Come check out the new Facebook page for The Tome of Greystone series! I am working to add new readers and build an audience, so a presence on Facebook and Twitter is mandatory. Know anyone who likes to read fantasy? Tell them about Emergence, and let them know that they have a chance to get in on the “ground floor” of what might become the next big fantasy series! (Hey, I can hope, right?)

https://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Tome-of-Greystone/140547159381462

Thanks!

~Kevin

Greetings, all. It’s been a few weeks since I have posted, so it’s time for an update. I am making slow but steady progress on book two of The First Proving trilogy, Knights and Watchers, and am up to about 60k words or so. Technically that should mean I am at the half-way point, but I have to say that it doesn’t really feel like I am that far along in the course of the story. But I have decided to not let the pre-existing limit (based on the length of Emergence) hamper my writing. Instead, I will just work as hard as I can to get the story down then see what the final product looks like in terms of words. I feel like Knights and Watchers is going to be very back-heavy in terms of action; the beginning has a lot of discussion and planning between various characters, mingled with a few pretty heavy action scenes (my favorite of which happens not long after all eight main characters meet and greet for the first time). But within three or four chapters of where I am now, there will be an extended set of action-filled chapters as the group sets out on Venture – and of course things go terribly wrong. After that, not much story time passes before The Proving itself begins, so I think  that a book with a ton of action in its final half is unavoidable.

Regarding my ongoing efforts to find an agent/editor/publisher, I continue to send out query letters and submissions and hope for a positive response. I have received requests for additional material from about 6 agents and 2 publishers, all of which I responded to immediately (of course). The funny thing is, I find myself getting excited about/interested in a given agent at a given literary agency when I really have no idea if or when any of them will give me the time of day. So I am trying to simply press on, continuing to write, continuing to send out queries, hoping that something excellent happens at some point along the way.

Which brings me to the question of “why”, which I believe is the most important question in any time-consuming, attention-sucking pursuit like writing. Why am I doing this? Why am I taking the time? What are my goals, hopes, dreams, for all of these words I am weaving into the blank canvas that is Microsoft Word? For if I have the right answers to those questions, then I will have no problem with delays, with setbacks, or with the ever-present possibility that no one may ever read or like these books.

If nothing EVER comes of this project, did I simply waste my time?

The answer is no. Definitely not. I am not writing these books to be published and monetarily successful. I am not writing them to be mass produced and marketed from coast to coast. I am not writing them to become a Twitter-star and hold book signings. I am not even writing them to get a few people to tell me that they liked the 20+ books that I have outlined as The Tome of Greystone.

No, I am writing them because I absolutely LOVE this story. I love it. In a way that is hard to even explain, really, but if you have ever created something that you really, really love – be it art, or music, or a plan, or a home, or a meal – then you know of what I speak. I love this story, and so I want to capture it. And share it. I am convinced that this story should be told, needs to be told, and that I alone can tell it.

Therefore, once I have written the entire story, I will feel joy. Regardless of my status (or lack thereof) as a writer, regardless of actual literary success, I am so excited at the prospect of writing this book series that I can hardly stand it! It’s just a good story. So I am gonna tell it.

So that’s my “why”.

Thanks for reading!

~Kevin

This will be the last of the sneak-preview chapters that I will post here on the blog. Not for any particular reason, but I figure I have to stop somewhere! Anyone reading these preview chapters who wants to see more, just send a message or drop me an email and I will gladly forward the full manuscript. The only thing I ask for in return is feedback! Both positive and negative, I crave it.

Chapter 6 takes us back to the Galleon with Max, Brien, and Varix, within what I hope is a pretty exciting near-catastrophe within the crowded tavern.

* * *

6 Burns

Panic ensued in the Galleon; men and women leaping to their feet, screams of terror filling the long room, and a massive push of people surging suddenly away from the front of the tavern in a single crushing heave. Just a few heartbeats had passed, but already the marsh-oil piping along the ceiling had begun to burn out of control.

Then the rear wall, towards which they all were being thrust, exploded into a massive ball of fire as well.

The hundreds of people in the crowded tavern milled and pushed their way towards the last remaining doorway, the one leading to the kitchens. But this one narrow door could not support such a mass of men and women. It looked to Brien as if someone had managed to rip the kitchen door clear off of its hinges in an attempt to allow a faster exit, but the horrific screams of people burning at both ends of the room stole whatever organized exit they were trying to create. It was turning into a stampede.

“GET DOWN!!! ALL, GET DOWN!!! CRAWL!!!” came Captain Britness’ booming voice. Thick smoke was beginning to fill the room already as the ceiling and many of the walls were boiling in a marsh-oil fueled rage. Many of the soldier listened, but the crawlers were quickly being used as stepping stones for the panic stricken as they fought to make their way to safety.

Through the orange and black roiling haze, Brien heard Varix’ voice call out in a near scream.

“Max!! Brien!! This way! Help me!!!”

Brien turned and pushed across the grain of the surging mass of people, hunching down in a near crouch while working hard to not be pushed flat to the ground and crushed by the crowd. He reached Varix and was shocked to see his blonde friend hunkered down next to Max, unharmed.

Brien saw that both Max and Varix were not moving with the crush at all, but were moving across the flow… towards the burning front wall of the Galleon. Varix wasn’t in trouble at all. He coughed with each breath, but he looked quite calm.

“Help us, Bri!!” Yelled Varix again, pointing toward the massive, burning double doors at the front of the tavern. “I need to get there, NOW!”

Brien and Max began clearing a path with their arms and bodies, thrusting with all their might against the soldiers, servers, and townsfolk.  Varix leaned against both of their backs with all of his weight, and soon they broke free.

They were less than fifteen feet from the crackling, churning inferno of the front wall. Brien and Max dropped to their bellies immediately, coughing and gasping as the oxygen was ripped from their lungs by the flames. Brien was surprised that he wasn’t burnt already.

Varix didn’t stop. He crawled forward, right into the flames. His linen shirt and leather pants were burning, flames licked along the sides of his face. Brien watched in horror as the flames consumed his friend.

Then cool air came rushing in, bathing Brien and Max’ faces. Both of the thick rainwood front doors of the Galleon stood open. While the flames licked at the door jamb and walls all around the entrance, there was a nearly eight foot clear space leading out into the chilly Spring air of Gilston.

“EVERYONE!!! THIS WAY!!!!!” Brien yelled, then Max joined him as they grabbed the backs of the nearest panicked people and spun them to see the open doors.

Soon, the crowd caught on, and the rush split in half. The flames all around the room grew more and more intense as the fresh outside air mixed with the blaze. But with two exits, now they stood a chance.

Brien and Max joined the rush towards the front of the Galleon. As they neared the doors, they could hear commands being bellowed and the sizzle of water at the base of the outside walls. The fire brigade had arrived.

Moments later, they were out in the main street of Gilston. Men and women lined the path from the pump wagons full of water to the Galleon, holding several long leather hoses, while others worked the huge pumps themselves. While several teams attacked the blaze itself, others doused the walls of the adjacent buildings to insure they did not burn as well. Many of the Pathwatch who were uninjured had immediately joined the fire brigade, heaving on the pumps, anchoring hoses, or joining in the bucket brigade from the nearest well.

Physicians were already triaging the many burned and wounded even as the last of the survivors made it out of the building.  Several men and women were being carried, their breathing either shallow and nearly absent or loud, racking, and painful.  Gilston was far too small of a town to have a comprehensive cuperative, but by the look of it the local physicians were doing a fair job.

Brien and Max didn’t see Varix anywhere among the many victims. Still coughing and wheezing, they made their way to the edge of the mass of people, asking if anyone had already been taken away for medical care. No one had.

Then, near the wide alley between the Galleon and the Gilston General store next to it, they heard a sharp whisper.

“Guys! Over here!! Come quietly!”

It was Varix.  Max and Brien made sure no one was watching them, then slowly made their way over to the store’s front. First Brien, and then Max slid around the corner into the alley.

Varix knelt in the shadows, close to the side-door of the store. He had only a few scraps of burned clothing left clinging to him, some of them still smoking. Only his boots and socks were still in working order.

He was smiling.

“Okay, forget what I said earlier about that sword point being the ultimate test,” he said, holding what was left of his pants together with both hands to retain some modesty.

Brien’s eyes were as wide as a weight of gold as he stared at Varix’ face. “You’re okay? You’re not…”

“Not even warm, Brien,” finished Varix. “In fact, I couldn’t feel the flames at all. Can’t say the same for my clothes, though.” He gestured with his eyes at the tatters he still wore. “I had a feeling it would work, so I figured, why not? Especially since all I had to do was open the doors.”

The friends looked at each other in disbelief. Varix shrugged.

“So, all of this aside, guys… how about finding me some clothes?”

“I’ll take care of it, Var,” Brien said. He spun on his heel and walked back out into the crowded street. The fire brigade still worked at a feverish pace, but it was becoming obvious that the aged wooden building was not going to survive. Even with the buildings supply of marsh-oil having long been shut off, there was just too much seasoned wood in the 2-story structure.

More townsfolk had arrived, many bringing additional blankets, buckets of water, and packs full of first aid gear. Brien headed over toward a clear area where an older woman was laying out fresh clothing on a blanket. His eyes searched the crowd for another face, however. One whose absence was already making him worry.

“Ma’am, could I take a shirt, trousers, and underwear, please?” Brien asked her. She was a smiling, white-haired grandmother of a woman wearing a matronly blue cotton dress and a white shawl.

“My friend, over there,” he indicated no particular direction with a wave of his hand, “he’s fine, but his clothes are just in tatters. He’ll be wanting… needing… a whole new set, if you can spare them.”

“Here you are, dear,” she said gently, handing over a stack of clean clothes that probably belonged to her grandsons. “The distance between want and need is infinite, of course, but nevertheless.  Take these to him, and this cloak, too. It’s chilly out tonight!” She smiled again as she placed a light blue cloak on top of the stack.

“Thank you, ma’am, thank you,” Brien replied, taking the garments in one arm as he reached for his waist-pack with the other. He couldn’t help but be perplexed at her strange manner of speaking. The distance between want and need? “How much can I give you for these?”

“Oh, nothing, you dear boy! These belonged to my grandson, gone on Venture these past years,” her smile turned wistful, and her wrinkled hands shook ever so slightly as she began arranging another stack of clean clothes.

“This gift has value, to be sure,” she continued, looking up at him with old eyes that reflected the street lamps around them. “But this time, someone else has paid.”

Brien thanked her again, bowing ever so slightly as he retreated. He couldn’t help but smile. She reminded him of his own maternal grandmother, just as he remembered her before she died some fifteen years before.

“You can go there anytime you like, you know…” the old woman’s dry voice called out after him as he walked away.

Brien froze, blinking hard.

“What?” he said, spinning on his heel.

“What do you mean, what?” asked the big, middle-aged man who was passing behind them at that moment, dragging a large cow-hide hose behind him. A member of the fire brigade here in Gilston, he looked exhausted.

“Sorry, sir, I wasn’t speaking to you,” Brien apologized, ducking past the man and over to the—

She was gone. As was the blanket, and the clothes, and cloaks. There was nothing there but the packed dirt of this side of Gilston’sMain street. Not even a trace of the old woman or her wares remained.

Brien felt the blood drain from his face, and his knees began to shake. But right there, tucked under his left arm, were the clothes and cloak that she had given him. She was there, just a second ago, he told himself. She must have just moved on.  Right?

He began to back away, still feeling a little shaky, scanning the crowd for any trace of the old woman. The clouds gave way just then, and the dimly lit main street was suddenly bathed in cool blue moonlight. As he made his way around the still growing group of survivors, he was spotted by his own Squadleader Morlan as he stood watching the burning Galleon begin to collapse in on itself.

“Ho, there… Page!” he called out, waving Brien over in his direction. Morlan was a short, stocky man with an overly husky voice that sounded like he constantly needed to clear his throat. He was a lifelong Grey Shield soldier, and his graying hair and beard showed that he was nearing retirement. Morlan never smiled, except when drunk, instead choosing to wear a nearly perpetual grimace on his wrinkled, hairy face. Despite spending the past year serving on Morlan’s squad Brien did not feel like he knew the grizzled man at all.

“Yes, squadleader?” Brien replied, pulling to a stop with a hasty salute. Now that they were no longer in the tavern, the rank protocols of the Pathwatch would again be in effect. Morlan was a stickler for protocol.

“You all right?” Morlan growled, casually waving to another couple of his men that shuffled by carrying buckets of water to the wounded. “Any burns? Any bruises?”

Brien was working hard to forget about both Varix’ walk through the flames and his conversation with the old lady – what had she said??? You can go there any time… so that he could focus on Morlan’s annoyed expression.

“No, no burns, sir. Came through fine. Plenty of smoke in the lungs, of course, but none the worse for wear,” Brien answered, trying to slide his bundle of clothing out of sight at his side.

Morlan grunted and nodded. He stepped closer, holding Brien’s eyes. “Glad you’re unhurt, Page. Not everyone was so lucky.  We’ve lost two men. So far. And one of the serving girls might not make it through the night.”

“That’s too bad, sir. A tragedy, that’s what it is.”

“That it is. That it is. And your friend, Varix? And your chief, Max? How are they?” The squadleader’s voice lowered and his frown deepened as he mentioned Max’ name.

Brien stood his ground, but fought to keep the concern from his voice. Had Morlan seen what Varix had done? Brien had assumed that in the stampede toward the side door no one had seen what happened at the front of the room.

“All fine, sir, all fine. Thanks for asking, though. If it’s okay with you, though, I am going to get back to them. We want to help the fire brigade with the—“

“So tell me,” Morlan interrupted, stepping closer still, “tell me, watchmen Page, where is your chief Max? I’d like to have a word with him.”

Brien’s brow furrowed. There was no missing the menacing tone that Morlan used now. Something was wrong.

“He’s around here somewhere, sir,” Brien replied, confused. “Not sure where exactly. I think he is already helping out the fire brigade.”

“Really. Is he now. Well, when you see him, you’ll send him my way, yes? After this disaster I expect both blades to be ordered back to their camps for the night. I’ll be near my tent. You send him my way, okay?

“Yes sir,” Brien answered, and saluted again, right fist to heart. Morlan nodded, and Brien took his leave at a very brisk walk. He intentionally headed away from the alley where his friends waited, trying hard to not look as confused and worried as he felt.

A few minutes later he ducked into the alley. Max and Var were still there, sitting in the shadows.

“Max,” Brien began in a low whisper as Varix quickly got dressed, “Morlan is looking for you. I have no idea why, but it doesn’t sound good. He looked… grumpier than usual.”

“I know, Bri,” Max whispered back. “Morlan and squadleader Jonas were just outside the alley right after you left. We heard them talking. About me. About my standing up in a panic right before the fire started.”

In the dim moonlight Brien could not see either of their faces. But Max sounded scared.

“They think you had something to do with it?” Brien whispered, shocked.

“Wouldn’t you? Look, I saw what was happening. I could see the guy, toothless, dirty, and old, who set the fire. He was running back towards the stables seconds after he lit it.”

“Just like you saw Mrs. Galleon when she was tripping and falling at you with all that ale,” Brien said quietly.

“Exactly. And there was a shady-looking big man back there too… in a shiny silver cloak. Not the kind of thing you wear when you want to hide, but still. I think he was involved too. But who’s gonna believe me? Nightwings, I look completely guilty. Or at least highly suspicious.”

“Well… but Max, Morlan knows you! He’s been our squadleader for more than a year! He can’t possibly—“

“Brien, I’ve already told Var,” His voice sounded deathly serious. And a little afraid.  “I’m leaving. I was going to tell you both right before that last song started, but this makes my choice even easier. I’m heading back to Greystone City. I’m going to register for Venture.”

