by Ijaz, Usman
The Legionnaires had restocked their supplies. They shared hard bread among themselves, washing it down with water from their waterskins. Adrian and Connor were offered the same, but after one bite of the tough bread they both declined. Adrian took out the apple tarts that Nina had baked and took one for himself, he offered the other to Connor, but Connor never even so much as looked at him.
“Here,” Adrian said, handing the tart to Alexis. “He won’t accept it from me, but maybe he’ll take it from you.”
Alexis offered Connor the tart, and Connor took it grudgingly. Alexis shook his head. “What’s gotten into you two? You were the best of friends yesterday, and now you won’t even as much as look at one another.”
“Leave it alone, boy,” Owain said from his place across from them. “Let them deal with it on their own.”
Connor and Adrian were sitting near one another, but neither one had spoken to the other since leaving the Golden Lilly. Adrian began to wonder if they would ever say a word to one another, and if they did what would be the point of it? He looked around at the large tree beneath which they had stopped, at the rolling land on the other side of the road, and wondered if they would be sleeping by the side of the road tonight.
“Can I see one your guns?” Connor asked Alexis suddenly.
Alexis studied Connor’s face for several long moments. He pulled out one of his guns from beneath his coat and handed it to him. Hamar and Owain watched disapprovingly. Adrian looked at the gun in Connor’s hand, and couldn’t help but think it looked magnificent, certainly better than he had pictured in all the tales he had heard. It was a large, heavy revolver, the metal a bright silver, with a thick barrel and a large chamber. On the handles were iron plates, designed to ease the users grip, and carved onto the plates was the flying eagle of Grandal. The gun caught and reflected the sunlight, and the two boys were held by its deadly beauty.
After a few moments Connor handed the gun back, never allowing his fingers to go anywhere near the trigger. Alexis took it and slipped it back into the holster at his waist. Adrian saw the twin of that gun on his other side.
“Do all Legionnaires have guns like that?” Connor asked.
“Yes,” Alexis said, biting into his hard bread.
“Is it hard to use?”
“Not once you learn how to use it,” answered Alexis.
They were soon on the move again, crossing miles yet seeming to stay in the same region. They passed through several little towns during the afternoon, and always the Legionnaires made sure that their guns were concealed beneath their coats. They seemed ready to reach for them at a moment’s notice, however. It was not uncommon to see a man with guns, but even bad guns were costly and only the wealthy could afford them, thus many of the commoners wore swords at their waists. Guns drew too much attention and such men were remembered in people’s minds, Alexis explained..
It wasn’t until the sun was setting that Hamar let them stop. They were in a small town, with most of the buildings constructed of wood and the streets of hard-packed dirt. They took up rooms at an inn. Hamar and Owain shared one room, and the rest were forced to share the other.
They ate dinner in the common room, listening to a woman playing a bittern while another danced atop a table. The maids that came to serve them smiled among themselves as they glanced at Alexis, who seemed oblivious of everything until Owain threw up his hands in disgust.
“These girls will fall for any fool with long hair,” he cried. “And the idiot doesn’t even notice them.”
“What are you talking about?” Alexis asked.
Owain grunted. “Look around you, boy, they’re all practically throwing themselves at your feet.”
Alexis looked around the common room and at the maids that kept glancing towards their table. “I don’t think so.”
“He’s addled in the brain,” Owain said to Hamar, and they both laughed. “If I wasn’t married, I’d grow my hair out as well, and then you’d be left all alone.”
The three men enjoyed a small laugh. Adrian didn’t pay much attention to them. He had ears only for the soft music that rang throughout the room.
The party ate in near silence, and afterwards Hamar and Owain lit their pipes and they all sat listening to the music. Adrian attempted to make conversation with Connor by asking him if he liked the music, but Connor only stared towards the singer, deaf to anything he had to say.
At last they retired to their rooms. The room that Adrian shared with Alexis and Connor was small, made smaller by the addition of another bed. Alexis hung his gun belt on his headboard where it was close at hand before lying down, the guns gleaming in the moonlight filtering through the shuttered windows. They were all soon asleep, tired from the day’s endless traveling.
3
Adrian rose early the next morning with the rest of the small party, while most of the inn was still asleep and even the cooks were just waking. They breakfasted on goat cheese and fresh baked bread in the empty common room. Hamar paid their fares, and they were on the move once more. They left the small rural town behind and joined the Great Road, due east once more. Adrian looked at the town they left behind, realizing that he had never been this far from home. They’d sometimes gone a ways north to visit Connor’s mother’s family, but they had never gone this far east. It made him think the world ahead was to be unlike anything he expected. But he quickly learned that wasn’t the case. Farms of the sort they had passed the previous morning stood besides fields of wheat and barley, and sometimes the land still held that barren look. Nothing looked different.
“How do you become a Legionnaire?” Connor asked Alexis, who rode beside the boys.
“Through hard training,” Hamar grunted from the front.
Connor wanted to know how long it took.
Alexis answered. “A long time.”
“How long? Years? Months?”
“Keep your damn chatter up and I’ll drag you back to Grandal to be used as target practice,” Owain growled, turning in his saddle to give them all a cold stare.
