by David
The skin about her green eyes was only lightly lined with age. The orbs peering out of that hardened countenance were still alive with passion for her beliefs. Right now, those beliefs were clear to Loric. His mother wanted him to stay in Taeglin and help his father work the fields.
Palen clasped his arm and nodded toward the door.
Saved from his mother’s paralyzing stare, Loric moved to follow his Da.
Even so, he saw Adie toss her braided brown rope of hair over her shoulder, which was always the precursor to hard words. “I raised ya’ up from a little one; an’ it was not so you could run off ta war an’ die!” she shouted after her son, as he retreated into the free air. “You stay away from Moonriver and that-”
Thankfully, the door muffled choice words about the Lord of Durbansdan and his army, but Loric thought he heard his mother scream, “Tell him, Palen! Tell him he cannot go!”
Loric had a suspicion about what else his mother wanted his father to tell him, but he had no wish to ask about it. As Palen strode briskly toward the barn, he seemed content to let the matter rest. His pace was indicative of a workmanlike mindset. He had said his peace, and it was time to plant.
To that end, Palen threw open the faded door to the rustic barn. As he swung the barrier wide, it groaned upon its hinges. Daisy and Violet, the workhorses of the farm, greeted the two men with welcoming snorts. Not to be forgotten, Sunset let out a shrill whinny. The red stallion was Palen’s personal mount.
The older man gently patted the red stallion’s neck and said to Loric, “This horse is not a farm laborer, son.”
Sunset snorted his displeasure at the thought.
“No,” Loric said, agreeing. “In truth, I think you may have offended him, father.”
“My apologies,” Palen offered, as he moved to Daisy’s stall. “Did you know I bought him for you?”
Loric was flabbergasted. He thought about how good that sounded--to own Sunset--and he decided his old Da was teasing him. “Next, you’ll be telling me you have set aside a rich estate for me,” Loric returned with a snigger, as he pulled the necessary tack from its place on the wall.
Palen took the harness and ducked behind Daisy’s milky white neck, as a thief in pursuit of shadows to hide him. His jaw hung limp. His eyes stared inward, leaving them outwardly hollow. “You think I make jest, but Sunset was intended for you from the start. When you leave your mother and me to strike out on your own, he is yours.”
“Father, I could not....” Loric started, but he ran out of words to convey his feelings about such a rich gift for a farm lad, like him.
A sly grin twisted Palen’s lower face as he pointed out, “I only promised you my horse when you leave, son, not the Dragon’s Eye.”
Loric hesitated before graciously accepting the promise to have Sunset as his own. “Thank you, father!” he cried. “I would welcome this steed. He will make a fine gift at my taking leave.”
Sunset was a tall stallion. Most of the time, he was as gentle as a breeze on a pond, but in his anxious moments he was like a raging sea--wild and stormy, and full of wrath. Thankfully, the stallion only became agitated when strangers thought to lay hands on it, unbidden; otherwise, Loric would not have welcomed its uneven temperament. As it was, Loric was grateful to have the fiery red with black stockings, mane and tail. This was the finest horse ever bred on old Yeolson’s farm, and Loric knew his father had paid many a shiny coin to buy it.
“You named him,” Palen reminded him. “Do you remember?”
Palen began leading Daisy out to the plow. Loric paused, remembering the way Sunset had pranced about the field the first day Palen had brought him home. The stallion’s silhouette had been framed against the setting sun. He had appeared a mere shadow, a magnificent shape that changed poses. In reality, his velvety coat had been a near match to that burnt orange ball in the west. When Loric had made a comment about his coloring to his father, Palen had agreed with a quiet word and a firm nod. Later, he had asked his sire, What should we name him?
Palen had questioned, Name him? Son, you have already named him. He looks like the Sunset to me too, so I can think of no better name for him.
“I remember,” Loric answered, grinning.
That grin remained with Loric throughout his workday, often infecting his father too. It was not until they had sown the upper field that they decided to call it quits. By then, the sun was fading, and so were their smiles. Exhaustion and questions worked like horse and plow to unearth new doubts in Loric’s mind, erasing the merriment he had felt earlier in the afternoon.
