Ashener's Calling

by David Partelow

  Esmie wiped the sweat above her mask with the back of her hand. “That is all I can do for now, guys,” she said as she closed the container. “We’ll just have to let the medicine do its work. The bleeding is no more. The rest is up to Westor. I will have to see what I can do about accelerating his healing later.”

  Voltaire stood, and turned from his friends, completely disgusted with himself. Swearing under his breath, he raised his right hand to his mask. In one motion, he pulled it from his face, revealing his youth and anger equally. The wind cooled the sweat that covered him yet did nothing for the fire rising inside. Wanting no more of his failure, he tossed his mask into the dirt with contempt. Esmie and Muray watched him, saying nothing. Westor had drifted off into tranquil unconsciousness.

  Voltaire sat heavily upon the ground, his back still to his friends. He covered his face with both hands, letting out a frustrated snarl. He could not bear to look at his injured comrade anymore. In his own mind, he was already convinced he was guilty of Westor’s injury. In his heart, he swore he was not fit to carry a mask of Axiter. He slowly uttered five words of pained exasperation. “It should have been me.”

  Esmie stood to go to him. She placed one soft, bloody hand on his big shoulder. Voltaire shrugged it off, wanting no comfort for his mistakes. Esmie kept her voice light as she tried to calm him. “Voltaire, don’t say such things.”

  “It’s my fault,” replied Voltaire kept his face hidden in his hands. He couldn’t bear to look at her. “This never would have happened if he hadn’t been trying to save my hide.”

  Esmie placed her hand on his shoulder again, refusing to relinquish her presence or care. Voltaire tensed but didn’t push her away this time. She squeezed slightly, trying to comfort her large friend. “That was a choice that Westor made. You would have done the same for him, and he knows that. You must know and remember that, Voltaire.” She looked back toward Westor. Muray watched over him. Her eyes were red and teary. Esmie closed hers then, stretching her thoughts to her wounded friend. She could yet feel life in him. He continued his fight. That was comfort at least.

  Esmie’s focus then sharpened to the approaching figure beyond Muray. The man’s short stature did nothing to detract from the strength he exuded. She already knew he was deadly with the bow that he carried. Esmie stood, wiping her hands on her pants as she walked now to the man and stood before him. The Ro’Nihn touched her forehead with the tips of her fingers. She lowered them to her lips and then her heart. As her fingers hit her chest, they became a fist. She bowed her head, tapping her chest twice, a symbol of gratitude in Axiter. From my thoughts, my lips, and my heart, you have my deepest thanks.

  She raised her head again, observing the warrior in front of her. Her hand remained on her chest. “I thank you for what you have done for us. Had you not intervened, we surely would not have survived.”

  The tanned skinned man slung his bow over his shoulder. Crossing his arms, the smallest fingers on each hand touched his chest, palm open. His hands seemed to Esmie like a bird in flight. He then brought his hands together as he used them to touch his head, bowing slightly. He put his right hand out to Esmie and she offered her hand in exchange. He took the inside of her forearm in his grip and she soon followed suit. He tapped his chest with his left. “I am Layric. I have heard many stories of the Ro’Nihn. From these stories, I now see much truth. You honor your people with your courage.”

  The Ro’Nihn healer nodded her thanks as she replied. “I’m Esmie of the Ryndragus clans. Believe me when I say that you do the same for your own, Layric.”

  Layric squeezed her forearm one more time before releasing it. He motioned with his head at his approaching companions. Esmie looked to her left to see two women dressed much like he was. He put out his hand toward them, one and then the other. “This is Tlaloc. And Annai.”

  Esmie did the same head to lips to heart motion to them. “You both have our thanks as well.” Both nodded back to her. Tlaloc was a bit shorter than the other woman, and she appeared to be the only one of the three with a crossbow. Annai’s hair was longer and straighter. It flowed down her shoulders freely. Annai seemed to be the harder of the two women. Tlaloc had very compassionate eyes, even within the midst of the battle’s aftermath.

