While the majority of the team was off investigating, Randler continued pressing himself through his exercises to strengthen his damaged legs. On their own they ached terribly. Bending his knees, lifting his legs, and putting weight on them all escalated the aches to intense pain. He struggled not to cry out at such times, especially if anyone was nearby. And it seemed as if there was always someone nearby.
Cold air wafted through the window, reminding Randler that they were in the heart of winter. It wasn’t at all like the winters he knew in Kallisor. The desert kept the area dry and golden, but even though the sand warmed in the sun and radiated that heat all around, the wind itself was chill. It was the only indication to him that winter was upon them.
He reached down and massaged his left leg, shuddering at the waves of fire that laced up at his touch. Pressing and squeezing, he continued the massage, keeping the blood flowing well for the following challenge. He tried to picture his leg as a lute string. It was necessary to tighten the string further and further, almost to the point of breaking, just so it would produce the perfect quality of sound. Perhaps the string itself felt like his leg did now, and each twist of the knob would send shudders through its core.
With one leg ready, he worked on the next, now turning his mind toward repairing a drum. Tugging the fabric was necessary for creating a sharp and deep thud, and the skin there too probably felt the strain as it was tightened into place.
With both legs as limber as possible, Randler stretched his fingers—the conductor before the show—and reached toward the oversized bedpost. Setting one foot on the floor and tugging gently, he stepped up and swayed as his body accepted the rush of agony. He had never danced in a fire nor walked upon sharp needles, but he imagined that those sensations were comparable to what he felt now.
Remaining erect was challenge enough, but he wasn’t done. Beside the bed was his staff, the same one that Dariak had crafted for him on their journey through Astrith’s forest. It was crude in design but it was sturdy. With a solid thunk, he set the staff before him, then he lifted his left foot and shuffled it forward a step, transferring his weight from one leg to the other. All the while the symphony of pain swirled through him in massive waves.
With the healing jade and help from the mages, the pain was present, yet manageable. Now that magic had been rendered ineffective, he was all on his own. A few of the mages had prepared herbal remedies, but the tinctures and poultices usually only made him feel aloof or dizzy and did not help where he needed it.
Three more steps passed by as he considered the wild variety of herbs and fruits he had imbibed in various teas. Some were purely delightful in their own right, and he planned one day to create a berry and basil tincture just to unwind.
He stopped making progress as a particularly strong wave of pain swept through him. His vision clouded and he teetered precariously, which flooded him with anxiety. He remembered his first solo performances as a bard and the wild jitters that shook him before he started to play. Breathing deeply always helped him stabilize and he did so now, drawing in careful breaths and releasing them slowly, expelling the sensations of his body with every exhalation.
When his vision stopped flickering, he continued to walk forward, ignoring the pressures building in his head with all the focus this one simple act was taking. He had walked all his life and never had such a chore of it. He looked over his head and glanced back to where he started, disappointed that he could practically hop backwards and land in bed. All that effort and he had barely moved.
Yet he needed to remain positive in light of this. He let the pain wash over him and he felt it swish from side to side, rising up, sinking low, wafting all around. He hummed along as he pictured it, letting the notes drift into and out of himself, drawing together into a new and powerful melody.
And as the notes pulsated in a mix of rhythm and chaos, there came an unexpected crescendo, with all the instruments banging out in a loud, fiery chorus, like a tilted tree finally breaking from its roots and smashing to the ground. And once the violent rush of sound exploded in Randler’s ears, it drifted and wafted away slowly, leaving him behind all alone with nothing. Nothing.
Nothing except the press of cold stone against his face and the drizzle of blood from his nose where he had cracked it when he stumbled.
He lay there a while, wondering if the music would start up again or if he would only have silence. He could hear drums starting up in the background as pinpricks rattled up and down his legs. The drums were joined by a low, wailing flute, building louder and louder until it overpowered the percussions and drew all of Randler’s attention. He held on to the melody, not wanting to let it go, even though it brought with it all the reminders of his suffering. Yet where did most creations come from? The heart, the soul, and where better to feel them than in the depths of despair where the body was so hurt it couldn’t distract him with any other desires? The music was all he had. It was the only companion that had always been by his side.
When the keening wail subsided, Randler summoned more of his mental music by pressing his hands upon the floor and shifting himself upright. Staff in hand, he struggled to reclaim his footing, but his legs were just too weak. He barely made it off the bed earlier; now rising from the floor was a much greater challenge and he couldn’t do it on his own.
He knew he should have kept Astrith’s crutches on during this endeavor, but he worried that he would grow so accustomed to their support that he would never walk on his own again, and that thought drove him mad with worry. He would never dance again, and what good was a bard who could play music but not revel in it?
