by David Ekrut
How had Bain become so powerful? An artifact of power? What else?
Thirod looked down at his knee. Even covered in trousers, he could see it swollen twice its normal size.
“Guards.” His voice was not as loud this time. “Where are my guards?”
Taming Air, he gingerly picked himself up to hover just above the floor. His leg dangled without use, but stabs of pain still traveled up his thigh at the motion as he moved toward the antechamber.
The white hallway was well lit by lamp light. Red pools spattered the walls and floors. Four men, wearing full chain and white cloaks had been strewn haphazardly. Lifeless eyes stared at him from every man. None of them had even drawn a sword.
He wasn’t sure if it was fear or anger that made his hands shake. But he was already making war in his mind.
“This ends our peace. It begins.”
As the sun cast its first rays over the town of Benedict, Poppe opened the shudders, and light spilled into the tavern area of his inn. He took a deep breath and exhaled the crisp, morning air of Summer Solstice. There was a hint of fresh daisies and summer blooms.
He could hear Faron’s hammer already banging the iron at his smithy down the street. There would be others in the town making last minute preparations for the festival. Every family from the outer farms and villages would be on their way as well. Some would bring crops for sale, and others would bring families with coin.
Within the hour, the town square would be filled with tables and booths with a plethora of wares. Soon after that, people would fill his inn.
Poppe turned and walked through the dozen empty chairs and polished the already clean tables. Nothing could ever be too clean after all. At least not today of all days. After each table was polished to satisfaction, he adjusted his spectacles for more accurate scrutiny.
He could almost see the day’s patrons, all sitting at the redwood tables enjoying his fine ales and beers. Jansen had brewed a new wheat beer with darkened hops. The brewer had accidentally burnt the hops, but somehow that added to the flavor of the brew. It had a filling, smooth flavor that his patrons were sure to enjoy.
“Today is a big day,” he told the imagined patrons.
He scratched his balding head, pretending that one of his many imaginary patrons had asked him, Why is today a big day?
“Well, today,” he gave a dramatic pause, “is the Summer Solstice Festival!”
After the cheers and applause died down in his mind, he explained to his invisible patrons, “It is just the most magnificent day of the year. I can remember the day my great-grandfather proposed the idea of hosting the festival here to my father. And now the tradition is mine to uphold.”
Poppe looked across the inn to the small stage next to the cold fireplace. Within two hours’ time this inn would be an audience awaiting his theatrics. Which tale would the children want to hear first? The bridge troll who had kidnapped the princess, or the wizard who had spelled the king into giving up his kingdom?
He took another deep breath. The smell of eggs and ham wafted into his nose.
“And Momme has already started breakfast.”
Poppe ran the front of the house, but he left the kitchen in his wife’s capable hands. She seemed to prefer it that way from his reckoning. He never fancied himself as much of a cook anyhow.
After unlocking the latch to the front door, he peeked out the window. The common-goods shop across the street belonged to his good friend Willem Madrowl. The Madrowl family were among his usual first patrons of the day.
Willem didn’t appear to be about just yet. The Madrowls were usually early to rise, but Willem had preparations of his own to make before the festival.
Poppe did not charge Willem the regular price for breakfast. A man raising two boys on his own. That couldn’t be easy. One being an infant at that.
He had not seen anyone approach the door. When it opened, his heart fluttered, and he took a step backward.
A woman entered carrying a small basket covered with a light blue blanket. It was not uncommon for townsfolk to bring pastries. But it was a bit early for the festival, and Poppe did not know her. A cousin of someone visiting from one of the other villages, perhaps?
Upon first glance, Poppe thought she might have been the fairest woman he had ever seen. Her long, blond hair was healthy and clean. More so, he noticed her blue eyes. Such light eyes were more common in Alcoa than Justice. But hers were a pale blue, rimmed with a deeper color. Over fifty years of receiving travelers, he had never seen their likeness.
The woman wore green silks with a cut not of Justice make. The low V-neckline exposed the top of her milky bosom. Her dark cloak was of a material that he could not determine. It seemed to deflect the light, which made it appear darker. Whatever the material, it was surely expensive.
She had fair skin and a lovely face with high, broad cheekbones and a pointed chin. She was not more than half past her twentieth year, or he was a red-nosed gnome. The nation of Alcoa was across the Tranquil Sea, a quarter year’s journey by the fastest ship. A long way to travel for a small town festival far outside of the capital city.
Maybe she hadn’t come for the festival at all. Relative of Faron maybe? The blacksmith had come from Alcoa. Maybe she had come for him.
Yellow lights filled the space between them, and he felt woozy for a moment.
He blinked and rubbed at his spectacles. They must have taken on a fog. Removing his spectacles, he used his rag to clean them, but he didn’t look away. He couldn’t seem to remove his eyes from the stranger’s gaze. Her blue eyes seemed to glow for a moment. That wasn’t right. Brown eyes. The light must of have glinted off her golden orbs, making them look blue.
His skin tingled and his thoughts became difficult to focus. He had been sure the woman had clean blond hair, but it looked faded and tangled now. He replaced his spectacles and realized upon closer inspection, her fine pale silks were reduced to rags, worn from travel. Hadn’t her attire been fine the moment before? No. That made no sense.
