Banshee’s Honor
Part Nine
by
“You’re
sure of this, boy?” Arris leaned forward and looked down at the grubby,
dirt and snow covered messenger that had been rushed into the courtroom
only moments before.
“Yes,
your highness. I have it from
the mayor of Ynnych’s lips. There
be demons in the forests!” the boy proclaimed, his voice only cracking
slightly.
Mutters
of “What?” and “Impossible!” rippled through the gallery.
“I
guess the bitch wasn’t as thorough as father thought she was,” Arris
commented mildly and then waved the boy away.
“You may go now. Tell
the mayor that as soon as he’s able, I’d like to have the honor of his
company for dinner.”
“Right
away, your majesty!” The boy
bowed low and then raced out of the room.
“Derkus,
call up the master-at-arms and tell him to come to my chambers,” the
king ordered and then looked out at his court.
The couriers were now whispering fearfully among each
other. If the demons had
come, that meant the northern border was dreadfully unprotected and all
those towns – the towns where most of their families lived, where their
money came from – were in serious danger. Good. That would keep them busy, and when
they heard his plans, they wouldn’t try to interfere.
It would be glorious. He
would be a hero, and then no one would ever again doubt his gods given
right to rule.
The
king smiled in contented satisfaction and stood up.
“Good day everyone. I
must go and see to the defense of the land.”
Everyone
stood as he descended the steps to the floor and then watched as he and
his honor guard exited the throne room.
Porthyros
was by his side as soon as the doors closed.
He held out a cup of perfectly warmed tea and waited while
the young man drank down its contents greedily.
“Thank
you, old friend. You always
know exactly what I need. Now,
what do you think of the glorious opportunity that today’s news has
brought us?” asked Arris as he removed his crown and haphazardly
dropped it onto a waiting cushion. Together,
they walked toward the royal chambers.
“I
think, my liege, that properly considered, it will prove to be your
greatest accomplishment.” The
old scholar phrased his statement carefully, already having some idea
of where the brash young man’s mind had gone, but not yet knowing what
direction his true masters wanted it to go.
The
king frowned and stopped just outside of his door.
“What’s there to consider? I’ll
raise the army and go north and smash them all!
It will be magnificent! The
bards will sing of my heroics for years, and the people will love me
more than even my sainted father!”
Blinking
at the vehemence in Arris’ tone, Porthyros cried out, “My king! Surely you can’t mean to risk
yourself against the demons?”
Arris
grabbed the diminutive man, threw him against the door and growled,
“Are you saying that I’m not capable of warfare?
That I’m some kind of pathetic little weakling that needs
to hide behind castle walls while real warriors go out and die for the
glory of Y’dan?”
“No,
of course not, your majesty,” Porthyros croaked breathlessly. “All know of your skill with the
blade and the bards will sing of your bravery.
I swear it!”
Suddenly,
the anger seemed to drain from Arris, along with his strength. He dropped his mentor and sighed
heavily. “You are right, old
man. Go now, and instruct the
kitchens to send my lunch. I’m
tired and hungry and my temper is fit for no man, and especially not
our good master-at-arms!”
The
older man nodded and scuttled off to do his lord’s bidding.
%%%
“So
the pup wants to go to war, eh? Well,
let him. Encourage him to
wait until next winter, though. All
will be in place by then, and this little bonus will seal things nicely. Who needs a puppet king, anyway?” Kesryn laughed, watching as
Porthyros greedily counted the bright golden coins that were scattered
on the ground. Pitching out
another coin, he smirked when the scholar’s eyes automatically followed
its arc.
They
had met in an abandoned home near the edge of Y’dannyv and Kesryn had
been pleased with his minion’s report.
“Any
word on that piece of whore’s dung that calls herself a Warleader?” he
asked as Porthyros returned to his visual coin counting.
“Not
so far, my lord, but my spies may be hampered by the weather.” A freak snowstorm had come blowing
down from the mountains, blanketing the city in white one last time
before the spring thaw.
“No
matter, I will find her, and when I do, I will send her screaming down
into the pits of hell. Now,
go back to Arris. Coax,
cajole, bribe, beg or whatever it is you have to do, but get him to put
off his little escapade up north, until next winter.
