asked, pacing back and forth on the jetty.
Bardiya looked down at his quarry. Ki-Nan’s eyes were closed, one of them swollen, and there was a gash along his brow. Blood covered his threadbare clothes. Bardiya pressed his head to Ki-Nan’s chest and could hear his heart beating. Tears flowed down his cheeks.
“He’s here—wounded, but alive.”
Onna tethered the damaged skiff while Bardiya loped away, climbing the rocky precipice with his friend tucked ge
ntly in his arms. He headed straight for his parents’ cabin, which had gone unused since their murder. It had been built for men of a normal size, so Bardiya had to drop to his knees just to enter. Dust rose in a thick cloud when he placed Ki-Nan on the straw-filled bed. Bardiya lit a few candles, then pressed his hands against his friend’s chest, pouring all the healing energy he could gather into him, praying that he had not used up Ashhur’s good graces on the elf boy.
He worried for naught, for Ashhur’s healing magic was just as strong within him as it had ever been. After a few minutes, the white glow faded from Bardiya’s hands. Ki-Nan’s face was clear of bruises and scratches, and the shoulder that had hung down near the bottom of his breast had been reset in its socket. He groaned and rolled over, his eyes still closed. Bardiya slumped to the ground, exhausted. His own eyes drifted shut a few moments later, and he lost consciousness.
When he awoke, it was nearly morning, the sky a purple bruise. The candles had melted down to nubs, dried wax forming frozen tears that were suspended from the table. Bardiya glanced at the bed, where his friend was sitting up, flexing his hand and feeling his forehead and cheeks, as if making sure they were still as they had always been. He did not look in Bardiya’s direction.
“You healed me,” Ki-Nan said suddenly, his voice quiet and sad.
“I did.”
“Thank you.”
“I would do it again in a heartbeat, my friend.”
For a moment both were silent, then Ki-Nan groaned. Bardiya reached over and gave his friend a comforting squeeze, his massive hand nearly swallowing Ki-Nan’s arm.
“Something bothers you, so tell me what it is. What happened during your voyage?”
Ki-Nan tugged on his thick growth of beard.
“I found the Lion’s ships,” he said. “Floating between the Isles of Gold beyond the Crags.”
“Did they see you?” Bardiya asked. His heart began to race, a thump-thump-thump that felt nearly strong enough to rattle the world.
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