Mark of Fire (The Endarian Prophecy Book 1)

by Richard Phillips

  Unwilling to light a fire, Arn shared the last of his dried venison with the others. Despite the poor fare, an aura of good cheer governed the camp.

  “Where are you bound for, friend?” John asked Arn after they had finished eating.

  Arn reflected for a moment. Where indeed? “West.”

  Ty raised an eyebrow. “That’s some bad country. Might want to give it some thought.”

  “West is as good a direction as any and better than some.”

  “Is somebody after you?” asked Ty.

  “Why?” Arn asked.

  Ty leaned back on his elbows. “You’re traveling alone. Not a healthy thing in these parts.”

  “I’m a loner.”

  “Ha. Aren’t we all? Take John over there. To hear him tell it, he’s really only made one mistake in his life. He had the misfortune of saving my life one fine spring day last year. So now he’s got my company until I can return the favor. And now, come to think of it, so have you.”

  “No, thanks. You two got me out of the cave. We’re even.”

  “Nope. That was John again. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me for a while. Kanjari tradition.”

  “You can’t watch out for me and him both.”

  “Sure I can. We’ll all travel together for a while. From what I’ve seen of you so far, it shouldn’t take long for you to get into more trouble. Then John and I can be on our way.”

  Arn nodded toward John. “What if he doesn’t want to go?”

  “Sounds interesting,” said John.

  “I travel alone,” Arn said, the conversation beginning to irritate him.

  Ty grinned. “That’s something you’ll just have to get over.”

  “We can argue about that tomorrow,” said Arn as he climbed to his feet. “I’ll take first watch.”

  He shifted his gaze from one to the other of these unlikely companions, unable to shake the feeling that Ty had predicted his future. Turning away, Arn walked into the night.

  Having agreed to travel together as far as the rough border town of Rork, Arn and his companions set out at dawn. By late afternoon, the group reached a secluded meadow with a small bubbling stream. After sending John out to scout the surrounding area, Arn and Ty set up camp.

  Arn leaned back against a large rock and gazed out at the scene before him. The pass they would travel through tomorrow lay a short distance to the west. The mountains stretched to the north and south. He planned to travel through the pass and then turn northwest toward Rork.

  The town’s only permanent population consisted primarily of slave traders and tavern keepers, most of them bandits who had grown rich enough to set up operations that were even more lucrative. The other residents were made up of transient bands, both human and vorg. The only law was that enforced by the strongest gang currently in town.

  Rork miraculously did not cannibalize itself. The need for a place to trade ill-gotten goods and get too drunk to stand trumped the lust to destroy.

  Arn wanted to stop in the town just long enough to get supplies. As for money, he had only managed to bring a small pouch of gems and another of gold coins. If he had taken more of his wealth, it would have aroused suspicion.

  Daybreak found the trio already through the pass and moving down into a lush green valley. By noon, they had crossed the expanse and three others like it. Arn stood at the top of a ridge, looking down into a box canyon, its rock walls two-hundred-foot vertical drops to the valley floor and the bottom of the canyon split by a sparkling stream that meandered back and forth through meadows of knee-deep grass. A waterfall plummeted from the top of a cliff that blocked the canyon’s north end, forming a large pool.

  A thin veil of mist drifted away from the waterfall, partially shrouding dozens of wild horses. Near the herd, a palomino stallion stood alone, head held high, tail and mane blowing behind the animal as it trotted back and forth. Never had Arn seen a horse so big and fine.

  Ty’s iron hand clapped down on Arn’s shoulder, a wildness blazing in the Kanjari’s blue eyes. “I will have that horse.”

  “And how do you propose catching it?” asked Arn.

  “Are you blind? It’s in a box canyon.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “You and John sneak around to the falls, and then climb down into the canyon, making a racket. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  Before Arn could continue the argument, the tall Kanjari was gone, running toward the lower end of the canyon, his hair blowing out behind him.

  “He looks like that damned stallion, doesn’t he?” John asked.

  Arn had to agree that they bore a striking resemblance.

  As Arn and John made their way around and down the cliff, the stallion raced off down the canyon, the mares stampeding behind him.

  The horse reached Ty at full speed, extending its hooves to trample the human beneath its feet. Somehow, the blow from its hooves and shoulder failed to land. At the last instant, Ty lunged sideways, leaving only his outstretched arm in front of the running animal.

  The horse hit his arm, its momentum windmilling the Kanjari’s body high into the air. In a miracle of strength and coordination, Ty brought his cartwheeling body to a perch atop the racing stallion.

  As if its speed could blow the Kanjari off its back, the stallion raced out of the canyon, followed by the mares. Arn and John stared after them.

  With John off hunting, Arn found what he was looking for. As the brook made its way around a high bank, a large boulder partially blocked its path, forming a deep, still pool of water. Setting his pack down, Arn extracted a small pouch, dumped its contents on the ground, and picked out a fishing hook and a ball of strong twine.

  Finding a tree, Arn cut a long, supple branch to which he fastened a line and hook, using a twig for the float. After digging up a worm-filled clump of mud, he baited the hook, tossed the line out into the water, and sat down on the bank. He had just settled to the ground when the small stick disappeared under the water. Jumping up, he pulled on the pole, bending it sharply. Fearing the pole would break, Arn reached down, grabbed the string, and began pulling it in.