I’ve got it! Hire
an oracle to babble some nonsense about destiny and prophecies. He’ll enjoy that.”
With that last order, he threw out the rest of the pouch
and faded into the shadows, content to watch the scholar scuttle around
the room, accurately retrieving each and every one of the gold pieces
that were scattered about.
When
the wretched little man had left, Kesryn pulled out a pouch and
hurriedly drew a protective circle on the floor around him. When it was done, he began chanting
a string of harsh syllables. Immediately,
he felt his limbs stiffen as his body was taken over by the being he
called “Master”.
“Your
efforts please me, toy. You
are a worthy vessel.” His
lips moved but the sound that came out was not any earthly voice. The sound seemed to swirl around the
circle, echoing upon itself and making Kesryn’s ears ring.
“I
will instruct my children to return to their nests, and breed. They have done their work well. Soon, my slave.
The day grows nearer when I will walk among you and you
will feel my love first hand. The
barrier grows thinner every day. Begin
the sacrifices soon, my slave. Harvest
the power of their deaths. With
it, you will forge the key that will unlock the gates that have held me
from this world.”
Feeling
the strength of his vessel wane, the dark god gave one final order.
“You must find the child of
Rhu’len. Give her to me, and
the power I shall bestow upon you will make what you control now seem
like parlor tricks. Your
vengeance is my vengeance, Darkchilde, for I too long to savor the
screams of the Scion of DaCoure. She
and all others who have laid a hand against my children, shall taste my
wrath!” With
that, he was gone.
Already,
Kesryn was making plans. A
list of names formed in his mind. Men
and women he would contact and then bring to Y’dannyv to begin
gathering the power necessary to raise Ecarthus from the depths of hell. The mage knew of several empty
warehouses that would serve well as new temples to Ecarthus: eater of
souls. Keeping the sacrifices
quiet might be a problem, but if he started with the unsavory types –
drifters, thieves, and other common criminals, no one would notice. Only when the supply of undesirables
fell short, would he start on the innocent.
The sorcerer felt his face tighten into a malicious grin. Arris should thank him. He was about to make Y’dannyv the
most crime-free city in all of the kingdoms!
His
mind still ringing with the words of his demonic master, Kesryn
collapsed in a heap.
The mage’s blood hummed with the
new powers that the contact had granted him, and with a flick of his
wrist, he conjured up a cup of restorative wine.
After drinking the restorative draught, he crushed the
cheap tin vessel and threw it into the empty hearth.
It was time to call in a few markers.
%%%
Peering
into the darkened doorway of one of the city’s many run-down hovels,
Arris used a soaking wet handkerchief to mop rainwater from his face. The king sighed unhappily and
whined, “I still don’t understand why you’ve dragged me out to meet
this crazy old witch, Porthyros! Why
couldn’t she just come to the castle and see me in the throne room like
any civilized person?”
“Madam
Koresky would have gladly come to the castle my liege, but her magic is
strongest here. Her home is
filled with objects of wondrous powers, and she draws upon them for
greater insight,” the scholar explained softly.
The
door to the ramshackle house opened, revealing a stooped older woman. Silently, she waved them in, shooing
away one of a dozen cats that swirled around her ankles.
“On
your head it be, if this place falls down around my ears,” Arris
growled as he hurried to follow the woman.
The
home was far more comfortable inside than it appeared to be. The walls were buried behind layers
of old tapestries and the floors well carpeted by rushes and tattered
rugs. A cheerful fire blazed
in a large hearth, casting odd shadows that danced around the room,
partially illuminating the oddest collection of items Arris had ever
seen gathered in one place. Stuffed
owls huddled side by side with seashells and balls of oddly colored fur. Permeating everything was a musty
odor, thick with dust and age, which made the young king sneeze
furiously.
“Welcome
to my home, my king,” the old woman said, curtseying as low as her aged
bones would allow. Shuffling
over to a large chair placed near the fire, she asked, “Will you permit
an old woman to warm her bones?”
Arris
gathered every shred of courtly training he had and added a good dollop
of common sense. Madam
Koresky was reputed to be a very powerful witch.
Angering her would undoubtedly be less than the smartest
thing he had ever done in his short life. Besides,
she had something for him - something Porthyros claimed was terribly
important.