  Layric again motioned with his hand at the two. They went to Esmie’s friends, apparently reading his meaning fully. Annai knelt by Muray while Tlaloc went to Voltaire. Layric returned his attention to Esmie. He pointed to Westor. “We are sorry for him and shamed by our slowness. Four nights ago, these men were part of a larger force. We followed those they split from.” He motioned to the carcasses that littered the scenery. “It was only one night ago that we found the trail of these men and followed it to find you here.”

  Esmie gave a small smile. She wanted to place the words like he did. His speech was clear, to the point. Esmie didn’t want to ramble to him. “We draw breath still because of you. Thank you.” She turned with Layric to watch the others.

  Muray of the Grandstaff was pulled from her tears as a sticky strip of bandage was applied to the cut on her head. She looked up to see a tough woman tending to her. From the introduction, Muray guessed that this must be Annai. The wound on her head stung briefly, and then the sticky substance on the bandage began to dull the pain. She was about to thank the dark woman when she proceeded to remove the large water skin on her belt.

  Annai opened the end and put it in front of Muray. “Drink. The fire will soon calm your spirit,” she ordered. The woman’s voice trailed softly to Muray’s ears, but there was no mistaking the strength and clarity it contained.

  Muray did as instructed, as she had little choice in the matter. Before the Ro’Nihn could protest, the skin was at her lips. A cool liquid trickled down her throat before it burned like fire. Muray choked once and her face quickly flushed. In her lap Westor stirred but did not wake. Before Muray realized it, the throb in her head was gone completely as a fuzziness washed over her. She looked at Annai curiously and the tall woman nodded to her before rising and joining Layric.

  Voltaire received a similar patch on his arm, suddenly reminded that he had been wounded. The pain pulled him bitterly from his thoughts. He turned his angered eyes toward the source and came face to face with Tlaloc. She was kneeling quietly beside him. His sudden movement had surprised her. Instantly, he felt further shame, for it was difficult to be angry while looking into such eyes. The Axiter clansmen evaluated Tlaloc a moment longer before returning his head to his hands. She then continued her patchwork and Voltiare allowed it.

  Annai gave another of the patches to Layric, who in turn handed it to Esmie. “Use this. It will help. We must go now.” He pointed to the distance. “There are more metal men that way. We will find them again. They will carry suspicion when they do not hear from this force. We will make sure that these men do not find you.” He did the same cross arm gesture as before. Annai followed suit. “Spirits look upon you, Esmie of the Ryndragus.”

  Esmie bowed to him before waving. “Farewell Layric. Know now that you shall always hold friends among the Ro’Nihn,” she said.

  Layric turned to leave. Esmie watched as he and Annai took a moment to gather arrows before making their way to the forest across the road. She hoped that their paths would cross again. She had never seen such people before. And they owed them their lives. She hoped to return the favor someday. Before they hit the trees, both turned. Their companion had not followed. Annai motioned for her. “Tlaloc!”

  Esmie turned around. Beyond Westor and Muray, Tlaloc was still standing by Voltaire. Her eyes were filled with worry as she looked between her companions and the Ro’Nihn. Moving her blue braid out of her face she started toward her band before stopping. Turning once more, she settled her sights on Voltaire. Taking the necessary steps, she recovered the discarded mask. Studying it a moment, she walked back to Voltaire and knelt in front of him.

  Esmie watched as Tlaloc placed the mask into Voltaire’s lap. He looked at it absently
before he raised his head to her, confused. She looked at him with shy, warm eyes, and Esmie wondered if she was searching for the right word. Finally, Tlaloc did speak, and her voice hovered softly, doubtful that it would ever carry very far. Even so, Voltaire heard it quite well. “At times we find moments we feel we haven’t the strength to face. At those times, we can find strength in the eyes of another and be more than we could ever believe,” she offered. Soon, she stood and was gone.

  Voltaire watched her out of the corner of his eye as she left. However, his attention soon went to the mask on his lap. Tlaloc’s words lingered in his soul. Her last statement resonated through every fabric of his mind. He sat there for some time staring at his mask as the sun descended on a blue, billowy sky. The mask stared lifelessly back at him, becoming wondrous and frightening at the same time, more than simply a symbol of Axiter. He thought that maybe, just maybe in a twisted sort of way, Tlaloc was right.

