Prophecy's Daughter

by Richard Phillips

  Jason and his priests had not been idle these last several months, identifying several plants in Areana’s Vale that lent themselves quite nicely to the fermentation process. Thus the kegs inside the Flowing Ale never ran dry.

  While the priesthood had all the stodginess associated with most religious orders, Jason ran this one like a tight ship. In fact, the priesthood had been a key factor in establishing an orderly marketplace within the vale, beginning with the minting of money, carved quite expertly from trees that grew only in the Chasm of Eternity, an area under their sole control. The money had quickly been adopted for trade, as the priests accepted the currency in exchange for their distilled spirits.

  Jason had worked out all the details with Rafel, who immediately recognized and authorized the ingenious nature of the plan. Thus the priesthood grew wealthy, while the citizens were rewarded with a very effective monetary system. Yes, the money of Areana’s Vale was backed with liquid gold—ale.

  So, in an interesting way, Colindale, the village closest to the main fortress, had become home for what amounted to the central bank, the Flowing Ale Tavern.

  Tonight Rolf was in fine form, slapping customers on their backs while whistling for serving girls to hurry up with their orders. He liked to meet each new arrival at the door, greeting every last one of them with a “Well, hello there, beauty!” or “Good to see you, stud!” depending on the customer’s gender.

  It didn’t matter whether he knew their real names or not. Each and every one of Rolf’s customers regarded him as their lifelong friend, a sentiment he returned.

  The shift at the fort was due to change soon. A flood of thirsty guardsmen would wash into the tavern shortly after that. Although this was a nightly occurrence, the combination of shift change and weekend celebration meant that Rolf would soon have great difficulty moving his massive form back and forth among the crowd. For the thousandth time, he wished he had built a bigger place. May the gods bless those priests.

  “Beauty! So good to see you. You too, stud. How’ve you been? Here, let me find you two a special table.” Rolf jammed the couple into a table at the end of the bar, but they were glad to have it. “You want the usual?”

  When the new arrivals nodded, Rolf put two fingers to his lips, blasting out an earsplitting whistle. “Ruthy! Two ales over here, quick as you can.”

  A song broke out at the far end of the bar. Lord Alan was entertaining a group of rangers with a bawdy ballad, somewhat slurred. He was well into his cups early this evening. Regardless, the lad had personality, and the rangers snickered appreciatively at his rendition. Rolf noticed that some of the women drifted away from that end of the tavern, ears burning red, while others managed to steal a look at the strapping son of High Lord Rafel.

  The barbarian, Ty, appeared in the doorway, bare-chested as was his norm, huge ax slung across his back, tresses falling across his shoulders. He ignored Rolf completely as he strode to the bar and ordered a tall ale.

  His bare upper torso brought gasps from several of the young women, which obviously annoyed Lord Alan to no small degree.

  “Well, would you look at that,” said Alan in an overly loud voice. “Our reputed Dread Lord has decided that he is just too good to wear civilized clothes.”

  Several of the rangers turned to look at the Kanjari, but Ty ignored the comment.

  Rolf started to make his way across the tavern in order to tell Alan that he didn’t need any of that kind of talk in here, but he was suddenly overwhelmed by a mob of guardsmen entering the venue. Shift change.

  As the crowd of new arrivals surged through the door, Rolf gave up on trying to seat them, endeavoring to merely direct the soldiers toward the bar in the most efficient fashion possible. The crowd swelled so that it became elbow room only. Arms were raised in unison, trying to get the attention of the serving girls so that money could be exchanged for ale.

  Lord Alan broke into another bellowing song on the far side of the bar. “Oh, I knew a Kanjari from the town of Traborg. He was so damned ugly, you’d a thought he was vorg . . .”

  Ty continued drinking, although he was now on his second flagon of ale. Rolf thought that he detected tension across Ty’s back, although that could have been his imagination.

  Lord Alan elbowed his way through the crowd to stand at the bar beside the Kanjari. The crowd made room for them.