“He must not have any children at all,” Connor muttered.
“On the contrary,” said Alexis. “He has several.”
“And Hamar?”
“Two small boys.”
“And I can only pray that they don’t grow up to be half as annoying as you two,” Hamar called back over his shoulder.
“How long was your training?” Connor asked Alexis. It was more than curiosity Adrian heard in his cousin’s voice; Connor really did want to know.
“A few years.”
“How old were you when you went to Grandal?”
“I was sixteen.”
“What was it like?”
“It was hard and grueling. Why all the questions, Connor? Do you wish to join the Legion yourself?”
Connor shrugged. “Maybe.”
Adrian stared at his cousin in stunned silence, though he didn’t know why he should be surprised. Connor had always held Legionnaires in high respect, and had at times said he wanted to be one, but when he’d said these things it had been with the air of one who knows that it’s nothing but a whimsical dream. Perhaps now that he was in the company of actual Legionnaires, the dream was beginning to seem more plausible.
They rode in silence for a mile. Alexis began whistling, a bright and lively tune that carried Adrian’s mind across the plains. He thought of what his uncle had told him of his parents, and wished that he could have met them, even if only for a moment. He shouldn’t have to remember his mother as he had seen her in his dreams; no one deserved to remember another in such a state.
“Stop that infernal noise!” Owain called over his shoulder.
Alexis stopped his whistling with a smile. “Is something the matter, Adrian?” he asked.
Adrian looked at him, awakened from his thoughts. “No, simply thinking.”
“About?”
Adrian thought on whether or not he should discuss the run of his mind, then decided that it c
ouldn’t hurt. “Alexis, why did the Ascillians die? Why did the people hate them so?”
Alexis sighed and looked to the Legionnaires at the front, as though expecting them to answer. They remained silent. At last he said, “The people were scared. They are still scared.”
“But of what? It’s hard to believe that they killed them all out of fear.”
“Ignorance is more like it,” Alexis muttered. “Nero despised the Ascillians. He saw their powers as an insult to Lycios, the God of the east. He loathed them, and he was never known to be completely sane. I read that he once led his army down to the beach and had them spend the afternoon picking seashells for him. He inspired in everyone around him the same hatred for the Ascillians that he shared. They were used as scapegoats. Whenever there were crop failures or disasters of any kind, they were the first to be put the blame upon. They were blamed for starting wars that they had nothing to do with, for diseases that spread throughout the land. Do you begin to understand?” Adrian nodded.
“The people ... they knew that the Ascillians possessed odd abilities, but beyond that they knew nothing of them. They were a mystery to the rest of the world,” explained Alexis. “The Ascillians had a capital of their own, called Asgar, but now all that is said to remain of it is a burned ruin. The people were already reeling close to madness in those days, but the Mad Emperor started the true slaughter. He pushed his countries into civil wars that lasted for over a decade, all because his hate fueled him and blinded him. He couldn‘t see that he was literally tearing his empire apart.”
“Didn’t the Ascillians try to fight back though?” asked Adrian.
“They fought back when they realized that what they were facing was more than a misunderstanding. But they were outnumbered from the beginning,” Alexis said sadly. “You have to understand that the Ascillians were a small race to begin with. Nero had his armies searching every town and city within his Empire, killing and burning all those he thought might be Ascillian. Wars emerged from this senseless slaughter, his own countries rebelling or fighting with their neighbors. When the Mad Emperor led his armies upon the Ascillian capital of Asgar, it wasn’t long before the ancient city fell, and there the blood loss was the heaviest.” Alexis emitted a bitter sound. “Asgar was Martin’s gift to the Ascillians when the first settlers came from Naban, and Nero took it back. I’ve read in some books that after Asgar fell the skies turned black for a fortnight, roaring with thunder with never a rest. The Prophet in the east claims that it was the dying curse of the Ascillians, and the western priests will tell you that it was God himself voicing his displeasure at our ignorance.”
Alexis fell silent then.
“That’s all?” Adrian asked, staring at the reigns in his hands. The wind whipped back his sandy-blond hair and stung his eyes.
“I told it to you as simply as I could,” Alexis told him solemnly.
Adrian noticed the sudden quietness in the small company, no one spoke, but he could imagine their somber faces all too clearly. Suddenly, he asked, “What about Grandal’s Legion? Was it involved in the slaughter too?” He realized his tone was harsh and accusing, but he didn’t care.
He looked to Alexis but it was Owain who answered. “Grandal fought against the Mad Emperor. Nearly all of the mid-west marched on Arath Dar to put an end to the Mad Emperor’s reign. Some of Nero’s own countries - Teihr, Kumai - rebelled as well. In the end he was murdered by someone close to him and his armies broken. His Empire was split among those still standing, though some will to this day contest their boundaries.”
“It’s in the past,” said Hamar. “Things have changed now.”
“Nothing’s changed!” Adrian shouted. “Do you really mean to tell me that if I were to walk into the next town and declare that I’m an Ascillian, that I would walk out alive?” Silence answered him, and he grew infuriated, at himself, at the others, at everything. He dug his heels into Wind’s sides and briskly rode past Hamar and Owain.