“Please,
m’lady, ease the chill and take your rest,” the king said graciously,
waiting until the old woman had fully seated herself before snagging a
nearby seat. Porthyros
scurried up to stand behind him; one hand perched, claw-like, on the
back of the chair.
“Thank
you, your majesty,” the witch said, giving the young king a wide,
toothless smile. She
gestured, and a table appeared from nowhere, along with a bottle of
wine and two glasses. “A
drink, your highness? It is a
good vintage, I assure you.”
Porthyros
darted out from behind the chair and hastily poured two goblets, taking
a quick sip before nodding and handing it to Arris.
After the wine had been properly appreciated, the old
woman waved her hand again, and a deck of fortune cards appeared on the
table.
Shuffling
the deck several times, Madam Koresky then held it out to the king. In a ritual as old as the kingdoms,
Arris leaned forward and tapped the deck with his left hand, thinking
only of his future. The witch
shuffled the deck once more and then began laying out the cards.
As soon as
the pattern was spread on the table, she shuddered, her ancient form
trembling under the grip of some greater power.
Her eyes slid shut and her body fell lax in its chair. From her mouth an unearthly, hollow
voice began to speak.
“Hear
me well, young king, and heed the wisdom of the ages:
Three times shall ye reach for the heavens, three times
shall ye fail, lest ye learn the rules of patience.
Glory ye seek, glory ye shall have threefold if thou dost
take arms against those who foul the night.
Winter’s cover shall be your shield, spring’s lamb your
feast and summer’s field your harvest. If
thou dost heed these words, all that ye seek shall be thine.”
The
old woman’s head flopped back against the chair and a line of thick
drool slipped free of her mouth to puddle on the stained robes she wore.
Arris
looked up at Porthyros, an uncontrollably gleeful smile stretching
across his mouth and said, “Did you hear that?
It’ll be mine, all mine! All
the glory I ever wanted, there, waiting for me to snatch it from the
bodies of the ice demons.”
“Yes,
my king, I heard. I also
heard her say that you should wait until winter to seek that glory,”
Porthyros agreed softly, moving to pull the chair out from under the
king as he anxiously stood and began to pace around the room.
“Yes,
yes, of course, of course. It
makes perfect sense! How else
could I kill the demons, if not during winter when they will be most
plentiful? Oh, Porthyros, my
old teacher, it shall be such fun! I
shall raise the largest army this kingdom has ever seen and I shall
lead it to the edge of the world and I shall grind the demon’s bones
deep into the mountains. Those
foul beasts shall never again rise and seek to turn Y’dan into their
personal buffet! The High
King will surely make me his heir! I
will rule all the kingdoms someday. I
can feel it!” A feverish
gleam had risen in the king’s eyes as he spoke and strands of spittle
shot out of his mouth as he boasted of his coming glories.
Porthyros
silently listened, nodding his head and agreeing monosyllabically with
the young man, until Arris calmed down enough to take a long draught of
wine.
“Will
she wake up soon? Is she
dead?” the young king demanded when he looked at the old witch and saw
that she was still unconscious.
“I’m
afraid Madam Koresky’s advanced age leaves her little choice but to
sleep for many candlemarks after a reading,” Porthyros explained sadly.
“Ah,
well then, leave the woman a few tokens of our appreciation and let us
return to the castle. There
is much to plan, old teacher. So
much to plan!”
~Chapter
Eighteen~
“You
are one hundred percent all better now,” Kyrian pronounced as she came
out of her healing trance.
Thomas
laughed. “My thanks,
stardancer.” He stood up and
stretched, groaning in delight as several vertebrae snapped into place. “I was getting plain tired of lying
around like an Y’skani pleasure servant.”
“Oh
you loved every minute of it, you old faker,” Syrah said as she slid
her leather tunic on, grimacing when the straps had to be tightened. “Looks like I’ll have to start
taking seconds of those wonderful meals you make, Kyrian. My clothes don’t fit anymore!”
Kyrian
laughed as she stood and said, “Thank you for the complement, however
backhanded.”
“My
pleasure,” Syrah said, bowing low and winking lasciviously at the young
stardancer.
