Wielder of the Flame (19 page)

She was surprised by what she saw.

The young man knelt by a large bush, cleaning one of his
long blades on a large nearby leaf. All eight guards lay around him in a
freakish circle of death. The dead man that had toppled onto her was already
being taken by the flowing brook. It was a horrid scene of complete carnage.
And there the young man knelt, perfectly calm, cleaning his two swords.

“How— How did—?” she began but could not finish.

“I have a great disdain for Kingdom soldiers.” The young man
stood up, sheathed the two swords to his back and walked over to the edge of
the stream, “you must be Aliyana?”

“How—” Aliyana stuttered, “How do you know my name?”

Finished with cleaning his instruments of destruction he
sheathed them and straightened.

“Come with me,” He said, matter-of-factly, “There is someone
waiting for you.”

“What—?” She began.

He turned without another word and disappeared into the
brush.

“Wait!” Aliyana said.

She rushed over to the dead captain. She pulled the necklace
from his dead body and replaced it around her neck. Her father had given it to
her, it was a precious and ancient family heirloom. Her father told her it had
come from a time before the War of Power, maybe even from The Beginning. She
could not leave it behind.

She rushed after the boy.

“Wait!”

She caught up to the boy and tried to place an arm on his
shoulder to make him stop.

He deftly dodged her grab and swiveled to face her.

“I am grateful for your help,” she said, “but I do not know
your name.”

“My name is Drake,”

“Who is waiting for me?”

“Your Mother.”

He remained hidden underneath the
weight of his fallen comrade for what seemed an eternity.

He had watched as the girl retrieved her necklace from his
captain. Then, blood from the dead body atop him had oozed slowly onto his
face, covering his head and eyes. But he dared not move. He had to be sure his
attacker was far gone before he even thought about stirring. He listened for a
long time after the girl disappeared into the brush, but only heard the sound
of the birds high up in the trees.

Finally, as the sky began to darken he decided it was safe.

He grunted as he shoved the heavy dead weight of his fellow
soldier off of him. As quietly as he could he pulled himself free. He had been
stabbed in the gut, but his chest plate had taken the brunt of the attack,
leaving him with only a shallow cut. His legs were asleep from so much time
under the weight of the other man that he could not stand. He dragged himself
to the creek and began washing his face. He scrubbed and scrubbed until all the
blood had been cleaned. He was a handsome man, younger than the rest of the
unit. He had joined the Bloodcloaks only just a cycle ago. His hair was a light
blonde and his eyes a sharp blue, a trait that was common in Terragur.

He shuddered, unable to get the image of the spinning, angry
faced young man out of his head. The two swords spun and twirled like some sort
of unstoppable whirling mechanism of death. And the boys eyes, somehow they
were unemotional, cold, and still, and yet at the same time they glowed with a
burning rage that was clawing to get out.

He knew it was unlikely someone was going to come for him.
His unit was supposed to meet up with the other units in a fortnight or so.
Only after his unit failed to show up would they begin to look for him and the
others, and discover that his unit had been attacked and wiped out. He had to
get back to the caravan, but he would have to leave a trail he could follow, he
had to come back here to show them. Or no one would believe him.

Only when they saw the carnage around him now would they
believe that the Revenant called Kilik Dualis was still alive.

Marc dipped his rag into the bucket
of soapy water again and brought it up with a small splash.

He sat on a stool in front of the sizable aldom creature
named Redmor, washing it down after the long afternoon of training in the yard.
It had rained on and off during the session and he and the creature were
spattered with mud. Sesuadra and Zildjin had already finished grooming their
mounts, both animals were feeding at the end of the barn. Marc knew that Redmor
would be impatient and eager to join his two fellow aldom’s in feeding, but he
liked the time he spent with Redmor so he found a way to soothe the creature
until he was done. He found it liked to eat a dark burgundy fruit that Sesuadra
had told him was called reytule. So Marc snuck them to the aldom while he
washed it down.