As they were unburdening old gray Violet from her turn at the plow, Loric decided to ask,
“What possessed you to buy a horse like Sunset for me, father?”
Palen turned a hard eye on his son, worked his mouth to soften his stare and ventured, “It seemed like a good idea at the time.” The older man looked as though he was grasping for something as he went on, “Granted, Sunset is no workhorse, but I thought that someday you might have use for him.”
Palen glanced away from Loric, but not before the younger man caught something wistful and faraway in his eyes. There was more to the answer than he was giving, but Loric knew he would have to wait until his Da was ready to tell him. In the meantime, he could only nod, as if he accepted that answer for the Truth of the Great King.
Palen distracted Loric with grooming and cleanup, which was just as well. Loric was lost in his brush strokes, when Palen ventured, “When did you hear it, son?”
“What?”
“When did you hear the call, lad--the call of battle?” Palen asked him.
The question surprised Loric. He stood dumbfounded, in mid stroke, with his mouth hanging to catch flies. His father was eyeing him, waiting, so he answered, “Uh, well, I had a dream last night.”
“Dreams are common,” Palen remarked. “What did you see?”
“I rode at the head of many men,” Loric replied. “I rode a red stallion, but I did not recognize it as Sunset in the haze of dreams.”
Palen lifted his chin and turned his head until Loric could only see his profile.
“What does it mean?” Loric questioned.
Palen’s voice was raspy and his words were deliberate, as he shared, “It means nothing, son.” He shook his head and repeated, “It means nothing.”
“What might it mean?” Loric demanded.
Palen looked him over, judging, measuring. “It means we will discuss certain matters in a year, maybe two-”
“No!” Loric shouted. “I want to discuss it now.”
Palen closed his eyes to Loric’s request. “No,” he denied him. “You need more time to grow. You must find the strength to deny the call in the meantime.”
Loric was confused. He wanted answers to the many questions buzzing inside his head, like so many annoying flies. “I want to understand these things, but I need your help, father,” pleaded Loric. “Help me.”
“I will be free from my vow to your mother in a year, Loric. Then you will be bigger and stronger,” Palen answered him, “but for now, it is best to forget these dreams. Until then, I am bound to an oath I made, and I cannot help you make sense of these things. In a year, I may be able to assist you, son, unless you would hear my alternative?” he questioned.
“What alternative?” Loric asked dubiously. “How does this help me to understand these strange dreams?”
“Who knows?” Palen returned without answering Loric’s questions. “You may have peace
from these dreams by next year, and Barag will be off to Moonriver Castle. You might be ready to build your own farm,” Palen suggested. “Who is to say you won’t find farming in Taeglin more to your liking than war someplace else, what with the bully gone and all?”
“Must I suffer another year of these dreams?” Loric questioned. “And waiting, too?”
Palen looked lost to another time and place as he warned, “It seems so glorious by a tavern fireside, over mugs of ale--tales of her
oic knights winning impressive battles against insurmountable odds. In reality, though, war is an ugly indulgence--a destructive plague--brought about by great lords with too much pig on their tables and too much mead in their mugs.” He moved toward Loric and pulled a long slender knife from his belt as he continued, like someone remembering his own battles, “You have to thrust this into another man without hesitation, or it will be you screaming in pain and bleeding to death in a land you don’t even know. This you must do for a nobleman who measures your value by your ability to destroy life. As you strike the blow, you hear cries all around you. To your right, your best friend screams as he is ridden down with a spear in his chest. To your left, a dog laps at the blood of another fallen comrade. I will tell you the truth, son; there is no glory for a warrior, there is only pain. Just remember, here you sow seed and reap crops, bringing life to people, but in battle you sow pain and agony, only to reap death, bringing about total destruction.”
There was sober silence between them. It was broken by Loric’s dry-mouthed rasp, “Father, you speak as someone who has been in battle before. I have asked before, and I will ask again: have you?”
