The Circle: The Uniting

by N.D. Bailey

  As predicted, they arrived at Norssod that afternoon. The walls of the city were tall and fortified. Eight imposing knights in full mail stood at the gates. Several more stood just inside the city walls in the towers. Their morions were of beaded iron, giving a beardlike look to the face-cover and they wore black gloves.

  As the riders approached the city, the steel men opposed them, barring them from entry. They said not a word. A man stepped forward to inquire as to their business in the city. He was garbed in a navy uniform with buttons on the sleeves and draped with a navy cape. He bore a sword in one hand.

  “We are merely passing through,” answered Windsor. “And we need an inn for a night.” There was silence. A long stare followed. One of the steel-clad guards lowered his sword. The others then did the same. The ironclad gates screeched as the guards opened them. “You have a day,” said the man in the navy uniform.

  Entering the city, the riders couldn’t help but notice the numerous knights in full gear in the streets among the populous, all wearing morions that covered their faces. In fact, it seemed there were more knights in the streets than there were civilians. Their presence was striking: bold, menacing and shrouded in mystery.

  They stood as though they belonged to the city, as though they owned it.

  The few locals walking the sparsely populated streets appeared unnatural, strangely secretive and even intimidated. They walked quickly, their heads down, rushing to get to wherever they were going. It seemed most peculiar to the riders. The city was large, with finely stoned streets and stone houses, and seemed to be progressive and well-populated, judging by the standards of the buildings.

  Upon entering an inn, they were surprised to see two steel-suited guards standing beside the entrance. The mysterious guards spoke not a word, but stood as though they were deaf and dumb. Behind the counter of the pub was a rather jittery looking fellow. He was frail and thin, and he nervously popped his knuckles. The pub was scarce with people for such a bustling city.

  “We need some rooms,” Windsor said.

  “Certainly,” answered the attendant, fidgeting with things behind the counter. He looked at the riders, and then at the knights in steel. Back and forth, he diverted his attention between the two groups. Whenever a knight looked toward the pub owner, he quickly looked down at the floor and cracked his knuckles.

  The pub only had two rooms, they took them both. The riders put their mounts in the stalls adjoining the inn and then went to a pub down the road hoping it would have a different atmosphere. As they entered the pub, they immediately noticed another set of guards standing inside the door on each side. These too remained silent, without a word to the riders. The atmosphere was unnatural. The locals were cold, rude, secretive, and unwilling to look anyone in the eyes. Finding this most uncomfortable, the Circle of Riders ate quickly and left, Skeener guzzling his liquor.

  “Well, this is a pleasant experience,” Nadora said, sarcastically.

  “Really, what is up with this city?” Fleece whispered.

  “Maybe they have seen Ridahs of Quadar, and are on the protective front,” suggested Binko.

  “O, we won’t be here long anyway.” Ozni was trying to see the positive side.

  “Y-yeah,” stuttered Skeener, “m-maybe they have g-guards st-stationed ev-ryw-where be-because they kn-ow someth-thin’ is goin’ on.” He spoke loudly and Windsor observed that he had drank too much. He hushed him and gave him a corrective glare.

  “Whatever it is,” whispered Zorgar. “I don’t want to hang around here long.”

  “Me neither,” Sagran said.

  “What do you think it is?” Amase asked Windsor.

  “Nothing good.” Windsor sensed something sinister in the whole of things.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll be out of here tomorrow,” Ozni said, smiling.

  “Why are we whisperin’?” asked Buldar.

  “Because if we’re caught speakin’ aloud, we might go to jail for a capital crime, crony!” A good dinner had put a spring back in Navi’s step, even if the environment hadn’t.

  “We’ll head out tomorrow.” Windsor’s voice was subdued; he was in deep thought. “In five to seven days we will be at Randora; if we need to, we can stay there for three or four days.”

  Worn out from all the riding, the riders returned to the inn to sleep, eager to get an early start in the morning and leave this dreadful place. The group split up, half staying in one room and the other half in the other room. A coin was flipped to see who would get the bunks. Luckily, everyone was used to the hard ground, so no one complained if they were out of luck. Gilgore of course slept in the barn, accustomed to not fitting anywhere in this little world.

  At the crack of dawn everyone crawled out of bed, Skeener a bit slower than the rest. He complained of an aching head and tried to blame it on something other than his alcohol intake. Windsor gave him that corrective glare once again but said not a word.

