by Matthew Wolf
Ayva raised a hand. “Just wait a moment, Darius!”
“What?” he asked, leaping upon Mirkal.
“What are you thinking?” Gray asked hesitantly.
Upon his steed, Darius smirked. “Get us inside the gates, Gray, and I will find out where your grandfather is held. I can’t promise we’ll get to him in time, but if this city looks anything like I anticipate, it’ll be full of thieves’ dens and shady inns—a ripe fruit for the picking when it comes to information,” he said, spinning upon Mirkal, feeding off the beast’s excited energy, or perhaps it was feeding off of him. “Well, are you ready?”
Both Ayva and Gray looked dumbfounded.
“Trust me,” he said, holding Gray’s gaze.
Gray nodded at last, taking to his mount.
Ayva grumbled something and then threw up her hands. “Well, no use arguing,” she said and leapt upon her cormac smoothly. “Lead the way, fearless leader,” she said sarcastically.
Darius made an overly elegant bow and looked ahead.
To Farbs.
* * *
After several hours of riding, they neared the city. Though Farbs had looked huge and near, Darius had realized it was deceptive. It was further away than he’d imagined, and, as a result, far larger.
They approached, entering the outer city and, despite the warm air, a chill entered Darius, as if diving into a frozen lake. Behind him, Ayva and Gray rode, watching their surroundings. What has gotten into me? he thought, I’m parading around like some sort of fool hero. That’s supposed to be Gray’s job.
As soon as they passed the first few blue and green tents he realized their mistake. Men and women stared at them, eyeing their Elvin steeds as if gazing upon royalty.
“They aren’t used to the cormacs,” Gray whispered. “Perhaps we can stable the animals once we get inside the gates.”
Darius gave a subtle nod. “Good idea. The less eyes on us, the better.” They were surrounded by life, hundreds of eyes making him itch in his clothes. A hawker shouted to them as they passed, selling shriveled roots on a long table. A group of men talked in a circle beneath the shade of a large, orange awning. In the next square, a statue poured water from its six mouths, and crowds gathered to fill buckets and urns to the brim. One woman, oddly enough, passed them while balancing a pitcher upon her head. People came and went, dressed in colorful clothes. Soon, Darius realized his silly green clothes were in fact the norm. Twice he saw a man with green robes even brighter than his. Women wore light vests like Ayva’s, but none quite so flashy and of such fine material. Well, if anyone could pretend to be a noble, it was her. Even Gray’s white vest with dark leather lacing and gray pants were common too, just less so than Darius’ attire. Good, let me be the most normal one for once, he thought.
Abruptly, a cluster of men with shaven heads walked before him as if blind. He pulled hard on his reins to avoid trampling them and almost cursed when Ayva touched his arm. “Sons of the Flesh,” she explained, sidling her beast closer. “They are from the city of Covai, the Great Kingdom of Flesh. Best not to upset them.”
Darius realized they all had the same brown and white robes that were dirty from travel. In their hands, they held coarse ropes that they wound and unwound around their fists as they muttered to themselves in a deep hum, walking through the crowds.
“What are they mumbling about? And what’s with the ropes?” he asked, watching as the crowds avoided them like the moldy onion in a once-tasty soup.
“It is a chant, a prayer to their god, and the ropes inflict pain,” she said.
“Why?” Gray asked.
“I’m not sure of all the reasons, but Faye said it is a gesture of piety. They believe life is pain and that one must embrace it. It helps remind them of their mortality. Oh, and they say it reminds them to resist the temptations of the flesh.” Darius scoffed at that. Life is meant to be embraced, reveled in even, not resisted. Ayva continued, “In every city, they roam, converting those who wish to join their path, simply called The Way. They are the largest spiritual sect in all of Covai, and perhaps all of Farhaven.”
“Are they dangerous?” Gray asked softly.
“Faye said only to avoid them. They are nothing to fear if you stay out of their way, but those who interfere find themselves in a whole heap of trouble.”
They pressed forward with Darius leading the way. All the while, he wished they could avoid the looks their steeds brought them, but at least the people of Farbs were more or less accustomed to such oddities. By their looks, cormacs were obviously rare, but not unheard of. Still, he pulled his green cloak around him and sunk deeper into his cowl.