“You
better watch her,” Thomas said to Elisira, who had just arrived at the
top of the stairs, “or Syrah’s going to charm the robes right off young
Kyrian here.” The stardancer
immediately blushed a scarlet that matched her robes.
Chuckling,
Elisira said, “Azhani’s ready for you downstairs, guys.
Try not to get too bruised up.”
Instantly,
the mirth in the room dissipated as the reality of sparring with one of
the greatest fighters in Y’myran hit the two warriors square in the gut. Soberly, they trooped down the
stairs and out into the chill of the morning.
“That
was evil,” Kyrian commented as she cleaned up her things.
“They
deserved it. After all,
they’re the ones who were acting like a couple of raw recruits,”
Elisira replied, gathering a pile of dirty rags.
“How are you this morning? Do
your ribs still hurt?”
Sparring
with Azhani the day before, Kyrian zigged when she should have zagged. Without meaning to, the warrior’s
blow had landed, leaving a long, quickly purpling bruise along the
stardancer’s side.
Kyrian
took a deep breath, exhaled and let out a slight whimper of pain. “Stiff, achy and still feeling like
a tyro on her first day at the temple.”
“That’ll
pass. It was a lucky shot,”
Elisira said reassuringly. The
other woman was right; she’d seen Azhani and Kyrian spar enough in the
last three weeks to know that the stardancer was a master at her art. As good as she was with the sword,
Azhani was no match for Kyrian when it came to the Goddess’ Dance.
Kyrian
shrugged noncommittally. “I
should have been paying attention,” she muttered, hefting her share of
the laundry and carrying it downstairs.
Outside,
Padreg watched as Azhani put his warriors through their paces. The king was highly impressed by the
warleader’s efficient methods, stepping in to quickly correct a wrong
movement and always ready to offer a word of praise when something was
done properly.
Thomas
and Aden had squared off while Syrah worked a makeshift pell. Padreg himself had gone several
rounds with the battle-hardened warrior and was taking a well-deserved
rest. The Y’Noran king took a
deep breath and smiled at the hint of spring that scented the air. It was the smell of green things, of
grass and sun and of the promise of home.
They
would be heading out in the morning. The
last of the snowstorms had been a week ago and Azhani had said that
they could leave as soon as the creek began to melt.
Early that morning, Padreg had gone out with a fishing
pole and had spent a fruitless morning poking among the slushy water,
hoping for some luck. All he
had gotten was muddy boots and a handful of partially frozen bait. It was enough, though, to convince
the warrior that it was time for their party to leave the safety of the
homestead.
“Left
and lift, Syrah, your foot is slipping,” Azhani counseled softly,
slipping behind the other woman to put her hands on her hips and walk
her through the pivot. “Like
this.”
Syrah
nodded in comprehension. “I
got it, like this,” and then she executed the pivot and slash perfectly.
“Exactly! Excellent.
Now, drop-slash-thrust, double time, twenty count.” The warrior barked out the orders as
if they were on a battlefield. “Aden,
watch his chest, not his hips. His
actions are telegraphed here,” she tapped her breastbone in
demonstration. “You’re only
getting half the story if you look down.”
Aden
sketched a quick salute and called out, “Aye, warleader!” Padreg’s armsmen had taken to
calling Azhani by the title. The
general consensus was that though Arris had stripped her of the rank,
she was still the warleader.
He
turned to face Thomas again, and this time, kept his eyes planted on
the taller man’s chest. When
he saw the muscles shift just before the bigger man’s sword arm made a
full arc, he easily blocked the blow, stepped inside of Thomas’ longer
reach, and scored a solid blow against his adversary.
The
sparring began in earnest, with each circling the other warily, trading
soft jabs and blows. Happy to
be an observer, Padreg rested against a barrel near the door of the
cottage. Elisira slipped
outside and joined him, worming her way against his side and sliding an
arm around his waist.
“The
boys look serious,” she said, by way of greeting.
“Nay,
milady, they’re just playing, like Syrah, only taking advantage of
having a moving pell to strike,” Padreg said, draping an arm over
Elisira’s shoulder. The
plainsman breathed deeply of the noblewoman’s scent, enjoying the
spiciness that it added to the fragrance of the day.