Redmor just finished one of the fruits and turned his head
and looked Marc in the eye, as if to say
where is the next one
?

“One more, but just one, or you will spoil your dinner,”
Marc said with a grin. He reached down at the small stash of fruit by his side.
“Of course,” he continued, “You don’t know what dinner means anyway. What do
you call it? Last meal,” he nodded to himself, remembering. “What a horrible
name, I mean, I know it means the last meal of the day, but, what if it really
was
your last meal, like, of your
life
?” He smiled and patted the
creature, “Oh well.”

He handed the fruit up to the aldom and Redmor plucked it
from his open palm carefully.

Marc was amazed to see such intelligence in a creature. It
did not speak, at least not in the way he did, but he felt he could communicate
with it nonetheless. He had begun to form a close bond with the creature since
his first encounter with it weeks ago in the yard when Topar introduced them.
It was a mount, but it was more than the horses where he was from, there was a
magic to Redmor.

Marc finished washing Redmor down and stood up.

 “There you are, now go on, you can eat.”

Redmor lowered his head and nudged Marc playfully.

Marc smiled and gave the creature a hug around the neck and
patted his back.

Topar and shown them the proper way to care for the
creatures and Marc took extra effort in doing so. When they were on the yard,
running and training Marc felt as if Redmor was watching out for him, moving
and doing things before Marc could even give the command to do so. He smiled
again, watching as the creature trotted over to his two fellow aldoms.

It felt good to have so many friends.

“Did you finally finish!”

It was Zildjin.

“We are heading out soon!”

“Be right there!” Marc called.

He stowed away the fruit and emptied the soapy water bucket,
putting everything in its proper place.

He was excited. It had been a few days since they had heard
a good story and had planned to head over to the Silver Star Inn to see what
entertainment was in store that night.

The sun was setting as Marc,
Sesuadra, and Zildjin, reached the Silver Star Inn.

The Gathering was fast approaching, the crowds in Kolima
were greater than recent memory could account for. It was getting harder and
harder to secure a good spot for listening during storytelling, but the stories
and entertainment were rising to the occasion as well. The three friends would
hustle through the last bit of their training with Topar in the evening to be
able to enjoy their free time and to find a good listening spot.

Marc looked up in awe at the sky. It was not as strange
anymore to see two planets above him, there between the stars, instead of a
single moon. It was very beautiful.

They arrived quickly, almost out of breath.

It was a large place with white washed walls lined in thick
dark mahogany wood trim. Yellow lanterns cast their light from poles on each
side of the road, and from nearby windows and from the inside the Inn itself.
They walked in to find the Inn common room busy with excitement. People were
eating, drinking, and two figures dressed in bright colors, playing string
instruments Marc had never seen before, performed music on a small stage in one
of the far corners of the room. It had a large vaulted ceiling, like the Magic
Emporium, reinforced with thick wooden beams. Barmaids served orders and
attended to the customers. A thick fellow in an apron kept appearing and
disappearing through a large open doorway leading to what must have been the
kitchen, various trays of food in hand. Outside it had been cooling down and
the warmth from the Inn was comforting. The air smelt strongly of ale, roasted
meat, leather, and slightly of dust. They had arrived just as the music
entertainment of the evening was drawing to a close and before a large crowd
could gather for the bard’s tale of the night.

The three boys stepped in casually. They knew the routine,
though the Innkeeper did not charge for the entertainment, no one could stay
who did not first buy something, either to eat or drink. They bought a few
drinks, nothing strong, and found a small empty table in the back corner by the
booths. They were almost uncomfortably close to the booths, it seemed as though
the Innkeeper had shoved in a few extra tables and chairs to accommodate the
increase in customers due to the upcoming festivities.

The boys were chatting about the highlights of the day to
each other when the minstrels ended their music and the room clapped and
cheered. The official spokesman of the Inn, someone the Innkeeper had hired to
add a little bit more class to his entertainment, stood up on the little stage
near the back of the room. 

