by N.D. Bailey
Meanwhile, the riders below were thankful to have one of the most powerful wizards with them because, like the dark riders they met at the Passage of Crossing, these riders were wearing mail. This was not totally unusual, but it signaled to the experienced riders that things had escalated, Darvan was prepared for war.
The riders had begun to explore the village when Gilmanza, Binko, Windsor, and Navi joined them. Although they were worn out, they found strength in the desperate needs of the people. They would rest at nightfall.
The people had been conditioned towards fear; they had experienced it. Now, they wondered what these riders wanted. They watched as the riders reached out to them, offering to help them, loosening them from their chains and touching their grimy hands.
But while others in the camp remained reserved and timid, a woman burst through the crowd and ran up to Windsor, recognizing him as one of their rescuers. She babbled something and pulled Windsor through the dusty village to a tall building bearing no windows. Windsor pulled on the doors. They did not budge, they were bolted.
A scraggly looking man of the village pointed to a dead Rider of Quadar lying near the door and pointed to the lock. Windsor figured out his charades: the man held the key to the door, but the key the man held would have turned to stone with the man. But the minute the thought passed through Windsor’s mind, he noticed the key hanging beside the door.
He picked it up and turned the key.
Immediately, they were greeted by a horrible smell: the stench of decaying flesh. He rubbed his orb for light as the Circle of Riders entered the tall opaque building. The dim light of Windsor’s orb lighted upon a horror unseen by mankind. Strung from the tops of the walls were the frail forms of people shrouded in dirt, darkness and steel pods. Chains wrapped around their torsos and limbs, like steel threads of some cocoon, but the metamorphoses of these captives were not pretty: their flesh laced their bones, thin and frail. They were more like mummies, skeletons, wrapped in grave clothes of iron.
The disrespect for human life hung in the dancing shadows of death before them like cow-meat in a cellar. The ghastly, ashen faces peered from their caskets of chains. Their black eyes were sunken into their skeletal heads. Windsor had seen it before. Gilmanza, Ormandel, and Vandorf too. He was tired of looking at death—especially death like this. There was no way to get used to this kind of dying.
Windsor knew what to look for. To the left of the door, leaning against the wall, was a large bucket of water and a long pole with a sponge attached at one end. The obvious use was to provide water, to keep the victims alive longer, thus lengthening their torment.
The riders were speechless. Sagran walked out of the chamber pushing back the tears, as he thought of his wife dying in a similar way. Amase stood in the face of the horror, his heart swelling with emotion. He considered the words of the statue. I must succeed. He had been given a divine assignment and the thought of such a task weighed heavily upon him, especially in light of the human suffering before him. I must, for the sake of these people—for the sake of everyone!
Breaking the silence was the subtle sound of labored breathing coming from one of the bodies wrapped in its crypt of chains. The snuffling noise was more of a death-rattle.
The riders listened carefully as they tried to discern which victim was still breathing. Standing beneath a distorted face sticking out from the metal mortuary, Nimri, discerned the victim of life. “Here! It is here!” Rising on tiptoes and reaching up to the ceiling, Gilgore cut the chains of the woman, and then sat her gently on the ground.
“Get some water,” Nuvatian shouted. As they were holding her head and giving her some water, the rattling whisper of another woman could be heard above them.”
Standing up, Binko walked toward the back wall and through the shifting shadows of death, he could see a woman, who looked like an apparition from hell. Her face was stained with dried blood and dirt. She too was shrouded in steel grave clothes, suspended from the ceiling and dangling in mid-air. Beneath the dirt, her complexion looked murky and pale. Her eyes were sunken and fixated into a solemn stare. She was unable to move her head and she seemed to be staring into darkness, seeing absolutely nothing.
As Gilgore approached her to cut the chains, the shadows of the light shone upon her face, revealing her haggard form. Startled, Gilgore jumped back in shock. Her eyes were fixated and a thick film gathered over her irises. Gathering his composure, the giant cut the chains and tenderly placed her on the ground, where Nuvatian, Nimri and Ozni knelt with the other rescued victim.
“What are you all…,” were the words coming out of Nadora’s mouth as she walked into the community coffin. When she saw the two women, she gasped and couldn’t say another word.
“Get some fresh water,” Nuvatian ordered. Nadora backed out of the dark chamber and ran to get some water. Returning with two containers she handed Amase one of them. Raising a cup to the lips of one of the women, he fell benumbed as he stared into her milky eyes. They were solid-white, her hair thin, and her skin cold and clammy. After a brief pause, a well of emotions sprang up that knotted his stomach. He placed the water to the woman’s lips, but she could not swallow. A lump now settled in Amase’s throat.
