by Marcus Lee
To go somewhere he knew was easy enough, but even though Astren was now a powerful seer, it was hard for him to hear every word unless he projected his form. If you were hidden from others, sometimes their words were hidden from you.
However, he could still hear that Anthain was advising Tristan not to trust the ramblings of a soothsayer charlatan and to have his head removed, and for a moment, he felt a little panic. Fortunately, the king shook his head, placing his hand on Anthain’s forearm, and they turned back to the table and its many charts.
Astren let his mind wander briefly back to when his gift had first manifested itself.
As a child, he would fall asleep and regularly dream of floating around the small house he shared with his father and mother. His dreams were often painful, for he would see them and their tears as they fought against debt, as his father’s fortunes waned.
They often went without food and were weak with hunger. One morning he’d asked his mother why she put her evening meal back in the pantry for his breakfast instead of eating it, and also why were they were behind on paying their taxes. The look of surprise, and the tears that came to her eyes, showed him that he’d seen the truth.
She’d shared that discussion with his father, who that same day put a crude latch on his bedroom door. As darkness had fallen that night and Astren lay under the threadbare blanket, his father had closed the door, the latch falling loudly into place.
The next morning when they’d broke their fast with stale bread, overripe fruit and some porridge, his mother had asked him if he’d slept well, for there were chores to be done. He needed to help repair the roof and find scrap wood for the fire, before meeting his father at the market who would be finishing a deal to put food on the table for a month.
Astren had nodded, but then asked with tears in his eyes, why they were planning to sell him to the slave trader if they still loved him.
There had been a long terrible silence then as his mother swept from the table, tears spilling from her eyes, her body wracked by sobs.
His father’s look had pinned him to the chair. Stopped him from running after her, hugging her, and telling her it was ok to sell him, as long as it made her happy.
‘Boy, how did you get out of your room last night to hear such things?’ his father had demanded. His fist wrapped into the front of Astren’s tunic, pulling his face close. ‘How did you open and then close the latch from inside of your room?’
His little heart had hammered in his chest, yet he’d gathered his courage and looked his father straight in the eye. ‘I didn’t leave my bed, I dreamt it!’ he’d said defiantly, and as his father had raised a hand to strike him, Astren had held his gaze. ‘I swear it; it’s the truth. The slave master said he would give you more than I was worth as he owed you a debt, and if you didn’t take the deal you wouldn’t have enough money to last the winter!’
His father’s eyes had widened as he slowly lowered his hand. ‘Tell me everything you’ve ever heard us say that you can remember!’ he’d demanded, and as the sun moved across the sky, Astren had told his father everything.
There had been no fixing the roof, collecting scrap wood, or going to the market that day, as they had sat close, talking, for his father to understand his gift better. The next night with the bedroom door latched and nailed firmly shut, his father had set him a test, to report to him the following day about what he and his mother would discuss.
Astren had found it easy and fun, and his father was happy for the first time he could remember, and even his mother smiled more, so Astren had been willing to do everything they’d asked. His father had encouraged him to see if he could travel beyond their house, so for the next few nights, Astren had passed through the closed door of their small ramshackle home and down the dark streets.
At first he’d been scared, for in the dark doorways loitered thieves and wrongdoers, women selling their bodies and men selling their souls to kill any unfortunate who strayed into their paths. Yet, when it soon became apparent that they couldn’t see him, he’d found the courage to move freely and found that he could literally fly around the streets close to his house.
What was strange however was a thick fog that stopped him from going places he didn’t know or hadn’t been, and even though he’d pushed into it a little to see something new, the searing pain it gave him in his mind meant he’d had to stop trying.
The next day his father had questioned him for most of the morning and sent his mother out to buy some fresh bread and honey with money they could hardly afford to spend. They’d all eaten so well that Astren thought he would cry with happiness as they all sat laughing together, licking the sweetness from their fingers.
His father had summarised it well at the end of that morning. ‘So you can travel to where you have been before, see people about their business and hear most of what is said, but you are unable to journey to that which is unknown to you.’ The young Astren had nodded then, and his father had sat thoughtfully for a while, giving Astren a chance to eagerly eat more fresh bread and honey.
A smile had grown on his father’s face, and for the first time that Astren could remember, his father wrapped his arm warmly around his shoulders pulling him closer, and tears of happiness had welled in Astren’s eyes. ‘Son,’ he’d said, hugging him, ‘We are going to be rich!’
The next few weeks had been hard, but so exciting. Astren had gone everywhere with his father, met everyone, and would often be ignored as he wandered off to peek into rooms or roamed open-mouthed around large homes as his father bribed an audience with one wealthy merchant owner after another.
Every night Astren would sleep and fly back to the places he’d been, to spy and listen, then report back to his father on deals done or yet to be done the next morning. His father had then used every crumb of information, selling it to competitors, allowing them to undercut bids, or get their goods to market first.
The family’s fortunes had changed so dramatically and quickly, that within a few cycles of the moon they’d moved into the wealthy merchant’s quarter, and people sought his father’s advice on everything, paying a considerable premium to put their cases to him. Those were such golden days. His mother happy, his father showed him love and respect and lavished him with gifts.