“Mmm,
well, Azhi’s having more fun than a cat in a pigeon coop,” Elisira
observed knowingly. She
watched as Syrah was moved from the pell to a clearing in the yard
where the warleader squared off against her.
“Is
she now,” Padreg drawled, as he turned to give his lady his full
attention. “Think she’s
having more fun chasing young Syrah than she did with me?”
Elisira
laughed lightly, patting Padreg’s armor-clad stomach.
“No, but I warrant Syrah wishes she had your mail coat
right about now.”
The
king turned to see the young warrior rubbing her shoulder where a blow
from Azhani’s practice sword had landed heavily.
“I’m sure she does,” he agreed readily.
“And if Azhani hadn’t already told me that I wasn’t done
being pounded on, I’d gladly be a gentleman and offer to let the lass
wear it.”
The
lady smiled affectionately and pushed Padreg out toward where Syrah and
Azhani were sparring. “Then
at least be gentlemanly enough to perform a rescue, before your
armswoman drops from exhaustion! I’ll
warrant that she won’t quit before Azhani, and Azhani never quits.”
Grumbling
good-naturedly, the plainsman eased away from the comfort of Elisira’s
embrace to amble out into the yard.
“Hey
there you big bad bully, how about picking on someone your own size?”
he called out tauntingly as he approached the two sparring women.
Smiling
wickedly, Azhani looked the approaching plainsman up and down. Gamely, she shrugged and said,
“Well, you’re a little runty for me, but you’ll have to do. Syrah, stand down and take a rest. Thomas you too, and Elisira, since
you’re out here, you can go get that bow of yours and try to kill a few
hay bales.” The words tumbled
out of the warleader’s mouth easily; clearly, she was used to giving
instruction and having it followed.
Without
looking to see if her orders were carried out, Azhani smoothly turned
away from Syrah, and attacked Padreg. The
Y’Noran chieftain easily blocked the blow, and returned one of his own. Effortlessly, they slipped into the
rhythm of strike, thrust and parry.
Syrah
and Thomas wandered over to sit on the porch, each grabbing and taking
long drinks from waiting waterskins. Elisira
sighed and pushed away from the railing and headed over to where Azhani
had set up a makeshift target and picked up her bow and arrows. Soon, Aden joined her and began
quietly assisting her. The
noblewoman wasn’t a bad shot; she just hadn’t had as much practice with
the bow as with the saber. Shrugging
her shoulders, Elisira focused on her task of sending arrow after arrow
toward the man-shaped straw figures.
Inside
the cottage, Kyrian and Devon worked to clean and prepare the group’s
gear for the upcoming journey. The
horses had been groomed and inspected until they nearly quivered with
excitement. They knew that
they would soon be out and about, and moving forward instead of
standing still, cramped together in a space that was better suited to
inanimate objects like carts and barrels.
Or
maybe it was just Kyrian’s imagination. After
all, she was
the one who, like the more visibly twitching Azhani, was just about
ready to rip the lips off of anyone who asked, “Is it snowing again?” The Rhu’len family home was nice
enough, but very close quarters for the small group.
Kyrian
reached under a bed and swept out a pile of clothing and dirt. A particularly fragrant brown tunic
found its way into her hands. Wrinkling
her nose, Kyrian threw the offending bit of clothing into the pile she
had mentally marked, “wash today.” The
chill of winter had made it difficult to bathe regularly, because
heating enough water for the entire group had been impractical.
Another
tunic, one not nearly so offensive to the nose, found itself tossed
into the stardancer’s pack. Kyrian
looked down, smiling at the jumble of faded royal blue fabric. Tall, dark and
broody won’t miss this. As she pushed the tunic into the
bag, she chuckled to herself. Actually,
broody doesn’t really fit her anymore - not since early winter, at
least. Having Eli and the
guys here has really helped her come out of her shell. Shrugging,
Kyrian moved on to the next item of clothing.
At least I get a new sleep shirt out
of all this clean up. It’s my
favorite color too... A yell of frustration startled
the stardancer out of her reverie and sent her to the window to see
what was amiss.
Outside,
Elisira was rubbing her forearm where the bowstring had been painfully
tenderizing the flesh for the last candlemark.
Looking down at the weapon in her hand, she briefly
considered snapping it in half. Instead,
she took a deep, calming breath and handed the bow to Aden.