  The fish at the other end battled fiercely, but in a few seconds Arn had it flopping around on the bank. A sense of exhilaration flooded over him. Some of his happiest memories were of his father teaching him to fish in the stream that ran behind their cottage. The triggered emotions felt fresh and new.

  He picked out another worm, squishing its body slightly between his fingers. Arn did not sit down as he tossed the line out into the water. As the worm hit the water, another trout rose, splashing the surface, and disappeared. Again, the float went down, but this time Arn landed the fish with his pole.

  For the rest of the day, Arn enjoyed the best fishing he had ever experienced as an adult. And as the hours passed, he felt the rage that lurked beneath the surface of his thoughts recede. Recollections of the years he had spent as a member of the Rafel family made their way into his mind. Sweetest of all had been his time spent with Carol. As they had grown older, his brotherly love for her had morphed into something different.

  Carol had been seventeen when she had told him of her love. Although he was five years her senior, he had loved her, too. Yet even more than the difference in their ages, the thirst for vengeance that lurked within him had made acceptance of her love impossible.

  Arn had rejected her advances with a lie, telling her that he loved her only as a sister. After that, Carol had grown cold. Cordial but distant. So he had left Rafel’s Keep for Hannington Castle and, shorn of the love in which High Lord Rafel and Carol had bathed him, Arn had unleashed the fury within. In the years that followed, he had earned the nickname Blade, and the distance between him and Carol had become an uncrossable chasm.

  Arn frowned and rose to his feet. A sense of unease had returned. Picking up his stringer of fish, he turned and headed back to camp.

  10

  Central Borderland Range

  YOR 412, Winter’s End

 
; Arn awoke to a new sunrise, bathed in the campfire’s warmth. “Where’s Ty?” he asked John.

  “Where else? Riding that horse of his. Has been for the last two hours.”

  Arn rose to his feet and sniffed his armpit. “I’m going down to the creek to wash up.”

  “I was about to recommend that.”

  Arn walked off, wondering just how he had managed to get himself tangled up with these two. As he stripped off his garments and plunged in, the icy water interrupted his reverie. By the time Arn pulled his body from the pool, put on his clothes, and returned to camp, he found a breakfast of smoked venison awaiting him.

  Just then, Ty thundered into the canyon, sitting atop the palomino as if he had been born there. Horse and rider moved in one fluid motion, blond manes blowing out behind them. Having rejoined Arn and John the previous evening, Ty had ridden out to gather the mares at first light.

  “You ready to travel?” he asked as the stallion slid to a stop beside the campfire, whereupon he dismounted.

  “We’ve been waiting on you,” Arn said.

  “Good. I want to herd the mares to Rork for sale. You two can cut cross-country and meet me there, day after tomorrow. I’ve got to take the herd the long way around.”

  “There are fifty-three mares in that herd,” said John. “I figure they’re worth eighty gold, but we’ll be lucky to get thirty in Rork.”

  “If that much,” said Arn.

  Ty packed food and water, slung his ax across his back, mounted the horse, and galloped away.

  After packing the rest of the dried venison, Arn and John traveled up the west side of the canyon and headed through the pass that lay beyond before turning northwest. Twilight found them setting up camp on a hill overlooking a broad valley. In the distance, a small cluster of lights in the town of Rork twinkled, the moonlight revealing fingers of forest that seemed to reach out threateningly.

  Arn offered to take first watch, and John agreed. The night was cool but warmer than those of the past few weeks. Arn seated himself on a boulder and looked out at the distant town. He had been in many like it. In the outlands, law was a joke. Traders, who were just bandits grown tired of raiding, had decided to rob people more efficiently, setting up trading posts, gambling halls, taverns, and brothels. The towns that sprang up around them made undertaking a highly profitable business.

  In these parts, vorgs formed the majority of the population, although human bandits were almost as common. The lands farther to the west were the stuff of rumor and myth. Few who journeyed there returned, and those who claimed to were difficult to believe, their tales so populated with evil priesthoods and summoned creatures as to defy description.

  But the tales Arn found most appealing were those of vast stretches of beauteous, unclaimed land and game-filled forests. He had no right to daydream of making a new home under a different name in any such place. Men like him died the way they lived, at the pointy end of a sharp weapon. Luck was a fickle master.

  As the moon sank in the west, Arn awakened John for his shift and, returning to his bedroll, fell into a dreamless sleep.

  The morning sun over their shoulders cast long shadows as Arn and John strode into town. The few people they saw in the street lay stretched out, victims of last night’s revelry.

  The dirt road cut deep ruts between shabby wood buildings sporting hand-painted signs advertising their services. A short way down the street, Arn saw a large building with a sign on the front that read, WILL SLOAN’S TRADING POST. It struck him as significant that the only undertaker in town had set up shop directly across from this establishment.

  Evidently the post was profitable since it featured cut-stone construction, looking more like a fortress than a store. Thin slits high up on the walls served as the closest things to windows. Twin iron-bound doors opened wide to receive any who might be able to stagger through this time of morning.