Randler slid his body over to the wall, taking the staff with him. After a rest, he tried again, buttressing himself against the wall while climbing up the staff hand over hand. His left leg was stronger than his right so he used it first for support and, though he wavered, he remained upright. Bringing the right leg underneath was easy then, though the reverberations through his body threatened to spill him to the ground once more.
Turning his head to the right, he could see the bed waiting there, taunting him. He felt like a prisoner chained to the dungeon wall with food placed barely beyond his reach. And he was terribly hungry.
He considered pushing off the wall and hoping for the best, but his nose was still bleeding from his first fall and he could only imagine what other damage he would do if he missed the bed, or worse, if he cracked his head against the frame.
While he waited for courage to well within himself, he thought about the jades and the loss of their powers. He wondered how the stories of the Forgotten Tribe tied into that, and how the picture book Kitalla had seen in Magehaven would connect. Randler thought of the music in his mind and he focused on crafting words to bind with the notes.
With a single waft through ancient trees,
the lady did meet her man.
They laughed and danced and joined in song
and so crossed an empty span.
Bound together in an ancient time, when
the trees were but a foot tall.
They came together to create a new land;
they did not hope to fall.
In the past with the errors of pride,
the man was strong and the lady thus died.
In the future where the world is unknown,
too many hopes have already flown.
Two children born to the lady and king;
each of them kept one.
Kallisor, with sword held high,
did try to train his son.
Hathreneir, with magical skills,
did then raise the girl.
But war broke out between these two;
their lives would then unfurl.
In the past with the errors of pride,
the man was strong and the lady thus died.
In the future where the world is unknown,
too many hopes have already flown.
The children of the Forgotten Tribe,
Urged by the father then for the sister
to be killed by the brother.
Yet he refused, he ran away, hid himself
from the scorn of his father.
Thus it was the king of Kallisor,
killed his first and truest daughter.
In the past with the errors of pride,
the man was strong and the lady thus died.
In the future where the world is unknown,
too many hopes have already flown.
Estranged from the vicious, warlike man
who had given him life,
the truest son of the king of Kallisor
found for himself a wife.
Though little is known across the land
of the timid boy’s adventures,
it could just be that he kept quiet;
freedom from conjecture.
In the past with the errors of pride,
the man was strong and the lady thus died.
In the future where the world is unknown,
too many hopes have already flown.
Years pass by and lines intertwine,
descendants now are lost.
We’ve no true king to lead us now,
and so we pay the cost.
The divided factions, left and right
ever are they at war.
And yet we seek to come together
to finally say, “no more.”
In the past with the errors of pride,
the man was strong and the lady thus died.
In the future where the world is unknown,
too many hopes have already flown.
The lines are blurred and all the kings,
though, yes, truly descended,
are only from the single royal lines;
not the one intended.
So now we yearn for a fresh new day
where peace can be at hand.
Where are you, of the Forgotten Tribe?
We need that kind of man.
In the past with the errors of pride,
the man was strong and the lady thus died.
In the future where the world is unknown,
too many hopes have already flown.
And as I ponder the history of events in
this world in which I live,
I realize that we’ve always had help
from those who would give.
We have had the mages, the soldiers too,
and indeed each single jade.
Yet how will we all come together?
Or will we be lost in shade?
In the past with the errors of pride,
the man was strong and the lady thus died.
In the future where the world is unknown,
too many hopes have already flown.
Randler’s body fell again, but this time by design. He allowed himself to slip forward onto the bed, the staff clattering to the floor, its task complete. The bard yanked on the blanket to help roll himself upon the mattress and then he lay there, staring at the ceiling, as the fervent fire within his body welled up and consumed him, burning away the rest of his solemn day.
Chapter 6
The Chancellor Sings
Tensions in the Hathren castle and town mounted as the days passed by. All the people had been placed in homes and given vital work to do to help restore order to the place, but resistance flourished everywhere. Castle guards were summoned regularly to settle minor disputes among the people, but whenever Dariak or his comrades arrived, immediately the troubles vanished. At first it seemed as if the people were just afraid of their new Regent and his friends, but the frequency of the issues should then have decreased, which was quite the opposite of what was happening.
On one particularly busy day, fifteen reports of riots reached the castle and guards were dispatched to each occurrence. Gabrion, Ruhk, Verna, Lica, and Carrus separately attended some of the incursions, and, as before, those squabbles ended instantly. They tried finding other cases of trouble and discovered that the town was quiet. The other guards, however, took hours to return, and none of the group could find them amidst the people. It was a terrible sign.
Ieran, meanwhile, scurried about the castle, his tunic all askew and his face drenched in sweat, as he reported all the disasters to Dariak with utmost urgency. Always, he looked to be at his breaking point and he frequently confessed his confusion about why the fights were incessantly erupting.
“Send another team,” Dariak ordered. “Dismissed.”