“That’s
it. I can’t do this anymore
today. Would you be so kind
as to take this and stick it someplace I don’t have to look at it for
at least a week, please? Because
if you don’t,” the lady said with forced politeness, “I’m going to
shove it somewhere very uncomfortable in our esteemed warleader’s body.”
“My
lady...” Aden said in a tone meant to calm, but was interrupted by a
hand on his shoulder.
“Well,
well, what have we here? Throwing
a tantrum all proper and lady-like, now, Eli?
Think that just because I’m all the way across the yard
smacking the pants off of your beau that you can get out of target
practice, hmm?” Azhani’s amused voice caused Elisira to roll her eyes
and sigh.
Turning,
the noblewoman gave her old friend a long look of severe irritation
before putting her hands on her hips. A
stray hair drifted down into her face, and exasperatedly, she blew at
it. Sighing once more, she
said, “Well, Warleader, if you would deign to instruct
me on how to fill that,” she nodded toward the straw target, “with
blunted arrows without turning my arm into meatloaf, I’d be ever so grateful.”
A syrupy smile ended her statement.
“Tcha,
you’ve been sharpening your tongue when you should have been honing
your aim, my friend,” Azhani replied, casually taking the bow from Aden
and silently nodding the man off to go wash up.
“Now, let’s see what we can do about that meatloaf
problem, hmm?”
Kyrian
watched as Azhani handed the bow back to Elisira and then wrapped her
arms around the lady. A sharp
jab of jealousy cut through the stardancer and she angrily pushed it
aside.
Stop
that! You’ve got no right to
be feeling the way you do, knowing how she felt about Ylera. The
seldom spoken of, but often felt presence of Azhani’s lost lover was
palpable even to someone as sense blind as Aden.
Once, when Elisira had made the mistake of asking about
that particular subject, everyone had felt the anguish that bled
out of Azhani’s eyes. Even
though her answer had been curt, they had all gotten the message that
the subject was to be forgotten.
Yet,
the priest inside of the stardancer knew that some day, more than
likely very soon, Azhani would have to come to terms with losing her
lover. Otherwise the anger
that smoldered just under the surface would explode, possibly with
horrible consequences. Which
was one of the many reasons Kyrian secretly swore she would stay by the
warrior’s side, even after they had escorted Padreg safely home. Azhani would need a friend. That’s right,
a friend, Kyr, and don’t you forget it. Closing her eyes, she willed the
unwanted emotions into a ball and then stuffed that ball in a strongly
locked mental box. When she
opened her eyes once more, Azhani had stepped away from Elisira and was
quietly encouraging her to fire the bow.
The
snap of the bowstring was audible across the yard, and so was the cheer
of joy that Elisira let out when her arrow not only hit the target, but
also did it without smacking the bruises on her arm.
Kyrian
smiled at her friend’s victory and pushed away from the window, heading
for her medical bag. She had
just the right thing for that nasty bruise and if her memory proved
true, she would also soon have something to prevent future injuries.
%%%
“Kyrian,
you are a goddess!” Elisira groaned as the stardancer liberally applied
a salve to the sorest parts of her arm.
Chuckling
at the praise, Kyrian said, “No, but I serve one.
I’m glad it’s helping.”
Elisira
stretched, and groaned when several joints cracked noisily. “I sound like some decrepit old war
hound,” the lady complained softly, arching her back once more and
wincing as her spine popped.
“You
sound like someone who has been at practice all morning, nothing more,
my lady,” Kyrian assured her as she put away her medicines.
Sighing
as she settled back into her chair, Elisira said, “I don’t know, Kyrian. Maybe Father was right. Maybe I should have just stuck to
needlework. Sore fingers and
dry eyes are nothing compared to what I feel right now.”
“I
think you may revise your opinion about that, should you ever bear
children, my lady. You’ll be
glad of strong muscles then.” The
stardancer looked over at Padreg, who was staring at Elisira, with
affection written plainly on his bearded face.
Elisira
noticed the direction of Kyrian’s gaze and smiled shyly. “If Astariu is kind, stardancer, I
will indeed agree with you. Until
then, I think I shall sit here and dream wistfully of a large, hot bath
and the soothing hands of my handmaidens.”