  Voltaire of the Achylles then stood and rejoined his friends.

  {22}

  From the road northwest from Bannar to Morganne, Westrid was the first outpost along the route. Westrid was a small outpost and communications hub where weary travelers could find rest, safety and supplies. While the Grand Harvest had diminished most travel on the roads, that fact did not stop Criss Schandler from running a tight shift. The maintaining of the outpost had fallen on his shoulders, and it was his own, personal promise not let it get sloppy, no matter what holiday it was.

  It was often a lonely job, maintaining an outpost, especially during periods such as the Grand Harvest. Nevertheless, it was his duty, and he carried it out with honor. When it came time for the harvest, he often remained behind, so that others could go and be partake in the fun. In all honesty, he enjoyed the solitude and welcome silence. Criss thought it was a fair trade off for the food and flagon of mead the grateful troops under his command always brought back to him in the end.

  To add to his contentment, Criss received a special surprise on this evening. He beamed inwardly as he and his remaining men stepped out of the outpost to meet an incoming Vallance regiment. And by gods, what a sight it was, watching them march in line. Thousands at the very least, they shrouded the road completely as they plodded on toward Bannar. Supply wagons heavily loaded trailed behind. In that moment, Criss felt the loss of his breath as the pride of his country approached him in mighty splendor. He would have another story to tell around the fires to any of the young soldiers who cared to listen.

  The excitement Criss was feeling multiplied when he saw the officer before him approach with distinction on horseback. For Criss, it created a moment that was too good to be true, almost as if he was dreaming. He and his men saluted as Criss tried not to let his emotion seep into his words. “Sir, this is a true honor. Westrid Outpost is at your service. How can we be of assistance?”

  The officer nodded absently as he replied. “There is one thing you and your men can do for me, soldier. Stand still.” As he finished his sentence, the horsed officer procured a pistol from under his cloak and fired. The blast hit Criss Schandler square in the chest, knocking him off his feet as his eyes stared in horrid disbelief. The four remaining soldiers were not swift enough to react to the swift fire-rate of the pistol. Criss could only watch, dying on the ground with his comrades as his killer holstered his weapon and flicked his horse back into formation.

  In his last moments, Criss Schandler watched the marching storm recommence toward Bannar. As they continued, he saw some of the soldiers begin to take the covers off the supply wagons. Reaching inside, the soldiers pulled forth metal rifles. And at the last, Criss watched as these rifles were distributed among the soldiers before they formed back into their ranks to resume their march. The final object Criss ever saw in this world was the flag removed from one of the transports.

  And that flag bore the colors of Thorne.

  CHAPTER four

  harvest and gathering

  “And that is what it boils down to in combat and life, Geyre. It’s all about freedom.”

  Geyre Windfalls scratched absently at the scar running down his cheek, still wondering how he got himself caught in this philosophical conversation about combat with a kid. It had been only ten minutes and he was already getting a headache from being forced to think so much. The famous knifefighter yawned as he replied. He still found it difficult to say no to the son of Vallance’s appointed leader. “Freedom huh?”

  “Yup. Freedom,” said Norryn as he nodded. The grin on his face annoyed and endeared Geyre in equal amounts.

  Geyre wanted to play along further, but his patience was marred by his growing appetite. “So, you think it’s that easy, do you?”

  The young boy nodded enthusiastically. “Pretty much, but our minds are what make it so darn difficult. We’re hampered and confined by our own conclusions. But if we can let go of those restrictions we’ve placed on ourselves, then anything is truly possible.”

  Geyre and Norryn sat comfortably in the shade as they talked. They were within the Vallance training grounds where Geyre had just finished teaching new recruits how to fight with a blade. Not far from them, Serra sat cross legged with her arms propping up her chin. She was not inclined to add to the conversation and was merely enjoying the exchange. Her best friend had a way of making others think about life in a different light when he was not aggravating them for all he was worth. Just off in the distance, Lancer Vanmorth drilled the new grunts with unrelenting intensity.