Brien leaned back against the wall in silence. Varix sat down next to him, once again fully clothed.

“I can’t possibly explain to them how I knew, guys,” Max continued, “Creator! I can’t explain it to you two! Or to myself!  I’ll end up in the Greystone dungeons awaiting trial… and what will my defense be?”

“How about the fact that you were in the room yourself when the fire started?!” Brien interjected. “What about the fact that you helped get the front doors open, helping to save all of our lives?”

“People died here tonight, Brien. Under Britness’ and Jonas’ command. While relaxing and drinking. That is not going to look good to the Conclave. They will need to crush someone for this. You know it as well as I do.”

Brien did not respond.

“I am not going to just run away. I will tell Britness. He trusts me; he’ll believe me despite how crazy it must sound. But I am not going with the blade to Pallas. I’m heading back to Greystone.”

“And I am coming with you,” Brien replied quietly. “Strange things are happening, to us all. I don’t know what it all means, but I don’t think that climbing up the ranks of the Pathwatch or the Grey Shields makes sense any more. I want to go on Venture as well.”

Varix grunted. “Well it’s about time you guys came around,” he said. “I’ve been planning on registering for Venture since Winter season.” They could hear his smile through his whisper.

“All right,” Max said. “Thanks, guys. Really.”

“Morlan was irritating me anyway…” Brien said, standing. Max and Varix joined him.

“Now Brien,” Varix added, adjusting his overly large shirt and trousers. “Are you going to tell us what happened out in the street? You don’t look this scared just because you heard Morlan breathing out threats about Max…”

Brien stood stone still for a moment. “How do you always figure things like this out, Var? I mean… that’s uncanny!”

“No, I wouldn’t make too much of it. Just good people instincts. Now walking up and through a wall of burning, marsh-oil soaked wood? That was uncanny.”

“Point taken,” said Brien with a snort. He looked up at the clearing night sky, littered with clusters of stars, but didn’t speak.

“Well?” said Max.

Just then they heard Captain Britness’ booming voice coming close to the mouth of their alley. He was clearly not happy about something.

“Hold that thought, men,” Brien said, walking toward the street. “Let’s have a chat with Britness now if we can, and then take it from there.”

 

* * *

 

Captain Britness’ face was still flushed red with anger as he listened to Max explain himself in the darkness of the alley. Britness had been furiously explaining to the Captain of the other blade that apparently no one had seen anything and no one knew anything about who started the fire… despite the fact that there had to have been 20 or 30 people out on the street when it began. On top of that, the local constable had diligently rung in the fire brigade while completely failing to send any of his local patrol out in search of the arsonists. Somehow, doing something to catch the attacker had slipped the constable’s mind.

“Bloody idiots!!” he had raved, still fuming, as Brien hustled him into the alley. “Bloody empty-headed country night-brains!!”

After calming the big Captain down, Max did his best to explain away his actions before the fire without outright lying. He closed his story by announcing that the three of them intended to head to Greystone City and register for Venture.

“Maximus Chemael, I consider you a friend,” Britness said in his deep voice as he cut Max off toward the end of the story. He had to make a real effort to speak as quietly as the others. “You know that. And even if I didn’t, I would give you the benefit of the doubt for a whole season just based off of your father’s Trust,” he added, using the formal term for a soldier or a lord’s heritage.

“Thank you, sir,” said Max.

“But I have no idea how you really could’ve known that fire was about to start. I don’t buy for a minute that it was a coincidence, Max. I don’t believe in coincidences!”

Britness scratched his beard thoughtfully in the dim light. “Based on that, Morlan and any number of other men, especially the friends of the wounded, are gonna want your head on a spear. No doubt about it. Someone will pay the price.”

Max suddenly remembered his vision of a balding, raggedly-dressed older man without a tooth in his grinning mouth running for the barn behind the Galleon. Laughing as the fire started. He was the culprit, the one responsible for almost killing two blades of Pathwatch soldiers. But how was Max to explain his knowledge of the unkempt arsonist? That would only point more blame in Max’ direction.

And what of the big man in the silver cloak?, Max thought. He wasn’t running, and hadn’t looked guilty, but he certainly had been trying to hide.  Was this some sort of conspiracy?

“So you have my leave, son,” Britness continued. “I will vouch for you if Morlan or anyone else tries to soil your name. The good news is that Holvik, Saron, and Serx also declared for Venture this very afternoon, right after the battle. When I announce their departure tomorrow morning in camp, I will just lump you in with them. They left about an hour before the Bard arrived, hoofing it back to Greystone.”

“Captain, you honor me. Thank you, sir!” Max replied, grabbing the man’s huge paw of a right hand and shaking it vigorously. “If I am ever in a position to do something for you, Captain, know that I am at your service.”

“Ha! You might live to regret that statement, young Maximus!! I think your future is bright, young man. Bright indeed! And I am always in need of a favor or two!!  HA!”

Britness turned to leave, but Brien spoke up instead.

“Captain, sir… many of the men’s clothes are totally smoke-charred or worse, sir. Did you see what happened to the old woman who was giving out clean outfits? Over on the far side of the street? I lost track of her.”

“Clean clothes? Well, that would be nice, watchmen Page, but I think you are mistaking the local physicians and their burn wraps for something else. I’ve sent ten men out into the outskirts to gather extra clothes from camp. There’s just too little of everything in a trade-town like this! Lots of men are gonna trek back to camp wearing nothing but burn-salves!”

Brien nodded, but didn’t respond. Varix stayed well back within the shadows with his crisp linen shirt, clean trousers, and unsoiled cloak.

“Be well, men,” the Captain said, quickly shaking hands with Varix and Brien. “And remember me when you’re all fancy knights in your private villas! Ha!” He laughed a good-natured chuckle, then strolled out into the street to resume his berating of the local constable and his men.

“What was that about, Bri,” Max asked. “Where did you get the clean clothes?”

Brien stared into the darkness for a moment, then shook his head as if trying to wake up.

“You want to know where I got these, Max? Well, let me tell you. I get the feeling that there isn’t anything we three should keep from one another, so why not?”

Brien stepped away from the shadows and into the center of the alley, where a stream of clear moonlight lit the hard-packed earth. He turned and described exactly what he had seen… grandmotherly old lady, stacks of neat clothing and boots, all organized, etc. He left out no detail, including her cryptic final call.

Max and Varix blinked hard, wide-eyed.

“By the Kings, Brien…” Max breathed, “I don’t even know what to say about this.” He shook his head, but then gestured toward Varix. “But look, the clothes are real. They are real! So…”

Brien shrugged.

“Well, regardless, we have to move,” said Varix. “If we run, we can get back to camp and get our gear before most of either blade arrives.

“Agreed,” replied Max, already walking deeper into the alley and toward the side street it joined at the far end. “Not that I am a fan of running that far on a full stomach, but it beats having my head on a spear – as Britness so gently put it. I tend to like keeping my head pretty much exactly where it is.”

 

* * *

About an hour later, the midnight moon gleamed off of the form of the three lone men as they walked briskly east along the Palladon Road out of Gilston. They each had a heavy pack on their backs, holding their sleep-sacks, one-man tents, cooking gear, toiletries, weapons, cooking gear, water, and a decent assortment of dried fruit and salted meat.

They spoke little for the balance of the night, choosing instead to travel at a light jog that both ate up the miles and kept them warm. Brien’s thoughts were circling around the events of the past day within his ever-present visions of white clouds, lights, and wind. The battle in the fields north of Gilston, the celebration at the Galleon, the fire… the old grandmother. It was a wonder that the clouds and lights couldn’t be seen by everyone. They were so clear, so overwhelming.

And of course, thoughts of My intruded at almost every turn.  It was for My that Brien had been looking after the Galleon had been evacuated, but he never saw a trace of her. She had been sitting on the bar rather near the kitchen door, so he was sure that she must have gotten out okay. But he still wished he could see her, just one more time. White clouds and winds… and My’s face. Beautiful.

For Brien the miles passed almost effortlessly as the hours rolled by. He could tell that Max and Var were both getting tired, slowing to a walk more and more often as the glistening moon retreated towards the western horizon. While Brien was never one to turn down rest-stops, he rarely felt like he actually needed them.

As dawn approached, they slowed to a relaxed walk and ate a light breakfast.  It was the coldest part of the morning, and a light frost had settled on to the packed clay road ahead of them. In the distance to the right, the sparse growths of rainwood trees that dotted the landscape of this part of the country gave way to the dark gray flatness of the Ash Barrows. They would spend their next several days with that bleak expanse as their silent companion.

Brien brought himself out of his reverie to stare out at the Barrows in the pale light of sunrise. As he chewed on a wedge of dried, salted pork, he thought back to his grade school teachers at Erinor College in Greystone and their lessons about the Ash Barrows. They were slow to admit that no one really knew the origins of the thousands of square miles of dead earth that made up the Barrows. Some of the professors in the Upper School claimed that they were the result of a tremendous ancient forest fire, which burned with such an intensity that they changed the very makeup of the soil in the region. Some of Brien’s own teachers taught that this was the site of an ancient star-fall which brought some celestial plague to the local countryside. None of the explanations even attempted to cover the one feature of note within the Barrows; a village-sized set of black stone ruins half buried in the ashy ground in the center of the region. The Palladon Road skirted the northern edge of the Barrows, more than one hundred miles from those ruins.

Of course, the soil wasn’t really like common ash. It was a dark gray granular clay that was far too heavy to blow away with the wind or wash away in the rain. More than anything else it was the smell, like old campfire remnants that had been left long enough to begin rotting, that gave the Barrows their name. Nothing grew there. Not a blade of grass, not a bush, not even moss. It was a county-sized expanse of rolling flat deadness.

Staring out into the distant Barrows, Brien again let his thoughts wander. Almost instantly, his mind’s eye was filled with billowing white clouds in a sky of clearest crystal blue. Lights as bright as the sun itself were in motion in every part of his vision, some circling wildly and erratically from horizon to horizon in the far distance, others moving in slow, measured arcs in the foreground. Their intensity was amazing, but Brien never had any trouble looking at them. In fact, just casting his eyes in the direction of one of the lights always seemed to bring them closer, almost on top of him. Sometimes he saw faces in those lights. Sometimes, places he had been before or that looked completely unfamiliar.  The winds always blew steadily, seeming to stream up at him from below as if keeping him buoyant in this fanciful place.

He again thought of My the Bard, and almost at once he could see her face in one of the soaring white lights. She wore her scarlet trimmed black cloak pulled tight, hood covering most of her face. She looked tired, but at peace. She seemed to be moving, somehow. He thought he saw horses near her. Horse? He thought. How odd. Why am I picturing her with horses?

But all the while, he was still walking along the Palladon Road, and he knew it. He could still see the ground in front of him, the Barrows off to his right, Max and Var walking on his left. He truly was in two places at once.

“Riders!” Max called out.

One of the benefits of travel in this part of the Land was its complete openness.  There were few places for bandits or Mindonites to hide in ambush, allowing travelers to move with a little more freedom. This openness made it easy for Brien, Max, and Varix to see the horses following their path from a long way off.

“Looks like six of them,” Max continued, shading his eyes from the morning sun. “Lightly loaded for the most part.  They don’t appear to be in a hurry, but they’ll overtake us in about 20 minutes at our pace.”

Brien walked backward like his comrades, looking at the distant riders as they drew closer. But unlike them, he also seemed to see them within the swirling clouds and lights in his mind. It wasn’t the first time he had seemed to see images of the real Land among the clouds and winds, but this time it was particularly clear.

“Shouldn’t be an issue,” Max said, turning around. “They’ll see we’re Pathwatch and probably try to hire us for protection.”

“This close to Greystone City?” asked Brien.

“Sure! Nowadays, with highway crime being what it is, these light travelers don’t think they can ever be too careful. Besides, if they came through Gilston, they’re probably scared to death after hearing about the fire last night.”

It was a good point. Brien again retreated into his own thoughts and the image of My in the lights before him. He was shocked at how clearly he could remember her face after having just seen her for one evening. It was as if he had her visage locked into his mind. On a whim, he concentrated more intensely on that light, wishing he could see more of her.

To his shock, the light grew brighter and the picture grew larger. Or maybe it just got closer, he wasn’t sure. He was still looking at My, but he could see her in full – riding a sleek brown mare at an easy walk. She was surrounded by other mounted companions, some slender of build like My, a few larger and broad-shouldered. They were on a broad road of packed earth, but the ground next to them was… gray, like fallen ashes.

Brien froze in place, his jaw dropping. This wasn’t his imagination. That was… that is…

“Bri, what’s up?” Max asked, also stopping. Varix stopped as well, a blank look on his face.

Brien couldn’t answer. His mind was locked onto the image as he realized that what he was seeing was real. He closed his eyes, and focused even harder on My and the riders, trying to see more of the picture in his mind.

Suddenly, a scream split the morning air, and a cascade of yells and grunts followed an instant later. Brien jerked his eyes open as loud horse whinnies and the sound of swords being drawn met his ears.  He saw three brown horses less than ten feet in front of him, bucking and rearing in fright, nearly throwing their riders. Three other large horses, one a tremendous roan war-horse, were charging his way, their riders brandishing swords that gleamed in the morning sunlight.

Brien cried out in shock, jumping backwards and running as he turned to alert Max and Varix and drew his broadsword.

But Max and Var were not there. They were nowhere to be seen.

Brien spun to face the riders, three large men in plain brown cloaks and leathers. He gripped his sword by the blade, point downward and hilt to the sky in the common gesture of peace, but kept backing up as the riders closed.

“Peace! Peace!” he yelled to the men, still glancing around for Max and Varix.

“Who are you!!! And if you mean peace, why were you hiding out in ambush!” Challenged the leader from the war-horse’s back.

“I’m with the Pathwatch, 5^th Blade, under Captain Toll Britness!” Brien called back, showing the Pathwatch sigil sown onto the short collar of his cloak . “I meant no harm!  I… I just got lost, lost my head a little, and got separated from my friends.” Brien’s thoughts raced as he realized how flimsy his story sounded. The riders were still advancing, if slowly, and he had no way of knowing what they would do if they succeeded in surrounding him. “I’ve been sick recently,” he lied. “Fevers. I think I just wandered away from our camp last night.”

The leader stopped his horse and the other two men followed suit. But they kept their swords at the ready.

“Fevers, huh,” the leader said with a grunt. “Right. Then where are your squadmates, soldier? Just how far did you ‘wander’ last night, eh? I’m not buying it, young man. Drop your sword and pack and then maybe we’ll discuss!”

Brien stopped retreating, working out his options. He could handle any one of these men, he was sure, but all three at once? While they were mounted? He also realized that if these were shady highwaymen or troublemakers they would have already attacked and been done with it.  It was much more likely that they were just random travelers, just like he was.  He sighed, looking around once more for Max and Var. There was no sign of them.

He opened his mouth to surrender, but just then a woman’s high crystalline voice cut him off.

“Trimell, no. I can vouch for this man. He was in Gilston last eve, at the Galleon. He is with the Pathwatch.”

A sleek brown mare walked into view, its rider wearing a black cloak trimmed in scarlet. She threw back her hood and nodded to Brien. As her three bodyguards sheathed their swords.

“Watchmen,” My said with a gently smile, “Whatever has befallen you, you are among friends. We are on our way to Greystone City. Will you travel with us?”

* * *

Thanks for reading!

~Kevin

I apologize for the delay! Work and grad school have been taking a bite out of my blogging time, unfortunately. Here is Chapter 5 of Emergence in its edited form. This chapter introduces the final three pieces of the main character puzzle in a marsh-border town in the southeast of the country. This present an abrupt change of pace, of course, after the “explosive” ending to chapter 4. I know that some prefer more linear stories, but I am a big fan of the interleaved format… just the way one would see it in a movie where multiple characters are introduced in a few introductory scenes before the real plot is revealed.