But such a meteoric rise couldn’t last long.
One night he’d spirit travelled to Glabus, the iron merchant’s house. The man was supposedly a friend to his father, and he found eight other merchants sat around a table drinking and laughing. It was hard to hear everything being said, but his father, mother and then his name had been mentioned as one of the men drew a finger across his throat in a definitive gesture.
Astren had listened on a little longer, then flew from the man’s house, above the streets toward his home near the top of the hill. As he’d approached, he saw a dozen men running across the lawn dressed in black, short swords drawn. Astren had returned to his body and opened his eyes just in time to hear the front door splinter before the men had poured into the house.
As he ran from his bedroom to the first-floor landing, words of warning about to fly from his lips, he’d looked down only to see his father and mother fall to the floor as they were hacked down by the raiders.
He’d staggered back into his room and pushed the door shut, knowing his death would be moments away. As he had, a ghostly old man wearing blood-red robes was standing in the room by his bed, beckoning him. Astren had almost fled back into the hallway, but something about the old man’s smile and demeanour held him. ‘Out the window boy,’ the man had ordered, ‘quickly now, climb down the trellises then jump over the wall by the roses. I’ll be in a carriage waiting for you.’
Astren had responded more to the sound of command in the man’s voice and pointed finger, than the actual words, and had started to drop over the window ledge when half a dozen men had burst into his room, swords drawn, eyes moving from him to the man in red.
The man had turned to meet them and raised his arm
s as they ran forward, thrusting steel into his body, only for the man to laugh, a deep dark laugh.
Astren had let go in shock and fell to the ground below, yet he’d managed to run, especially as the shouts of the frightened men had chased him from the first-floor window.
His rescuer that fateful night over thirty years ago had been an old seer who had seen him travel the spirit paths and had sought him out to share his knowledge and to seek an apprentice. Fortunately for Astren, his timing couldn’t have been better, and it was he who led him into the world of espionage as Astren grew from boy to man and his powers evolved.
Astren brought his mind back to the present. He had a job to do.
Thinking back to such painful memories had no time in the here and now and yet he couldn’t shake the memory as he flew from the palace over the city of Freemantle, heading west. He’d been spying on his father’s supposedly closest friend that night because as his father had said … only those closest could betray your trust the most. Those words now echoed in his mind.
He looked down and all around as he flew higher. To survive this night, he needed to keep his wits about him. This land was so familiar to him, and he flew faster and faster, passing over rivers and villages. During his many years in service to Tristan and for various merchants, he’d travelled far and wide, even into the very heart of the Witch-King’s lands as an emissary, so that very little west of the Freestates was closed to him.
Over the years he’d purposefully pushed into the fog, painfully extending the boundaries of where he could go and subsequently awakened to horrific headaches that would last days to gain a few extra leagues of vision over the Witch-King’s lands. Now he could travel almost its entire length and breadth, but not without danger, and it was that risk that had stopped him from spying for some time now.
The spirit self reflected the physical being, and thus as Astren travelled, he was in his red robes. In this, he was somewhat fortunate because as travel was only possible at night, against the dark sky, he showed little or anything of his presence.
However, there were those who could travel, few perhaps but still enough, that were also warriors. Daleth was one, and while he was not as fast or gifted at spirit travelling as Astren was, his astral being also reflected his physical one, and thus he was as armoured and dangerous as in the flesh. Some of his minions were just as deadly should he be unfortunate as to run afoul of them.
It was one such encounter soon after he’d first seen the girl Maya that had scared him so profoundly that he’d not travelled out of the Freestates since.
He’d been doing his almost nightly reconnaissance, monitoring the build-up of troops and supplies when out of the corner of his eye he’d seen a darkly armoured man flying toward him. Astren had quickly withdrawn westward, heart hammering, and looked over his shoulder in relief as his pursuer had slowly fallen behind. However, several more had risen skyward and chased him, herding him toward the coastline and the wall of fog beyond. There were a dozen of them, some above to stop him fleeing higher, others below and he knew there was not enough time to get around them. Soon he found himself facing a dozen evilly grinning men behind dark helms, black eyes glaring balefully as they savoured his death.
The only safe way to leave the spirit paths alive was to return to your body in ethereal form to re-join it, and all avenues of escape were blocked with his death mere moments away. He backed further and further away, feeling the coldness of the fog at his back, seeing the smiles as his pursuers savoured his death.
One spoke, his voice metallic from within his helm. ‘There’s nowhere left to go. It’s time to die.’
Astren’s head had spun, yet in those last moments, he’d known what to do. Still facing them, he’d flown backwards into the fog. The pursuing men had instinctively surged forward to chase, yet even as Astren’s head felt like it would split in two with pain, his gamble paid off as the men that pursued him screamed in agony, then disappeared one by one.
The pain had caused him to blackout, and he’d awoken a week later, malnourished and on the verge of death, surrounded by servants who’d almost given up hope on him returning to the living.