Her eyes were both light and weary. The hardships of the stranger were laden in the edges of her weathered face, which she hid behind the cowl of a dark cloak.
Where are your manners? Poppe chastised himself. Not the first time you’ve seen a traveler in your inn. You simpleton.
He gave his best smile and greeted his new guest. “Hello, milady. Welcome to the Scented Rose. Would you care for some breakfast this fine morning?”
She took a hesitant step toward the table nearest the door, while shifting the basket from her left to her right hand.
Poppe adjusted his spectacles. He couldn’t say why, but this woman made him nervous. She wasn’t scowling, and she wasn’t an opposing figure by any means. If she was cleaned up, she would have been pretty to look at. Maybe it was the concern in her eyes?
She eased into the seat of the wooden chair and placed the basket at her feet. Staring into the basket as if the mysteries of all time were hidden there, she stammered at almost a whisper, “I … um … don’t have any money. I … I just need to sit here for a moment … if that is alright?”
Her voice was as worn as her gown and her words as tired as her eyes. He suppressed a frown. He would earn plenty of coin over the course of the day from the festival. One plate for a woman in need would not be missed.
He looked at the woman a moment longer before remembering to smile. “That will be just fine young lady. My name is Bruece of house Lanier. But, everyone calls me Poppe. Where uh … Where do you hail from?”
The woman looked up from the basket. The tenderness of her gaze sent chills down Poppe’s spine and warmed him at the same time. His muscles, tense only moments before, felt relaxed.
Why had he been wary? The thought seemed far away.
It was as if some sort of magic took hold of him, but he could not look away from her. He felt a strong
desire to protect. Something. Someone. The feeling had always been there. He was a father and grandfather after all. But his need felt stronger. Urgent.
A foggy haze filled his vision, and his skin tingled with a cold warmth. The inn faded around him as if in a dream. He could still see her eyes, though that image faded, too.
Solid wooden planks were beneath his face.
Had he fallen asleep?
Poppe opened his eyes. His spectacles had fallen off his face, blurring his vision. But he would know the floor of his inn blindfolded. He sat up and shook his head. Feeling around, he found his spectacles on the floor next to him. He replaced them and looked around the room from a sitting position. The door to his inn was closed again, but the woman had gone. He couldn’t recall her face, but he could almost remember her eyes.
Was she ever even there? Must have been a dream, but why had he fallen to sleep on the floor?
He stood, using the table next to him for support. He hadn’t fallen because nothing hurt, but as he stood, his legs waned. He steadied himself on the nearest table and tried to shake off the groggy feeling. Best not to tell Momme about this. She always did worry over the smallest of things. She might make him sit out the festival. He tried to work up the excitement he had felt before for the upcoming festivities, but an odd feeling washed over him.
Poppe felt an overwhelming desire to protect something. No. Someone. He couldn’t explain it, but he knew that someone needed him.
There was a basket near the door.
“There had been a woman, and she left her pastries.” Poppe’s voice sounded as if someone else had spoken. He tried to rub the grogginess from his face.
As he approached the basket, the blanket made a subtle shift. He blinked and shook his head. His eyes were playing tricks on him.
Poppe blinked again as the basket made a strange muffled whine.
“What in the Lifebringer’s name?”
He hesitated, but kneeling down he knew what he would find. Even still, after peeling back the blanket that had been concealing the little one, he couldn’t believe it.
He knew the eyes from somewhere, crystal blue with dark rims. The babe stared up at him, fully alert, but he couldn’t be more than a handful of months old. This child needed to be protected.
“But I am too old to raise another babe.”
There was a rolled up parchment on top of his blankets. Poppe reached for the letter, still wondering when he would wake up from this dream. He read it all the way through before realizing he had been holding his breath. He exhaled slowly.
He put the note aside and looked into the baby’s eyes, which were intent upon Poppe’s face.
“Elwin,” he said. “Your name is Elwin.”
Dear Kind Stranger,
The road that I travel is a long one. One that is not fit for my beloved child to accompany me. There is a kindness in your Spirit telling me that you will give Elwin the love and compassion he needs. The shadows of my past and the sins that lurk there shall not follow him here. I will see to that. The only item I have of value is this pendant that he now wears. Please keep it near him. If you ever tell him of me, please tell him that I loved him too much to stay with him. Tell him that I died so that he could have Life. I thank you for your kindness; there isn’t an abundance of it left in the world.
Signed,
A Weary Traveler
Chapter 2
The Hounds Unleashed
“Betrayal.” The word stuck in his mouth like a bad taste.
Bain walked across the shore, pacing beside the ocean. He made every attempt to calm his mind. Anger, though a well-founded emotion, would not find her. Of all the inevitable betrayals, this was the one that he had known would hurt. The knowledge did nothing to assuage the pain inside.
It was a hurt not physical. It was an illogical, useless feeling. It was a weakness. One that he could not afford if he was going to bring the world to his rule.
“And what of my brother?” he asked the wind. “Is it weakness that allows him to draw breath still?”