Please note the short interlude at the end of this chapter. It involves a minor character from chapter 1 making a brief re-appearance.

* * *

5 The Scent of Oil

Loric Sarindon never could get used to the smell of the town of Southern March.  As he followed the crowds down Lamplighter Street, one of the main thoroughfares, the stench of the marshland in the distance drove him nearly to distraction. He had spent many of the Summers of his youth here, passing long periods of time well within reach of the misty haze that the Craven marshes emitted every night. It always seemed that everyone else’s noses adapted quickly, blocking out the offensive smell, but not Loric’s. Not for the first time, he found himself thinking that the medium-sized town might be his favorite place in the Land if not for the endless scent of marsh oil.

It wasn’t because the town was particularly pretty… it wasn’t. In fact, it was extremely utilitarian in both its design and appearance. Southern March existed for one thing and one thing only; supporting the production and shipping of marsh oil, the single best lighting and cooking fuel known to man. The town was known from the Highlands to the Blue Islands as the marsh oil capital of the Land. Or at least the parts of the Land within the reach of the Greystone Protectorates.

And it certainly wasn’t because of the town’s culture or nightlife. In all of the seasons that Loric had spent with his mother in Southern March, visiting his maternal grandmother Momma-Deanna, he had never seen a single Bard come through town. Some of the locals said that there had been a few lesser known Bards pass through from time to time, primarily in the Winter when the smells of Craven marsh were weakest, but most of those locals were only slightly reliable. Even decent minstrels were rare in this marsh-side town on the Great River. For the most part, one’s meals in the local taverns and common rooms were eaten with the voices of one’s companions for entertainment.

No, in all of Brandon Duchy, Southern March might actually be the LEAST attractive place to visit, for all of those reasons and more. Everything about his hometown of Pallas, the capital city of Palladon Duchy one week to the west, was hands-down better. Except for one key factor.

West and Surk lived in Southern March. And a couple of good friends made all of the difference in the Land to Loric. But as much as he looked forward to seeing them again after two long years, he was already feeling the pain of the message he needed to deliver.

But the delivery of that message would have to wait, since at the moment Loric could find neither his huge, red-haired and bearded friend Surk, nor the stocky, dark haired West. The front door of the Brayburn Smithy was closed and the rear forges were lit but silent. That was always the place to find Surk, almost any time of the day or night, working hot metal under the tutelage of his famous father. Likewise, Loric had looked for West at the docks near the Currier family’s marsh oil warehouses. But the long, stone wharves were almost empty, the warehouse doors shut and locked. In fact, eight out of ten shops, taverns, banks, and inns that he passed were close to empty. It was as if it were just past dawn instead of the middle of the day. But the streets were rather crowded with Southerners, mostly moving toward the town’s center with Loric.

The sun was bright in a clear blue sky, and the air was pleasantly warm despite the steady breeze that blew out of the west. The buildings of Southern March were of plain design, constructed primarily of white or gray trucstite stone floated downriver from the Granite Hills. One didn’t build many wooden structures around vast quantities of flammable marsh oil.

Upon entering the flat, open town center area of the city, Loric found where everyone was going. There was a huge gathering of townsfolk in the central square of town, right in front of the Mayor’s mansion at the intersection of Lamplighter and Barge streets. Thousands were there, standing in small groups or large, pressing closer to the Mayor’s Mansion or standing still near the edges of the square. Loric – having only arrived that morning – had no idea why.

You’ll be able to spot Surk easily enough, Loric, the voice said silently. He’s grown even taller than you think.

Loric blinked slowly as he walked, steadfastly ignoring the voice, as usual.

There was a large, permanent stage just outside of the fence that surrounded the Mayor’s mansion, usually used for election year speeches, public trials and the like. The stage was empty now except for a wooden podium, but as Loric drew closer and merged in with the crush of the large crowd he began to pick out hints of what was to come from nearby conversations. Duke Kelly’s knights… big new development from Erinor College… improving all of Greystone… all of these comments and more were flitting about around him. Whatever it is, Loric thought to himself, it sounds abundantly political. He had little patience for Ducal Knights or their politics. He had seen just how poorly a common man like his father, no matter how skilled, could be treated by those types of men.

So he returned his attention to searching for his old friends, slowly inching his way through the crowd towards his right. Then his eyebrows lifted in surprise.

Rounding the corner from Barge Street, about 40 yards away across the square, he saw Surk. That is, he saw Surk’s familiar head of thick, long red hair hanging down over his giant-sized shoulders… both significantly higher in the air than ANYONE else’s head and shoulders. Loric was stunned. Given the ready reference of men and women of average height all around the square, Surk had to be more than seven feet tall… and may have been almost that wide across the shoulders. He was big when Loric had last seen him, almost exactly two years before, but he was in another category altogether now. He was a red-headed giant.

I told you he’s grown, the voice chimed in, sounding smug. Loric ignored the female sounding voice in his head once again, instead focusing on pressing his way through the crowd toward Surk. It was a safe bet that West was in the same general area, given that the two young men spent a great deal of time with each other when not working.

As he closed the distance, Loric again felt his heart sink. Now he would have to explain to his two old friends what had really been going on in his life recently. He would have to tell them how the plans they had all made together over the years were no longer valid. He would have to tell them both farewell. As much as he had thought about this day over the past year, Loric still had a pit in his stomach as he thought about what the future held for him. Only twenty Summers old, and he was already pretty much finished… his story ready to come to a close.

Don’t be afraid, Loric, said the voice that only he could hear, reassuring and calm. You are going to be fine. Have I been wrong yet?

Loric continued to ignore the voice, despite the fact that he agreed with her on that last point. During the last few years of his… problem… as his father and mother called it, the imaginary voice had never told him anything wrong. In fact, it had been right a surprising number of times. But the physicians all said that this fact would change over time. These conditions never got better, they had said, shaking their heads in pity. They only grew worse. And more dangerous.

He sighed deeply as he slowly worked his way through the crowd. Through the milling throng of men and women, young and old, he caught a quick glimpse of West’s pensive face. He was standing next to towering Surk just as Loric had expected, but was engaged in conversation with two pretty young blonde women standing to his left. West was shorter than most men and even some women, but was solidly built and strong. He had short cropped, sandy brown hair and dark brown eyes under thick eyebrows, a tan complexion and somewhat sunken cheeks. West perpetually looked like he was deep in thought about something important. Of course, this was usually quite accurate since West was one of the smartest young men in Brandon Duchy if not all of Greystone. Though the same age as Loric and Surk, West had invented or discovered numerous new uses and processing methods for marsh oil, each of which had benefited his father’s already lucrative oil production business significantly. West’s father had nicknamed him “the scientist”, but West himself shirked the title. He was more interested in being a soldier than a thinker. A soldier in the Grey Shields.

That had been the plan for almost ten years now. Surk, an accomplished blacksmith who had learned the craft from his father, West, the highly intelligent son of an established marsh oil producer, and Loric himself, son of a huntmaster whose services were often requested by the dukes of both Palladon and Brandon, had all conspired to abandon their fathers’ professions. Once they reached twenty summers, the age of majority in all Greystone, they would trek to Greystone City to apply for the Grey Shields.

That plan, at least for Loric, was no longer possible.

“LORIC!!!!” A gigantic bass voice boomed across the crowded square. “Loric, you old boot, you marsh-snake, you piece of flame-burnt dross, you!!! You made it!!!”

Surk was a loud as he was big, and he spotted Loric while he was still rather far away. Loric was stunned at just how big the young blacksmith was. Up close, his size was even more stunning; he was certainly over seven feet tall now. His three-foot long red beard was braided into a single long tail that swayed as he talked, and his bright gray eyes were twinkling with joy at the sight of Loric. He wore a simple brown linen sleeveless shirt laced up the front, and brown leather work pants dotted with burns and small holes from working in the smithy.

Smiling despite his dour mood, Loric grasped wrists with his large friend, then gasped as Surk pulled him into a rough bear hug.

“Loric, you mountain dog, you!” West called out, also stepping up and hugging Loric fondly. “Good to see you! But you’re a little late, aren’t you? Hadn’t you targeted the 41^st of Spring for your grand arrival? Is everything well? We didn’t see any more letters from you after you cancelled on us last Spring.”

“It’s good to see you too, West! Surk, by the Caroc itself, man… I may be a mountain dog, but you are the entire mountain itself!” Loric slapped the big blacksmith on his beefy arm as he spoke.

“Clean living, Loric, clean living! You eat right, you keep your nose clean, you let the Creator and your body do the rest!” Surk replied with a huge smile.

“Since when do vast quantities of ale and Highlands wine count as ‘eating right’, Surk?” West asked with a wink towards Loric.

“Why, they’re a healthy part of any good meal! Good for the digestive system, my old man always says!” Surk boomed as he frowned in mock indignation, stroking his braided beard. Several other Southerners who were standing nearby in the press couldn’t help but laugh at Surk’s infectious good humor.

“I for one agree with him,” said Loric, turning to West. “Sorry about the lack of letters, West. It’s been a rough last year or two back in Pallas. I’ll fill you in later while we enjoy some health-food with Surk.”

Surk laughed again, turning towards a procession of large horses that had just entered the square from Lamplighter Street. But West kept his eyes on Loric, a quick look of concern crossing his face as he raised one questioning eyebrow.

“We’ll talk, West,” Loric said again, more quietly. West nodded once in understanding, then turned to the blonde women standing next to him.

“Loric,” West said in a clear, formal voice, “this is Aran Rivers, newest account manager in father’s shop, and Clana Ales, new assistant director of processing. Ladies, this is one of my oldest and best friends, Loric Sarindon, Ex-apprentice Huntmaster of Palladon Duchy.”

Loric inclined his head toward each woman respectfully.  “Pleased to meet you each,” he said, and then added with a laugh, “and I sure hope that you aren’t letting West here run you ragged as he teaches you the marsh oil business.”

Aran, her golden hair back in a long braid, inclined her head in turn and offered a small smile. “Pleased to meet you, Loric, and no, Mr. Currier’s been just fine.”

“Mister Currier???” Surk said sarcastically, still watching the growing crowd of mounted men at the far side of the square. “Did they threaten you into calling him that, Aran? Or is ‘mister’ just businesswoman’s code for ‘the boss’ son’!”

The ladies, Surk, and Loric laughed out loud at that, and West just shook his head and grinned. Loric understood very well what West wanted to convey via those introductions. For the past three years, West himself had worked full-time for his father’s successful marsh oil business, Currier Oil. He had really been managing two roles for the company; director of processing for the raw marsh oil as it was unloaded from barges newly returned from a week or so out in the Craven, and as an account manager in charge of sales, distribution, and customer service for some of Currier Oil’s biggest clients. West was training these two women as his replacements.

Surk would probably have no such concerns with leaving his father’s forge. Kurtus Brayburn would almost certainly insist on training Surk’s replacement just as he had trained Surk himself. Both of Loric’s old friends were prepared to leave Southern March.

“So what’s going on here, West?” Loric asked, more to distract himself from his dark thoughts than to find out why the crowd was gathered. “What’s the big event? I gather it’s an announcement from the Queen, right?”

The riders that had arrived from Lamplighter street, about two dozen well-armed members of the Southern March patrol, had dismounted and spread out to encircle the wooden stage. They each wore the light silver cloak and matching boots of their station, with short swords at their sides and crossbows mounted on their backs.  Behind them came four massive, jet black warhorses bearing four warriors in gleaming chain mail and polished leathers. They each wore black and silver berets on their heads and black cloaks trimmed in silver on their backs. The back of their cloaks featured a large image of three silver flames arranged in a triangle; the sigil of Brandon Duchy, Duke Kelly, and his knights.

“I’m sure of it. But whatever it is, it’s not big enough to lure Duke Kelly out of his palace, that’s for sure,” said West sneeringly. “And not enough to bring his First Knight here either. That’s Sir Roder in the lead, and probably a few of his newer arrivals backing him up.”

“You know how Kelly is, Mr. Currier,” said Clana, frowning. “He would never show up to support something from the crown?”

Surk nodded in agreement. “Not unless he was paid to do it. What’s more, I still think Roder is a pretender…” he muttered very quietly, using the derogatory term given to men or women who cheated or bought their way into knighthood.  “I’ve delivered swords and armor to him at his villa before, and seen him use them. I just don’t see it.”

“And here comes Mayor Chatham,” West added, as several patrolmen helped a white-haired old man mount the steps to the stage in advance of the four knights. He moved with the help of a white wooden cane, and looked none too healthy.

“So what’s with the wagons?” Surk asked, staring back at the entrance to the square from Lamplighter.

“Wagons?” Loric asked.

“Ah, well… height has its advantages, Loric, old friend. Sorry about that,” Surk said, pointing briefly over Loric’s head. “I can see a line of about five light wagons parked just at the entry to the square. They are loaded down with something, covered with tarps, and are under guard. You’re the smart one, West… what is going on here.”

“Actually,” West said, donning a grin, “I think I do know what’s happening. The wagon’s tipped me off. Thanks, Surkland old boy.”

West turned back to the stage just as the crowd was being hushed by the patrolmen. The Mayor was about to speak.

“Well???” Surk boomed, flushing as he stared down at West. “Are you gonna tell us your revelation, or what???”

“Or what, Surk.” West grinned. “Now pipe down! You’re about to miss the big announcement!” West winked at Loric again, then returned his attention to the stage.

This announcement is actually pretty important, Loric. It will matter in the future, the voice said to Loric in its silent, feminine voice.

Loric’s eyebrows furrowed in consternation as he tried his best to ignore the words, to block out the very existence of the voice. But he knew it was there. No matter how hard he tried to ignore it, to wish it away, the voice always returned. And that could mean only one thing.

He was losing his mind.

At that moment, the mayor ended his brief conversation with the knights and made his way to the podium.

* * *

“Gathered citizens of Southern March,” Mayor Chatham began, “honored visitors, friends, and families, thank you all for taking a moment out of your busy days.” The thin wisps of white hair that still clung to his head danced in the breeze as he spoke. The four knights stood formally behind him, arms folded across their chests, thick black and silver cloaks swaying lightly in the breeze. West couldn’t help but notice how the sun glittered off of the jeweled hilts of their large broadswords and their service daggers, not to mention the heavy silver and gold encrusted belts that their weapons hung from. Everything about them communicated both wealth and strength. Maybe over-communicated would be the better word. As with all of the Ducal Knights West had ever seen, ostentatious displays seemed to be the name of the game.

“I have the distinct pleasure,” the wrinkled old mayor continued, leaning heavily on his cane, “of being joined by a contingent of the Knights of Brandon Duchy. The Honorable Sir Roder, Second Knight of Brandon, along with Sirs Yendon, Mirkel, and Ost, in dedicated service to Kelly, Duke of Brandon.”

The crowd applauded politely at the close of this formal set of introductions, but were clearly impatient to hear what the big news was from Greystone City. The last time such a city gathering was announced, it was to spread word of the signing of the current peace treaty, such as it was, between MasMindon and Greystone. West was not quite 17 Summers old back then, but he knew a sketchy sounding political move when he heard one. His father had taught him that the only time Mindonites sued for peace was when they needed some down time to prepare for an expanded war.

The mayor retrieved a folded piece of paper from the inside lapel of his white and silver coat, opened it, and began to read in his raspy voice that barely carried back to where West, Surk, and Loric stood with Aran and Clana.  “On behalf of Lorillin, Queen of the Greystone Protectorates and Lady Defender of the Realm, and on behalf of Kelly, Duke of Brandon, and on behalf of our distinguished knights… I am pleased to announce that the scholars of Erinor College have labored to bring you, the people of Greystone, a new communication and information tool that will revolutionize the way all citizens learn of happenings within the Land.”