Ayva and Gray pulled closer as a dozen or so guards neared upon tall steeds. They wore chainmail and plate, and Darius squinted from the reflecting sun. In their hands were long halberds or colorful pikes. Colored weapons? Darius scoffed and then remembered the green sword upon his back. Well, that’s different, he thought. The guards barely cast them a second glance as they rode by, their armor clanking as they headed into the desert.
Eventually the three of them approached the tall, tan-colored gates. The flow of people increased like tributaries joining a larger river. They found themselves in a main thoroughfare that was wide enough for ten carts to move side by side. On the edges, fewer tents and more buildings had been constructed, seeming more and more like a real city.
He felt strangely invigorated as they rode, as if he hadn’t slept upon the hard ground. No, he felt alive. It was magic he realized and shivered. It was like that sometimes. Though he’d never tell the others, a part of him was excited. He wanted to help Gray, and he couldn’t wait to see what would unfold once they entered Farbs.
The giant gates sat ahead, wide open. The crowds swelled, moving towards them, and Darius felt as if he were caught in a wind tunnel, being pulled in.
Most of the people traveled on foot, looking dirtied and worn—there were so many of them. What has happened? Darius wondered. It almost reminded him of Lakewood’s survivors. He sighed upon remembering that, glad to know the villagers were safe at long last.
“What’s going on?” Ayva asked. “These people… They look displaced. As if we just missed a war.”
Gray looked equally confused.
Darius touched the shoulder of a man who walked at Mirkal’s side. The man looked up, startled. “Greetings. The name is Darius. Where are you all coming from?” he asked bluntly. Well, he was one for subtlety sometimes.
The man’s round eyes looked at him nervously, as if confused why he was talking to him. Darius took in the man’s tattered blue clothes. They were wide around the collar, cuff, and sleeves. It was a fashion stranger than even his own green garments. Yet he noticed embroidery and a heavy gold stone around the man’s neck. And of course, the way his nose stuck in the air like he’d just wafted some bad cheese. Nobility? he wondered.
“I’m Jurad. I hail from Sevia,” he answered. “Why do you ask?”
“I’ve been meaning to get a new shirt, and I just admired the cut of yours. Is it…”
“The finest cut of Sevia silk, from the Duvai provinces, of course,” Jurad huffed, and then smiled. “You’ve a fine eye for cloth.”
“Why thank you. I pride myself on it,” Darius lied. “I’ve always said, ‘even the lightest piece of Sevia silk is worth the fattest piece of gold’.” The words sounded sour and false on his tongue, but he spoke smoothly. He felt Ayva and Gray, the heat of their gaze on his back.
Jurad bobbed his head, looking pleased. “That heartens my soul.” Then his sun-tanned nose wrinkled in disgust. “Too many young men nowadays can’t tell a fine piece of brocade from a swatch of beggar’s woolens! Of course, I don’t have to tell you that Sevia silk is the finest silk in all of Farhaven, and Duvai is…” The man hesitated. “Wait a moment. Farbian garb, but light skin, and Elvin mounts… I’ve never seen humans quite like you. You three… are you… are you from Eldas?”
Did he just call me an elf? Darius thoug
ht, not sure whether to laugh or be offended. He cleared his throat, but Gray spoke instead, “No. We come from the south.”
“South?” Jurad questioned, suddenly wary. “There’s nothing south. Not since the Lieon and those cursed nine destroyed nearly all the lands. All that remains is a few patches of green amid an endless desert. That and the once Great Kingdom of Yronia—that heaping mass of steel is little more than scraps where only shadows skulk and rumors stir. Beyond that is Death’s Gates, and none but the elves venture beyond, into that false land, without magic.”
Darius’ heart beat faster, caught in their lie. Not that it mattered if the man discovered them, he supposed, but it was an old habit—that racing pulse. Seconds felt like hours as the man’s eyes gauged them, and Ayva spoke. “He means we’ve made a hard journey to the south. We’re from Cloudfell Town.”
Jurad mopped at his sweat with a kerchief and turned his scrutiny north, through the crowds. “You have the look of Cloud folk, hard-bitten people but somehow soft too. Sadly, they’ve no eye for good cloth.”