His death would deter any others of committing treason, yet he could not bring himself to end Jhona’s life. And how should Zeth be punished? The man had a simple task. Athina should not have been allowed to leave, even if she had help in doing so.
But Zeth would be the best choice to hunt her down.
War is at hand, Bain thought, and already my attention is being diverted by incompetence and treachery.
Bain clenched his fist as anger bubbled above his calm but quickly forced his hand to relax when he felt the life force of someone approaching. He had learned that each life had a unique aurora. This life was young and radiant and full of a darker energy, and it belonged to his most loyal, trusted servant.
“I told you that I was not to be disturbed,” Bain said.
“I am sorry, Father.” His young voice was without emotion. His son knew the right words to say, even though he had not felt them.
He faced his son. Donavin favored Bain’s pale skin and wore his long black hair in a warrior’s braid. He even wore the same black leather armor that Bain possessed. But his son’s eyes reminded him of Athina. Donavin wore a scimitar, a curved blade that broadened toward the tip, but it was forged to fit a smaller hand.
“Can I be the one to kill the traitor, Father? I would very much like to kill him.”
“No, son,” Bain said. “If he is to die, it will be by my hand alone.”
“If? But father, he has betrayed us,” Donavin’s forehead scrunched, as if confused. “You said that treachery could not be tolerated within a mighty kingdom. Are we not a mighty kingdom?”
Already, his son knew how to twist words to achieve a desired outcome. Maybe Athina had been right. Maybe Bain had ruined Donavin. Time would decide.
“There are exceptions to every rule, my son. A good ruler knows when to take a life and when to allow it to continue. There are reasons to allow the one who trained you to live, other than the fact that he is your brother.”
“But you are more powerful than him now. I do not see how his life is useful any longer.”
“He is the most skilled teacher that I know,” Bain said in a patient voice. “And I am training an army of elementalists to be my savants. If I banish him to live in solitude and give him time to see me rise to power, then perhaps I can sway him to join me in the end.” He spoke more to himself than to his son.
He decided to turn the conversation. “Now, tell me. Why do I expect Ulthgrar, king of the goblins, to sign Alcoa’s treatise of war against me?”
Donavin’s eyes sparkled with his smile. “That is easy, Father. He will use the treaty as a tool for negotiating more power under your rule. It is similar to the tactics the Kalicodian Tribal Nation did in the War of the Ascension. During the war, the barbarian tribes of Kalicodon were united by the saizor of House Duthikar of the Horned Boar tribe.
“Even united under a single tribe, the barbarians were not powerful enough to oppose the Lizard King—I forget his name—or the king of Alcoa on his own. So the saizor pretended to ally with the Lizard King to gain more land for his tribesmen from Alcoa. In the end, he joined with the Alcoan nation to eradicate the Lizard tribes.”
Bain smiled at his son. “Well done. The Lizard tribes were scattered, not eradicated. The Lizard King was Vardwick. That is what humans called him. The language of the Lizardkin is impossible for humans to speak. To my ear it sounds more like high pitched clicking and screeching.”
“I know this Father.” Donavin’s voice had a petulant tone. “What are we going to do next?”
Bain smiled at his son. “You are going to fetch Zeth. There are things he and I need to discuss.”
Donavin’s eyes grew wide with excitement. “Are you going to kill him for his incompetence?”
“No son,” Bain said. “Now, do as you are told
.”
His mouth twisted in a downward expression, and he kicked the sand. As he turned to go, his shoulders slumped. His son did not leave in as much of a hurry as when he had arrived. As Donavin walked up the shore toward the castle, Bain turned back to the ocean’s tides. It was only moments until he felt his son’s life force fade from his senses.
Zeth was one of Bain’s most gifted disciples, a master in the Element of fire and earth. He also had a unique Dark Gift that would be useful for hunting any prey. And he had a growing power in the Death Element.
The Elemental power known as Death was half of the Element called Spirit, now divided between Life and Death. As each living being had both darkness and light, so too did the very fabric of Elemental power.
And people often tried to destroy that which they did not understand. The Guardians of Life were such men. Fear-mongering bigots, whose time of oppression would soon come to an end.
He felt Zeth’s life force approaching. It was a beacon of cruelty and ambition. Such men were as useful of a tool as any other, if properly aimed.
Bain turned toward Zeth. Instead of armor, Zeth wore a robe of black cloth that had been touched by the Elements. Items wrought from Elemental power carried many gifts. Such a robe was referred to as hard cloth. It warded the wearer from nature’s heat and cold alike, and it was very difficult to penetrate but provided little protection from blunt weapons.
Bain watched his hound approach. Zeth was of mixed lineage. His Alcoan mother had been raped by a Kalicodon barbarian during a raid. His pale skin and light eyes were his mother’s, but his long black hair had likely come from his father.
Zeth had never met his father. The thought made Bain think of Elwin. Unlike Zeth, Elwin was not a bastard. However, if his son was not found, Elwin would never know his own place in the world. His purpose. Bain did not let the anger rise. Elwin would be found.
Fist to heart, Zeth saluted. “What would you command of me?”