“Adrian!” Alexis called out after him.
He had no intention of running away, he knew that it was impossible, but at the moment he simply wanted to be alone. He slowed down his pace a little farther down the road. The rest, perhaps satisfied with having him in their sight, did not come up to him.
He felt infuriated. He’d been taken from his home, from the only family he had ever known, so that he could save the lives of a people that despised his kind. His cousin would not even talk to him now because of what he was. He looked towards the plains by the road, and held himself back from kicking Wind into a fast run and breaking away from the party behind him.
I hate them, he thought. I despise them all. He had seen firsthand, in a manner of speaking, what they were capable of, and he found it difficult to understand why such people deserved saving, when others were murdered for their peaceful nature.
He rode alone, an odd stew of emotions brewing inside him.
Chapter 6
Distant Forces
1
The halls of the dead are black.
The words occurred to Logan Abarrai as he strode through the corridors. He could not tell where they came from. He only knew they fit the palace perfectly.
The wind blowing in through the open balconies whipped his hair back from his brow and sent a chill through him. The halls of the dead are cold, as well, Logan thought.
Blue eyes stared out from a hard face and watched the few servants going about, giving him as wide a berth as they could. He was a tall man, in his mid-thirties, his blond hair fading year by year. He held himself with a self-confidence that at one time had bordered on the edge of arrogance, exuding an air of one who believed himself to be untouchable, and to this many would have credited that Jonas’s Captain truly was untouchable. That arrogance had been washed away over the years, beaten back by humility. However, whispers of his past still followed him wherever he went, and the guns at his hips did not help. They marked him out, for anyone who knew what they meant. At times Logan felt like casting the guns away as well, as he had cast away his old life. What stopped him was the same thought that had stopped him all the previous times. He had fought for the guns, he had earned the guns. They belonged to him now, not to Grandal.
He came to the heavy doors to Jonas’s chambers and knocked loudly. A voice bid him enter and he obeyed. His eyes assessed the scene before him as he walked to stand before Jonas Mahry, lord of Hanna, and his son Mordred. The two had been in mid-conversation when he entered. Now they stood watching him, two still pairs of brown marble eyes regarding him as he approached. Both father and son seemed cut from the same black cloth. Where Jonas’s hair was long and streaked with gray, Mordred’s was short, unruly, and as black as coal.
“I take it you have some news to report, Logan, or you would not be here?” Jonas asked.
“I received a message this morning from Amon.”
“And what did it say?” Mordred asked, sneering as he always was, at some private joke that the rest of the world would never know.
The boy was all of sixteen, if that, and Logan hated deferring to a mere child, but his suspicions of the boy held him in check. “‘The sparrows fly east’.”
“Is that it?” Mordred asked, his face turning sour. “What are we supposed to make of th--”
“Be quiet,” ordered Jonas quietly. Mordred stared at him, sullen eyes burning. “These assassins of yours, Logan, are you sure they are capable of what needs to be done?” There was a hunger in the old man’s eyes. A desperateness.
It was in that moment that Logan recognized what he saw in Jonas’s eyes. He should have seen it earlier, for he saw it in the mirror whenever he stared at his own reflection. A deep burning desire for retribution. It was that need to prove to others that he had survived what they put him through, that he still lived, that need to depart them of any sense of victory that fueled them both, he saw.
“They’re among the best in Cahrad. They won’t fail us easily.”
2
�
�Why do we even need the little brat?” Mordred asked as the doors closed behind Logan.
Jonas walked across the marble floor and out onto the balcony. The wind immediately tugged at his cloak and whipped his hair around his face. His eyes scanned the palace grounds below, the surrounding city of Hanna, and then the rolling countryside beyond. The countryside of Lapos seemed bare and dry for this time of year, but it was to be expected this far north. “Because you and I cannot touch the Source.”
“Are you certain of that?” Mordred asked skeptically.
“Of course I am, you fool!” Jonas bellowed as he turned and backhanded his son across the face. Mordred fell to the floor. Surprise ran over his face quickly before being replaced by a smoldering stillness. One hand rose to wipe at the trickle of blood that ran down the corner of his mouth. “If you are stupid enough to wonder, then go and touch it and see what it does to you!” Jonas bellowed. He shivered at the memory it evoked.
The boy said nothing and Jonas turned back to the balcony and watched the servants scurry around below. He shouldn’t have struck the boy, he realized, but he of all people knew the cost of touching the Source and the boy should not have questioned him. The memory of that flaring pain still made him cringe, and thank whatever gods there were that he was still alive. At times he woke up from nightmares full of that pain. And yet it was still not the worst kind of pain a man must endure, he had found. He watched the mice below, ensconced in their duties, blind to everything around them. Theirs was a world that he had found easy to penetrate, a hierarchy based more on greed and lust than true lineage or ability. It had made it easier for him to attain his current station. It did not matter to him how high he was, as long as he had some power. He had lived once without power, and had had everything torn from him. At battle’s end only the powerful were left to make any decisions. There was a different sort of battle coming now than the world was used to, and he meant to see it put an end to the light of men. Let the kings and queens of the world do as they pleased, for he knew their time was drawing at hand.