At this point, Sir Roder stepped forward and produced a tightly rolled, beige bundle of paper held wrapped by a silver cord. Mayor Chatham, always one with a flair for the dramatic, stepped out from behind the podium as he took the bundle, released the cord with one hand, and let the long, somewhat narrow piece of paper unroll from his other hand to rest in front of his chest. West giggled as he noticed that the old mayor was suddenly standing up just fine, despite having to drop his thick cane to display the bundle.

It was obviously a stack of thin parchment paper many pages thick, and there were words and pictures of various sizes all over the front.

“On this, the 55^th day of Spring, RC 1299,”Chatham called out proudly, “I give you the first edition of the Greystone Journal! The first current events journal of the known Land!”

That being their cue, the assembled patrolmen of Southern March sprang into action. They left their posts flanking the stage and all around the city square to surround the light wagons that still sat at the mouth of Lamplighter Street. In a moment the tarps were removed, revealing stack after stack of neatly folded beige paper covered in black print. The patrolmen grabbed a large stack each and began handing folded sections to every adult man and woman in the crowd.

West’s eyebrows rose in surprise. This wasn’t exactly what he had heard about in his conversations with Currier Oil’s sales representative in Greystone city. That old fellow, Hans by name, had reported that inventors at Erinor College had created the known Land’s first automatic printing press capable of mass production of books and documents. West thought that was news enough and was anxious for details, but Hans had no interest in science or inventions… only money. But he had certainly been right. If this display was happening in every major city across the protectorates, the Erinor must have a truly massive printing operation established.

West was already considering how he might be able to use large quantities of thin paper like this within his experiments on fire-bricks. Maybe in place of wood chips or sawdust? He thought, imagining this new twist on his idea. If only I had more time…

“Sir Roder, if you would,”Chatham called, retrieving his cane and stepping back to give the podium to the black and silver-clad knight.

“Thank you, honorable Mayor Chatham,” Roder called, not turning to face the mayor as he retreated to stand next to the younger knights. Roder had a thin, scraggly haze of a brown beard covering a round jaw, and small, beady brown eyes. His sword belt was tucked beneath an enormous paunch, and despite being on stage he looked distinctly bored. Though he displayed fine clothing and weaponry, the man himself did not impress. He also produced a piece of paper and began to read.

“Citizens, the Greystone Journal is an invention of Gurdon Masterson, First Monitor of Erinor College Greystone City. It will contain descriptions and pictures of current events from all over the known Land, from the Burnt Peaks to the plains of Theron, from the Blue Islands to the Ice Coast.”

West received his copy of the journal from a silver-cloaked patrolman. It certainly was impressive looking, with a large scripted “Greystone Journal” title bar across the top. Beneath that was the date, Queen Lorillin’s signature, and the name Gurdon Masterson listed as Chief Editor. Masterson was something of an idol of West’s, as he was well known as one of the finest minds in the history of Greystone. West hoped one day to meet the man. Once upon a time, before West had decided that he was much more interested in being a warrior than a scholar, he had dreamt of traveling to Greystone City to study under Masterson himself… maybe even working toward being an assistant Monitor. He still thought that sounded fantastic. But it would not have been enough for him. West yearned to prove himself as a soldier.

“The Journal will be produced initially once per Season,” Roder continued, speaking louder so that his voice would carry over the rustle of hundreds of journal papers and the murmurs of the interested crowd. “But as time goes by and as interest is judged, production may increase to two or three times per season. Each city’s branch of the Erinor will also serve as a local reporting station for events and information that will be gathered and delivered to the Erinor in Greystone City for consideration. Any tax paying citizen of the Protectorates may contribute to the Journal.”

West noticed that the journal was divided into sections by duchy and city. Some articles focused on crime and justice topics like the theft of an ancient book collection from the cellars of Greystone Castle. Others related human interest topics like the boy of only ten Summers who tested into the upper school at Erinor College, Greystone City. Still others discussed foreign affairs like the recent increase in sorties into Jesserin Duchy by Mindonite barbarians despite the Treaty of Falanx.

“These copies of the first edition are free of charge,” Roder concluded, “but from the Summer Season on, each will cost 5 weight of silver. On behalf of Duke Kelly and her royal majesty, Queen Lorillin Greystone, thank you.”

West, however, was quickly back to analyzing the paper itself instead of the words printed on it. He had been so excited, so very overjoyed, that his design for fire-bricks had seemed to work. He had been able to produce dozens of them using the process he had developed, and they worked wonderfully. But he had been completely unable to teach any of the company’s oil processors how to duplicate his success. No matter what they tried, every attempt they made on their own had failed.

That is, unless West himself was there with them. He still didn’t understand that. Surk demanded that there was something special about West that was making it work, but the towering Dramini blacksmith was always quick to imagine magic and mystery in everyday events. The smith had heard far too many Bard’s tales in his youth. West knew better, instead looking for reasonable, scientific explanations for the problem.

His latest thought was that the wood chips and other flammable fillers he had been using simply weren’t reliable enough, that they were too susceptible to fluctuations in humidity and air temperature. But this parchment paper that the journal was printed on… this had promise. He imagined the way he would slice the parchment ultra-thin to mimic the fibrous strands of the wood chips, maybe even allowing the finished fire-bricks themselves to be smaller and denser, and perhaps burn longer…

Without warning, the Greystone Journal in his hands fell apart.

In fact, it nearly dissolved. West started as his hands were suddenly grasping hundreds of hair-thin strands of shredded paper… while the rest of the journal fell swirling to his feet in a beige snow of perfectly thin paper shreds.

West held his breath, afraid to move, as his eyebrows climbed nearly to his hairline. He quickly glanced to his right and his left to see if anyone had seen what had just happened. Only seconds had passed since Roder stepped away from the podium, and everyone seemed to be steadfastly staring at their individual copies of the journal. Aran and Clana were oblivious, Loric was reading the section devoted to Palladon duchy – probably looking for anything mentioning his father, since he often worked for Duke Jorge – and Surk—

Surk was looking right at West. Their eyes met.

West shrugged, wide-eyed, and shook his head, mouthing the words what just happened??? as Surk stared.

Surk blinked hard, then intentionally stepped right up to West, placing his huge booted foot right on top of the pile of paper shreds.

“Well, Loric!!” Surk boomed. “Now that that’s over with, let’s us three retire to the closest tavern and catch up, eh?” He was intentionally being even louder than usual, with a cheerful smile on his face. He slapped Loric on the back to get him moving off towards Barge Street, his copy of the journal tucked under one arm.

“Sounds good, Surk,” West chimed in, quickly walking with the two and leaving the scene behind. He hoped he didn’t look as pale and shaky as he felt. “Aran, Clana, grab a mid-day meal if you’d like, and if you please, let my father know that Loric has arrived. He’ll know where we are.”

“Yes, Mr. Currier,” Aran replied, inclining her head ever-so-slightly. Clana did likewise, and the two women turned and headed in the opposite direction.

“Nightwings!!” West burst out once the women were out of earshot. Loric seemed lost in thought, but turned to see what was the matter. “Surk,” West continued, “… the paper… what in the Land!!!”

Surk looked down at West with wide eyes as he nervously stroked his braided beard with one hand. “You know what I think, Westwind Currier. You know exactly what I think.”

“Hey, West,” Loric said, looking up from his paper. “Where’s your copy of the journal? Didn’t you get one? There’s a story in there about my father!”

West turned to his old friend Loric, but didn’t know what to say. Loric finally caught on to the fact that something was amiss. “What is it, West? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

“Ale!” Surk said, fixing his eyes on the crowded street in front of them. “We need ale, and lots of it. Then… we can talk.”

* * *

The central market of Jesserin City was packed with early morning vendors and price conscious shoppers hoping to take advantage of oft-rumored early-bird specials. The morning air was cool and crisp, almost chilly, and a thick layer of clouds rolling in from the Black Mountains promised that more mid-Spring rains were on the way.

But neither the shoppers nor the weather were on Turog’s mind. Every vendor’s call seemed to split his head open, every clanging weight of gold or silver made his pulse pound in his temples, and all he could think about was downing about a half-barrel of ale and sleeping for a week.

That is, he thought, an unwholesome grin splitting his face, AFTER I collect the rest of my pay.

Turog stumped and pounded his way around the broad expanse of the market, finally stopping and leaning on a stone wall near the front of a small florist shop at the southwest corner of the square.  His ponderous girth was not exactly easy to hide, but he did his best to look inconspicuous anyway.  He looked around carefully, making a show of adjusting the straps on his pack, making sure he hadn’t been followed. It was pointless, he knew. He had made sure to cover his tracks completely. A few weights of silver in the right hands had made sure that several of his men hadn’t made it out of the Oern cuperative. Then a few more coins had ensured that a midnight raid along the Cayn Roadhad eliminated the few men on his crew that remained.

But one could never be too sure.

He hoisted his pack back onto his back and leaned back against the wall, head hung low as if he were a common derelict on a street corner. Once he had counted one hundred passers-by, he ducked into the dark alley next to the florist and broke into a jog that really got his head pounding.

Is it natural to have a headache this long? He thought as he turned right, then left, then right again to wind his way deeper and deeper into the warren of back roads just off of the market square. I might need to get some hannon after all… of course, in a few minutes, I will be able to afford all the hannon I need!

He passed a few shopkeepers hauling sacks of goods or trash into the alley, circled a few empty light wagons, and finally stopped at a black, closed door at the end of a dim dead end. Looking closer, he noticed that it wasn’t just black. It was impossibly, perfectly black. Like the darkest corner of a closed grave brought to life in the shape of a door. No handle, no markings of any kind, marred this empty space in the alley.

He wiped the sweat from his brow with the filthy back of his hand, almost blacking out from the booming throbbing behind his eyes. But he grinned through the pain; he had made it. This was the spot. He could almost smell the wealth he was about to acquire.

He knocked on the black door, a special pattern that he had been taught when he accepted this job working for the Trax.  While he did not like the inevitable strings that always came with working for the expansive crime syndicate, Turog had heard of many common thieves cashing in big by working for them. Now it was his turn.

The door felt vaguely like wood, and produced a dull wet sound like hammering on wet earth. He resisted the urge to touch the door further. He had the distinct feeling that something bad would happen if he did. So instead, he waited.

Minutes passed. Turog began to sweat, despite the chill in the air.  Come on, he thought. If I went through all of this pure hell for nothing…

“Speak,” a low voice whispered from behind the door.

Turog exhaled. He again wiped an amazing amount of dirt onto his head from the back of his befouled hand.

“The Dead Pass,” Turog said in a near-whisper, giving the pass phrase as he had been taught.

More silence.  Turog took a half-step as if to open the door, but the voice came again so suddenly that it made him freeze in place.

“Report,” it said. The whisper was perfectly even, perfectly emotionless. But still it brought a chill to the center of Turog’s bloated frame. He felt like he should be able to see his breath if he exhaled.

Turog swallowed hard, his pulse echoing within the confines of his skull in a painful cascade of sound.

“I think ah found what yer looking fer, master, sir,” he said quietly, bowing his head towards the midnight door several times. His voice had gone dry. He tried to clear his throat, but the moisture wouldn’t come. “’Bout a week or so ago, ya see. My crew and ah, we were trackin’ some good hits movin’ east along the Jury. Easy pickin’s mostly, ya know, master, sir. Small wagon trains, lone ‘orsemen, anythin’ looking like it might be both easy an’ cheap, ya know—“

“The point,” the whisper said abruptly, with a note of finality that made Turog’s heart skip a beat.

“Right, surely, right, sorry, master, sir,” Turog stumbled, bowing his head repeatedly and again wiping his aching brow. “Errr… maybe if ah could come inside, we can sit an’ ah can tell ya the whole long story—“

“The. Point.” This time Turog really did see his breath. The cold was real. He began to feel very, very scared, and decided to move on with his story as quickly as he dared.

“Ya see, we was about twelve strong, workin’ our way along the Jury, an’ we came across these two young bucks. All alone, ‘bout dawn. Not forty summers if ya added ‘em both together. Well, they whopped us! Knocked me clean out, broke a bunch a my crews arms, then the lil’ one… er, sorry, master, sir, the one with the sword was big and tall, and the one with the throwin’ knives was short and lil’… well, the lil’ one was a hidin’ who-knows-where up in the pith trees, see, and split the hands of half-a-dozen of my men with throwin’ knives from so far away ya couldn’t believe it! Now this same crew, master, sir, we’ve taken troops of fifteen to twenty men when we caught ‘em unawares at dawn. An’ ah had bows, too! Good shots, they were. If that don’t sound like young ‘uns with ‘special skills’ like you need, ah don’t know what does.”

Turog’s fear had faded. He was on a roll now, excitedly delivering his report as he pictured the weights of gold that would soon lay at his feet. “What’s more, master, sir,” he continued, “Not a man was killed, ya here me! Just like ya said, they din’t kill a one of us. Now, how’re two young pups like that gonna be that good? They fit the bill, master, sir. An last week, they was on the Jury Road headin’ east. I reckon by now they’d have made it to Haverlin, master, sir. Oh, and the big one, he gave his name. Argand, of Eagle’s Reach.”

Silence. Turog’s head was pounding; the huge knot on the top of his head from that sword pommel hurt worse than ever. The angry red scar that ran down the front of his face seemed to want to split open.  He was seeing spots in the corners of his vision. But it was finally time. Time to get paid.

“Well done,” said the whisper. “Your men?”

“Dead, master, sir,” Turog said. “A few bad sweeps between Oern and here, ya know, and a few deserters, too, but we caught ‘em and hung ‘em. But me, master, sir? Ah’m loyal to ya, and got back here as soon as ah could!”

Another pause. Did the door just move? There was no sound, but through his foggy vision he could have sworn he saw the impossibly black rectangle begin to shift. Turog licked his lips, and risked a smile.  “That’s 200 weight of gold, right, master sir?” he asked.

“It is worth much more than that,” said the whisper. “Much more.”

Turog did smile, then. And he kept on smiling, even as he fell to the alley floor with a black crossbow bolt embedded deep into the front of his skull.

“Much more indeed,” the whisper repeated again, as if addressing the dead thief. But the sound faded as it came, almost seeming to be moving away at a great rate of speed as the words flowed.  A moment later, only silence filled the alley above the corpse of Turog.

* * *

Thanks for reading!

~Kevin

Chapter 4 is presented below, to be discussed later. Music has often been a part of fantasy stories, and The First Proving is no exception. The tales sung by the Bards in these stories form a critical part of the overall arc of The Tome of Greystone. This chapter introduces an important Bard via a live performance in The Galleon.

Enjoy!

* * *

4 Bard

 

The Bard threw back her cloak to reveal long blonde hair pulled back into a tail and a young, flawless face. Her eyes were a deep, sky blue, and her expression was warm yet serious as she surveyed the quickly calming room. She wore a jet-black dress that faded into the black inner lining of her scarlet outer cloak, hiding her figure completely.

Max and Varix leaned back and refocused their attention on their tankards, but Brien was obviously struck by the woman’s beauty. Max had never understood why almost every Bard was a breathtaking beauty. He wondered if they just never took ugly women for apprentices! But that seemed too simple an answer.

She produced a lyron from the dark folds of her cloak, and surveyed the room as she ran her fingers along the multi-length and multi-colored strands of the guitar-like instrument.

“I am My, Bard of Greystone, and I would like to thank Perry and Verlin Galleon for their hospitality tonight”, she announced in a crystal clear, almost sing-song voice that carried easily down the long tavern room.

“By the Caroc!!” Brien whispered urgently to his table mates. “I’ve heard of her!”

“Of course you have, Bri,” laughed Max. “And why do I expect that what you heard started with a description of her looks and not her voice, eh?”

