Fate of the Fallen

by Kel Kade

  “Come on, you remember. The wolf’s head surrounded by a tangle of briar.”

  “I don’t remember,” Aaslo replied.

  “You don’t remember how many you’ve killed?” said the nobleman.

  “You know the rhyme. Wolf-briar…”

  “Dovermyer,” said Aaslo.

  The man straightened in his saddle. “If you know who I am, then you should know to sheathe your weapon in my presence. You will refer to me as the Most Honorable the Marquess of Dovermyer.”

  “That’s quite a mouthful,” Aaslo said, while maintaining the grip on his sword. “It was just one.”

  “One what?” said the marquess.

  Aaslo pointed the tip of his blade toward the pile of deer parts. “It was one deer, and this is common land.”

  “Who are you to make such a claim?”

  “I’m not claiming it. So says the map, and neither of us is granted the power to change that.”

  The armored man beside the marquess started to dismount, but the marquess held up a hand. He said, “You are impertinent.”

  “You’re better at communicating with strangers than I thought. He already knows you so well.”

  Aaslo mumbled, “You were always better at talking to people.”

  The marquess replied, “Well, yes, of that I am certain. Are you not concerned that you are surrounded?”

  Aaslo shrugged as he kept an eye on the officer, who was fuming after having regained his feet. “I have many concerns, most of which I can do nothing about. I am curious as to why the Most Honorable the Marquess of Dovermyer is traveling this way. Your land is to the south, is it not?”

  The marquess looked to the sky and sighed with exasperation. “That is most vexing. I was sent by my father to recruit a forester—one of those elusive wood folk from the north. It is rumored they hold power over nature. They have ignored our summons for months, so I was entrusted with the task.” He shook his head and clenched a fist. “I spent my father’s last days searching for people who might as well be animals and still, they refused to leave their precious trees.”

  “The lot should be punished for their insolence,” said the dark, armor-clad guard.

  “The king’s orders stand,” replied the marquess. “The foresters are to be left to their own business, so long as their business is tending the forest.”

  “My lord,” said the rugged guard with a disapproving grumble. “You have yet to learn anything about this man, yet you share our business freely. It is your prerogative to question him, not the reverse.”

  The marquess tugged at his collar again. “You are right, Greylan. I allowed my frustration to hinder my judgment.” Turning back to Aaslo, he said, “Who are you?”

  Aaslo looked the marquess in the eyes and said, “My name is Aaslo, Forester of Goldenwood.”

  “You—”

  “My condolences about your father,” Aaslo said before the marquess could complete his thought. “May he forever walk in the shade.”

  The marquess paused and then said, “Thank you. You are the first to offer as much to me, though I cannot say I understand about the shade.”

  A shrill squeal interrupted them, and the guard who had circled to Aaslo’s rear shouted when he was bucked from his horse, which had apparently decided it had endured enough of Dolt’s taunting. Dolt bared his teeth at the other horse and then abruptly lay down to roll in the grass.

  “What is wrong with your horse?” the marquess said, obviously confounded by the display.

  Aaslo said, “He’s an idiot.”

  The marquess looked at him appraisingly. “How do I know you’re a forester?”

  Aaslo sidestepped a few paces to where he had dropped his axe, then stooped to pick it up. “Because I said so.”

  “Tell me something a forester would know, something that is not common knowledge.”

  Propping his axe against one shoulder and gripping his sword with the other hand, Aaslo said, “What could I tell you about forestry that is not common knowledge and that you would know to be true?”

  After a lingering glare, the marquess smirked. “Touché. How do you intend to prove it, then?”

  “I don’t,” Aaslo replied. “I don’t care what you believe. Your business is none of mine, and mine is none of yours. You all can go back to your camp, and I’ll be gone before you break in the morning.”

  The surly Greylan said, “My lord, you cannot allow this commoner to speak to you in this way.”

  Aaslo’s gaze did not leave the marquess as he said, “I’d say that’s not your call, guardsman.”

