“I’m starting to feel a bit ridiculous, like that dreamer . . . Marin.” Freck’s voice came from behind Fenner. Freck’s brass toned arms crossed in defiance, his muscular shoulders squared.
A glimmer of sadness for the young boy, for Marin, rested at the base of Fenner’s stomach. He was not amused and didn’t take his grandson’s comment light-heartedly. He turned, “Marin was smart to do things his Sprign body was made to do,” his voice hissed. “It’s about time we remembered that we are WynSprigns and use every available advantage.” He pointed at the WynSprigns clinging to tree branches high above—"You think the Mysra can do that?”
Freck only looked down and answered with a low voice: “No.”
Fenner’s teeth flashed, his lips pulled back. “No, indeed!” It pained him. Soon Freck will understand, Fenner thought with deep regret. But how? How could he convey the importance of the events that would soon take place? He hadn’t prepared them for the atrocities that were yet to come.
But, how could he? These WynSprigns had lived all their lives sheltered and without violence. Their eyes had never witnessed the sizable foe. He—and the other elders—should have trained them. Fenner now understood the mistake in this late hour. Lanico had had it right with Marin the whole time. Lanico hadn’t allowed Marin to waste time muddling over which useless village skills to have Marin hone. No, he knew this day could have been a real possibility. And, now . . .
With his hands on his waist, watching over the leaping and climbing WynSprign warriors, Fenner sighed, defeated and a little ashamed at what his grandson had just said. He walked away and found Trayvor sitting alone at a wooden table covered by rows of water cups. His cane leaned against the table. Fenner glared at him while taking a cup of water to quench his thirst. He turned to face the practicing WynSprigns and drank.
Trayvor didn’t look at Fenner when he approached, but he started talking: “I know that you must be disappointed in me, Fen . . .” His words were leading, searching for comfort.
He didn’t find it.
Fenner did not respond. He didn’t care to make Trayvor feel better. Instead, Fenner gulped the last of the water and set the heavy cup down with a thud. He sucked through his teeth loudly, wiped his wet mouth on his forearm, and walked back to the station without looking back at his fellow elder.
Trayvor remained seated and hung his head low, becoming a large blue lump at the table. Unlike everyone else’s, his cup was filled with ale. All around him various WynSprigns had answered the call of duty—even the striking Bre Brickelbury, on whom he had gazed many times. She awkwardly tried thrusting the long staff she wielded, clumsy in her attempts to lunge.
“She won’t last,” he muttered to himself with a woeful countenance. He picked up his cup and tossed back more ale.
✽✽✽
Fenner organized the swordsmen and swordswomen to spar back and forth. A large crew of those that would wield staffs he had practice with large hanging bedding sacks. Besides the house and the weapons, this equipment was also compliments of Lanico and Marin . . . whether they knew it or not. Fenner had to use something, and the odds were that Marin and Lanico wouldn’t be back before the battle to use their beds anyway.
The staff-wielding warriors swung and attacked the bedding sacks with all their might, and it wasn’t long before they tore open and all the wood shavings came snowing down. The WynSprigns all got a mighty laugh from it—and they’d simply re-stuff a sack, sew, and reuse it. If they were torn beyond repair, no worries, they’d just take someone else’s—probably sneak Trayvor’s.
Fenner belted out orders as he eyed their movements closely. He was proud of his grandson Freck’s skills and watched him with great pleasure. His other grandsons were promising, also, but Freck outshone them. Back in the Odana Kingdom, they’d all be on their way to be soldiers. Fenner gleamed at that thought. It would have been nice to have had them training in his higher ranks.
“Hey! Grandfather!” Freck shouted at him. “We almost done yet?” He stood with a hand on his side, gasping. Stray sunlight beamed on his bronze skin, kissing it golden.
Fenner grumbled from his daydream, thinking, If only he’d act like a Soldier. He shouted out, “No! Keep going damn it!”