“Right,” Gray agreed, joining at last. “We’ve made a hard journey here from Cloudfell and just purchased new clothes. You look a bit travel worn yourself. How fairs Sevia?”
“You haven’t heard?” the man asked as the mass of bodies lurched forward.
The gates grew in size as they neared. It nearly took Darius’ breath away, looking up to the dizzying heights of those tan battlements. Spikes crested them, and guards moved about, watching the endless procession push through.
“Heard what?” Ayva asked him, moving closer.
“Sevia is… Well, it’s a mess. I’m not sure how you avoided it to be honest. The trade routes are nearly all shut off from here to the Frizzian coast. Bandits rove the countryside in droves, assaulting anything that moves and seeking coin and blood. Sure we had them before—Sevia isn’t as safe as other places. I mean it’s no Vaster, where there are laws just for stepping on a patch of grass. But now? It’s worse than ever! There’ve been more deaths in the past month than in years combined.”
Nearby, an older woman with a round, black bun on her head chimed in suddenly, having overheard. “It’s not just Sevia. My name is Semi. We live near the foothills of Narim, near the coast. A week ago, we’d gone to town to fetch some supplies, and when we came back…” She spoke with a shiver, and a man at her side—her husband, Darius figured—put an arm around her slender shoulders as he held her close, issuing soft words of comfort. She stood straighter, continuing. “Our home, our crops, all of it was burning. Everything gone, decades taken from us in a fiery flash.”
“Not even a fight,” the man at her side said. “If and when I find them, I’ll bleed them dry.”
“Who could do that?” Ayva asked softly.
“I know who,” Semi answered. “We never saw the ones who’d done it, but weeks before that we’d heard tales of strange men. Red-sailed ships, they said, assaulting the Frizzian coast, and rumors say they be in the habit of taking prisoners.” Her voice lowered conspiratorially. “As if the villains are amassing, planning a city of thieves or the like.”
Jurad grunted. “I’ve heard as much. Fearful rumors. And I thought Farbs was bad,” he added under his breath, eyeing the nearby people. Some had taken interest in their conversation, but most looked too huddled in their own tattered clothes and thoughts to contribute, gazes fixed ahead.
“But Farbs doesn’t allow outsiders. What are you planning to do?” Gray asked.
“Well I figured you all knew,” Jurad stated, looking confused. “The Patriarch has opened the gates of Farbs, lifting the ban. That’s why all these people are fleeing like there were a fox in a rehn’s coop. However, I’m not planning to stay long. I’m from the noble house of Carah, and we’ve come to petition for men to help make the trade routes safe again. Sevia is vital to the prosperity of all the lands. Farbs needs us. Now I only hope the Patriarch’s compassion is as notorious as they say.”
“We hope only to make enough coin using Targa’s skills as a blacksmith to go back home and rebuild,” Semi said. “They say Farbs is full of coin, if one knows where to look.”
Darius wished them the best of luck, and with the others at his side, they pressed forward, weaving through the walking masses.
“I can’t believe there’s this much sorrow and chaos,” Ayva said.
“Remember what Faye said about the Nodes?” Darius said. “Something about Farhaven and magic being attacked. That’s why the Nodes were appearing, acting as safe havens. Now Farbs is a sanctuary.”
“What if the Nodes were just the beginning?” Ayva whispered.
“I hope not, but it wouldn’t surprise me. Bandits, raiders, and bloodshed?” he shivered. “Dice, the world seems to be going crazy outside these walls.”
Gray made a grunt of agreement. “Farhaven is under attack.”
“But by whom? The Darkwalkers aren’t the root of it, are they?” Darius asked.
Two guards were helping a fallen man to his feet nearby. They grew silent for a moment until the guards passed.
“We’ll find out soon,” Gray said. He sounded afraid yet hopeful.
“Right, first Ezrah, then the darkness that is conquering the world,” Darius announced. He expected a laugh or perhaps a rise out of the two, but instead, they merely nodded. Nodding? Darius guffawed silently. What have you gotten yourself into, Darius?