  “You make it sound so easy kid,” mused Geyre. Resting on his side, Geyre stabbed one of his blades into the ground. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy the young son of Alderich. He just wondered if Norryn really knew what he was talking about. Norryn held within him a boundless amount of enthusiasm. Geyre didn’t want to be the one to destroy that.

  Norryn chuckled and shook his head. “Believe me, it’s not easy at all. The process takes a great amount of time and understanding. You have to be open to the possibility and shed ego and conclusion before the true learning can begin.”

  “And there’s where you will have your problem, Geyre Windfalls,” added Serra with a smile.

  Geyre rolled his eyes as he looked painfully toward the sky. “Oh great. I’m getting lectured by a shrimp and ridiculed by a ten-year-old.”

  “I’m twelve!”

  “Whatever!” Geyre winked at Norryn as he propped himself up. “Look, little man, I appreciate what you are trying to say, and it sounds all fine and dandy, but forgive me if I ask you where in the hell are you going with this? If you have a point, I suggest you find it quickly, as I get grumpy when I’m hungry.”

  Norryn smiled and his earnest features lit up. “Well let me give you an example. I truly enjoy coming to the training grounds to watch you teach and spar, Geyre. You truly are the best knife fighter our country has to offer. With those knives in your hands, you are at your very best and practically free. You don’t think, you just lose yourself in the moment and act. You have comfort and you have freedom, but it is a limited freedom. And it’s freedom that can be easily taken from you.”

  Geyre rubbed at his temples. “Oh, sweet hells, what are you getting at?”

  Norryn hopped up to his feet. “It’s better if I show you.” He motioned with his hand for Geyre to stand. “Grab your training knives.”

  “But I’m comfy,” said Geyre dismally.

  “Well we could certainly talk more." Norryn mused.

  “All right, all right! I’m up!” Geyre was on his feet in seconds. Serra giggled at his change of heart.

  Geyre turned to face a boy half his size. Norryn motioned for him to assume a fighting stance. Sighing, Geyre complied. With two training daggers in hand, Geyre got comfortable in his casual fighting posture. His eyes took a predatory edge as he focused on the smiling, innocent child before him. The wooden knives he held would not hurt Norryn, but they were close enough in size and weight to simulate real knives and make his point.

  “So right now, you are comforta
ble,” started Norryn as he regarded Geyre’s stance. “You probably know a hundred ways to slice or stab me with your blades. In your mind, you have the advantage because I’m unarmed. However, your focus is narrowed by the fact you wish to use only those blades against me. And what if you were to lose those blades? What if I-”

  Before Norryn could finish, Geyre lunged toward him, intent on using his swiftness and skill to teach the boy a real lesson of combat. Using the blade he led with, Geyre drove it forward at Norryn’s midsection. With a quick, open-handed strike Norryn knocked the training knife from Geyre’s grip. Hiding his surprise, Geyre followed through with his other blade in a stab meant for the boy’s side. Norryn inched closer, getting his arm inside the attack before wrapping his forearm around Geyre’s arm. Wrenching it, Geyre quickly went to the ground as Norryn procured the knife from his hand.

  Norryn then finished his train of thought. “-took them from you?” As Geyre stood, Norryn handed the knife back. Immediately, Geyre administered another attack. Norryn shifted his body and avoided the strike and then did so again when a second attack came. As the second attack inched close to his stomach, Norryn clamped the side of the blade against his abdomen. Kicking Geyre in the shin, Norryn then rotated his midsection which in turn placed Geyre’s wrist at an awkward angle. Geyre let go of the knife as Norryn took it again in his own hands.

  Before Geyre realized what had happened, Norryn had tossed the knife back to him. As his hands clasped on the knife, Norryn was already upon him. Grabbing Geyre’s wrist, Norryn struck the inside of Geyre’s arm, hurtling the knife fighter to his right. Before he could react, Geyre found himself thrown to the ground. As he landed with a thud, he looked up to see Norryn smiling down at him.