Otherlander: Through the Storm

by T. Kevin Bryan

  Fion knew they loved him. Only as men who have fought together can love each other. Each one would follow him to the death. She knew why. He was a true leader. Every man knew that Deacon Stormcloud would never ask them to do something he wasn’t willing to do himself or had not already done. That engendered an unassailable respect for it was forged not out of fear but love.

  Her Uncle John was the last man to leave. He gently lifted her downcast head by the chin and smiled warmly into her eyes. He nodded and stepped through the door, closing it behind him and sealing her fate.

  Fion turned to her father and prepared for the worst.

  Deacon stood, for what seemed like a lifetime to Fion, contemplating the stones in the floor. Finally, he lifted his head and his countenance was wholly unlike anything she expected. Instead of anger, his eyes brimmed with tears. He raised his hands and beckoning her and uttered the most beautiful words she had ever heard.

  “My Daughter, come.”

  Fion rushed into his embrace as the dam burst and tears and words of contrition poured forth.

  “I thought I had lost you forever,” her father whispered.

  “Father, will you please forgive me?”

  Deacon Stormcloud, General of the True kingdom of N’albion took his daughter by the shoulders and said the second sweetest words she had ever heard.

  “I forgive you.”

  Fifty-Two

  “Excuse me, sir.” Thomas stopped an old man with a sun wrinkled face like leather. “Could you direct me to the dining hall?”

  Thomas’s stomach growled loudly and the old gentleman's craggy face broke into a wide grin and he pointed. “Straight ahead lad. Just follow the hubbub.”

  Thomas was looking forward to some food. He was starving. He laughed to himself. His mom would tell him he was going through a growth spurt. He hoped to God she was okay and whispered a quick prayer for her and his unborn baby brother.

  The passage opened into a grand dining hall. The stone hall was lit by giant chandeliers containing hundreds of flickering candles. They hung from huge timber beams that crisscrossed in the opening below the high-pitched ceiling. Tapestries that depicted happier times from N’albion’s history hung on the walls, providing a little warmth to their cold stone. Men and women and children all sat talking together on long wooden tables like a picnic. Food set before them, but no one was eating. As Thomas stepped into the hall, he caught the eye of a young boy. The moment the boy saw Thomas his eyes went wide, and he whispered to his mother, pointing at Thomas. That received a quick smack on the hand. Thomas chuckled, but then conversations ceased one by one as every eye in the hall became fixed on him. He froze, unsure of himself. Where was he supposed to sit? It felt like the first day of middle school in the cafeteria. Then he saw Fion smiling among the crowded tables. As he self-consciously walked between the rows, whispered comments reached his ears: “He’s the Otherlander.” “That’s Thomas.” “He defeated Darcon.” “He’s a lot smaller than I thought he would be!”

  Thomas turned to see a group of young adolescents sizing him up. He couldn’t help but flash back on the boys from England and the trouble they gave him until he had finally proved himself.

  Next to Fion sat her mother Ellie and her Father Deacon. Deacon stood surveying the crowd as they all watched Thomas.

  “Thomas, I welcome you again to N’albion.” Deacon’s voice rang out with authority. “Pease sit here next to me.” With that, he pulled out a chair.

  Thomas stepped beside his old friend and started to sit. But Deacon’s hand on his elbow prevented him.

  “Thomas, would you speak to the Creator on our behalf?”

  That stumped Thomas for a second. “You want me to say the blessing?”

  Deacon nodded solemnly.

  Thomas bowed his head. He cleared his throat. “Dear Heavenly Father, thank you for these friends. Thank you for this food.” He paused. Then added with confidence, “Help us fight the darkness. Amen.”

  Deacon agreed, “So be it!”

  The gathering echoed their leader, “So be it.”

  With that heads were lifted and soon the hall filled with merry chatter as they all ate.