The man raised his hands and gestured the room for quiet,
“Gentlemen, and ladies if there be any here tonight aside from the pretty
lasses serving the food and drink,”

The crowd laughed and one or two of the more rowdy men
hooted and one whistled.

“Tonight I introduce, for this fortnight only, Master of
Verse, Talespinner, Legendary Cantatore, Omer Lidenild, the traveling
balladeer!”

The audience erupted with clapping and cheers.

Omer took his place on the small stage, a stringed
instrument that looked to Marc somewhat like a guitar, around his neck. He
smiled and bowed a few times, then gestured with his arms and hands for
silence. When it was quiet he cleared his throat and brought the guitar up.

He struck a few perfectly balanced chords and spoke in a
well projected and dramatic voice, “From the stars above, to the dirt below, a
sonnet from me, you now shall know—”

   Zildjin, Sesuadra, and Marc all frowned, disappointed.
They had already heard the story five days or so ago, and though it was good,
the narration was still fairly fresh in their minds.

“You would think in all his travels he would have picked up
enough stories to tell a different one each night of a fortnight,” Zildjin half
grumbled.

“It is a good story,” Sesuadra offered, though he agreed
with Zildjin and he let it show on his face.

“At least we didn’t have to pay for more than the drinks,”
Marc added, “most of the other places charge just for the storytelling.”

“I just wish we had not already heard it so recently,”
Zildjin replied.

“I have read it before somewhere as well,” Sesuadra
finished.

Marc had come from a world saturated with millions of
different forms of amusement and distractions at the touch of a finger.
Multi-tasking with music playing at the same time, even simultaneous kinds of
visual stimuli at once was not unusual for a person to experience multiple times
in a single day. He found the simplicity of the merriment here refreshing and
did not mind hearing the same story twice, but it appeared as if his two
friends wanted to do something else.

“We don’t have to stay,” Marc said, “We can find another
Inn, or go down by the beach. Fishing?” He suggested.

“Something,” Zildjin nodded with a shrug.

Sesuadra nodded as well.

They drained what remained in their mugs and began to stand
up quietly.

“Sorry to interrupt,”

The three boys turned at the voice of an old man sitting in
a nearby booth in the corner.

“What?” Zildjin said.

“I could not help but overhear you,” The old man indicated
the closeness of their table to his booth. He had a gruff white moustache and
beard, two small braids on each side of his face, and thick eyebrows. His nose
was large and red. The nearby lantern-light reflected in his dark brown eyes.
He was dressed in tan robes with a dark brown leather vest and cowl.

“And?” Marc said.

“You say you have already heard the good bard recite this
ballad,”

“Yes,” Sesuadra responded.

They all spoke in just a little above a whisper, as to not
disturb the bard’s presentation.

“What if I told you I had a story to tell, one you have
probably never heard?”

The three stood, unsure of what to do.

“A tale of swords and magic.”

The old man stretched forth his hands. A small purple ball
of glowing light appeared out of nowhere, hovering in his palm. He sent the
light into the air and caught it with his other hand, extinguishing it with a
small puff.

The three friends exchanged glances.

The old man motioned for them to sit at his booth across
from him and the three boys obliged. The bench just barely sat the three of
them.

The elderly figure raised his hand and waved down a barmaid
to come and fill their cups. He ordered some food to be brought to them as well
and then turned to the boys to begin his story.

“In ancient times, before the War of Power, the horrible
conflict of which much is recorded and spoken of, there was a small village, in
the lands beyond the black peaks. This was in a time when the black peaks were
nothing but grassy plains and peace ruled the lands, The Illuminated Era was
hundreds of cycles yet to come. Magic was new in the world, and the race of man
was still learning of its wisdom and power. The high elves, the fae ones, and
the other mystical kind, tried to guide the humans to understand the ways of
magic. We humans were of the hard and brutish variety back then, slow to learn
and quick to battle. Only a few of us in many cycles proved worthy and able to
master the forces of magic.