“Add
a tub for me, and I’ll leave you to dream in peace, my lady,” Kyrian
said, grinning widely.
The
other woman snorted and then looked at Kyrian as she turned to head
over to Thomas and Syrah, both of whom had several minor cuts and
bruises. “You got it. Oh, and Kyrian, call me Eli. It’s what my friends call me, and
I’d like to consider you a friend.”
Kyrian
nodded and said, “All right, but you must call me Kyr, in return.”
“Deal. Now, go doctor our mighty warriors. They’ve had a rough morning and
might decide to kidnap the nearest stardancer and cart her off into the
wilderness. Oh, and don’t let
Azhi fool you – she’s probably got a bruise or two of her own that
could use a bit of that miracle salve.”
%%%
Dawning
clear, cool and blessedly snow free, the morning of their departure was
everything the warrior could have hoped. Loaded
and ready to travel, waiting just beyond the end of the walkway, the
horses stamped their feet and snorted, eager to be on their way. Even the two horses hitched to the
cart snorted and pawed at the ground, pulling lightly on the reins that
Syrah casually held.
Azhani stood
outside the door to the cottage and placed her fingers against the worn
wood and whispered, “I’ll make you proud, papa.
I’ll make this land whole again, I swear.”
Resolutely, she turned away from the building that had
sheltered her for the winter.
Kushyra
sidled nervously as she approached, but Azhani easily grabbed her
mare’s reins and whispered soothingly. Gray
ears twitched at hearing a familiar voice. This
one was the one that her friend had given her to; this one was the one
who would be her new friend.
Laying
a gentle hand against the mare’s flank, Azhani continued to speak
softly, her tone slowly calming the horse. “That’s
it, girl. You remember me,
right? Yes, you do.” A bright smile rippled across the
warrior’s face as the horse pushed into her stroking hands. “Hey, how about a treat? I’ve got an apple for you.” From her haversack, Azhani retrieved
a wrinkled, but still edible yellow apple. “Here,
girl, nibble on this.”
She
fed the fruit to Kushyra, who greedily chewed it up.
Slowly, Azhani put her foot in the stirrup and pulled
herself into the saddle, speaking softly and scratching the short,
stiff hair continuously. The
horse seemed content to carry her rider now, so Azhani deftly guided
her toward the gate. Leaning
forward, she whispered, “Come on, Kushyra, let’s show ‘em what we can
do!” Using her knees and legs
to signal the warhorse, she directed her up and over the fence in a
smooth jump.
Looking
back at the others who were watching their antics with amusement, she
said, “Well, shall we? It’s
not getting any warmer out here.”
Devon
was the first of the group to join the warleader, guiding his smaller
gelding to the gate and leaning down to open it.
He smiled shyly at Azhani, who grinned in return.
“Good
to see you’ve got some of your father’s spirit, Dev,” she said, moving
her mount aside so that the others could join them.
He
shrugged and said, “Well, Da always said that a man could only eat
three feet of sword once before he learned how to get out of the way. I never quite understood him, but I
always took it to mean that you had to be prepared to take chances.”
Azhani
nodded sagely. “That’s as
good an interpretation as I would give, lad.
So tell me, how go your studies?”
Having
spent most of his winter either burying his nose in a book or learning
herb lore with Kyrian, Devon had needed considerable prodding to take
up weapons practice. The call
of magic was stronger in his blood than the call of the blade, but the
boy strove to impress all of his teachers.
“Eh,
well, I still can’t seem to twist my sword the way Aden wants me to;
Syrah thinks I’ll never be a decent wrestler; Thomas says I could burn
water and milord Padreg thinks my horsemanship to be passable.”
Azhani
eyed the boy’s slight form, noting the way he held himself in the
saddle. “You’ll do better
once you’ve gotten your growth spurt. As
for Aden’s instruction – tell him to try you on the rapier instead of
the broadsword. Your strength
will lie in your speed, and the rapier can be as deadly as the claymore
in the hands of a skilled fencer.”
“Okay,”
the boy said, clearly relieved that the warleader wasn’t going to give
him a lecture about his priorities. Shyly,
he said, “The lady Elisira did say that my needlework was some of the
best she’s seen.”