Brien snorted dismissively, then grinned as he leaned back in his chair and drank. “She’s an up-and-coming star! The absolute talk of the town all around the Prior, I’ve heard. What a treat, boys. Could this day get any better?”

“And if it pleases the Galleons and the fighting men of the Pathwatch,” the Bard continued, “I would count it a boon to present you with a few tales this night.”

At this the entire crowd erupted in cheers and applause, clanging their tankards on the tables in delight. It was a rare pleasure to enjoy the performance of a trained bard without having to pay an entrance fee of several weight of silver – at least. Serving girls and busboys worked their way through the crowd with stools, mounting them to douse about half of the hanging marsh-oil lamps.

The bard bowed her head in acceptance, then raised a single pale hand that quickly quieted the excited crowd. Strumming her silvery lyron, she filled the long, dim room with an echoing cascade of chords and began to sing.

Max had heard many Bard’s perform before, but he could tell from her first notes that My was truly something special. The crowd all managed to find seats, even resorting to sitting on tables and on the floor in some cases, and almost all chatter faded away as complex strains of music from the lyron began to merge with her strong, high voice. The instrument’s overlapping chords and bright, staccato notes belied the apparently simple movements of her hands. Her eyes were closed, and she swayed gently to the rhythm.

 

     Long ago, in the highland hills, there arose beautiful sisters seven,

     Strong of mind and firm of will, they prospered all they put their hand in,

     The eldest and by far most fair, was Lady Erissa of the Rose,

     Wisdom fell from her like rain, and truth like winter snows.

 

Max found himself entranced by the bard’s powerful voice.  It was the timeless “Tale of Erissa and Tyrol”, a classic this side of theBlack mountainsif ever there was one. Max had heard this story maybe a hundred times in his younger days. Growing up in the shadow of Greystone Castle and having an uncle who was one of the five Dukes of Greystone had its privileges, not the least of which was having easy access to the performances of the finest Bards in the known Land when they came to perform in Greystone City. It was tales like these that had excited him so very much when he was a child, filling his mind with visions of knights and nobles and romantic acts of courage. He took a long pull at his mug, then leaned back in his chair and drank in the song.

 

     Riding forth on a mighty steed came Prince Tyrol the Great,

     His mighty men destroyed the siege and sealed the Xerits fate,

     But Tyrol won much more that day… he captured Erissa’s heart,

     And he in turn was smitten with love, and promised they’d never part.

Despite the wonderful mood in the room, however, and the note-perfect retelling of one of his favorite tales, Max could not help but feel troubled.  Var’s words were far too piercing, and his revelation was even more bothersome.  Max had gone to great lengths to make sure that his strange… talents… were never too obvious. In truth, most of the time it wasn’t even an issue. When he was spending time inGreystoneCitywith his father and mother, or hanging out with Brien in Chase or Quin Hollow when they were off Pathwatch duty, he never had to pay much attention. It was whenever the pressure built, whenever fighting or training or scared, that was when all of the images and thoughts would come flooding into his mind unbidden. It didn’t bother him in the least; he knew that the flashes of images had either saved his life or at least saved him from injuries on a number of occasions. Or, as in tonight’s case, saved him from a beer-bath. He tried not to think about it most of the time, but Varix’ comments really caught him off guard.

And yet, Max wasn’t surprised. He knew that Varix was somehow… different. He knew that Var couldn’t be hurt by a sword or a knife. In fact, he had the distinct feeling that just about no weapon could hurt him. But thinking that, as crazy as it was, was one thing; having Varix confirm that it was actually true was another matter entirely!  What did it mean?

Max shook himself out of his reverie as the song neared its conclusion.  He had already missed several verses as he pondered Varix’ words.

 

     So Erissa agreed to the bargain, fearing for Tyrol’s life,

     Donning the shroud of the Oracle, she traded away her sight,

     She saw the secret tunnels deep where the Overlord lay in wait,

     Then passing word to Tyrol’s troops, she sealed the invaders’ fate.

 

Once upon a time Max would simply listen to such a song and enjoy the rhythm and harmony, paying little heed to the age-old words. But now he found himself thinking about oracles, and dark, magical overlords with their armies of fire. Tales for children, of course… to be enjoyed by candlelight on a mid-summers eve, no more. Or were they? If Varix couldn’t be cut by a sword, and if Max himself could – well, if he could hear people thinking sometimes, and even see what they were about to do before they did it, then maybe oracles and evil magicians really DID exist. Who was he to say otherwise?

 

     Then Tyrol did discover the hidden secret of the shroud,

     While any could choose to don the wrap, removal was not allowed,

     He lamented Erissa’s blindness with tears on every breath,

     Giving honor to the sacrifice that had saved them all from death.

Max noticed that both Brien and Varix were sitting up and leaning forward in interest as the song reached its conclusion. He glanced at Brien, catching the faraway expression on his face, and realized that it wasn’t only Varix that triggered strange thoughts in his head. There was something odd about Brien too, but it was much less obvious. Where with Var he got a sense of hardness and impenetrability, from Brien came a feeling of… distance. As if he wasn’t always really there. It wasn’t a consistent feeling. It came and went depending on where they were and what they were doing. But right at that moment, despite the fact the he was looking right at his friend of nearly 15 years, he would have given all of his weights of silver and gold on a wager that Brien was not – really – there.  Max had never felt anything like it from anyone else. Now, though, given Varix’ direct comments, he felt that he could at least bring up the admittedly strange topic. He returned his attention to the singer standing and swaying on the bar-top.

 

     In sorrow deep did the sisters six learn of Erissa’s plight,

     And six daggers slid free, one for each, in the glow of firelight,

     Since their sister fair had given her sight in the name love and life,

     Then at blade’s point they too would be blind, to join fair Erissa’s strife.

 

Then came waves of soaring major chords building to a crescendo as the song’s finale began.  It told of the appearance of the Creator himself as he stopped the six sisters of Erissa from blinding themselves in their sorrow, and how he then restored Erissa’s sight. That also gave Max pause. What of the Creator? Could he also be real? Max shook his head again, turning to reach for his ale as the young bard brought the tale to a close.

But then he froze in place, his eyes going wide.

Brien was gone.

The Galleon was nearly silent except for the final strains of music drifting from the bard’s lyron. No one had moved. There was almost no ROOM for anyone to move. If Brien had stood up and tried to leave, there was no way Max could have missed it. And yet his chair was empty.

Varix didn’t appear to have noticed, since he was facing almost away from Brien’s position at the far end of their small four-seater table. And in the dim light, Max doubted if anyone else could have noticed a single man in a dark cloak moving about.

An eruption of applause made Max jump nearly out of his skin. The song was over, and the throng was rising to their feet to make their appreciation known with clapping and cheers. Max kept his eyes on the empty chair, and a moment later he was glad he had. Suddenly, Brien was back.

He appeared out of thin air, already in motion as he rose out of his chair to join in the applause. He was smiling broadly, clearly enamored with both performance and the performer. Varix turned to Brien and nodded as the applause continued, then they both turned to Max – still sitting in his chair. They both threw him questioning glances.

Max quickly stood up and joined the ovation, trying hard to remove the look of shock and horror that had settled on his face. He glanced back at Brien again as the applause finally trailed off. Brien caught the look and furrowed his brow. “What?” he mouthed silently above the din. Max turned away.

With a few final yells and hoots, the crowd returned to their seats. Max fervently waved for another round of ale as My the bard re-tuned her lyron for the next song.

“Brien…” Max began, then stopped as a young server shoved her way over and slid three new tankards across the table.  Max grabbed his and nearly drained it one long pull.

“So… during the finale of Erissa andTyrol…” Max started again, then paused. He was hoping that Brien would jump in with a handy explanation for his disappearing act.

No such luck. “Yeah?” Brien replied, drinking and staring towards My on the bar-top. Varix was looking at Max with a furrowed brow, apparently having caught on to the nervousness in his tone.

“During the finale… where did you go?” Max concluded finally.

“Go? What do you mean where did I go?” Brien glanced at Varix in confusion.

“So… you didn’t, I don’t know, get up, or slide down under the table, or run to the privy, or anything?” Max looked down at the table as he spoke, not catching either of his friend’s eyes.

Brien just stared back for a moment, then just shook his head.

“Max,” said Varix, “are you sure you saw – whatever you saw?”

Max just nodded.

“Do you think maybe it was related to the strange events we were just talking about?”

Max looked up at them both, trying to figure out what to say. He took a deep breath, and thought to himself that perhaps dementia was simply settling in at age twenty Summers in his case. Time to change the subject, he thought, again lifting his tankard.

“The funny thing is,” Brien interrupted before Max could speak. It was his turn to look down into his ale instead of catching anyone’s eyes. “While I didn’t even move a muscle… I kind of felt like I was gone for a few seconds there…”

Max looked up sharply, eyes wide. “Go on, Bri,” he said slowly.

“Hmmm… it’s funny, guys. I don’t have anything going on like you two apparently do…” here he arched his eyebrows at both Max and Varix, “but sometimes, I could almost swear that I… well, am somewhere else.” His voice got quieter as he finished, as he seemed to realize how what he was saying probably sounded.

“So… well…” Max leaned forward, impatiently waiting for more. “So, uhhh…”

Brien sighed. “I don’t know where. Usually no place… real. I see places and things that often make no sense at all. During the battle earlier today, and even in training sometimes, you know how I can be. Distracted. Kind of absent. Yet still able to focus and hold my own with a sword.”

“That’s an understatement, Brien, and you know it,” Max cut in.  “Yeah, you have always been a daydreamer, but I don’t think there’s a man here who can best you with a sword.”

Brien grinned at the compliment. “Sure, but what you don’t know is that I do my best fighting when I am barely paying attention,” he said, again looking away. He took a deep breath, then continued.

“I see a land of white clouds and winds, Max. Soaring lights above and below. Cool breezes on a warm summer night. It’s calm. It’s peaceful. It’s… well, it’s beautiful.”

Brien took a long drink as once again the music of the lyron filled the Galleon. Max glanced at Varix, who sat stone-faced as he listened to Brien.  Max leaned further forward. “Go on, Bri,” he urged.

“I don’t know what it is,” Brien continued, turning to look at My as she strummed a fast, flowing rhythm that was nearly a dance tune. The gathered soldiers and townsfolk began to tap their feet to the rhythm in the crowded room. “But I can tell you that I have been dreaming about this place since… well, since I can remember.” He paused again, then looked Max in the eye. “I feel like I am almost there sometimes. Like I am standing in those clouds. That’s what I felt during the end of Erissa andTyrol.” He paused. “But then it ended, the applause snapped me out of it, and I stood and clapped like everyone else.”

Then the music slowed, and changed key, dropping into the familiar strains of “The First Venture”, a crowd-pleaser among the ranks of the Grey Shields and the Pathwatch. The audience applauded again and smiles broke all around as she began the first verse of the Greystone warrior’s anthem. My’s crystalline voice rang out over the din as the strums of her lyron took on a martial, drum like cadence.

 

     Into the Black we march,

     Brothers all, the fearless few,

     To prove our might by sword and shield,

     By the light of the first Spring moon.

 

     Into the Black we charge,

     Warriors all, the mighty ones,

     To prove our worth by bow and staff,

     By the light of the Winter sun.

 

The verses went on to describe the first mighty men of the kingdom, in the days of King Thorien the Liberator, and how they were charged with the task of venturing into the foothills of theBlack Mountainsto the west. Their mission was to return with the head of one of the many dread beasts that inhabited those lands as proof of their courage, strength, and skill. Or to not return at all. The men who succeeded were crowned Knights Royal, and given charge of the defense of the outer realms of old Greystone. The tradition endured for generations, eventually being referred to simply as “Venture”, and continued to the present day. Except of course that the fearsome foothills were now called theHighlandsand were filled with the mining towns and growing cities of Jesserin Duchy. Modern Venturers had to trek much further westward now, into the peaks of the Black themselves.

But the reward remained the same despite the passing of several centuries. Men who succeeded on their Venture and brought their proof back with them to Greystone City were celebrated and praised for their efforts, summarily granted knighthood, then assigned to one of the five duchies as a knight commander. Never again would such a person worry about weights of gold or silver, or be forced to work for pay. Knights lived like royalty, answering only to the Dukes, the Conclave, and the throne itself.

    

     Within the hearts of the people,

     We’ll live while we serve the throne,

     Toasted and praised to the end of days,

     The Knights of old Greystone!

Every man of the Pathwatch, Max, Brien, and Varix included, was on their feet and singing their hearts out for the triumphant last chorus, as was tradition. At the word “knights”, every tankard crashed into another three or four near it for a clanging toast to the champions of old. Then at the end of the verse, every mug was drained in unison followed by an ear-numbing roar of cheers and applause.

Max was smiling despite himself as he sat back down, having momentarily forgotten all about the conversations with his friends.  Thoughts of Venture once again fought their way to the surface of his thoughts. No less than five times this month groups of men in Captain Britness’ command had announced their intention to register for this Spring’s Venture. All of them were twenty Summers old as the law required, as was Max. He knew that Brien and maybe even Varix had been thinking about declaring for Venture, but none of them had yet mentioned it. Max himself felt unsure about the whole thing. In a good year, only one in five survived their time in theBlack Mountains. And only one in ten or twenty defeated a beast and became knights.

Once again, My the bard was re-tuning. As if on cue, the servers came flooding out of the rear kitchens with tray after tray of roast hams, sides of beef, and fresh baked bread. Max was shocked, and his friends’ faces reflected the same disbelief. For a small town like Gilston to have food supplies this vast was amazing. Max couldn’t help but begin to keep a mental tally of how many hundred weight of silver this much meat was going to cost them all.

“Attention, Attention, gentlemen and women all,” came My’s sharp voice, silencing the room quickly. “Your hosts here at the Galleon are as gracious as they are kind. Due to your heroic efforts, the meal being set before you is free of charge!”

The roar that followed that pronouncement made all of the others seem like a gentle cheer.

The three friends did not speak as they ate steaming hot slices of roast beef, warm, buttered bread, and chased it all with wide clay mugs of cold water. They each seemed to be lost in their own thoughts. My had placed a seat on the top of the bar and begun playing a series of smooth dining tunes, humming rhythmically in a way that somehow still managed to fill the room of dining men and women.  The tune sounded like “The War of Eight Kingdoms”, but was more soothing than sad. Max realized that he was enjoying this simple meal far more than any he could remember, all because of this amazing bard’s skills.

It was maybe twenty minutes later when My again began re-tuning, and Max had just finished his large plate. He looked up sharply at Brien and Varix, having reached a decision. Strangely, he saw that both men were already looking at him.

“Brien, Var, I have something to say,” Max began seriously, just loud enough for them to hear.

But at that moment, the music began anew, and all eyes turned back to the beautiful bard. It was one of Max’ all-time favorite stories, and had been since he was a small child; “The Legend of the Jindal Knights”. He smiled broadly, and turned to see that both Brien and Varix were as well. They exchanged a quick glance between them, one that seemed to say, we’ll talk after the song is over…, and all turned toward the singer. Slow, melodic, and powerful, My’s voice held the crowd entranced as she sang the traditional introduction to the song.

 

The day will come when all men’s hearts are tested,

By the clarion call of selfish gain over love.

The hour will come when the last sun’s rays have faded,

When corruptions heart descends on the land from above.

 

A moment will come when the Lords of the Land will fall,

At the clarion call to war that none can refuse.

An instant will come when the verdant moon sees all,

When all mankind must search their hearts and choose.

 

Max, despite his perfect familiarity with the song that his mother used to sing to him in his cradle, hung on every word. A server brought him another mug of ale as he settled back in his chair to listen to the re-telling. The fanciful tale described how a group of mysterious, silver-armored knights helped to unite the lands between the mountains and the sea three hundred years ago.  The tales claimed that the Jindals, who never lifted their visors or gave their names, were invincible, and that they chose young Gil Thorien to be the first King of a united Greystone. Max had never given much thought to the somber introduction before, but this time he couldn’t help but notice that it didn’t really mesh well with the heroic, upbeat style of the rest of the song.