Freck slumped and sighed with mock rudeness but continued to train with Felena Odmire. She was proving great at wielding the sword, but even she was beginning to get agitated with her immature sparring mate. Her face flushed pink against her golden hair. She moved quickly and deliberately, and then in a fury she countered one of his slack moves and suddenly Freck found himself at the wrong end of her sword.
“Good, Felena!” Fenner suddenly came back to life. He shouted and clapped excitedly for the young woman.
Freck turned red and without a word, he quickly sprang up and walked away for a drink of water. Trayvor was still sitting there, an ignorable fixture at the table. They paid each other no mind.
After the quick water break, Freck walked over to his grandfather. “May I take a break from the sword, Grandfather? I’d like to learn at the staff as well.” He said he wanted to challenge himself in other areas, but without saying so, he conveyed that he didn’t want to be out-performed again by Felena.
Fenner was pleased at this request for something new. “Yes Freck, that’s a fine idea. You’re already a natural at sword fighting, it seems. It’s a great thing to have additional knowledge with various weapons.”
“Well, I am a Brickelbury, after all,” Freck stated smartly. Fenner responded with an intent look and excused himself to walk past him and take a staff from a large barrel.
Meanwhile, Felena, looked around to find another sparring mate. She started practicing the sword with Tarn, who was also becoming quite talented. Felena would do well at sword fighting, with or without practicing with Freck. She was bent on it.
Chapter Forty-Two
Sleepheather oil
Neen grunted, sulking on a stool inside the empty mess hall. He had already gathered all the bed rolls, water skins, and many pieces of leather armor, and still no one came to help. And it had been hours. All the Mysra were lazy and had over-indulged at the party, or at least that was his conclusion, because he sure as fires couldn’t determine what else made them sleep so deeply. But all that slumbering was proving detrimental to his long-term plan. He tried to think of his mental list: wagons, cages, ropes, canteens, and food . . . Yes, we need these gathered as well. Weapons—only minimal. Knives. We don’t need many for this mission. They were only taking defenseless WynSprigns, after all.
He hadn’t tried waking them again. Scrambling through the list of priorities, he felt his mind racing. Should I try waking them again?
He was starting to get up from the stool as the door creaked open, and he watched to see who he could rail at. A smaller, gray figure in a purple cloak appeared—it was Grude, who had made the trip to the mess hall.
“Grude! Sire!” Neen quickly stood from the stool and made a small bow. Grude didn’t seem to have been impacted by last night’s celebration, either. Why?
Grude strolled in casually with a sour face, his thin mouth a straight line, his eyes expressionless. “Neen, I see that you have been working in here,” Grude said, observing the long tables filled impressively with supplies and body protection.
“Yes, Sire. I have been up for several hours now trying to put this all together for the other Mysra warriors and guards, so we can head out to the Horse’s Clearing. No one has come in yet, for they have been sleeping off last night’s party. We still need many things for our preparations.” Neen didn’t want to say that he had tried waking them earlier—numerous times.
Grude’s features remained enigmatic. His mouth was a straight line that seemed irresolute. He walked up and down the length of the tables and roamed his gaze over the row of gathered knives.
“Neen, tell me what you think is needed, and I will make it happen,” Grude said with a hiss.
Neen breathed out a sigh of defeat.
&nb
sp; ✽✽✽
Misty fog blanketed the Odana Kingdom, and while it seemed that all the Mysra were in heavy slumber in the haze, not Neen, nor any other, had considered the slaves.
Due to the Mysra sleeping it off, things were a bit lax at the mine and at the castle. The slaves, some of them, pondered escape. Others were cautious and remained working, afraid that this was a trap or that they’d be caught running or found out in plotting - or meet their end in the trench.
It was these WynSprigns that had the Purple Hall still in production, dutifully picking away. But the Mysra guards were sleeping on the job—no one was belting out orders or glaring at them and threatening them with large knives. The slaves’ thoughts roiled over whether to leave, to return to the huts, to escape, or to stay and pick away. The uncertainty, for many, lead to immobility.