“Good,”
Azhani said, nodding approvingly. “Now,
tell me what Kyrian says about your progress.”
He
grinned and launched into how pleased the stardancer was with how
quickly he was picking up the herbalist’s skills.
%%%
Three
days worth of travel found the group entering a radically changed
Barton. The once thriving
trade town was now nearly empty. Circling
the town, the shell of a wall could be seen being erected by those who
had survived the winter. The
hastily built barrier around the inn and the other “safe houses” was
slowly being demolished and few children played in the streets.
Everywhere
they looked, people worked hard, racing to rebuild what the demons had
destroyed. Azhani’s group was
stopping for the day, to trade what would not travel for what the
townsfolk could spare. As
they rode in, they could see the tracks of trappers and miners who had
lived through the winter.
Down
a side street, they could see some of the trappers set up in stalls,
selling cured hides and jerked meats. Kyrian
and Elisira split away from the group, heading for the booths. Padreg and Aden went to see the
hostler, hoping the man would have some spare oats for the horses.
After
their trades were done, the group met in the center of the village and
talked over where they would camp that night.
A familiar face caught Padreg’s eye and he shouted out,
“Jalen, it’s good to see you, my friend!”
After
introductions had been made, Brother Jalen explained how he had come to
Barton. “’Twas a dream from
Astariu herself, Paddy. She
said go, so I went. I’ve been
here a week so far and I haven’t regretted it yet.”
“Well,
it’s good to see you finally slipping away from that stuffy old library
of yours,” the Y’Noran king said jovially.
“When
the goddess calls, I can only but answer,” Jalen said, shrugging
noncommittally. “I would be a
poor servant of Hers indeed if I did not heed Her requests. Isn’t that right, young Kyrian?” The priest turned his attention on
the red-robed stardancer.
“Of
course, Brother Jalen. Everyone
knows how selflessly you devote yourself to servitude.
Why, who could forget how you tirelessly shared the good
Abbot’s wine with the novitiate? I
assure you, the memories of the next morning linger on and on.” Kyrian said, causing the good
brother to laugh.
“Ah,
Kyr, how did I ever let you go? You
always know exactly what to say to take the wind out of my sails.”
“I
had a lot of practice,” the stardancer replied cheekily, which just
made the older priest laugh even harder.
“Ah
Padreg, my old friend, leave it to you to find the one person in the
kingdoms who can carve strips from my hide faster than an Y’droran
tanner.” Brother Jalen
thumped Padreg on the back heartily. “So,
what brings you so far north? I
seem to recall that you and yours were hightailing it out of Y’dannyv. I figured you’d be back on the
plains by now.”
“Plans
have a way of shifting like grass in the wind, old friend. After we ran into that patrol, my
men and I separated so that we would all have a better chance of
getting home safely. Some of
those who accompanied me, will only return in spirit, goddess bless
them.” His eyes glistened as
he spoke.
“Are
you headed back to Y’Nor now?” the priest asked.
Padreg
carefully considered his answer. Even
though he trusted Brother Jalen with his life, there were many ears in
the open market where they had run into the priest.
“Eventually. My
lady and I – we decided to enjoy the mountains.”
Jalen’s
eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Your
lady? Are congratulations in
order, my friend?”
Elisira
interrupted then. “Not quite
yet, good Brother, but goddess willing, and my lord’s courage
providing, I’ll soon call Y’Nor home.”
Jalen’s
booming laugh once again filled the space around the small group.
“Brother
Jae! Brother Jae! Come quick! Toby’s stuck in the tree again!” a
small child shouted as she ran up to the group.
“Oh
dear, that is a problem isn’t it?” the priest said, excusing himself
and racing to follow the tow-headed child who scampered down the road.
Padreg
looked at Azhani, who was watching the priest’s progress. “Should we lend a hand? A child in trouble is never good.”
Azhani
shook her head. “No, I think
he can handle it. Toby’s a
cat – probably gets himself into trouble once a day.
I’m sure Jalen’s got a system all worked out. Besides, it’s getting late. We should go if we want to make it
to the cave before nightfall.”
“Then
let us be on our way,” the Y’Noran said, easily mounting his horse and
heading for the other side of town.