  Rolf felt that he should rush over and do something but was completely blocked by the mass of humanity known as his customers.

  Lord Alan turned so that he leaned sideways against the bar, his face staring up at the side of Ty’s head. “So, what do you say, Dread Lord? Have you decided yet?”

  Ty finished his ale and slowly turned toward the young lord. “Decided what?”

  “Why, decided if you’re a savage or just a man like the rest of us?”

  A murmur flitted through the crowd.

  “I’m sorry,” said Ty.

  “Sorry for what?”

  “Sorry that your mommy isn’t around to give you this ass whipping instead of me.”

  Lord Alan swung his beefy right hand, but it failed to connect with the barbarian’s face. Instead, a massive blow from the mug in Ty’s right hand hammered Alan in the side of the head, dropping him to the floor.

  The rangers jumped to their feet in unison, rushing to the aid of their young comrade. Ty spun to face this new challenge, but they merely reached down and hauled the semiconscious lord back to his feet, blood dripping from the side of his head.

  “Carry him back to the fort,” Derek Scot said. “Put him in a bed to sleep it off.”

  He gave Ty a nod, then turned and followed the rangers carrying Lord Alan through the parting crowd and out the door. Rolf understood the gesture. As far as he knew, nobody had ever beaten the young lord in a fight.

  “A round of drinks on the house,” an anxious Rolf yelled, his booming voice filling the momentary silence.

  He was rewarded with the sound of a rousing cheer, immediately restoring the tavern’s boisterous atmosphere.

  A bruised ego is a difficult thing to heal, and Alan found that his own ego was no exception. He was not stupid, having lived a life of military training since he was just a boy. He also had no excuses for his behavior in provoking Ty on that night in the Flowing Ale. He had simply been drunk and trying to impress the rangers at his table.

  Instead, he had embarrassed himself by getting beaten down in near record time and alienating someone who could teach him a thing or two about what it meant to be a warrior. And being a warrior was what Alan wanted to be. Not just a warrior. Alan wanted to be a legend, like his father.

  Jared Rafel had built an early reputation as the most fearsome combatant in the army of Tal. He quickly rose through the ranks, showing that his prowess as a fighter was surpassed only by his ability to lead men into battle. By the time Rafel was twenty-eight years old, the king chose him to lead the armies of Tal against the vorg hordes.

  His men said that wherever the high lord went on the battlefield, the soldiers who saw him riding past were given strength and courage, with fear and fatigue dispelled. Rafel drove himself relentlessly, arriving at key places at the right times, lending renewed vigor to combat forces. To this day, Jared Rafel had never been defeated on the field of battle. His soldiers loved him, and for good reason.

  Growing up, Alan had pushed himself harder than any boy his age. He had trained his body in battle and was undefeated in any contest of arms. Moreover, Alan had fought alongside the high lord’s soldiers in numerous engagements with vorgs and brigands.

  Still, his father was not pleased with his progress. For that matter, neither was Gaar. Worse yet, Alan understood their reasoning. He was reckless.

  When his blood rose, Alan found himself descending into a rage, where he could only think of destroying the enemy. In that state, no pain slowed him, and no one could stand before him. His rage made him unstoppable but also robbed him of the ability to think beyond his immediate fight.

&n
bsp; He had been unable to overcome what he perceived as a monstrous weakness. Giving in to battle fury was fine for someone who would become a mighty soldier, but it was the death knell for a career as a leader of men.

  Alan cursed himself as he worked, assisting in securing one of the forts. He had lost a fight for the first time in his life. By the deep, it was not even a fight.

  Rafel had been none too pleased to find out that Alan had started a brawl. His son had once again displayed a lack of maturity, which meant he would receive no leadership positions for the foreseeable future. In contrast, the quick rise of Gaar’s son, Hanibal, through the ranks greatly annoyed Alan. He had defeated Hanibal in every training encounter where they had been pitted against each other.

  But Hanibal maintained control of himself and control of those around him. Although Alan had learned strategic thinking from his father and Gaar, the rage that filled him during battle temporarily wiped such wisdom from his mind.