  Arn entered the venue with John close behind. On the right side of the room stood a long wooden bar with a couple of dozen stools. Most of the remaining space was crowded with drinking and gaming tables. Sunlight speared through a small hole in the ceiling, fighting its way through thick lantern smoke. If the hole was a chimney, it was not working.

  Across the deserted room, a small wooden stage adorned with crude drawings of naked women occupied the center of the far wall. Next to the stage, a wooden stairway led to the upper floor. Beside the stairway, a door into the trading post drew them forward.

  The back of the building, almost as large as the front, was stocked with a surprising selection of dry goods, tools, utensils, and weapons.

  John suddenly stopped. “What in the deep?” he said. “How is this possible?”

  He grabbed Arn by the shoulder. “The bastards have my father’s bow up here. It was stolen a year before my parents died. See the ‘GS’ carved into the grip? Stands for George Staton.”

  As he reached up to lift the black longbow from its place on the wall, a voice from the rear of the store brought their heads around. “Take your hands off the merchandise. If you want it, you’d better show me some gold.”

  Arn judged the proprietor to be in his midfifties. He was a big man with a black patch over his left eye and a ragged scar slashing a white furrow across his face from hairline to chin. He angled a crossbow in John’s general direction.

  “You’ve got stolen goods in here,” said John.

  “Says who?”

  “Settle down,” Arn said. “We’re just thinking about buying this bow. How much?”

  The man looked Arn up and down, apparently not liking what he saw.

  “How much?” Arn repeated.

  “Two gold,” the man said.

  “Two gold! I could buy four horses for that,” said Arn.

  “Go and buy them, then. You asked how much, and I told you. Take it or leave it.”

  “One gold,” Arn said.

  “One and four bits,” said the trader.

  “Done,” John said.

  Arn handed the clerk two gold pieces. The man took out a knife, cut one of the coins along the center notch, and flipped half of it to Arn.

  Arn picked out a pot and some salt, and then filled a large sack with an assortment of items they would need on the road. The new bill came to four and a quarter gold, an exorbitant price even for Rork.

  As the two walked out with their purchases, John laughed. “What an idiot. This bow is worth ten times that price. My father made it, and it’s the finest I’ve ever seen.”

  “Well, he robbed us on the rest of it,” said Arn. “And considering that your father’s bow was stolen in the first place, I’d say the proprietor got the better end of the deal.”

  “You’re right about that,” said John.

  “Let’s find a place outside of town to stow our packs,” said Arn. “I don’t relish the thought of closing my eyes here in Rork.”

  Arn led the way out of town and up a steep rib of land off the road. Finding a shallow crawlspace that led through a thicket to a spot with enough room to stretch and sleep unobserved, they planted their packs. John lay his old bow down, slinging his father’s longbow across his back. Crawling back out, Arn and John paused to remove all signs of their entry. Then, memorizing the landmarks that would enable them to find the spot again, they made their way back to town.

  In their absence, Rork had awakened. A group of five vorgs crossed the street in front of them. The leader, a large she-vorg wearing a stole of human scalps over her thick shoulders, the accessory partially hidden under her straight black hair, looked at John and grinned.

  “I could eat you up,” she said, running her tongue over her lips as she walked in a tight circle around the two men, reaching out to grab John.

  “Easy,” Arn said, squeezing his companion’s arm. “She’s just playing.”

  A male vorg snarled at John. “If Commander Charna wants you, she’ll take you.”

  “That’s right,” the she-vorg said. “Perhaps we’ll play some later.”


  The vorgs walked off, their barking taunts trailing behind them.

  John stared after them. And to Arn, something about the she-vorg felt distractingly familiar.

  The two headed for a building they had seen on their first trip through the town. After passing three rickety wooden shacks, they entered the only neatly painted structure on the street. A sign above the door said simply, GOOD FOOD. Three large windows spilled light onto a single long table, and the men and vorgs seated around it were shoveling food into their faces. Arn and John found two empty chairs and joined them.

  A serving maid set glasses of ale in front of them without the bother of asking what they wanted to drink.

  “Can I get you something to eat? Today we have roast pig.”

  “That’s what I’ll have, then,” said Arn.

  “Same,” John added.

  The young woman walked into the kitchen, the door swinging open to reveal a giant of a man, easily seven feet tall and weighing four hundred pounds. The grease-splattered apron wrapped around his waist only partially concealed the ax hanging from his belt.

  “Come on, daughter. Hurry with that food,” he bellowed in a good-natured voice that rang out from the kitchen.

  “Now I understand how that young lady gets along in a town like this,” said John.

  The waitress reentered the room carrying platters, one in each hand, that she set down in front of them. The dishes were piled high with thin slices of roast pork. Arn savored the first bite, letting the flavor linger on his tongue. He ate with delight until he reluctantly discovered that he could eat no more.

  John and Arn paid for the meal and left the building, crossing the street to the tavern and trading post.

  “A bit livelier in here,” Arn noted.

  “The crowd’s not getting any prettier, though.”

  “I believe we already met the tavern beauty.”

  John turned to look at the she-vorg they had met on the town’s streets.