Then all musings stopped as his mind’s eye exploded with a vision of flames and heat–

— Of a torch being lowered to the base of a wall soaked with marsh-oil.

— Of a balding, toothless man grinning with greedy delight as he ran for the stables behind the Galleon— where a tall, imposing looking man in black stood in the shadows wearing a shimmering, silver cloak.

“Var, Bri!” Max yelled, spinning his head from the front of the room to the rear and back again, eyes wild with fright. Several nearby soldiers turned their way at the sound of Max’s panic.

Max stood up, fast, knocking over his chair with a crash. The music stopped. Everyone turned toward Max.

Then, with a vast roar, the entire front wall of the Galleon erupted in flames.

* * *

Thanks for reading!

~Kevin

Looking back at Chapter 2, we  get hints at Max Chemael’s strange abilities and an obvious display of Varix’ apparent invulnerability. These are just the simplest form of introduction to the characters’ personalities and their individual powers… the beginning hints about what is to come for each of them.

The story now bounces back to Argand and Kosin as they continue their journey east towards Greystone City. While never expressly stated, the action in Chapter 3 (Along the Jury) occurs just a day or two after the fight with the brigands in the Pithwood. There are a number of events in this chapter that have hidden long-term meaning, and there are several minor character cameos that one might incorrectly assume are insignificant. The chapter opens, however, with an exchange intended to offer a few insights into the personalities of the two young men concerning the women (or rather, the lack of women) in their lives.

* * *

3 Along the Jury

Kosin couldn’t stop laughing, despite the chill rain and northerly breezes that had both him and Argand huddled under extra shirt layers and their waterproof caynspun rain-cloaks as they walked.

“No, Kosin! That’s not what I meant at all! It’s not that she wasn’t pretty…,” Argand said indignantly, embarrassment ringing in his voice. “She was, well, she was… acceptable… in terms of looks…”

Kosin erupted into another wave of laughter, shaking his head as they sloshed along the muddyJury Roadjust west ofHaverlinCity. Ten yards ahead off them a wide wooden wagon pulled by a team of old horses creaked and groaned its slow progress through the foggy, rainy haze.

“Acceptable? Acceptable????” Kosin laughed even harder. “Has there ever been a bigger indictment of one woman’s looks than calling her ‘acceptable’? You might as well just come right out and say ‘below average’!!”

“She wasn’t that bad!” Argand insisted, giving in a little to Kosin’s infectious giggle. “Okay, okay… maybe she was a little bad.”

Kosin nearly howled.

“But that’s not the point, Kose!” Argand insisted, stepping around a large, muddy puddle that might have threatened to pull his boots off. “When it comes down to it, I want to find someone strong, you know? Not a push over, not all demure and face paint with no inner spirit.”

Kosin took off his wet gloves and wiped his tearing eyes, still snickering. “Okay, okay, Argand. If you say so. So what are you looking for then, a Dramini warchief? You want a woman who can, and does, pretty much beat you up every day?”

Argand snorted. “Not exactly, Kose. Well, not at all. I dunno… I just think I will know her when I find her.”

Argand kept smiling after that exchange. It was the most they had laughed in a week or more. The frequency of trouble that they had endured since leaving theHighlandshad been wearing on them, with bandits and even a few encounters with Mindonites keeping them on edge. Their most recent encounter in the pithwood had been far too close of a call for either of their tastes.

But coming across Roca the lamp trader on his way back to the east from theHighlandshad been a boon. Although the wrinkled, white-haired old trader already had four guards on detail to keep him safe along his journey, he was quick to offer fifty weight of silver each – plus meals – to Argand and Kosin for their services. He had clearly been hearing rumors about how much more dangerous travel was getting in the western lands, and the sound of an empty wagon meant a trader with full money pouches; a surefire target for highwaymen.

So the last several days were relatively uneventful for the two old friends. The four original guards, middle-aged men that had probably worked on local patrols most of their lives, kept to themselves well ahead of the wagon while Argand and Kosin brought up the rear of the procession. Each night, the group of men slept in the bed of the wagon while two at a time stood watch along the edges of their camp.

On several occasions Argand had sensed the approach of groups of bandits while he was on watch, fluttering pulses of energy in his legs solidifying into life-like images in his mind, but each time the assailants had withdrawn instead of attacking. Also easing their jobs as trader’s escorts was the proximity of this stretch of theJury Roadto the Kirill river. As they walked, the road’s edge was sometimes only a few feet from the steep, tall banks of the muddy flow. While this sometimes madeRocanervous as he guided his horses, it meant that there would be no bandits sneaking up on them from that side.

“So what about you, Kose?” Argand asked. “Whatever happened between you and little Kalia Linon? For a while there I thought you were going to put our plans aside and settle down with her inJesserinCity- maybe open up a new outlet for your dad’s shop.”

“Nahhhh… it wasn’t meant to be,” Kosin answered, pulling his hood down even lower as the rain grew more intense. “You know I could never settle down in Jesserin. Kalia is a great girl, no doubt about it, but her future is all planned out in her mind. Take over her dads bakery, build out and expand, then take over the Land via baked goods! There was no way I could sign up for that.”

Argand pictured the buxom blonde girl that had lived just a few doors down from Kosin. On one of Argand’s father’s many visits to Jesserin City, which always included a stop by the Fletcher’s for a visit and a meal, Argand had met Kalia and her family. She was the daughter of the man known as perhaps the greatest baker in all of Greystone. And she had been smitten with Kosin for years.

“How did she take the news that you were leaving?” Argand asked. “That couldn’t have gone well.”

Kosin sighed. “I didn’t tell her.”

Argand’s eyebrows rose in shock.

“I couldn’t! You met her once, you know how she was.” His frown deepened. “I really should have just faced her, told her my plans, but in the end… I just left her a note.” There was a hint of pain in Kosin’s voice, the laughter gone.

He continued. “I told her to find someone else, someone who could share her dreams, and to take good care of herself. And left it on her desk at the back of the bakery. She probably pitched a royal fit, truth be told! But she will be better off for it.”

Argand watched as a train of a dozen or so large wagons rolled past them on their left, heading westward towards the mountains. If they had not been so close to Haverlin now,Rocadoubtless would have stopped the passing traders and asked them about road conditions ahead. But the road markers they had recently passed told them that they were close and would likely make it into the town before nightfall. That meant payment fromRoca, cold ale, hot food, and sleeping on a warm, dry bed for the first time in a great while. Argand grinned in anticipation. He had been unable to shake the chills of early Spring for the past few days.

“But if we succeed,” Kosin added, turning to look at Argand through the folds of their hoods, “if we actually succeed at going on Venture and surviving, and bring back the head of some wyvern or tamrof, and we become knights? She would come with me, I think. As much as she loves the bakery, loves her father… if I were Sir Kosin Fletcher, I’d bet she would give it all up to come with me.”

Another line of small carts passed them on the left, also heading west. Argand could hearRocacalling out to them to make way; they were crowding much too close for comfort on the narrow mud road.Roca’s wagon was dangerously close to the steep edge of the river bank.

“But I won’t do it,” Kosin finished. “I couldn’t do it. There was just something missing between us, you know? Something always seemed not quite right. Close… but not close enough. Does that make any sense?”

But Argand wasn’t listening. At that moment, a twenty foot long section of the river bank beneath the right side wheels ofRoca’s wagon gave way in a rush of sloppy wet mud.

“Roca!!!!” Argand yelled, running up to the rear of the wagon.

Roca quickly took stock of the situation, and screamed for his four guards to drop back to the rear and help push as he began frantically whipping and calling his horse team to pull.

The passing wagons had forced him too close to the edge, and in the blink of an eye the road had collapsed. The big wagon had stopped and was tipping, teetering above a fifteen foot drop into the cold and rushing waters of the Kirill.

The four older guards joined Argand and Kosin at the rear gate of the wagon and pushed for all their worth in the slippery mud. The oldest of the guards, Renald, had lined up closest to the collapsed river bank, and really wasn’t providing much lift at all as he fought to find purchase for his feet.

“Renald, get out of there!” Argand yelled through the sheets of rain. The wind began to pick up as well, driving into their faces as they strained against the wagon.

“No, I’m fine!” He yelled back.

“A weight of gold to each of you if you get ‘er clear!!” ScreamedRocain his dry, raspy voice.  The men needed little extra motivation, though. All of their belongings, save swords and cloaks, were in their packs in the back of the wagon. Plus losingRoca’s wagon would mean earning no pay once they reached Haverlin.

With a rushing slurp, several more feet of ground broke away under their feet. Argand side stepped but kept his footing somehow, almost shin deep in the mud that now formed the very edge of the river bank. But with a yell, Renald lost his footing and slid down the slope into the waist deep mud being quickly washed away by the river.

Renald’s cries for help pierced the sounds of the downpour, the shrieking calls of Roca, and the grunts of the men. A crack of thunder split the afternoon air. Argand glanced down to his right at Renald as he thrashed and pulled against the liquid mud, but he had already sunk up to his armpits as he was slowly pulled out into the current of the deep river. Nightwings!, Argand thought. He’s wearing his mail shirt. He’s too heavy to escape the mud and water. Can he get it off in time?

The horses were pulling for all their worth asRocastood on his wagon seat to urge and whip them on. Argand, Kosin, and the three other guards lifted with all their strength, but the wagon was just too heavy and off balance. It began to slip down the slope.

Argand felt the earth beneath him begin to dissolve in the thundering downpour. More of the bank was giving way, and his lifting efforts were pushing him straight down. He was up to his knees in the slowly dissolving mud, and within seconds would be sucked down the bank into the bog like Renald. He couldn’t extract his feet, every motion pulling him deeper. Panic began to set in. He was also wearing a rather heavy mail shirt under his cloak.

“We’re losing her!!!” Kosin called out as the wagon shifted right again. The horses were growing tired. They were all nearly out of time.

“We need to bail out, boys!!” The guard next to Kosin, Opren, screamed against the wind and rain. Another massive peal of thunder rolled over them. “It’s too late!”

Suddenly the mud lurched downward, and Argand felt himself begin to fall with the weight of the wagon almost entirely on him. Straining to get free, he screamed NO!!!  in his mind, digging within himself for more strength. No! I have to get sound footing!!

And suddenly there were the pulses.

He had almost forgotten them in the strain of the moment as the thunderstorm raged around them and the earth collapsed. The flow surged through his feet and legs and he could suddenly see everyone around him clearly despite the gale. The five soaking wet men giving their all at the rear of an old, empty wagon, the wrinkled old trader, terrified of losing his cask of gold, his wagon, and his team of horses to a mudslide, the slender but muscular man in the distant shadows wearing the silver, almost shimmering gauntlets, his black cloak flapping in the stormy gusts. And something else. Something that felt solid, strong, and was rising towards his feet from deep below the wet ground. He focused on the feeling, which was strangely familiar for some reason, and a heartbeat later he felt solid rock under his feet. Solid rock that was rising, slowly but inexorably upward.

Argand could feel the stone, and in his mind’s eye he could nearly see it in the mud below him; an impossibly broad shelf of solid rock, lifting them all as if a giant’s hand were buried deep in the earth with no other purpose but to shore up their steps. Soon the wagon began to rise as well, its back wheels suddenly having solid support.

The wagon lurched forward as the horses feet suddenly hit stone just an inch or two below the mud, and seconds laterRocahad the wagon safely on the far side of the road. Just as the guards and Kosin stepped out of the now shallow mud near the high river bank, Argand remembered and cried out.

“Renald!”

The men spun to the rushing river but saw no sign of Renald. Then a hand broke the surface frantically some fifty or sixty feet off shore and even further downstream to their left. It quickly disappeared below the surface.

But Argand knew where he was. The pulses were still there, coursing through his legs in a torrent that nearly equaled the rain, and through them he could make out the faint image of Renald’s body floundering under the murky surf.

Argand did not hesitate. Before he could even consider what he was doing, he had discarded his soaked cloak and outer shirt, then yanked off his slate colored chain mail and tossed it to the ground. He turned to Kosin as he unclasped his sword belt, squinting at the shorter man through the pouring rain.

“I’m going to need your help again, Kosin,” Argand said simply. “I can get to him, but you are going to have to get us back out.”

Kosin’s brow furrowed, but he nodded once quickly as he took the offered sword and sword belt. Then Argand turned to face the Kirill.

“What? What’re you doing?” askedRocaas he approached, staring in disbelief at Argand. “You can’t save him, man! He’s gone… lost! It’s suicide to-“

Rocacut off abruptly, his jaw hanging slack, as Argand dove off of the bank with a powerful bound and quickly sank into the churning, rushing mire of mud and water.

 

* * *

 

“Rope!!!” yelled Kosin as he ran upstream, scanning the ground. Opren, who was the youngest ofRoca’s guards, sprinted over to the wagon. He had a large coil of spring rope in his hands in seconds which he tossed to Kosin.

Rocaand the other guards were staring out into the wind and rain-beaten river, but Kosin didn’t look. He knew that Argand was stroking for all of his worth towards Renald’s position. And he knew that he had to be ready to help them both.

Kosin finally found what he was looking for; a fallen tree branch, about five feet long and two inches thick at its widest. He tied one end of the rope to the fat end of the branch with amazing speed.

“Mate,” said Opren in his Falon accent, shaking his soaked head and squinting in the driving rain. “It’s too late. Renald’s gone, and your friend is already way too far out to reach.”

Kosin ignored him as he turned to just see Argand disappear beneath the opaque surface of the water quite a distance downstream. He took a few quick steps backward, then trotted toward the bank with the branch held back like a javelin. He planted his left foot and heaved the branch into the open air above the Kirill, high and arching, with the spring rope trailing behind it like a streamer as it rapidly uncoiled from its pile on the ground.

The branch hit the water point down and plunged below the surface.

“Grab the end!” Yelled Kosin as the rope fell limp along river and earth. He picked it up himself and got a firm grip with a coil wrapped around his wrist. Opren and the others, beardedFlintand short, stocky Eron, didn’t move.

Then the rope went taught, straining and leaping out of the water.

Opren’s eyes went wide, and he nearly dove onto the rope as the others followed. They pulled in unison, then began running westward along the muddy road, quickly bringing first Renald’s then Argand’s heads into view. Argand had his arms wrapped around Renald’s chest and held the spring rope and branch in clinched fists right in front of Renald’s face. Coughing and sputtering, the two mud-soaked men were hauled up the smooth, low cliff of the river bank.

Renald lay face down in the muck in the pouring rain, coughing and vomiting as Opren leaned onto his back, forcing the filthy water out of his lungs. Renald had managed to take off his cloak and boots, but he still wore his chain mail shirt. Argand seemed fine, however, if soaked and filthy. He knelt beside Renald and assisted Opren.Roca’s wrinkled face was as white as his hair.Flintand Eron were staring incredulously from Kosin to Argand to Renald and back again, speechless.

“I have good aim,” Kosin said, grinning at them all. “Thanks for the rope.”

Two hours later,Roca’s wagon rolled past a series of large family farms that marked the outskirts of Haverlin. The rain had finally subsided and the air seemed warmer, but it seemed to Argand that the chill in the air had grown stronger anyway. He hoped he wasn’t getting ill from all the wet weather.

Even though their journey withRocathe lamp trader was about to end, the conversation had not.