  Alan knew the only thing that helped him throw off a bad mood, like the one that afflicted him now, was to work. He lost himself in the effort of lifting the logs that would bolster the main fort’s defenses, holding them in place as others scurried about, securing them in their final positions. The more tiredness assaulted him, the less he thought about his problems, and the better he felt.

  The day passed by, and he took no notice of the hour, not stopping for lunch, only pausing for a periodic drink from the water jug to replace the sweat that soaked his body, forming a sheen on the outer layer of his clothes. As the afternoon light faded, a boy tugged urgently at his sleeve.

  “Lord Alan,” the boy said, “High Lord Rafel sent me to bid you come. He is waiting for you in his council chambers.”

  Alan mopped his brow with his sleeve, an effort completely wasted since the sleeve itself was soaked with sweat. He recognized the boy as one of the lucky few who had been chosen to train as squires to the company commanders. “What is your name?” Alan asked.

  “Brad, my lord,” the boy said.

  “Well, Brad My Lord,” Alan said, “run back and tell my father I am on my way.”

  “Yes, sir.” The boy turned and disappeared back up the street.

  Alan walked toward his father’s council chambers at a leisurely pace, wondering all the way there about the purpose of the meeting. When he entered, a blazing fire roared on the hearth, and Rafel stood near it. Alan moved up beside his father.

  Rafel placed an arm around Alan’s shoulder. “I want to talk to you, son.”

  Alan said nothing.

  “I keep hoping that you will become a bit more like Carol and use that head sitting on your shoulders. You are far from stupid, but I expect you to exercise more self-discipline.”

  When Alan still did not respond, Rafel continued. “Leadership is one of those things you have to find on your own. I try to place you in situations that I think will help you develop and exercise the will to lead. But until you prove to me that you can keep your head and see the whole of battle, I will give you no command.”

  Alan stared at his father. “I take it that this means you are about to send me on a bad assignment.”

  “Yes,” said Rafel. “I am sending Derek Scot and a small group of rangers out to set up a ranger camp in the Endless Valley. Their mission will be to conduct long-range reconnaissance, trying to get a feel for our enemies’ movements. The rangers are to observe the enemy and avoid getting engaged in battle if at all possible. I want you to accompany them.”

  Alan kept his face serious, but far from being disappointed, the thought of this mission sent a thrill through him. It carried with it the promise of danger. “I understand.”

  “Maybe,” High Lord Rafel said, his face serious. “But you will be under the command of Derek Scot. I expect you to take orders from him and to listen to any advice he has for you along the way. Watch how he leads his men and, for the sake of the gods, learn from him.”

  “How soon do we leave?” asked Alan.

  “Derek wants to depart tonight. Pack your things and saddle up.”

  Alan gripped his father’s hand, his gaze meeting the high lord’s. Alan vowed to himself that the next time he looked into those gray eyes, they would not be filled with disappointment.

  28

  Areana’s Vale

  YOR 414, Early Autumn

  Carol awoke to find herself huddled and quivering in the corner of her room, tears streaming down her face though she could not remember why. She had dragged her blankets from the bed, stuffed one around the crack where the cabin door met the floor, and draped the others across the windows. Thin shafts of daylight bled through slots that the blankets missed.

  She gasped, stunned at what she had done in her sleep. What nightmare had so frightened her that she had tried to block every crevice or portal into the cabin? And why use blankets? Why not something more substantial, like tables and chairs?

  She stumbled to her feet, moving quickly to remove the coverings before anyone could come along and discover what she had done. Having deposited the blankets back on her bed, she made a quick survey of the cabin, but nothing else appeared out of place.

  Sleepwalking was something she had heard about but had never before experienced herself. Gods. Was this yet another side effect of her kata practice?

  Of course, it was also possible that she had just been up too late repeating the experiment. Perhaps sleepwalking was the result of the agitated state she had worked herself into rather than anything directly related to the kata. She certainly hoped so.