This was not the first time Loric had found reason to suspect that his father was a veteran of many melees, but it was the first time he had ever felt as though he could ask him and expect an honest answer. He had ventured to ask once as a boy, only to have his father ruffle his hair and say, Don’t be silly, boy. Your old Da pushes a plow, not a spear. What I do is for the betterment of men, not to show men that I am their better.
It was a mark of Loric’s growth to hear Palen candidly reply, “I have been in more battles than you have years in your life. I have slept under stars I did not know, slain men I did not know and bled with men who died before I had the chance to know them. I only hope that you will never have to kill anyone, but if you ever go to war, I do not see how you could avoid killing and live,” he stated dryly.
“What happened?” Loric pressed. “Why are you here?”
Palen frowned at his son and said firmly, “I am here, because I quit the game of war before it could kill me.” His voice lost some of its edge as he murmured, “I am here, because this is the safest place for me to be. That goes for your mother and you, too.”
“I am not afraid to fight,” Loric said.
“It is not the fighting that makes men afraid, son.”
“What is it then?” Loric challenged.
“It is the dying, which no man fears until he has seen it happen firsthand,” Palen murmured.
“Stay here another year and you will be better equipped to handle a soldier’s life.” He turned toward the cottage, saying, “You finish up, and come on in for supper. I’ll be sure to save you some.”
Loric knew that was Palen’s way of saying he was done discussing the matter. Loric gave the only proper reply, answering, “Yes, father.”
Loric regarded Violet as he worked the currycomb through her fine hairs in the dusky light.
She was blue-gray under the noonday sun, but she did have a mildly purple hue in deepening shadows. Loric knew her name had nothing to do with her color and everything to do with her propensity for devouring her namesake flowers, but he still found it an amusing thought.
“C’mon, girl,” he encouraged her, as he backed into the barn to stable her.
Loric clicked twice to get Violet going, only to realize he was stumbling into deeper darkness. Night had come suddenly, so he had not thought to strike a lantern to light. Violet pressed in behind him, nearly crushing him. Loric fumbled with his left hand, feeling his way around the dark walls until he opened a stall door and staggered in. The floor to the stall was different in the dark. It made a deep hollow sound that Loric had never noticed before.
Moreover, Violet refused to follow him in.
“C’mon, Violet,” Loric pleaded. I’m hungry, he thought. Let me get in to my dinner.
As determined as Loric was to have Violet enter that stall, so was she resolute in denying his wishes. Loric finally surrendered and moved to light a lantern. “Stupid horse,” he muttered. “Oh well,” he sighed. “Maybe a little light will help you make up your mind to get in your stall, so I can go eat.”
Thankfully, he found the flints and lantern without much ado. The lantern shutter opened with a squeal, and Loric struck the wick alight. He closed the squeaky door and hung his light on a nail, giving him a better view of the barn’s interior structure. Then he noticed that he had opened the seldom, if ever used, fourth stall by mistake. He thought it odd that Violet was so obstinate in her stall choice, but it was not worthy of further thought until he led her into her proper quarters. His boots and Violet’s hooves struck the planks, but the sound was muffled.
That made Loric curious, so curious that he slipped past Violet to enter the fourth stall without closing her door.
Loric tapped his right toe to the floor, as if dipping it into cold water. He tapped it harder the second time he tried, to be sure of his findings. Hollow, he concluded. Why is that? he wondered.
He stepped out to collect his lantern, returned and knelt for closer inspection. He wrapped with his knuckles, brushing aside hay and tapping, until he found a line cutting across the planks that made up the floor. He started to sweep more hay aside, but he heard the clatter of the cottage door. He decided to cover his find for another time.
“Loric,” Palen called. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes, father,” Loric squeaked, trying not to sound anxious. He hastened out of the empty stall and quietly eased it shut. “Violet gave me trouble, so I made a light.” He closed her stall and finished, “But she is ready to rest, like the others.”