  Whatever the marquess had intended to say died on silent lips as he watched Aaslo thoughtfully.

  Greylan didn’t let up, though. “My lord, what would your father say? The marquess—dismissed by a vagabond! You should—”

  The marquess abruptly turned to Greylan. “Must you always presume to tell me what I should do? You all go back to camp, and take him with you,” he said, motioning to Dolt’s first victim, who had lost consciousness. “I shall stay here to have a chat with Sir Forester.”

  “You believe this insolent fool?” huffed Greylan.

  The marquess said, “Of the few foresters we have met in the past several months, how many were more respectful than this one? I’d say none. If nothing else, he has the bearing of a forester, and is he not that for which we have been searching? A forester who will leave the forest?”

  “At this point, I am not sure I would trust a forester who leaves the forest,” Greylan grumbled. “Still, I cannot leave you here alone with an armed man.”

  “He carries a wood axe, not a battle-axe,” said the marquess.

  “And a sword,” Greylan replied.

  The marquess stroked his beard as his gaze fell on Mathias’s sword. “Yes, strange that. None of the others carried weapons of battle.” He then met Aaslo’s hard stare. “You defeated one of my officers.”

  Aaslo didn’t reply to the observation and instead said, “Has the Most Honorable the Marquess nothing better to do than waylay innocent travelers?”

  “What’s in the bag?” barked Greylan, eyeing the burlap sack dangling from Aaslo’s belt. One of the officer’s strikes had slashed the sack open, but Aaslo didn’t think they could see its contents through the small hole.

  “A root,” Aaslo said. “It was requested for a transplant.”

  “Liar.”

  “Hand it over,” said Greylan, waving to the guard behind Aaslo, who stood panting after he had managed to settle his mount. “Bring me the bag and the sword, too.”

  Aaslo gripped his hilt and the haft of his axe and said, “I carry few possessions, but those that I do will not be taken. I’ll die before that happens, and I don’t die easily.”

  “A second lie in as many minutes.”

  Aaslo hissed. “It’s not a lie. I carry death in my heart already. It’ll not claim my soul so soon.”

  “As if you have a choice. I didn’t.”

  “You are rather melodramatic for a forester,” said the marquess, “but then again, your people are ever so protective of their plants. Go, Greylan. I wish to have a private discussion with the forester.”

  Greylan started to protest, but the marquess shot the guard a withering look. Greylan’s nostrils flared, and his contemptuous glare toward Aaslo expressed more than a glint of enmity. Aaslo wondered if the sentiment had already been earned by his brethren long before his current predicament. None of the foresters he knew would react kindly to the demands of an obnoxious noble, particularly if those demands meant leaving the forest. In that moment, Aaslo felt the culmination of the bits of knowledge he’d been avoiding throughout the journey. He was in the wrong place.

  Once the guards and servant had departed, the marquess dismounted and came to stand before Aaslo. As he removed his riding gloves, he said, “Well met, Sir Forester—or perhaps it is a rather coarse meeting. Considering the direction of the conversation thus far, I doubt you’re inclined to tell me of your business
this far south. Perhaps we can come to an arrangement? I can be very influential in most matters.”

  “I doubt it,” Aaslo grumped. Deciding to make the best of the change in mood, Aaslo sheathed his sword. He said, “I’m tired. If you insist on staying, we can sit—or are you opposed to getting your fancy trousers dirty?”

  “You can’t talk to him like that. He’s a marquess. You’re going to get yourself hanged.”

  The marquess grinned and then settled on a clump of flattened grass near the small cooking fire. Aaslo sat as well, poking at the fire with a twig from the dead shrub that was his kindling. He fed the minuscule inferno with a few more twigs. He said, “Your men don’t respect you.”

  The marquess crossed his legs, wrapped his arms around his knees, and leaned back. He said, “Why do you say that?”