  Carol made herself a hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs and salted bacon, compliments of Mary Beth Abercrombie, and a steaming cup of hot tea. She didn’t want to think about the unnerving aspects of her activities, so she decided not to, preparing herself for an outing to the main fort instead.

  The wind had died away to a pleasant breeze by the time Carol made her way down the path toward the upper fortress. The sun shone in that clear way that only comes on early-autumn days, lending golden colors to all that its rays caressed. Carol felt that she should be reveling in the morning, but she could not.

  She was worried. She felt unidentifiably different. Thoughts and feelings eddied at the corners of her mind, disappearing when she tried to focus on them.

  Her senses seemed odd as well, somehow sharpened. She sniffed, trying to pick up subtle smells on the breeze. Nothing. The same when she paused to listen. She could hear or smell nothing out of the ordinary. Yet as she walked, she occasionally caught a strange scent or sound.

  A flock of fluffy winter birds took flight as she approached, flapping off hard toward the west. The normal animals that were abundant throughout the valley were nowhere to be seen, almost as if avoiding her. The notion was laughable, but in her current mood, she couldn’t bring herself to see the humor in the idea.

  The people she passed along the road were cheerful enough, although Carol thought she detected some puzzled expressions as they looked at her. Had she forgotten to brush her hair or wash up?

  Glancing down at herself, she was horrified to discover that she had not changed out of her nightgown. She stopped in her tracks.

  What . . . ?

  She was certain she had started to get dressed. She had made breakfast, washed, combed her hair, and then gone to the dresser to lay out her clothes. Then what? She remembered leaving the house and walking down the road through Longsford Watch and on down the valley, waving to those she passed.

  Carol felt the blood rush to her face. Moving quickly, she departed the road and moved into the woods, choosing a course that led back to her cabin but kept her out of sight. She was mortified. How could she possibly allow herself to become distracted to the point of failing to get dressed?

  Thank the gods she was wearing a nightgown. If the cold wind of last night had been blowing, there would have been no way she would have made this blunder, but it had been warm this morning. She turned the thoughts over in her mind, searching for an explanation, an excus
e even, but none came.

  Arriving at her cabin, Carol fell onto her bed. She was consumed by a sudden, uncontrollable fit of sobbing, tears dampening the pillow she hugged tightly to her chest. She gradually sank back, drifting into another dream-filled sleep.

  She awoke at night and suffered an instant of panic, unable to remember her location. Feeling around, her fingers found the headboard of her bed, and relief flooded over her. She was still in her bed. There had apparently been no desperate wanderings around the cabin, stuffing blankets into the cracks of doors and windows.

  Despite having slept the day away, she was not hungry. Thirst, however, was another matter. Her mouth felt like she had been licking a handful of dirt. She went to the pitcher on her night table and found it empty. She had forgotten to refill it. Of course she had.

  Returning from the stream with a full pitcher, she poured herself a glass of water, gulped it down unselfconsciously, and then refilled it. Halfway through the second glass, she paused for air, feeling less like she had just crawled out of the desert. Deciding that the time had come to act more like a wielder of powerful magics, Carol moved to her desk and took up the book once again.

  With a thought, she set the candles to burning, noting that she would have to bring out two new ones after tonight.

  The key seemingly lay in working through the points in the kata where she was startled out of her meditative state. Based on her lingering side effects, those occurrences left her mentally tied to the exercise, as if her connection to the dreamworld continued long after it should have been broken.

  At least that gave her a working theory. The startling aspects of the exercise came from the tremendous variety of sights, sounds, and feelings that assaulted her senses, even when she had narrowed her focus to include a relatively small area around her visualized form.

  She needed to come up with an idea that would enable her to deal with these alien sensations and get to the next level. Carol read the description of the exercise once more, mulling its references to filtering and blocking carefully, putting them in context with what else was happening in the kata. She thought she was beginning to understand what might be happening. The exercise was apparently providing insight on how certain elemental forces were perceiving the real world.