“I tell you, it’s just not natural, mates!!” Said Opren again, nearly yelling. “You felt it,Flint! You too, Eron! Stone doesn’t just grow up out of the ground like a burbin tree in summer! That wagon was a gonner, mates… there weren’t nothing there but mud! Then all of the sudden–”

“And I told you that Kosin and I didn’t feel anything odd, Opren!” Argand lied coolly. He had secretly told Kosin to play along, and given their history, Kosin was quick to agree with no questions asked. “We just finally shifted the wagon onto that firm rock area. The horses get all of the credit.”

The five healthy men walked along next to the open rear gate of the wagon, while Renald sat on the wooden slats of the wagon bed. He looked exhausted and still coughed uncontrollably, lungs having taken in far too much muddy water, and he had developed a fever. It was tremlung, a treatable but still very dangerous disease common to those who survived drowning. He would need medical attention, and soon.

“And then that throw, mates? Dropping that branch like a war-spear exactly where Argand’s hand could find it???” Opren continued, undeterred.

“No, no,” said Renald, taking a long drink from a water skin to help quiet his cough. “No, it was way more amazing than that, Opren, like I said it was. I couldn’t see anything! That muddy flow was pitch black at one inch under the surface! I was done for, given up, I tell ya,” then he stopped for another coughing fit.

“Sinking, drowned, done for!” Renald continued. “But there I was, still reachin’ for the surface, prayin’ for help.  And then Argand’s arms were around me, holding me up as if I were naught more than a small child! Next thing I knew, we were being hauled up onto dry land. Incredible.”

“Like I said, the credit for the throw goes to Kosin,” Argand said. “The branch splashed in right near me, so all I had to do was grab it!”

“Look, I told you all,” Kosin said, shaking his head, “and Argand can attest to this, I have always had good aim! It was a lucky throw! Anyone might have made it!”

Opren threw up his hands in surrender. He had been talking non-stop about how the bedrock had risen out of the muddy earth, challenging them all to provide an explanation that didn’t include mass insanity. Flinthad been agreeing with him consistently, scratching his beard thoughtfully and looking confused, but didn’t talk about it with nearly the conviction of Opren.

Then Eron, the youngest of the four guards at around forty Summers, spoke up for the first time that afternoon.

“It’s just like in the stories, men,” he said quietly. “My old pa, Creator keep him, he used to tell me to pay attention to all the old Bard’s tales. Used to say, ‘those stories had to come from somewhere, son’. Told me that he had seen things, with his own eyes, in his youth in the Grey Shields. Strange things. Magic things. I never believed him. Nope. Not one bit.”

Then he raised his eyes to look first at Kosin, then at Argand. “Not until now.”

Renald nodded his head emphatically, coughing all the while. He was convinced that the Creator himself had intervened and saved him.

Argand and Kosin prepared to launch into more denials, butRocahalted his horses at that moment and jumped down from the wagon seat. They were at the west gate of the walled city ofHaverlin, and as was tradition,Rocawould pay them and release them from service before crossing the town’s threshold.

“Much obliged to the each of ya, sirs. Much obliged,”Rocasaid as they prepared to go their separate ways. “I’ll be here in town for about a week… if any of you are looking for another route, I’ll be headin’ east forGreystoneCity. I’d have ya all back, frankly. Same rate, Same deal. If so, look me up. I’ll be at the Green Maiden Inn, near the wharf.” While he addressed them all, his eyes lingered on Argand and Kosin.

They shook hands all around and began to depart, but Renald held Kosin’s hand for an extra moment as he caught Argand’s eyes. The older man’s eyes were wet, his voice rather shaky.

“I owe you my life, young men. I don’t know how you did it, but I am in both of your debt. You ever need anything, you look me up. I am always in and around the Jury or Cayn Roads on duty, but I live back in Oakbridge. Look me up, men, you hear me?”

He broke into another fit of coughing then, almost doubling over.

“You take care of yourself, Renald. I’m sure we’ll cross paths again,” Kosin said simply, then joined Argand to pass through the west gate and into Haverlin. They were waved in by an imposing group of Haverlin local patrolmen without inspection or comment.

They felt their wet spirits lift once they were on the crowded, marsh-oil lit evening streets. Vendors lined the avenue near the gate, still hawking their wears despite the late hour. Boots and caynspun shirts, dried peppers and sweet fruits imported from Cronia, hats of every type, small weapons, light shirts of mail, it was all available within a few feet of the Haverlin threshold.

At almost the same instant, the Argand and Kosin wrapped their nearly-dry outer cloaks tighter around themselves. Kosin was convinced that he must be coming down with a cold due to all of the Spring rains, but he knew that Argand would be far more susceptible after his stint in the Kirill river rescuing Renald.

“You too, huh?” Argand said.  Kosin nodded and shrugged. “It doesn’t seem like it should feel this chilly, but I tell you, Kosin, I want to get in front of a fire in the worst way!”

“Not surprising,” Kosin said. “We haven’t exactly been keeping dry and warm, you know. If Renald’s spare clothes didn’t nearly fit you, I’d wager that you might be on your way to the nearest cuperative.”

“’Nearly’ fit is right! I need to get into some pants that I can wear in public.”

They passed out of the gate’s market area and turned right ontoFish Street, one of the main thoroughfares acrossHaverlinCity’s hilly expanse. Fish Street split the city in half, circling right around the Mayor’s mansion at the center of town, then continuing on to the wharf alongLakeHaverlinon the far side of town. Kosin knew that Argand was going to try to talk him into dipping a little deeper into their money pouches than usual in order to stay at an inn close to the city center. Kosin hated spending money on pretty much anything, but given the wet conditions they had just endured and the powerful chill he was feeling, a more expensive inn might be worthwhile.

“So what really happened back there, Argand?” Kosin said suddenly, now that they were quite far from bothRocaand any of his four guards.  “The rock really did grow.  ‘Like a burbin tree’, as Opren put it. I felt it, and I know you did too. So… given your fondness for talking to the ground…”

“Kose, you know I have no idea. I thought I was done for. The whole bank was giving way, I was trapped past my knees in the muck with the wagon practically falling on me… I couldn’t have escaped. I had no way out.”

He paused in front of a fruit vendor, and handed over two weight of silver for a bag of beautiful, bright oranges.

“Then the pulses hit me again, out of nowhere,” Argand continued.  “And I could feel the stone, the rock itself, moving up beneath me. I don’t know how it happened. But thank the Creator it did!”

Argand tossed his old friend an orange, and they both began to eat as they walked.

“I wasn’t thinking about stone or rock… I didn’t do anything or think anything at all, except for how desperately I needed firm footing,” Argand said. “I could feel it… but I don’t know how I actually DID it.”

“And there was something else, Kose,” Argand added, sounding less sure of himself. “Remember back in the pithwood? Think back to… okay, remember when I thought there was one more thief than there really was? You were waiting for the last guy to pop up and attack us, but I told you that the last person I had sensed was gone? That last man was way far off, and sort of hidden, but I saw him. He was a smallish man in mostly black, except for shimmering, almost glowing silver gauntlets. He was just standing there, facing me, still as a statue, holding a sword that kind of resembled a spear…then he was gone.”

Argand turned to catch Kosin’s eyes. “I saw him again during the mudslide. The man in the silver gauntlets. For a fleeting second, there he was, off in the distance, standing in the storm. It was him. And afterward, once we were all clear, nothing. No sign of him.”

“Are you sure it was the same man?

“No doubts. None at all. There’s something different, profoundly different, about seeing someone ‘this way’,” he pointed to the side of his head, “versus seeing with the eyes. I think I would know him anywhere now. Whoever he is.”

Kosin looked troubled. “So you think we’re being followed.” It was not a question.

Argand shrugged. “I guess so, Kose. Either that or I am just imagining the guy. I don’t know. Maybe I’m just going crazy.”

“Ha! There’s no doubt you’re crazy, Argand,” Kosin said, “but what difference does that make since I’m crazy too? I believe you. Period.”

A pack of men on horseback raced past them at that point, forcing them to give way to one side. They wore the white berets of the Haverlin local patrol, and they were in quite a hurry towards the center of the city.

“So what about you?” Argand continued. “How did you possibly hit a moving target in the middle of a rushing, muddy river, with a stick weighted down with 100 feet of spring rope?”

“Like I told the old mercenaries, Argand. I have good aim.” Kosin took a big bite of his peeled orange, turned to Argand and grinned. Another wave of shivering hit him, and his grin faded. He felt cold right through to his core.

“You know that’s not nearly enough of an explanation, right?”

“Yup. Now let’s get some dinner and some sleep.”

Argand sighed, and the two walked deeper into the city in search of an inn and a warm fire.

* * *

Thanks for reading!

~Kevin

 

Chapter 1, Pithwood, introduced the first two main characters of Emergence – Argand and Kosin. (Note that both their names have the inflection of the words bison or oxen. It’s “ARR-gund” and “KOE-sin”.) A lot is crammed into that first scene in the woods along the Jury Road, and Emergence tries to keep up that same pace as the rest of the cast is introduced. A couple of notes that are worth mentioning about Chapter 1… this is not the last time that we get to see the fat lead thief that Argand hit on the head, and naturally we will see more of the shadowy figure in black wearing the shimmering silver gauntlets.

Now onto Chapter 2 – The Galleon. I was excited about the chance to write a scene in a tavern (and come to think of it, I have several more coming!) so I used a raucous celebration over ale and food to introduce the next three main characters; Max, Varix, and Brien.

* * *

2 The Galleon

“Hip-Hip…”

“HOOORAAAAYYY” came the wall-shaking third cheer, followed by the loud clanging of metal mugs full of ale being slammed together by the scores of soldiers that crowded the tavern.  Loud slurping gulps followed that, after which the minstrels seated in one corner resumed playing their upbeat, celebratory song. The Galleon had not seen a crowd so large and so happy in many months. The moon-faced tavern keeper had a smile plastered on his face even as he barked orders at his sweating serving girls, poured trays full of ale while gathering fistfuls of silver and gold coins, and generally tried to maintain order within the chaos of food, beer, music and men. The room was warmed against the Spring evening’s chill by a series of small hearths set in the wall opposite the bar, and was brightly lit by marsh-oil lamps suspended from the wood beamed ceiling in round, wooden chandeliers.

Maximus Chemael held three brimming mugs of ale up high as he quickly weaved his way back through the throng to the small table where his companions waited. He was a tall man, giving him a good view of the masses, but that wasn’t why he was able to so smoothly navigate his way through a crowd that was jostling nearly everyone into significant spills.

“Dinner is served, fellows!” he crowed as he sat down, passing one mug to blonde-haired Brien and the other to the nearly bald Varix. All three pushed their empty mugs to the edge of the table to be reclaimed by the next passing server, then attacked their new ale with fervor.

“Next round is on you, Var,” Max continued loudly to be heard over the noise, wiping the foam from his lips with a sleeve slightly rust-stained from his gauntlets. “I get the feeling that this might really be our dinner! I doubt this place has enough meat in stock to feed this many victorious fighting men with no advance notice!”

Max was fairly sure this was the truth. Gilston was a small town along the Palladon road, and existed more as a convenient waypoint for traders trekking betweenGreystoneCityand Pallas than anything else. But today, the Pathwatch of Greystone had struck a mighty blow against the bands of Mindonite attackers that had been disrupting that critical trade route. Only rarely did invading Mindonite thugs manage to band together into organized units, so large battles were generally unheard of.  But when word reached Queen Lorillin that just such a united force had taken up residence near Gilston, she sent two groups of one hundred men, each formally known as a ‘blade’ of Pathwatch soldiers, to eliminate them.  The battle was short and one-sided; the men of the Pathwatch, like Max, Varix, and Brien themselves, were well trained and well armed. Many of the Mindonites fought with clubs and crude spears and wore little to no armor.

And so the celebration had landed in Gilston, and the Galleon – the only tavern in town – was packed with Greystone peace-keepers being praised as heroes by the townsfolk.

“You’re not going to hear any complaints from me, Max,” said Brien, taking a long pull from his tankard. “These Heartland ales just hit the spot. And for only two-weight silver a mug? We would pay two or three times that back inGreystoneCity.”

“Without a doubt,” answered Max, jerking his upper body to one side as a drunken reveler was jostled into a fall right towards him. The tipsy soldier bounced unceremoniously off of Max’s chair-back then collapsed onto the floor. A few other soldiers hustled over to the moaning man, helped him up, and helped him towards the privies in the back of the long room. Max leaned back again.

“If I had my choice though,” Max continued, “I would always pick Jall duchy brews. You can’t beat ale like they brew up north near Jalsmin. Right near the source, you know? All the wheat and barley in the Land, right there at your fingertips!” He took another long pull.

Brien shook his head, wagging a finger in Max’s direction. “The plains are great for common ale, sure…but if I had my druthers I would travel to theHighlandsfor their icewine! Now there’s a drink for you. Smooth. Sophisticated…”

“Expensive!” laughed Max. “I mean, you pay like fifty-weight of silver for a jug, don’t you?”

“Well, yeah,” Brien agreed loudly, leaning back in his seat and waving casually to an archer in their unit that had just dropped into a chair at a nearby table. “But it’s worth it! And it doesn’t come in jugs, Max, you cretin! Sure wish I had some of that icewine now.” Brien’s deep-set blue eyes seemed to lose focus for a second, as if he were suddenly deep in thought, but a hard bump from two men working to squeeze past behind him snapped him out of it.

“This place is getting out of hand fast,” Max nearly yelled. “Maybe we should leave and see if we can get a room in town somewhere? Every inn in Gilston is sure to be filled once this celebration ends. It’d be nice to not have to sleep on the ground back in camp.”

“Normally I’d be the first to agree,” shouted Brien, “But I heard there was a Bard in town tonight.  If so, she’s bound to come here, right? This is the only tavern in town.”

“Oh, you and your Bards, Brien,” chided Max. He drained his tankard and grinned mischievously. “Have you ever met one you didn’t fall in love with on the spot?”

“So I like music??!! What’s the problem with that?”

“So it’s music you like? There’s a fine quartet of minstrels over there performing their hearts out for you! Why don’t you go sit at their feet and ogle them for a few hours, eh?” Max leaned forward and pointed towards the small cluster of musicians that sat against the far wall. It was hard to hear the drums or the hand-harps over the increasingly intoxicated crowd. Max noticed that the number of women in the tavern had been steadily increasing for the past few minutes. While it made the crowding even worse, it certainly improved the view.

A chorus of shouts broke out near their table, with more mugs of ale being banged together high over the heads of a group of men. “Hail to the Captain!!!” and “Victory for the Fifth Blade” were being shouted by a dozen soldiers standing around a long thin, dining table.

Captain Britness was making his way through the crowd, a mug in each hand, suds spilling down the front of his huge brown and gray beard as he alternately drank from one tankard and toasted his men with the other.

“Hail to the victors!!!” came his booming response. Brit was a bear of a man, broad shouldered, thick-armed, and imposing despite his nearly fifty Summers in the Land. He stood around six-foot five inches tall, which made him approximately the same height as Max and Brien, but he towered over the shorter Varix. Brit’s skill in leading Pathwatch blades was legendary, as were the tales of his prowess as a Captain in Greystone’s army, the Grey Shields.

“Hail Captain Britness!!!” Max, Brien, and Varix cheered together as he passed, mugs held high.

“Hail to you, my victorious friends!!! Max Chemael, Var Cooper, Brien Page, to you!!” He yelled back, pausing for a moment to look them each in the eye as he saluted them with his ale. The Captain took pride in knowing his entire blade by name, despite the fact that the ranks assigned to him from the Grey Shields changed every season.

“Varix!” Brit boomed, looming over their table and smiling broadly. “I can’t believe you aren’t in the local cuperative!!! I was about 30 paces off when you took that spear to the gut, man! Nightwings! How are you sitting here in one piece??”

Varix smiled up at the Captain, lifting his tankard high as he spoke. “Luck of the Creator, Captain Britness!” he yelled. “He took a good stab at me, yes, but it glanced off my mail and did only a little damage. Nothing a few tankards can’t numb, at least.”