  It wasn’t mystery meat, but it sure tasted good. Thomas chewed away, taking in his surroundings. For the first time since he had come through the portal of Mairead Fhada, he felt comfortable. He was clean. He was warm. And for now, he was safe. He hoped it would last, but he feared it would not.

  Fifty-Three

  The night was black. The hooded stranger surveyed the heavens. The moon and stars hid behind a thick blanket of impenetrable clouds. This close to the edge of the advancing army, he needed to be ever diligent. No fire tonight. He shivered and rolled over in his blanket, trying to stay warm.

  The snow creatures had released him after a harrowing day. He thought he was to be eaten. That would be a story to tell his grandchildren.

  He was making very slow time. In this area, the mountain had given way to a rutted plain, bordered on every side by slot canyons. It was like trying to find his way through an infernal maze. Many times, he had to dismount his horse and lead her through the narrow gorges where a rider could not stay in the saddle, only to come to a dead end. Then he faced the almost impossible task of backing the horse out till the ravine widened enough to turn around. It was nerve-wracking for him and terrifying for the horse. Her ears lay back and eyes rolled, giving a fearful whiny the entire time. The rider had coaxed her on with soft words.

  Finally, both exhausted, he had fettered the horse in a tiny meadow hidden by high rock faces. He built a makeshift camouflage roof of branches and scrub brush, to hide them both from the air. He shivered and rolled over again. Somewhere frigid air was touching his back with icy fingers.

  He peered up at the roof of clouds just as a black shadow passed very low overhead. Shadow Sentry! He knew from its altitude and its outstretched talons that it was preparing to land. Probably resting for the night. Did they rest? He wasn’t sure.

  He hatched a plan. Not a great one, but a plan nonetheless. He rolled to his knees and retrieved his sword from the saddle.

  The shadow sentry sat like a great chunk of black coal, absorbing the light. The man had watched it now for a few moments, and the sentry never made a move. He couldn’t see if it was even breathing. Its black scaled mount lay curled with wings folded a short distance away, tethered to a granite boulder. The serpentine sides heaved in and out, convincing him that at least the beast slept. He crept closer. The wind was in his face, so he hoped it would carry away his scent. He clutched a sturdy, thick limb that he had hacked from a tree before he left his camp.

  As he got closer, he discerned a bizarre hissing sound emanating from the shadow sentry. Incomprehensible language poured forth in unintelligible syllables like the drone of some bizarre insect. Was it chanting? Praying? Some mantra of black speech? He had no idea.

  Now, within striking distance, holding his breath, he stood from his crouch and drew back the wooden club. The droning sound stopped. He stepped and swung with all his might as the warrior whirled to face him in time to catch the force of the heavy club under the chin of its metal helm. With a clang, the helm flew off end over end and the shadow warrior went down.

  The flying beast stirred at the sound. The man ran, released the tether from the boulder and leapt into the saddle of the dark beast. Surprised, it sprang into the air with a croak and they were off. If it weren’t for the cruel iron spiked bit lodged in its fanged mouth, he would never have been able to control it. Even then it bucked and writhed in the air trying to unseat him. But he held on. The reins burned through his hands a few times. If it weren’t for the leather gloves, he was sure he would have lost a finger or two.

  The winged beast finally gave up and allowed the new rider to rein it in. The man guided the beast away from the amassing army to their west and flew on toward the north and continued his hunt, hoping that now he would make up valuable time and distance.

  Fi
fty-Four

  “No! And that is final,” Deacon Stormcloud said. Fion opened her mouth in protest. Deacon froze her with a glare. Then he turned back to his writing. She knew further resistance was futile. There was no way that he would allow her to accompany him and the raiders on their reconnaissance mission. But it was worth trying.

  “Yes. Father.” Fion turned to leave his private study. Then she had a thought. She needed to tread lightly; her father’s patience had its limits.

  “What about Thomas?”

  Deacon dropped his quill back in the ink pot and looked up from his notes.

  “What about Thomas?”

  “He is the Otherlander. You should take him with you,” she offered.