“Good,” Palen answered, as he came into view. The older man was studying him closely as he said, “Your mother was worried.” He let out an uneasy half-chuckle and confided, “I think she was concerned that you had run off to answer the call of battle.”
“No, father,” Loric replied glumly, as he extinguished his lantern. “The call of battle must wait.”
“Only until next year,” Palen encouraged him. “It is not so long to wait. You will see.”
Loric was not sure he could see it that way. Everything about Taeglin was pushing him away. It was not a merry place for him. Loric desired to leave Taeglin. He had never fit in. He could not say why. Perhaps that was why he had lingered in the barn, searching for his answers.
In any case, the call of battle was strong. Its pull made him feel reckless. It made him feel enclosed, like a ferret in a cage. A year seemed like forever to ignore the compelling beckon, the call of battle.
Chapter Two
The Trapdoor and the Stranger
The sitting room was too close for Loric’s liking. Ordinarily, he liked being near his father and mother of an evening, but the sour twist to Adie’s face and the extra energy behind her knitting needles told Loric his attempted desertion was still in her mind. Grrr and Snarl, the skin rugs Loric had named in his childhood looked friendlier than she did, and they were bear and wolf, respectively. Palen seemed not to notice Adie’s foul mood as he sat in the high-backed chair opposite the fire from her rocker, lost in his copy of Lord Wordrick’s Tales.
Loric wanted to ask his father about the trapdoor in the barn, but he had no wish to do so in his mother’s presence. Maybe after she cooled down from her present boil, but not now. Loric was unsettled and uncomfortable. He wanted to get out of the cottage for the evening. He decided to make an excuse to go to Taeglin. “Bruce said something’s going on at Taggert’s Pub tonight,” he started. “Do you mind if I go?”
“After dark?” Adie protested.
Palen looked up from his reading to inquire, “What kind of something are we talking
about?”
Loric fumbled, “I’m not sure.” Then his answer came to him, “Something for the fellows who will be leaving. It might be my last time to see some of them,” he added to sway his parents.
Palen and Adie held a silent e
xchange with their eyes, before Palen decided, “Take your bow. Be sure to string it. You can ride Sunset to limit your time on the road.”
“Thanks,” Loric replied happily.
Loric dashed to his room to collect his bow and quiver. His desire to leave caused him to consider the half-rolled bundle on his bed, but he dismissed it. Instead, he reached for the cloak on the peg inside his door, which still held a few jingling coins from his last trip to Taggert’s.
That made him smile. So did his bow. He was a fair shot. His father had taught him well, so he would never starve; and at need, he could defend himself. He put on his cloak, but he waited until he left the cottage to string his bow.
“Have fun, son,” Palen called after him.
“Do be careful,” Adie said over his father.
“Goodbye,” he called back. “Okay. I will.”
Loric hurried to the stable, where he brought the lantern to life once more. By its glowing light, he readied Sunset for the short ride to Taeglin. From the shadows beyond its circle of illumination, he saw the empty stall. It beckoned him to enter. Loric only paid half his mind to Sunset’s saddle and bridle. The other half wandered as he considered the trapdoor.
Loric finished and murmured, “I’ll be right back, boy. This will only take a minute.”
Loric swept aside the hay in the empty stall and stared in sudden wonder at the full outline of the hatch. It measured some three feet in width and length. The panel had no handle as such, but rather a small hole into which he fit his hand to lift it.
Loric pulled his lantern down and dangled it over the small, cobwebbed opening in the floor.
He peered into the vacant space. He could see a ladder by the glow of his lamp.
Loric stepped onto the top step, parting its sticky silken streamers. It was surprisingly sturdy.
He descended about a dozen feet and looked around as he stepped off the last rung. He was in a small, dusty chamber with a large chest.
“What is this place?” he whispered.
Loric was drawn to the simple wooden chest with its flat top and brass fittings. Spider silk and a heavy layer of dust anchored it to the floor. What could possibly be in there? Loric wondered, even as he knelt beside it. He reached out, slowly.... until he gently touched the latch.