Binko and Nimri, kneeling beside the women, looked across at Ormandel and Amase. They noticed the expressions on their faces were those of deep compassion mingled with anger. They wondered what they were thinking.
Several of the other riders noticed them huddled together within the door of the building. Curious, one by one, they stepped into this sepulcher. Appalled by what they saw, they walked out in silence, searching for an explanation.
Suddenly, the shout of a woman broke the solitude. “Kineah! Kineah!” A woman ran to them and fell on the ground in front on the smaller of the two frail girls. She threw her arms around the fragile and lifeless human form. The woman sobbed. “This is my daughter.”
Another woman came running in, with a young man beside her. “Dalmera!” She shouted and threw herself onto the other woman, bellowing out sounds of mourning. The young man with tears streaming down his face knelt down beside the skeletal figure. Grasping her bony hand, he called her by the name he knew her as: “Mother.” Then, he laid his head across her ribs. With his head across her chest and his hand in hers, she quietly took her last breath. Looking into the woman’s white eyes, her son wept and gently placed his fingers on her lids and closed her eyes. A few hours later, the other woman died too.
The riders helped bury one of the women on the side of a hill. Her son recollected the good- ole-days when his family was happy. The deep sadness of the young man could be felt by them all as he wept over the loss of his beloved mother. They buried the other woman in the community cemetery near the village.
Frail inhabitants of the village began to gather inside the building. Loud cries penetrated the solitude. Some wrapped their arms around the corpses of those they loved; others could only stand there in shock, unable to shed a tear as the fear and horror gripped them. Everyone knew everyone and emotions were running high. “Get them out of there,” Windsor ordered, as the riders came up the hill from exploring the village.
Nuvatian and Nimri immediately began to usher the people out. “You don’t want to see your loved ones like that,” Nimri said, encouraging them to leave. The next day, the riders set fire to the building. They memorialized each victim by announcing their names one by one. Then, they sent up prayers to comfort the survivors.
Plundering the quarters of the Riders of Quadar, the riders retrieved more than enough food and weapons for the villagers. Everything they did now they did working around the dark riders that Windsor had turned to stone. Over the next few days, the riders cleansed their wounds, doctored them, and helped them regain their strength.
Besides the hewing of stone, a bluish glassy liquid was being heated over pits of fire for purification. There were multiple pots and workers
of this trade. Once all the purities were extracted, the liquid was poured into molds shaped like bricks. A large quantity was stashed at various locations in the village. Curious about the compound and the bricks, several riders investigated the unknown substance.
“Aren’t they pretty?” Navi commented.
Windsor rolled his eyes and sighed as though he could care less about the “prettiness” of a brick and giving the impression that Navi had said something out of place.
“What?” Navi asked. “They are pretty.”
Although they were unable to discern what the unknown compound was, they did have to agree with Navi: these were very pretty rocks. They were glassy, yet not lacking in strength or durability. They tried to break them using a variety of iron tools, but all attempts proved futile. A young man approached, having the inside scoop. “It is made from a liquid,” he disclosed to them, “one found deep within the regions of Quadar.”
“How do you know this,” Binko asked.
“I overheard one of the dahk riders talking about it. Dahvan wants to use these in his castle he’s going to build when he takes over the world. At least that is his plan.”
“Oh, I’ve read that there are strange substances in the earth of Quadar,” Buldar said, ever the scholar.
Windsor and Gilmanza were well aware of this fact too, but they had never seen this particular substance. It did, however, remind Windsor of one he was familiar with in the Land of the Immortals only it had a reddish tint. The same red of his sword. The one stolen by the dark rider.
“That explains why there were so many dahk riders here,” Windsor said.
“Well, he’s not goin’ to be needin’ these,” Navi said, “since he’s not going to take ovah the world. Howevah, I have a fantastic idea.”
Navi conferred with Monguard and three days later Monguard handed over a wood figure. Flying outside the village and into the mountains, Navi set the sculpture atop the tallest mountain he could find. Having regained his strength, he thought he could do it. Stretching out his staff, he mumbled a couple of words and instantly, the sculpture became enlarged, towering on top of the mountain. Then, he stretched out his staff toward the multiple buckets of the blue stuff, lighting fires beneath them. In a short time, the solid substance had turned to liquid. Stretching out his staff again to a bucket, the bucket lifted off the ground and traveled in mid-air to the statue; then, he dumped it over the wood carving. He did this until the statue was fully covered in the glassy, bluish-gray substance. From the village, the people could barely see it; even so, they rejoiced at the finished product: a large statue of King Justiz.