The kitchen servants had made breakfast for Grude, but there wasn’t much more he demanded by the brief start of Tunia’s shift. Even the stables had been stilled and the only sound had been from the horses within snickering and grunting.
Even though she had had only a few hours of sleep, Tunia, wearing her light blue skirts, danced on her way back to the castle for her shift. She tried to contain her delight and not give her guilt away. Even the thought of the fowl feathers that undoubtedly littered her kitchen floor by now couldn’t ruffle her happiness. The small early morning crew had likely completed their preparations for the day.
Tunia had been in charge of the yellow berry wine barrels the previous night and had made certain to give the barrels a hefty dose of her sleepheather oil while they were under her care in the kitchen. Only a few drops of the thick gray liquid could knock out the largest of the Mysra, putting them all in a comatose slumber.
Once back at the castle, as she had every day for innumerable years, she stepped on her stool, and it shook under her weight as it pressed on the loose wooden floorboard just underneath. The board jutted up when her weight was not on the stool. It was the perfect place to hide a bottle of sleepheather oil, even for the past hundred years. She had waited—waited for the right moment to unleash its spell.
Understanding the reason for the celebration: That moment was last night.
Of course. Barrels and barrels of wine had been rolled into her kitchen for her oversight. She smiled thinking about how they’d be out for hours more and, therefore, the plans for the day’s departure would be much delayed. It wasn’t much perhaps, to cause them such sleep, but the miners could escape, perhaps—if they had the cunning. Perhaps the WynSprigns that the Mysra sought could be given more time to flee or prepare. It was enough to cause Tunia great satisfaction.
What was regrettable, though, was that Grude and a few others had not had her yellow berry wine from the tainted barrels. Grude had his own private collection from which he drank. Tunia had realized this but wouldn’t allow that thought to weigh her down. The slaves could do what they liked with the temporary freedom. She on the other hand, considered the kitchen her home. She never wanted to leave it, even if being there meant having to cater to Grude. She knew her kitchen and was content here. Her duties were about the same as they had always been, even under King Oetam.
She breathed in the morning air. Still.
Still more drops of sleepheather oil remained.
And, there was still some time left.
Chapter Forty-Three
Lady of the Mist
Stoutwyn and his group traveled as far as they could into the deep woods, their arms tired from carrying loads, small children, and babes. Their legs were heavy and burning from the walk and they were drained of constantly watching for fallen tree branches on the uneven ground. They were weary of worrying about their safety and the safety of those they loved back in the Great Mist. The sun was beginning to set and the treetops were slowly painted shades of orange and pink, a reminder that nightfall was soon to follow, an invisible flaming pitchfork poking at their rear ends to move forward. But then—
“Here!” Stoutwyn shouted, breaking the silence. “We’ll stop here, everyone!” He looked around, beads of sweat glistening on his brow and gathering in his deep wrinkles. It seemed that this stretch of woods was no different from any other—dense with trees and brambles. It made no matter—his group was exhausted, and he needed to let them rest.
The WynSprigns heaved and sighed as they set the babes down in their wrappings. They dropped their heavy things and wrung out their arms and hands, enjoying relief from the physical burdens while their hearts were still heavy. Stoutwyn began delegating tasks that would lead to an appropriate campsite, for this area was not ready—not yet.
“For those able, let’s work to clear this area a bit! Let’s move some branches and brambles out of our way. We will need to try to make space here for us to rest for the evening, and we will need to set up shelter and try to gather food later. For now, we can rely on the food items that we’ve brought.”
The snapping of twigs and crunching of ground cover sounded at the many moving around him. Stoutwyn began kicking at a few twigs and sticks at his feet before making the great effort to bend over and gather them up. “We’ll make a fire late . . . try to gather sticks like these”—he held up a few thin sticks in his plump hand. Nodding heads of compliant small children promised they’d find these.