  “Before we head out,” Navi announced. “I want to get my sword shahpened.”

  “Me, too,” Zilgar agreed.

  “N-now that you m-mention it,” Skeener said, “I th-think I will, too!”

  “Well, heck, I guess I will as well,” said Vandorf.

  “Your sword is always shahp, crony” said Navi.

  “Yeah, but it can nevah be too shahp, mate!” Vandorf felt the edge. “Besides, they have bettah equipment for shahpening.”

  “I’m comin’, too,” said Buldar.

  Fleece decided to tag along, figuring that it wouldn’t hurt if his sword were honed a bit too.

  The six of them walked to a local blacksmith, just down the road from the inn. They were not surprised to find two more steel-clads standing there with their swords at their sides. An elderly gentleman attended them.

  “Hello, mate,” Navi said, bouncing through the door. “We just want to get our swords shahpened.”

  Pausing a moment, the gentleman looked at the guards and responded hesitantly, “I… I don’t shahpen swords.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t shahpen swords?” Navi inquired.

  “I only do fahm equipment.”

  “You’re a blacksmith, aren’t you?” asked Buldar.

  “Of course I am. But I don’t do swords.”

  “I’ve nevah heahd of a blacksmith that doesn’t shahpen swords,” said Vandorf.

  “If you can shahpen fahm equipment,” Zilgar added, somewhat angry by now, “then you can shahpen our swords!”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t do swords,” answered the blacksmith, looking again at the guards. The two guards now pulled out their swords, showing blades finely honed.

  Putting up his hands as though in surrender, Navi said, “Hardly worth fightin’ ovah.” He stared the lads down wanting to swipe his blade and rip them open just to see what’s beneath all that steel. Navi motioned for them to sheath their swords. “They’re shahp enough. We’ll be leavin’.”

  “Leavin’?” Zilgar wasn’t ready to leave. He was just getting warmed up. “But I want my bloody sword shahpened.” His temper was getting the best of him.

  “Oh, look, it’s time to go!” The wizard grabbed the irate Viking by the shirt-collar and began dragging him towards the door. The angry Viking ranted and raved as the others drug him out the door.

  As Navi turned to step out, the guard placed his sword in front of the wizard.

  Putting his hands up to his shoulders again, Navi tried conversation. “That’s a shahp sword. May I ask where you got it shahpened, mate?”

  The two guards now stepped forward. One grunted beneath his morion, the other placed the pointed tip of his sword at Navi’s neck.

  “That’s okay, I don’t need to know, after all. Now that I think about it, I think my sword is shahp enough, don’t you, cronies?” He looked over at his friends. “In fact, I think we’ll be goin’ now.” Backing up, Navi now shot out the door, with the rest of the riders, dragging
Zilgar with them, still cussing and fussing.

  As they walked away from the shop, Navi looked back to see if they were being pursued. “Well, this sure is a friendly little town,” he said, sarcastically.

  “I saw anothah blacksmith shop down the road. Let’s give it a try.” Vandorf was trying to put his finger on the peculiarity of this city. But they were outsiders and things had obviously been shady in this part of the country. They needed to find someone who would talk, but that didn’t look like that was going to happen, at least not while they were grouped together in this motley band.

  They strolled down the road to the other blacksmith shop. Upon entering, they were not surprised to see a guard standing outside the shop. A hefty man with a freckled face attended them. Now, the guard stepped inside and one of his buddies joined him.

  “Good day, crony!” Navi began again. “We need our swords shahpened.”

  “I… I don’t shahpen swords,” the man protested.

  Vandorf tried being nice. “Look, mate, we are only passin’ through, and in a bit of a hurry, so if you could just shahpen our swords, we will be out of your hair for good.”

  “I’m sorry,” said the smithy. “I can’t help you.”

  Hearing the metal foot of the guard move, Navi saw it was time to take their leave. “I guess we will be goin’ then, mate!” he said cheerfully. “Thanks for your help, or rather lack thereof.”

  Zilgar wasn’t letting it go that easily. “Look, mate,” he said, “we’re in a hurry, to get out of this God-forsaken city. So, what you say, mate, that I dull my sword on you and then shahpen it myself on your equipment?” The Viking’s fiery temper was clearly getting the best of him. The two guards both pulled their swords from their sheaths and stepped towards him.