It was the perfect insult to Darvan.
It wasn’t until afterwards that someone came up with the idea of making arrows out of the substance. So with the remainder of the substance, arrows were formed. They were remarkably strong, unbendable. Smooth, glassy, and fancy, they were almost too pretty to be thought of as weapons of war. Now they had a hearty supply of arrows. And Navi took care of that pink bow by coating it in the fancy blue chemical. Now, he had the most impressive looking bow of them all.
“There now, a nice little message for Dahvan!” Navi proclaimed triumphantly.
Furious, a woman stormed toward Navi, ranting and raving about the statue of King Justiz. “Are you the one that did this?” She raised her voice, not caring who heard her. “Where is he? Where is he? He could have prevented this!” She punched Navi repeatedly in the chest, as she began to insult King Justiz. “If he really cared about us, he would have done somethin’ about Dahvan long ago. Instead, he sits back and does absolutely nothing, while we suffer. It is clear, he doesn’t care about us. Yet, here you go and make some statue to him.”
“I understand, mum, how you feel.” Navi was trying to explain to the woman while at the same time, trying to defend himself against her blows.
“Understand? Understand? You couldn’t possibly understand how I feel.” She shouted and kept on hitting the wizard. “Have you evah lost a child? Have you evah watched the son you bore ride off with dahk riders and ruin his life by becoming one of them? These young men you freed here from the dark riders aren’t our men. They belong to another village. Our young men have been carried off somewhere else. Have you evah watched your friends and family become cruelly oppressed and enslaved? Have you evah been raped? Of course you haven’t; so, don’t tell me you understand!” Tears streamed down her face. “I wish I had nevah been born,” she muttered as she collapsed to the ground, weeping. Tremors of grief raced down her tired and aching body.
Fleece and Nimri helped the woman up and escorted her to somewhere more private. Nadora brought her a cup of broth and sat down beside her. “Sounds like you have had a tough time,” Nadora said, not knowing what else to say. The woman wept a river of tears as the princess hugged her, attempting to comfort her as she came to grips with her indescribable losses. The woman had no idea that she was the Princess of Shalahem and they never would have guessed it by her warrior wardrobe and the tender way she embraced the dirty people.
“I’ve nevah known the sort of losses that you have experienced. They are irretrievable and it’s okay to be angry.”
“Thank you,” the woman whispered.
After she had dried up most of her tears, Windsor patted her on the shoulder. “Don’t lose faith in King Justiz,” he said tenderly. “He is a man of his word. Remembah that what has occurred here is the work of Dahvan and his dahk ridahs, not of the Immortals.”
“You’re that wizahd I’ve heard about.”
“Yes, I am a wizahd.”
“Is there hope?” she asked tenderly. “I mean real hope—not just optimism.”
Ormandel was standing beside Windsor. Her question sent shivers down him of days when he had asked himself the same question. He recoiled at the idea of identifying with her pain.
“Hope is grounded in trust—trust for what one holds to be truth. Optimism is grounded in a notion of belief in a bettah tomorrow. So, you tell me, is there hope?”
Wiping her tears, the woman nodded her head. “It just feels so hopeless. Many of our young men, even some of the older ones, left. They think they have found freedom by becoming a dahk rider. That is how Dahvan is building his army; he crushes us and then gives our young men a way out by joining his forces.”
Windsor, Gilmanza and Nadora lent their ears to her and their hearts; then, they join the other riders. There was nothing they could do for her to bring them back. It was a choice they had to make.
Vandorf walked off, needing to get away from all the sadness.
Having strengthened the community and made numerous friends, the riders said goodbye and departed. Windsor felt good that the community had been delivered but he knew that there were fractions among the riders and they were, for the most part, people of strong opinions.
They rode out of the village and up the hillside and looked over their shoulders at the peasants, their village, the stones of dark riders forever enshrined in warfare stood all across the land. The oppressed and the oppressors remained together, only now unthreatening, the stones of tyranny standing as a visible reminder to the darkness that began this plight into evil and the depth that humanity could sink. But it would also forever remind generations to come of the day they were delivered from cruel bondage, a testimony of a remarkable shift in their history.
As they rode across the rocky ground, Windsor’s mind was haunted with the images of the woman’s fixated white eyes running through his mind and the cruel manner in which these people died. He couldn’t help but wonder how he was going to leave this world.
Windsor pondered the words of the blind potter. What on earth did he mean?