  Aaslo thought the man looked far too comfortable sitting in the grass for a man of his station. He said, “They seek to control you.” Nodding toward Greylan, who had not returned to the camp but was instead hovering at the edge of the twilight’s illumination, he said, “Especially that one. They think you’re too young and inexperienced. They’re probably working with someone else—perhaps one of your father’s acquaintances.”

  The marquess glanced toward the silhouette. “That’s very insightful for a man who not only rejects politics but the outside world in general and refuses to abide by its customs.”

  “I don’t care about your politics, and I care even less for your customs. If you want to let them control you, that’s your business. It’s the same to me either way.”

  The marquess tilted his head and said, “How would you deal with such a problem? If you were me.”

  Aaslo reclined on his pack and crossed his arms. He was almost relieved to have someone to talk to besides a ghostly severed head—even if it was a pompous marquess. He considered the many options and how the marquess’s people would react based on what he had learned from Magdelay. He suddenly wished Mathias would say something. Mathias was always better with these things. He actually enjoyed learning about people.

  “Don’t be daft. This isn’t about people, Aaslo. It’s about packs, and you know packs.”

  “Packs?”

  “Excuse me?” said the marquess.

  Aaslo looked up at the man. “They don’t see you as the alpha.”

  The marquess stroked his beard and nodded. Then he said, “What is an alpha?”

  Confused by the marquess’s interest in anything he had to say, outside the subject of forestry, Aaslo considered his words carefully. “What do you know of wolves?”

  The marquess scrunched his face with distaste. “Only how to kill them.”

  Aaslo shook his head, knowing it was common practice among flatlanders like the marquess. “Wolves run in packs. The alpha is the dominant wolf. He is basically free to do what he wants, and the others choose to follow his lead. If another wolf surpasses the alpha’s dominance, three things can happen: the alpha may submit, he may leave the pack, or he may be killed. The alpha isn’t necessarily the largest or the strongest, though. He or she displays the most confidence—charisma, if you like. If you want your pack to follow you, then you need to be the alpha.”

  “And you don’t think I am?” said the marquess.

  “What I think isn’t important.”

  “Is this where you tell me I just need to believe in myself?”

  Aaslo grunted. “This isn’t a book of inspirational proverbs. There are plenty of people who think too highly of themselves, while everyone else sees idiots. It’s what they think that matters.”

  “So, I have to make them believe I’m the alpha.”

  Aaslo nodded once. “You don’t behave like an alpha. You act like a man trying to fill his father’s shoes while looking to others to confirm that they fit.”

  “What do you suggest, then? How do I fix the problem?”

  “Well, for one, you need to wear your own damned shoes. It doesn’t matter if they look anything like your father’s—only that they look good on you. Of course, they need to be functional, so you need to know what you’re doing.”

  The marquess lifted his chin. “I know how to perform my duties.”

  “Good, then stop looking to others for approval. There’s no one in the forest to tell you if you’re doing it right, except for the trees when they live or die.”

  “That sounds like a sage piece of wisdom.”

  “Just a fact.”

  “You said that was one. You have other suggestions?”

  “Tell him. He’s going to love this.”

  Aaslo nodded slowly. “You need a beta.”

  “That is…?”

  “A right-hand man—or woman. Someone you trust that will speak highly of you, spread word of your deeds, and have your back in conflict. Just as importantly, you need someone to tell you when you’re wrong—privately, of course. There’s a risk with a beta, though, when it turns out that he or she isn’t so trustworthy.”

  The marquess said, “How do I find this trustworthy beta?”

  “How should I know? That’s your problem.”

  Obviously displeased, the marquess said, “Do you have a beta?”

  The fire popped, and Aaslo thought back to that terrible night. He said, “I had a pack—it was a pack of two. When we were performing his duties, he was the alpha. When we were doing mine, I was alpha. We both knew where the other stood in things of importance, and the rest was worthy of healthy competition. He’s gone, now. It’s just me.”

  “Not even in your dreams.”

  “I can’t control my dreams,” Aaslo mumbled.