Randler looked at the mage after Ieran left. “I guess it’s soon, then.”
“If only we knew exactly when, and how to stop it.” He sat heavily on a chair. “We still have about twenty of our soldiers here. But only that.”
“The part I don’t understand is why the men and women committed to our team are also gone for extended periods. You don’t think they’ve turned sides, Dariak?”
“If they have, then we have to get out of here before it’s too late.” The door opened and Kitalla walked in, her face stone cold. “And I was hoping for good news.”
She grabbed a goblet of wine from the side table and drank it in one gulp. “So much for peace,” she said, pouring herself a second helping. “I don’t suppose you’ve gotten those jades to work yet, have you?”
“Not yet. How bad is it?”
Kitalla threw herself into a chair and kicked her feet up. “We haven’t done a very good job of paying attention to the people around us. We send our guards, they come back. But not all of them. Actually, quite a few haven’t returned in days. We’ve been so busy rushing out to help these people that we haven’t noticed.”
“What are you saying?” Randler asked, leaning forward. “They’re being taken?”
She nodded. “And I know where they’re being held but I haven’t figured out how to get inside.” She saw the confused look on their faces and she grinned. “I have my sources.” Indeed, her mentor, Poltor, who had trained her as a thief was currently working his own form of magic in the area. Though he had disowned Kitalla after she left his group, she had apparently convinced him to shed some information during their time there. It suggested to Dariak that Poltor feared for Kitalla’s life, because if his connection to her was discovered, his livelihood would drastically change.
Randler interpreted, “Then the guards who side with the king return here for their duties, all the while depositing our supporters into some sort of holding cell. Soon we will have no one left but ourselves.”
Kitalla smiled as if he had just given her a diamond the size of his fist. “Without magic on their side, they’ve had to be crafty. Our own altruism has worked against us because we haven’t been watching closely enough for subterfuge, since we’ve been doing everything we can to rebuild their stupid home. And in that ti—”
The door crashed open and Ieran staggered in, his face bright red, his breath wheezing. “In the southeast quadrant. Two men struck down with swords. Fire to a bakery. We have to hurry!”
“The people can figure this one out themselves,” Kitalla sneered. “Seriously, they have to learn that their actions have consequences. We’re not their parents, after all.”
Ieran’s face burned redder, if that was possible. “But the fire will spread and we have no water magics to quell the flames! People will die! I cannot accept that!” None of them seemed concerned so he shouted, “The people turn to you for help. If you don’t answer, they will turn against you!”
“It seems they already have.” Kitalla groaned, biting a fingernail and inspecting her work. “Besides, we don’t even have anyone left to send.”
“There are still men to send,” Ieran insisted. “I will send them myself if you do not!”
Kitalla gave an audible gasp. “You would act without the Regent’s permission? Worse, against it?”
Dariak waved his hand to calm her. “Ieran, of course we wouldn’t even think of letting the people suffer so. Perhaps
once you have sent them, you can return here and we can devise a means of ending these outbursts before they continue. Perhaps we will need to post soldiers throughout the town? Or establish a curfew? Or close all but the necessary shops and locations? Or—”
“Hold! Hold!” Ieran panicked. “The fire must be dealt with first. I will return presently and—”
Dariak looked at him, wondering why he had stopped, but then he understood the reason. Kitalla had risen up from her seat, setting her goblet aside and focusing her attention on the king’s chancellor. Her eyes lit with a sultry fire and she stepped forward by crossing one leg over another, her hands tracing the lines of her hips with each step. Sliding her fingertips up her body, she reached for the laces on her tunic, untangling the top and tugging at the leather. She turned slowly away, bending over, reaching her hands up to her face, removing the tie in her hair that kept it neatly tucked away. Then with pulsating motions, she swept her head around, fanning her luxurious hair in all directions, her body swaying with the motion.
The lascivious gestures would have even turned Randler’s and Dariak’s heads if they were not somewhat immune to her dance skills from all the time they had spent together. Ieran didn’t stand a chance. His jaw dropped open and he swayed in time with her hips, his eyes nearly bulging out of his head.
“Come on, baby,” Kitalla crooned, keeping her rhythmic gyrations going. “It will be over soon, won’t it? I can’t stand the waiting any more. When do we get rid of those evil people in the castle, huh, baby?”
“W—W—Well it isn’t like the king’s birthday when we know it’s coming,” he drawled. “But wouldn’t you rather talk about something more pleasant, milady? You do look ravishing in that dress.”
“Oh,” Kitalla demurred, “you say that to all the ladies.” She turned and bent low again, sweeping her hands around in perfect, repetitive harmony. “But, Ierie, you know I can’t give you what you want until I’m not worried any more. I’m just so scared.”
The Forgotten Tribe Page 4