Sesuadra and Zildjin had heard much of this story already.
It was taught as the most general history of Lyrridia.

Zildjin told the old man such, “This sounds more like a
lesson in history than a tale of adventure,”

Marc, of course, had never heard it and wanted the old man
to continue. Marc nudged Zildjin.

“I’ve never heard it,” Marc interrupted his friend.

“Indeed,” The old figure replied to Marc, and then glanced
at Zildjin, “patience, young friend, I speak merely of the prelude, and have
not yet come to the adventure,”

Zildjin nodded, and rubbed his ribs, glowering at Marc, then
grinning and elbowing Marc back.

When the two boys settled, the old man continued.

“I speak now, then, of this small village, Darper. A young
man was born there,”

Sesuadra, usually the quiet one, spoke up, “Tasard, Kinyrr
of Darper, Firebringer.”

“Quite right,” the old man nodded, “Tasard Firebringer, a
name of legend that has been spoken for ages, and will be spoken for ages to
come, to be sure. A simple boy in a large family, some say they were
woodworkers, others claim he tilled the land with his father and brothers. It
is not as important as what the boy would become later in life. He learned the
ways of magic quickly and even at a young age, was soon more powerful than even
the oldest of the high elves. There are many different accounts that differ
widely as to his abilities and his deeds. Some tales describe Tasard as able to
singlehandedly withstand the assault of entire armies, destroying legions of
foes with a mere sweep of his hand. Others give accounts of a strong willed,
but gentle man who spent his entire life advocating peace, ruling the lands
with a perfect balance of justice and mercy, resolving even the greatest of
troubles with unprecedented wisdom and grace. He unified all the many separate
tribes and people of men under a single banner, incorporating the high elves,
the fae ones, and all the other races peaceably in his realm. Many believe he
was an avatar of the First Ones, some believe he was one of the First Ones
incarnate, to walk among his creations. What is unerringly true of the man may
always remain a mystery, but the impressions he left upon our history are
undeniable.”

Sesuadra and Zildjin did not seem as interested. Sesuadra
began poking at his food. Zildjin pulled out his medallion and played with it
across his knuckles. But the old man noticed that every word he spoke
completely held Marc’s attention.

“As your friend has already pointed out,” The old man
gestured to Zildjin, “this is basic knowledge that most everyone knows, if it
bores you, I can stop.

“No, no,” Marc said, “go on.”

“Very well, then I shall continue. Rynar, Thalinad of
Lisskel,
The
greatest blacksmith of all time, was one of the
Firebringer’s closest friends and personal blacksmith. It was in the regions of
Lissek that this tale begins. Before Tasard became the great ruler of Lyrridia,
he journeyed across the lands, learning and growing in his special abilities.
The legend goes that in his travels Tasard came upon a quiet village not unlike
his own that made him think of his home that he had left behind many cycles
before. They were a humble, quiet people who tilled the land nearby a tall
mountain that loomed overhead. They gave him a warm welcome into the village,
sharing food and drink with him, though they had little to go around, Tasard
quickly discovered why. A monstrous beast, whose mountain was its home, raided
the village from time to time, terrorizing the people. The beast demanded every
cycle that a young maiden, untouched, be brought to its domain near the top of
the mountain as a sacrifice. A righteous fury rose within Tasard at the
injustice being done to the villagers. A man of charity, and of action, he
quickly determined to help the villagers. He rode to the nearest town, thinking
to refute the local leaders in turning a blind eye to the small village’s
dilemma and demand that they take action to resolve it. Upon his arrival he
discovered that it was not only the small village near the mountain that was
subject to the monster’s whims, but the entire countryside gave up tribute,
even the ruling city of the region, Lisskel, yielded to the thing which they
called The Dark One.