  “You dream of having that again someday?” said the marquess.

  Aaslo looked back to the man. “No, never. He was my brother in all things. That’s not something easily found or replaced. Eventually, I’ll follow him into death—probably sooner than later.”

  “Have you no hopes for the future? What of a wife? Children?”

  Aaslo shrugged. “I had hopes for the future, but it seems the future didn’t have high hopes for me. The woman I loved chose him, and she lost us both. I doubt there will be time for more. Why do you care about my life—or about anything I have to say, for that matter? Why are you even talking to me?”

  “I find you intriguing, mostly because no one has ever spoken with me the way you do. You are straightforward—to the point—without concern for offense. While infuriating, it is also refreshing. None in my household would dare say such things, and I would not trust those outside of it. You, however, hold no stake in my success or failure. As to why I’m speaking with you, you already know. I need your assistance with the blight.”

  “I don’t have time to deal with your blight. There are plenty of agriculturalists and magi in the south. Why don’t they help you?”

  “They’ve tried,” said the marquess.

  Aaslo shook his head. “A blight is a messy curse. Sometimes the only solution is to burn it out.”

  “That is not an option,” said the marquess. “Our forests are not like yours, and neither are the flatlands like this. We can scarcely grow food. The trees are steeped in marshes and swamps bearing vapors that carry flame like the wind carries dust. They harbor rare plants used in potions and medicines that the magi say are found nowhere else in Uyan and even in all of Aldrea. These resources are invaluable, and they are what my people depend on for trade. It is uncommon for one in my position to beg assistance, especially from a commoner, but the other foresters had no interest in anything I had to offer. Do you need a better horse? You can take mine. Do you desire gold for your travels? Here’s my purse. Do you require influence in a noble house? I will be your broker. What may I offer that will bring you to Ruriton?”

  “Sounds like a good deal, Aaslo. Maybe you should forget this world-saving business and live it up.”

  “Is that what you would do?” Aaslo muttered, glancing at the burlap sack beside him.

  “I’d do what I must for the world.”
r />   “I’ll do what I must for my people,” said the marquess.

  Aaslo considered his response as he turned the roasting meat. The marquess didn’t know it, but what he had to do was what was necessary for the marquess’s people—and everyone else. He looked up at the illustrious man who had humbled himself to beg at the feet of a forester. “I think you’re probably a good man. At least, you’ll be a good marquess”—he nodded toward the other camp—“so long as you don’t let them get to you. You’ll not believe me when I say that my task takes precedence over your own—by your standards, not mine. I’d rather be dealing with a blight, and it pains me to turn away from such a scourge.”

  “Then, come help us. The task is urgent and fit for a forester.”

  “That may be, but I bear my brother’s burden at the moment. I’ll give you this. If I successfully complete my current task, then I will come to Ruriton and do what I can.”

  The marquess appeared conflicted, as if torn between anger and relief. Finally, he straightened and said, “Then I shall assist you in your task.”

  Aaslo felt the tiniest spark of hope ignite in his chest, and he realized how hopeless his quest had felt. He had just been granted a boon. He had found a spring in the desert.

  “Yes, because that won’t draw attention. You, riding at the side of a marquess.”

  The trickle of excitement evaporated. The spark fizzled. He couldn’t accept the marquess’s help. As circumstances were, he was a scruffy lone traveler with few belongings and an ugly horse—no one of consequence, not even worth robbing. Beyond that, accepting the marquess’s generosity would be tantamount to theft, since his chances of ever addressing the blight were minuscule.

  His words were heavy on his tongue as he said, “I cannot accept your gracious offer, My Lord Marquess. My present task is better served by me alone.”

  “It was a task for the chosen one, brother. Your only job is to deliver the message to the king. He and the Council of Magi will find a new hero.”

  Aaslo wiped a hand across his weary face and added, “I anticipate your services will be required in the future, if not by me, then by whomever takes up this mantle.”