  “Don’t pay any attention to him,” Navi intervened. “He didn’t mean it. My friend here is emotionally unstable, completely deranged. War drove him out of his mind and fits of vertigo have further weakened his unstable condition.” He dragged Zilgar toward the door, with the other riders following.

  Once outside, he tore into the Viking. “What are you doing, trying to get us killed?”

  “I want my sword shahpened!” Zilgar protested.

  “Your sword is shahp enough. It’s not worth getting us killed over, crony.”

  “Come on let’s go,” Vandorf said. “I’ll shahpen your swords.”

  Navi didn’t say a word but his countenance showed that he had an inkling of an idea. Vandorf had his suspicions too as to what was going on. Fleece, on the other hand, was trying to figure it out by flipping his medallion.

  Arriving back at the inn, Navi whispered to Windsor what had happened and both gathered there was about to be trouble. The riders mounted their rides and headed down the main road towards the ironclad gates. As they approached the gate, the metal-wrapped guards eagerly uncrossed their swords, opened the ironclad gates and willingly let them leave the city.

  They seemed anxious to get rid of them.

  No one else passed through the gates, only the riders. The knights, decked in their metal, lined the entrance to the city and repositioned their swords. Windsor sighed with relief. Glancing over his shoulder, he thought he saw a faint image peering out from behind the trees. It looked like Akiylah He blinked his eyes and it was gone.

  Perhaps it was only his imagination.

  Darvan

  Dirty long fingernails rasped the arm of the gaudy chair, a poor replica of a king’s throne. Shrouded in a black brocaded cloak, the dark figure sat stone-faced, impatiently awaiting news, and anxious to issue more commanding orders. His face was the shade of death, a becoming color for one so cruel. Much like the soil of the land, it was chiseled and cracked, like one too familiar with its curse. His stealthy eyes studied a map of the lands of the world as he schemed and plotted his next sly move. Suddenly the door sprang open and his eyes lifted up from the charts. The Stone Age face of the kingly imposter turned toward the door, as a dark rider of some distinguishable clout entered the room.

  “My Lord Darvan, there has been an unfortunate mishap concerning the Circle of Riders.”

  “A mishap?” He hissed, ruffling the map that sat before him. “What sort of mishap?”

  “My Lord, it would appear that the Circle of Riders came into Norssod and—well sir—they let them out of the city!”

  “What?” shouted Darvan, visibly angry at this disappointing news. “Let them out of the city? How could they be so stupid?” He sprang to his feet, nearly tearing his map in the process.

  “My Lord, it appears that there were Immortals spotted outside the walls, and they thought it best to apprehend them at a more convenient time, when they are more vulnerable.

  “Vulnerable? What do they think can be any more vulnerable than having them trapped inside a city?” Darvan shouted, his face twisted with rage.

  “Yes, my Lord. I don’t know what they were thinking.”

  “I want them dead! Do you hear me? Dead!” Darvan screamed, gritting his teeth.

  “Yes, my Lord, I will…” began the shrewd dark rider.

  “No, I will go, and make sure that this doesn’t happen again!” Darvan angrily stormed out of the room, cursing under his breath. “Damn idiots. Do I have to take care of everything? What kind of fools and imbeciles do I have working for me?” As he passed by the informant, he turned and stopped. “And you—I just wish I had some responsible men around here!” He slammed the door behind him. Continuing to curse under his breath, he stormed out of his dark castle atop the barren hill in the desolate wasteland of Quadar. He mounted his reliable, yet temperamental dragon. Cutting through the sky, he set his sights upon Norssod, eager to reprimand those who had failed to carry out his specific orders.

  Randorin

  They had been traveling for days and now the wind howled, ushering in a gushing rainfall upon the surrounding lowlands of the south. Soaked and tired, the riders trudged along. Fortunately, the rain was brief and the sun soon emerged from its hiding place behind the dark clouds. As they rode through the obscure regions in the southwest, they came across numerous horse-tracks descending into the lowlands.

  “Horse tracks.” Gilmanza spotted them immediately. Those who wore mail stopped and strapped it on and everyone drew their swords from their sheaths, braced themselves. The tracks were traveling in both directions but primarily in the same direction as the riders.