  “Fion, I know he is our friend and a great ally. What he and his Father did for us the last time they were with us was marvelous, but…”

  “But what? Father?”

  “I am not sure he is some prophetic warrior and…”

  Fion cut him off. “Please look at this, it will only take a moment.” She stepped to the massive bookshelf that took up one entire wall of the study and climbed the library ladder.

  Deacon straightened up and crossed his arms over his chest. “I see someone has been nosing about my study again.”

  Fion smiled sheepishly from the top of the ladder.

  “Aha! Here it is.” She climbed down the ladder, balancing a large leather-bound book, and wobbled over, plopping it on her Father’s desk.

  Fion hoped her father would at least hear her out. And then probably send her on her way.

  Fion thumbed through the pages. “Grandfather believed that Thomas was the Otherlander. If he didn’t, he would not have given him the Three in One Dragon pendant.”

  Deacon sighed, “That was a long time ago. Fourteen years to be precise. Yes, your grandfather believed it was true, but I am not sure. I have to put my faith in what I know. What I can see and touch.” Deacon rested his hand on the hilt of his sword that lay across his desk. “Cold hard steel.”

  Fion found what she was looking for and read from the yellowed page:

  When the veil is thin

  and the warrior is armed

  Walk the path of the Creator

  But be warned

  Destruction awaits he

  Who steps to the right or left.

  Deacon listened patiently as his daughter read the ancient verse.

  Fion looked up at her Father, desperately willing him to believe. “Well?”

  Deacon gently took his daughter by the shoulders. “Fion, I know all too well the reality of those words. I was there almost 15 years ago when we defeated Darcon, aided by our friends, Thomas and his Father.”

  “So, you believe?” Fion interrupted hopefully.

  “I believe that Thomas is still a boy of only 13 harvests. And his father would want him kept safe while he is here. The Creator spared him once. It would be foolish to presume on his grace and thrust Thomas back into danger. You saved him and brought him safely to the stronghold and out of the clutches of Darcon. It is here that he stays until we can see him home.”

  Deacon closed the book with a thud.

  “How we achieve that I do not know.”

  Fion opened her mouth.

  “Daughter,” Deacon said with finality. “I look to you to watch after him and help your mother while your Uncle John and I are gone.”

  Fion blew a strand of her hair out of her eye. “Yes, Father.”

  Deacon leveled his steel gaze on the girl. “And refrain from all mischief.”

  Fifty-Five

  Dragons’ grunts and roars filled the stable hall as Deacon and his men packed the saddlebags on their dragons. Each man had his own system for checking and rechecking his saddle and every lash and knot. It was the foolish rider who overlooked the most minute detail of securing his seat to his beast. In the air, swinging a sword or launching a spear at a shadow warrior was not the time to find that his saddle was loose.

  Deacon rubbed the neck of his reptilian friend. “Well, old man, you ready for another adventure?”

  Thorn roared his approval.

  Deacon looked deep into the dragon’s golden eyes. “I am still angry at you for taking Fion on that foolish mission.”

  Thorn grunted.

  “I know. Thomas needed you.”

  Thorn nodded his triangular head.

  “You’re attached to the little man, aren’t you?”

  Thorn whined.

  Deacon sighed, “Yes, so am I.”

  Thorn swung his head toward Ellie as she approached.

  Deacon smiled, seeing his red-headed wife. She still took his breath away, even after all these years.

  “You forgot your scarf,” she said with a lifted eyebrow.

  Ellie drew near and whipped the scarf over Deacon’s head and deftly wrapped it about his neck, securing the ends inside his leather rider’s jacket. “It’s going to be cold in the clouds today.”

  She patted his chest and gazed up at him. “You don’t have to go on this mission.”

  “But I do,” Deacon responded softly. “I am their leader.”

  “You can lead from the stronghold. You have riders that can oversee this mission.”