He was fortunate, for in all his time spirit travelling, he’d never found an enemy this side of the border above the Freestates. In fact, as far as he knew, there were no others with the talent to spirit travel east of Daleth’s Kingdom, yet he wouldn’t risk taking it for granted simply because he hadn’t seen anyone else.
Caution now at the forefront of his mind, he flew high then low, into the clouds then out again at a different place, and often spun around to watch behind. He would have enjoyed himself were it not for the danger, as the ability to truly fly was beyond all men, yet this was as close as one could get. Forget the fact it left you exhausted; it was worth it.
He approached Tristan’s Folly that sat astride the pass through the Forelorn mountains. It was a temptation to stop and view the preparations in a bid to delay his journey into danger. As he got closer, he was a little surprised. It was night time, so it was not unusual to see a lack of movement. Still, he would have expected to see men patrolling the walls and more activity, considering around seven thousand men were now garrisoned here. He wanted to stay longer, to look closer at the works and defensive siege engines but his mission took priority, and he pushed his inquisitive nature to one side.
He continued slowly, passing high over the smaller citadel at the west of the pass, noting something looked wrong. He flew closer, and indeed his instincts were correct, for behind the main curtain wall everything had been demolished. Once that wall was taken down, the enemy troops could flood into the pass unrestricted. Anthain wouldn’t be aware of this, and Astren would enjoy passing this intelligence on to score a small victory.
He flew many leagues westward, astral heart pounding in his chest. It wasn’t long before massive siege engines appeared on route to the pass and the land below became more desolate with every passing moment. It was without question teetering on the edge.
Further and further Astren travelled, coming across hundreds of camps, fires glittering in the darkness. The soldiers of the Witch-king were gathering and would soon all join forces. They were all at most thirty days from the pass when he’d previously thought they had twice that amount of time. He turned to fly away, yet distant movement caught his eye.
Someone else was spirit travelling this night under the light of the moon!
Whilst it was his duty to report back as soon as possible, curiosity got the better of him, for there ahead flew none other than the Witch-King himself.
Fear filled Astren, but also disappointment that he was no warrior, for had he a sword and the skill to use it, he could have tried to slay Daleth here and now. Instead, he followed at a distance and stayed hidden in the clouds or within the shadow of the mountains.
It wasn’t long before he saw something else that took him by surprise, for winding across the barren land was a trail of verdant growth, noticeable even in the darkness. Astren couldn’t believe his eyes, for while he didn’t have the time to follow it back to its source, he knew in his heart that this would lead back toward the girl, Maya’s, village. Therefore, the only conclusion that he could arrive at was that she was alive and had been fleeing eastward this whole time, and he smiled.
Daleth had also seen it for he started to follow the trail to its head. In the distance Astren could perceive the subtlest glow from a dying campfire, and a short time later the Witch-King floated down into some open ground a few paces to the east of the site, still unaware of his ghostly pursuer.
Against his better judgement, Astren followed, then watched as Daleth walked across the forest floor.
Not a leaf stirred beneath the king’s astral feet as he moved toward the camp where two figures lay side by side. A man sat a few paces away, a drawn sword across his lap, eyes alert.
Astren was waiting, holding his breath, standing beneath a gnarled oak tree, when Daleth spoke.
‘If I
thought I could catch you, little spy, I would fly over and cut your head from your scrawny neck!’ As Daleth said this, his cold grey eyes turned toward Astren, fixing him with his gaze.
Astren felt himself turn cold as Daleth continued. ‘I recognise you. You came to my lands as an emissary, years past. To think, all that time you were spying. I could pretend to be affronted, yet I admire any man who risks his life for his king.’
But then Daleth’s demeanour darkened. ‘Several of my Rangers died on the spirit paths chasing a man in red robes into the fog. Would that be you by any chance? Of course it is,’ Daleth answered, before Astren even had a chance to decide whether or not to tell the truth in response.
‘Do you know how long it takes to train a Ranger?’ he continued. ‘Well, we identify those with suitable talents or gifts as young as possible, then they spend the next ten years or so fighting their way over the bodies of their peers for the privilege. All that, so they can be gods amongst men on the field of battle, not to die from the tricks of a spying scholar!’ and he spat this last bit, anger mottling his face.
Daleth controlled himself and turned away, then strolled across the dying embers of the campfire. He sat down next to the man on the log, whose eyes scanned the undergrowth, unaware of the unwanted guest who sat at his right shoulder.
‘Ahhhh,’ said Daleth. ‘It’s been far too many years since I’ve enjoyed the warmth of sitting around a good campfire, swapping tales, drinking wine, revelling in the thoughts of a good battle, till now at least, but all that is changing. This man,’ he said, turning his head to nod at Rakan, ‘used to be in my army and deserted, as did the younger one by all accounts. But it’s not either of them we are interested in. It’s the girl. Do you know her name?’
Astren found his voice. ‘Yes, and I believe you do too. She has a gift that interests me and now scares you if I were to hazard a guess. Although why you’re talking to me, I don’t know.’ As he said this, his eyes scanned the sky, ready to fly off at the hint of trouble, in case Daleth sought to distract him from any pursuers.