  As they approached the plains of the lowlands, they heard a noise echoing across the mountains surrounding them. Steering their beasts in the direction they perceived the sound to be coming from, they rode to investigate. In the distance the riders could see a simple but large village. The homes were made of wood and the defense wall was shallow, not large and fortified like that of the large cities. A portion of the shoddily built wall had crumbled in ruin. Standing just outside the barrier was a group of yokels repairing the wall. They were not alone—the village was crawling with Riders of Quadar. In fact he wondered why a small village required so many dark riders. The working peasants were depressingly filthy and their skeletal frames testified that they were under fed. Windsor and Gilmanza identified it as the rural village of Randorin, inhabited mostly by simple country folks.

  From the elevation of the mountain, the riders could see within the village Riders of Quadar robed in black in command. They only had one purpose for being in a village: to take the people captive, brutally enslaving them in a complex web of drudgery and servitude, stealing their wills, and crushing them under a lust for power and domination. Windsor observed that there were a few dark riders astride graquitorases, large lizardlike beasts, bearing an organic suit of armor, tongues of fiery poison, and a mean spirit. Bearing tails nearly as long as their nasty disposition, they were hard to train and hard to kill.

  Windsor and Gilmanza knew how these dark riders worked: they gained control of smaller and more rural villages, and then they took the larger citi
es. It gave the dark riders confidence and provided a means to expand their troops by recruiting men who didn’t want to be enslaved. Joining their forces gave them a way out, which was really no way out at all.

  Sagran and Amase shuddered as they recalled their own village under similar conditions.

  “Binko, take a ride,” Windsor said. Binko nudged his zebra and the winged beast lifted off the ground and became a vapor. The winged creature soared over the open lowlands undetectable as Binko scoured the village taking in every detail. The small village was heavily populated with dark riders. Their very presence left a heavy and evil presence in the air. It was a presence that could be felt. The naked eye testified to the sense of the evil presence as Binko beheld captive peasants hewing stones into a perfectly smooth rock suitable for a king. Binko scoured the entire area and then landed his mount back on the hillside where he filled the others in on the details of his visual review.

  Buldar stepped towards the edge of the cliff to get a better view from the vantage point of the high altitude, a large loose rock slid out from under his feet taking Buldar with it. Skeener barely escaped sliding down the mountain too. Buldar slid half way down the rocky mountain side nearly causing an avalanche of rocks to follow. The crashing noise of the skidding rocks did not go unnoticed by the horde of dark riders, and neither did the Circle of Riders. They spotted them immediately among the rubble.

  Thinking quickly, Windsor, astride Moridar, took to the air. As he mounted the sky, he muttered a curse, a curse he knew in the days of his immortality. He knew the risk before the words left his mouth; but, it was a death he was willing to accept. After all, he would rather die nobly.

  Dahk ridahs turn hard in the bones

  Let them dry up and turn to stones

  But the new recruits let this curse bypass

  Let the deception become as clear as glass

  This curse would take a moment to go into effect. The riders would have to fight, at least for now.

  Windsor fell limp over Moridar’s neck, the curse being more than his mortal body could take.

  The Riders of the Circle barged into the village through the broken down wall while the riders on mounts flew over the village of peasants showering the dark riders with arrows. The attack was not sudden like they had hoped and the fight did not come easily. Utter chaos broke out in the camp as villagers ran for their lives.

  Gilmanza was retracting his sword from one angry warrior when two Quadarist ran up behind him, their swords lifted to cut him down. Turning his sword back under his armpit, Gilmanza plunged it into the heart of one of the men. Then, he grabbed a dagger from his boot and thrust it into the abdomen of the other. As he withdrew his sword from the first rider, blackish blood poured out, and a stench like sour rotten fish filled the air. He didn’t even have time to wrinkle his nose at the smell before a host of dark riders were all over him.

  Dirty blood mingled with the dust of the ground as each rider carried his own weight, even Fleece, the most inexperienced of the riders proved himself that day. It was evident that he had been trained by one of the best swords masters in all the lands. Monguard went through the camp like a windstorm, leaving a path of destruction behind him. Arrows showered down from the heavens as Nadora and Binko rode the sky.

  But in spite of their skill, there were just too many dark riders to handle. Things turned from bad to worse for Nuvatian when he found himself face to face with a poisoned tongue lizard. He dodged the deadly whip of his tongue and tried to retreat, running as fast as his legs could carry him. The tongue lashed out against him, his venomous flesh licking up the dust behind him. He spotted a building and dashed towards it, his heart drumming to the beat of his escalating anxiety as the tongue nearly flogged him. He raced towards the door and reached to spring it open, the beast right on his tail, spanking at him. He felt his heart leap into his chest as he pulled at the door and discovered that it wouldn't open. He looked over his shoulder and turned around. Now, he was face to face with the monster, its poisonous tongue waving at him.