  Deacon hated these conversations. He knew what birthed them. Concern for him because of her love. The war was wearing on her. Actually, the war was wearing on all of them. He looked around. Many of the men were sharing tender moments with their wives, those that had them.

  Deacon adjusted his scarf. “Thank you, My Love. What would I do without you?”

  Ellie pulled him closer. “You would freeze.”

  Deacon smiled at that.

  One last hug and a kiss.

  “Take care of yourself, Deacon Stormcloud.”

  Deacon nodded. Then lifted his voice to the men in the hall. “Mount up!”

  He threw his leg over the saddle and settled in, gripped the reins and gave one last smile to Ellie.

  “Up, Thorn!”

  Thorn took wing, and Deacon yelled back over his shoulder. “We will be back in a week!”

  Ellie huddled with the rest of the women, gathering strength from their shared love. They watched their men go as the dragons beat the air and lifted into the sky.

  Ellie lifted her voice and sang a haunting melody. One by one, the other women joined her. They sang in the tongue of their ancient fore-bearers, which was close to this:

  Away you go

  On wings of gold

  Borne upon the wind

  May your sword be swift

  May your flight be brisk

  Borne upon the wind

  May the Creator bring you back

  To those you love

  May the Creator bring you back

  Borne upon the wind.

  Fifty-Six

  A sharp knock at the door of his bedroom chamber awakened Thomas. Before he could arise, Fion burst breathlessly into the room.

  Thomas quickly pulled the covers up around his neck.

  “Hey! Give a guy a little privacy. You mind?”

  Fion ignored him and threw a stack of clean clothes at him. They fluttered over his bed.

  “Get dressed, we have much to accomplish.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’ll tell you over breakfast. Now get dressed!”

  With that she stepped to the door then turned back.

  “Make haste! I will be back in 2 shakes of a dragon’s tail!” And she slammed the door.

  Thomas grudgingly gave up his blankets and stepped to the washstand and poured water from a jug into the basin and gave himself a quick standing bath. The water was cold and so was the air in his sleeping chamber. He really missed hot running water.

  He was just tucking his britches into his boots when the door flew open again. Thomas frowned. “Don’t you knock?”

  Fion smirked and taking him by the hand dragged him out of the room and down the hall.

  Fifty-Seven

  Thomas shoved another pi
ece of the sweet breakfast bread into his mouth. “This is so good,” he managed.

  Fion grinned, nodding madly with cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk.

  They were sitting in the back of the stronghold’s working kitchen at a small table squeezed between the cooking fires and shelving. Busy cooks and workers scurried about stoking the fires and prepping for the noonday meal. Feeding the men, women, and children of the stronghold was a mighty task, and overseeing it all was Theonica.

  Thomas watched as she approached. A cross between the cafeteria lady and his California grandmother, he thought. Strict, demanding, and sweet, all at the same time. Like the breakfast bread. Crunchy exterior with a soft and sweet middle.

  “Stop lookin’ about and eat your bread,” she commanded and filled Thomas’s and Fion’s mugs with fresh hot kava.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Thomas nodded.

  Theonica lingered. “What’s the day hold for you?”

  Thomas glanced at Fion.

  Fion smiled mischievously. “We are going for a ride.”

  Theonica leveled her gaze on the girl. “You stay out of trouble, lass.” She picked up the plates. “Your chores?”

  “Done.”

  Thomas blinked.

  Fion rolled her eyes. “Some of us watched the sunrise while we cleaned the dragon stables, while others were sleeping the day away.”

  Theonica smiled at Thomas, “Don’t pay her no mind, Master Thomas. Sometimes I think she was raised in a stable. In fact, if Fion’s mother let her, she would sleep there.”

  Fion smiled at the matron of the kitchen and standing drained her mug and slammed it on the table. “Come, Thomas, the day’s a wastin’.”

  Thomas took one last sip of the sweetly bitter kava, relishing the warming liquid. Fion impatiently tapped her foot and blew a strand of red hair out of her face.