They reached the gates. Dozens of guards with red-cloth shrouds watched the crowds enter, helping order traffic as best they could. A few nearby guards eyed their cormacs, but luckily none said a word. As they moved beneath the tall sandstone archway, Darius couldn’t help but feel like he was willingly entering into the jaws of some enormous sand beast. He passed through and a chill sunk beneath his skin. He shivered and looked to Ayva and Gray.
“Did you feel that?”
Both nodded.
“Magic,” Ayva said, awe-struck.
“It was testing us,” Gray said. Darius waited for him to say more, but Gray froze, looking up to the sky.
“Gray? What is it?”
A screech pierced the air. Darius jumped, nearly vaulting from his cormac. In a searing flash, memories came of dragons and death upon the golden walkway. He twisted in his seat and was hit with a rush of air. He cursed, ducking.
When he looked back up, he saw the image of a beast, flying through the air with huge white wings. It twisted nimbly, disappearing around a corner. Is there a man riding it? He shook his head, wondering if he was dreaming again. He must be dreaming, for what in the seven hells kind of person would ride a flying beast? A madman, Darius concluded. He leaned over, nudging Ayva. “What in the world was that?”
“Gryphons,” Gray explained with a light in his eyes. Before Darius could ask more, they pressed past the gates and into the streets of Farbs proper, and Darius found himself slack-jawed again.
The large circle before them was nothing remarkable—well, nothing remarkable for Farhaven that was—but in its center was a bedazzling sight. Darius stared at an enormous sphere. It was twice as tall as any building he’d ever seen in Lakewood. And even more oddly, it hovered a foot above the ground, suspended by nothing but air. Its surface was glassy and translucent. He dismounted and found his feet moving on their own. In a daze, he reached the sphere and his fingers grazed the surface.
Water.
A huge dome of water, like a bubble that hadn’t been popped. He pulled his hand back. The water reformed, seamless once more. “How is it not falling?” he whispered.
“It must be a spell,” Ayva replied, eyes wide.
“It is,” said Gray. Darius watched Gray glide his hand through the water in amazement. “Every Arbiter is known for their grand creations—this is one of his.” His last word was said fondly, with emphasis and a quirk to his lips.
“Whose?” Darius posed.
“Ezrah’s,” Gray answered.
“Really?” Ayva asked, breathless. “Your grandfather made this?”
“How do you know that?” Darius questioned, dubious.
“My past,” he retorted, smiling and inhaling a deep breath of the warm desert air as he gestured grandly. “These streets, the gryphons, the magic at the entrance… All of it is coming back to me.” Even Ayva looked rejoiced, and Darius’ felt their enthusiasm spreading to him. It was infectious. He shook his head, wiping the grin from his face and looking back to the sphere. Beneath the floating globe, a fountain of water spouted, constantly feeding it. All around, people gathered, citizens and newcomers alike. They dipped in their hands to wash their dirtied faces or fill their buckets, flasks, and even barrels.
“Well, if your grandfather created it, it must be safe,” Darius said, cupping his hands and drinking.
Ayva followed suit and made a sound of delight. “It’s delicious!”
Thirsty and his throat raw, Darius drank deeply. Energy and life flushed through him. The water was crisp and slightly sweet. It was the tastiest water he’d ever had, and he didn’t even know water could be tasty.
As he drank, he took in the square.
Beneath him were paved white stones flecked with red, but beyond that, he saw dirt streets. All around them, buildings sprung into the air, taller than anything in the Shining City. They were mostly clay but reinforced with wood. Between them sat dark alleys. Darius felt his dagger in the folds of his clothes and shifted his shoulders, reassuring himself with his new blade. As beautiful as this city was, those alleys were a testament that it was also destined to be equally as dangerous.
After rinsing the dirt from his face and hands and refilling the waterskins, Darius mounted. He gazed over the many heads, feeling reinvigorated from the strange water. “No use waiting here,” he announced.
Gray was at his side immediately, looking more alive than Darius had ever seen him before. Ayva brushed the last bit of dirt from her gold vest and mounted. “What’s the plan?”
“Simple,” Darius answered. “Let’s find ourselves a dirty hovel. If I remember correctly, Gray, you still owe me that beer from the Shining City.”