  Standing his ground and prepared to fight unto death, Nuvatian took a fighting stance. Suddenly, an arrow shot through the sky and hit the beast in one of the few spots it bore no armor, its anus. The lizard roared and spanked his tongue at Nuvatian, refusing to die without taking its prey with it. With keen reflexes sharper than the lizard's tongue, Nuvatian grabbed the lizard by its tongue and thrust his sword into its belly. The tongue thrashed on the ground and then fell still as the beast moaned and fell down as another arrow pierced it in face. Nuvatian looked in the sky and spotted Nadora pulling back her bow and offering a smile, the wind dancing through her hair.

  Now, the curse began to take effect. Within the marrow of the dark riders, bones began to dry up, their liquid blood began to turn solid. They began to move slowly, giving the circle of riders the advantage as they sliced through them. Then, they turned to gray stone. Across the village, stone statues stood like sculptured warriors and dead men lay on the ground like well-crafted pieces of art. Their decaying faces were trapped forever in grave images of dying men who once lived while dead. They were frozen in a battle forever, locked in the manner in which they had spent their lives: cultivating destruction.

  Frozen in time, some bore the pain of death, others the glory of a skillful swing of their sword, still others hardened in quivers of rage, a life spent up in resentment and hate, the emptiness in their eyes captured forever. The turbulence of a soul gone wrong, a lie that led them into a walk of violence and passions unquenchable. They sought to break the rules, debunk the virtues of love, peace, and community, and now, they were stones of war and hate forever, just as their hearts had turned to stone ages ago.

  But the new recruits stood in awe as they witnessed dark riders, the original rebels who joined Darvan in the beginning, turn to stone. Dropping their swords, they now had a new perspective. But these men didn’t belong to this village. New recruits begin their conditioning among people they don’t know, strangers, so not to convolute the heart now being vitiated with evil.

  Some of the riders lost their swords that day as they became a piece of the masterpieces of stone. But they found new ones scattered by the fallen.

  The battle was over. Now there was need to help the hurting.

  Everyone turned to freeing the poor peasants—except for Navi.

  When Navi saw the dark riders turn to stone, he realized what Windsor had done. He could feel the blood rushing to his head. His eyes searched the sky and he spotted Moridar ripping through the sky blowing smoke. Navi rushed to his aid, being fully aware that the proportion of the miracle was more than the wizard’s body could bear.

  Sensing the danger his beloved comrade was in, Moridar twisted and turned in the sky, helpless to bring him back to life.

  Landing among the tall timbers of the mountains that surrounded the valley, Moridar let out a disheartened roar. He shifted his weight as though anxiety had borne down on him. The dragon mounted the sky as though on a mission, bellowing as he cut through the heavens.

  At last, Moridar spotted Inka through the haze. The dragon knew Navi and drew towards him. Navi spotted him too and hastened to meet him. As the dragons met, Navi guided Inka right up next to Moridar, their wings nearly touching. Navi knew this was risky, but he had to get to Windsor. Every second counted. Don't you die on me, old man. Although they held differing philosophies concerning some of the practices of wizardry, Navi could not bear to think of not having Windsor around. Windsor had always been.

  Steadying himself, Navi leapt onto Moridar’s back. A waft of wind from Moridar’s wing hit Navi with such force that he lost his balance. Falling, Navi grasped for the scales of the dragon. The lashing of the wind beat on his face. Clinching his eyes, Navi could not see a thing. Moridar whipped his tail around, giving Navi the leverage he needed to gain his stability and climb back upon the dragon’s back.

  Now, Navi was
completely mindful of Windsor and the critical situation he was in. Pulling on Windsor’s shoulders, Navi raised his head and shouted his name. Windsor was out cold. Navi knew what he had to do—and he wasn’t sure if it would even work, or that it wouldn’t kill him too. But Navi knew he was willing to die for his friend.

  With his own staff, Navi touched Windsor. In a gibberish tongue, Navi spoke words accompanied with authority. Power came out of him. Navi felt weak and the world around him began to spin; then, he began to slip in and out of consciousness. He knew he too was going to die.

  The claws of the dragons reached for the cliff that lay before them just as Navi lost all consciousness.