Stoutwyn then circled the large camp, careful of those sitting about in exhaustion. He didn’t feel confident he was making the right choice for all of them and decided to find Murah. She was a safe, sensible soul to discuss these matters with. She was his lifelong love and best friend. As he approached, he could see that she was busy caring for small tottering children, thus giving the pregnant mothers some much-needed rest and time to put their feet up on the gathered bundles. She had her hands full and looked on at the small ones with tender, loving eyes. She was beautiful to him, the very picture of love.
He decided against burdening her with his ramblings and began wandering away from the camp and into the dark woods. “I’ll walk just a little way, only to clear my mind” he had said quietly to a preoccupied Murah—who hadn’t heard a thing over the bubbling babe sounds she so delighted in.
As he walked, the sounds of conversation and the glow of fire behind him faded. His eyes began to glow brighter at the increasing darkness that soon enveloped him and the world around. He didn’t walk too far, or at least that was what he believed.
Soon a light blue, glowing mist surrounded him, and the ground became wet, very wet. His footsteps squelched loudly as the mud pulled at his boots. The fog had begun to grow thick. He decided it would be wise to turn around and head back to prevent becoming lost. He slowly turned, but the fog was so dense he wasn’t quite sure he was walking in the right direction now. He felt his heart pulsing. There was a level of sudden alarm. He swirled around, staring blankly into the dense fog that licked against his hot face.
Perhaps if I yell, the others will hear me and come to my aid, he thought, but no—no, on second thought—he lifted his feet against the thick sucking and continued to ponder—that could harm them, too. What if they became lost as well? In truth, I am more able-bodied than the lot of them.
Succumbing to his real plight, he was about to resort to yelling for help when suddenly the glowing mist gathered into one large mass that hovered over the ground in front of him. United, the glowing mass grew brighter, shifted, and loomed. It was a soft blue, cool, and misty to the touch. Stoutwyn wasn’t distressed at this, but rather, intrigued. He leaned a little closer to this misty substance to examine it. As he reached out to touch its cool silk—Boom!
A clap of thunder sounded and the flash of lightning energy sent his plump body flying. He landed on his backside, his legs high in the air and his heart leaping in his throat, then pounding. The flash crackled and reverberated all around. With much effort and grunting, he worked to pull himself upright and flung his long beard over his shoulder to its rightful place. His face showed alarm and his eyes bulged. The muddy ground received his seated weight, bu
t his heart hammered.
A light, breezy voice sounded out from around him, as if . . . as if the mist were talking: “Stoutwyn . . . I have been awaiting your arrival,” it breezed.
Stoutwyn, bewildered, fumbled with his chest pocket and produced his faithful spectacles. With trembling fingers, he placed them on the bridge of his nose and peered into the mist. “Y—Y—You’ve been expecting me?” He paid no mind to the cold wetness growing under his bottom. He squinted through the specs at the glowing mass. It had manipulated and formed, and an exceedingly glorious specter drifted before him. A woman, illuminated, blue. Her floating hair was the deep color of indigo berries. The Blue Woman of the wood!
“Stoutwyn . . . I have been told of your journey. I’m glad I was able to find and receive you.” She paused and her voice was flat: “I felt a disturbance in my woods.” She looked pleasant and unangered, though she did not smile.
“Disturb—no, no, Miss. We don’t intend to disturb anyone. If fact, we can leave now”—Stoutwyn sprang up.
“Stop!” she said darkly. “Stoutwyn”—her voice became soft again, weighted as if she were learning to communicate in a way that was pleasant to him. “You and your people are welcome in these woods. I was hoping to lead you to a better and safer spot, but I see that your people have settled for the night. Tomorrow I will lead you to my chosen place for protection.”
Stoutwyn looked at her in amazement. “Who are you?” he asked, his voice small and hoarse.
“I am called Thara. I am the lady of the mist, the Fray over water and mist, and of these woods.” She glided around him and he saw she was quite tall, reminiscent of another Fray he knew. “I am the third created Fray daughter of Father Odan.” She slowly held an arm out toward his camp. “I have been summoned to aid you and your people.”
The Legacy of Lanico: Reclaiming Odana Page 24