“Well, good on you, my young champion! Enjoy your evening, my boys, but watch your time in the morning. We pull out for Pallas at first light!” Britness then pushed his way forward through a couple of young looking local girls who were being chatted up by a few great-bowmen, and continued his personal parade around the tavern.

Max’s mind was suddenly filled with the flashing image of a broad-shouldered, older serving woman carrying no less than 6 large mugs of ale…falling right toward Max’s own back. OH NO!!! he seemed to hear in a nearly screaming woman’s voice.

Max released his drink and spun out of his chair in a flash with one hand under the woman’s arms and the other catching her around the waist. His feet were planted wide in his near crouch, so he was rock-stable as he caught the woman and leaned her back up onto her feet. The serving woman had been mistakenly tripped by Captain Britness as he shoved his way through the crowd, but Max’s fast action prevented a near flood of fresh ale.

The men near their table who noticed the save began clapping and cat-calling in appreciation. Brien joined in, laughing as he did so.  Max stood and produced an audacious bow, then slid back down in his seat and retrieved his ale. Varix drank his beer and said nothing.

“Thanks, sir! Thank you! My name is Verlin” the server said, working to catch her breath and smiling a toothy grin at Max. She had to have more than sixty Summers in the Land, but her arms looked strong enough to wrestle a bull. “That was… amazing! How did you do that??”

“My lucky day, I suppose!” grinned Max. “Besides, what’s a worse way to end a good day then taking a six-tankard bath in a crowded bar, hmmm???”

“Good point, sir, good point!” Verlin said as she began to worm her way through the crowd toward her original destination. “By way of thanks, the next round for you and your table-mates is on me!”

“You, my dear, have a deal,” said Max. Brien lifted his mug in salute in Verlin’s direction as she departed.

“That wasn’t luck, was it, Max,” said Varix in a flat voice.

The smile faded from Max’s face as he turned. Varix was light-haired and light-eyed, but had tanned skin and an often grumpy expression. He very rarely talked during their nights out on the town, whether inGreystoneCityor out on Pathwatch duty like this trip to Gilston. He was of medium height and build, but was fearless in a fight and had quickly caught the Captain’s eye years back when the three young men had first applied to the Grey Shields.

“I’ve seen you do some pretty amazing things,” Varix continued, sitting forward, his face expressionless, “but that last bit there? That was more than you usually let slip in public. The ale is just making you drop your guard a little bit, yes?”

Max still didn’t respond.

“So what’s your point, Var?” asked Brien, leaning forward and toward Varix. “So he’s good? You’ve fought next to him, you KNOW how good he is. So maybe it’s not luck. Call it skill! Is that your point?”

“No, it’s not. Max, what you have been doing is– well, it’s not natural is it,” Var continued, catching Max’s eye. “I’d be willing to bet you can’t even describe it, can you. And don’t know when it started, right?”

The three sat silent for a moment, the revelry continuing all around them.

Max sighed. “Yes, Var, it seems weird at times. Not very natural, in fact. Yes. I can agree with that. So what? It keeps me alive out on the battlefield, and that, in my book, is a plus. So like Brien said, what’s your point? You’re always kind of cryptic, but this is even unusual for you!”

Varix looked down at his nearly empty ale, then seemed to make a decision. He pulled a short dagger from his waist. It was the largest weapon allowed through the doors of the Galleon, whose bouncers figured that small weapons would lead to a minimal set of problems when the inevitable barroom fights broke out.

He held the dagger in his right hand, and looked up at Brien, then Max, who both exchanged a quick alarmed glance at each other.

“Var, hey… what are you—“ began Max.

“Var, put that down! If the Captain sees—“ started Brien.

But they were both too late. Varix turned the blade tip towards his left wrist and jabbed the blade home, pulling upwards toward his elbow as he sliced. Instantly both Max and Brien were on their feet, lunging after Varix’s arms and crying out. But then they froze. Varix had finished his slash and pulled the blade back already. Except… there was no cut. No blood. Nothing.

No one around them even noticed that anything had happened as the raucous group began to get well into their ale and war stories.

Max and Brien sat back down, mouths agape.

“I have been pretty sure about this for months now, guys,” Varix continued, still holding his dagger. “I found out by mistake, of course. Dropped a practice sword on my bare foot one morning, point down. Practice swords are dull, but the points aren’t. When nothing happened, I got suspicious.”

He again placed the tip of the dagger against his forearm, then dug in with a quick thrust. Max grimaced, then relaxed as he again saw that nothing happened.

“Today was the ultimate test,” Varix continued. “That Mindonite spearman didn’t miss me. His blow didn’t ‘glance off of my mail’ either. He had knocked my sword out of my hand, then he proceeded to run me through with a spear that would have spitted a decent sized boar. It hurt a little, kind of like being punched in the gut, but… but then I grabbed his spear, wrestled it from him, and planted it in his gut instead.” He looked down at his own abdomen and frowned at it.

“I don’t even have a bruise,” he said.

Brien reached out and took the dagger from Varix’ hand. He carefully tested the point with his finger and jerked back in shock as it easily drew blood. For the first time that day, Varix smiled. A grim, unsure smile, but a smile nonetheless. Brien handed the dagger back.

“Max, when I say ‘un-natural’, that’s exactly what I mean. I don’t think I am alone. You’ve got something going on, don’t you.” Var said, re-sheathing the dagger.

Max said nothing, and neither did he meet Var’s gaze. How do I explain something like this? he thought to himself. How do I explain something that is totally inexplicable? He took a deep breath.

“I knew that you couldn’t be hurt in today’s fight, Var,” Max said, leaning forward and speaking just loud enough for the others to hear. “I don’t know how, but I knew.”

Var’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “You knew? How could you possibly know?”

“I think there’s a reason we have all become such good friends,” Max continued, looking into Brien’s confused eyes. “I feel like we are supposed to stick together. I have no idea why, but… well… I have always known there was something different about the both of you. And about me.”

“Well, don’t try to stick a knife in my arm, please,” Brien said, grinning uneasily.

Max chuckled. “No chance of that, old friend,” he said.

Max and Brien had known each other since grade school in the central Cardinal district ofGreystoneCity, and had been friends from their first meeting. The two met Varix years later during their training to join the Grey Shields, but he also clicked with them right away despite his quiet and sometimes surly demeanor.

“What does this mean, Max?” Var asked, leaning even further in.

A hush passed through the room at that point, most conversations tailing off as all attention was directed to a red-cloaked figure that had climbed on top of the long, rainwood bar. The Bard had arrived.

* * *

More to come!

~Kevin

Hello, all! I am going to post the first six chapters of Emergence in their “final” draft form (the form currently being submitted to agents and publishers all over the fruited plain) here on the blog. There have been quite a few changes since I initially posted the first few chapters, so I figured it’s a good time to give any casual readers a chance to see a more polished product.  I have had a few  additional “nibbles” from agents and publishers over the past few weeks (including one request for a full manuscript!) so things are happening! Who knows… maybe this little project will grow into something bigger one day. Or not. Either way, it’s all good.

So without further ado, Chapter 1 – Pithwood.

* * *

1 Pithwood

 

Argand only raised an eyebrow as the fat, black-bearded brigand slowly drew a broad scimitar from the sheath at his waist. The thief had a raw, angry looking scar running straight down the center of his forehead and onto the bridge of his nose, and looked like the kind of man who was accustomed to drawing blood.

The thin, hawk-nosed man to the brigand’s left and the angry looking man with the pock-marked face to his right both took the cue and unsheathed their short swords. Behind them two other thieves, hooded and menacing, bared their weapons.

“Here now”, the fat bandit grumbled in a deep, gravelly voice, “let’s not make doin’s get ugly here, young masters.”

He pointed the rust-spotted sword at Argand, standing tall and expressionless twenty feet away across the small clearing, then at the shorter, stockier form of Kosin next to him.

“Ain’t no need for either of the two of ya to get hurt, y’know,” he continued as a nearly toothless grin appeared through his thick and matted beard, “just toss yer weapons and toss yer gold, and we’ll call it smooth.”

Smoke still drifted upward from the remains of the last night’s campfire, and the two one-man tents that Argand and Kosin carried with them were not yet fully bundled. It was perhaps one-half hour after dawn on a cloudy, cool Spring morning that carried the smell of approaching rain. A fine time of day for highwaymen to take travelers unaware.

But not all young travelers are so easily waylaid.

“I am Argand Mason of Eagle’s Reach,” Argand spoke in a loud, commanding voice. “I will give you this one chance, cutpurse,” he squared his broad shoulders and lifted his cleft chin high, while gently resting his hand on his sword hilt. “Leave us.  Now. And I can promise you that you will not be injured. This is more than I expect you deserve given the nature of your work… but nevertheless. You have this one chance.”

Argand’s face was set like stone, his square jaw looking as if he were a king passing judgment, not a weary young man being assaulted by highwaymen. His wavy black hair was slightly disheveled, as were his clothes. He looked like a man suddenly roused from sleep, which he was. But Argand’s youthful face radiated strength, eyes set, lips a tight line, as if he fully expected the bandits to back down.

And they nearly did. For a moment, the fat thief with the scar hesitated. A look of confusion crossed his face, as if he was not really sure what he was doing. Then he seemed to remember himself.

The skinny thief laughed mockingly to cover his leader’s hesitation while the others shook their heads and smiled in a show of pity. The scarred leader, now recovered from his momentary lapse, waved his scimitar menacingly while he resumed his grin.

“O’ reeeally???” he drawled, stepping closer to the two young men. “Now, lemme see, Eagles-Reachling. You, tall as ya might be, holdin’ maybe twenty-five Summers in the land? And yer wee-short companion there with ya? And yer gonna… uh… let US go unhurt??? When it’s five on two? Mighty bold words, don’t ya think?!”

“Let’s just take these fools, Argand,” muttered Kosin under his breath, “they’re common cut-throats. We can beat them easily enough.” Kosin was almost a foot shorter than his broad-shouldered friend, with thick black hair and green eyes. He was very muscular for his size, broad in the chest and thick across the shoulders. He spoke in a quiet, flowing voice while standing ever-so-slightly on the balls of his feet. Kosin was always ready to move.

“We can take them,” agreed Argand quietly, “but it’s the eight men that have crept up behind us in the brush that concern me, Kosin.”

Kosin’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead in alarm.  Argand kept his face frozen, feeling the presence of all of the brigands through his feet as he always did. Every step, every shuffle, every pause… he could feel all of their movements, their very presences, through the ground itself when people were this close to him. It took very little effort for him to differentiate the pulses in the ground and pick out the eight hidden assailants and their movements. He still wasn’t sure exactly when he had realized that the odd sensations actually meant something, that they were so very useful. During these recent weeks of eastward travel along the crime-riddenJury Road, he was sure the tell-tale pulses had saved his life repeatedly.

The lead thief had heard Argand. The grin faded from his face, replaced by a puzzled frown that made his raw forehead scar bulge grossly.

“How…??? Ya couldn’t have possibly known,” the fat lead thief sputtered. Then he gathered his wits and raised his oversized sword to attack position.

“Well, then, young tho ya are, I guess we’ll be havin’ to do this the hard way!” The fat thief advanced.

“Ummm,  Argand?” muttered Kosin under his breath as he slowly drew two of his short, hilt-less daggers from within the folds of his cloak.  “Thirteen men? We have been pretty lucky before, but…”

“RUN!” Argand breathed at Kosin as he took off at a full sprint to his right. Argand bounded over the dying embers of the fire and disappeared into the brush. Kosin paused for half a heartbeat then dashed after him.

The five thieves took off in pursuit, and the grunts and exclamations from the nearby woods announced that the rest of the bandits had joined the chase.

Argand angled sharply left through the dense undergrowth and occasional thin trunks of burbin trees, his long legs pumping in the chill morning air. Kosin was faster, though, and soon was right on his heels.

“Get ready, Kosin,” Argand panted, swatting saplings from before his face and leaping over a few deadfalls. “A few of these slime are mounted… we can’t outrun them.”

Kosin slid and bounded along next to Argand, much more like a dark-clothed blur than a man. He had a much easier time leaping over obstacles and weaving his way among the woodlands than Argand did, and it wasn’t solely due to his smaller size.  He had always been especially skilled when it came to athletics, his body was just as fluid as his voice.

“Okay…up ahead,” breathed Argand as he saw a large group of adult pith trees, their trunks as big around as a horse is long. There was very little undergrowth between the huge trees due to the lack of light under their heavy canopies. Argand knew the trees were there moments after he had started running. He had no idea how he knew, but he knew.

The sounds of horses and men drew closer as Argand and Kosin broke out of the brush and into the pithwood.

“You go up, and I’ll go around,” called Argand. But Kosin was clearly already of the same mind as he ran straight for a tree.

Kosin said nothing. He rarely spoke during their recent encounters with brigands, cutthroats, and other diverse miscreants all over Jesserin duchy.  He leapt at the nearly black trunk of the largest pith tree in his line of sight and hit it hard, letting his fingers find the natural cracks and crags in the rough surface while his toes instantly found purchase beneath him.  He sped up the tree almost as fast as he had been running a moment before.

To Argand, this was nothing new or surprising. Kosin Fletcher had been climbing trees, walls, rocks, and just about anything else vertical since they were both children. Argand slowed, glancing back to watch Kosin as he reached the canopy and stepped out onto a large branch. Kosin squatted low, balancing easily, while he pulled several of the razor-sharp, hilt-less throwing knives he carried.  He had nearly two dozen of the six-inch long weapons hidden amongst the folds of his cloak and clothing, each held in place by a thin leather sheath lined with steel. The short man was nearly invisible in the dim pithwood canopy, seeming to fade right into the shadows of the giant trees.

Argand knew that Kosin didn’t really want to kill any of these ruffians, but he knew that it might be unavoidable if the thieves proved either too skilled or too persistent. As Argand slowed, he tracked Kosin out of the corner of his eye; he was jumping nimbly from branch to branch, blades held between several of his fingers, working to gain a better line of sight based on wherever Argand chose to hide.

Ahead, Argand saw a small clearing in the wood dominated by a group of short, six foot wide stumps of pith trees that had been felled by loggers some years before. Crouching down behind the largest stump and closing his eyes, Argand focused on the peculiar, pulse like surges he felt in his feet and legs and read them as if he were scanning a book. Through the sensations, he could tell that the horses had stopped, the riders now on foot, and that his earlier count had been accurate; he and Kosin were powerfully outnumbered. The brigands likely knew that the two young men were going to try to hide, not run. Argand knew it would take some show of force to deter them at this point. The chain mail he wore, the sword at his side, even his and Kosin’s clothes would fetch a fair weight of gold and silver on the streets of nearbyJesserinCityor Oakbridge – not even counting whatever coins might be found in their pouches. No, they would not give up this chase easily.

The sweet smell of pith tree sap filled Argand’s nostrils. The pleasant aroma contrasted sharply with the foreboding dimness that filled the wood. With practiced stealth, he silently drew his sword from its sheath as he felt the thieves grow closer. He always felt more confident, almost as confident as he acted, once he had his blade in his hands. The sword had been a gift from his father, as was tradition in theHighlands, but Argand had not yet named it. Maybe today would be the day the name would come to him. Perhaps this was going to be that memorable of an event.

Without thinking, he placed one hand on the ground as he knelt. His eyes popped open in shock as he felt strong waves of warmth stream up his arm to his shoulder and beyond, as if a flow of heated bathwater had been injected into his veins. He jerked his hand up and almost cried out, but the rush vanished instantly. All he could feel now were the sensations in his feet. There were brigands less than fifty feet from him, and they were closing from behind his hiding place.

He carefully returned his hand to the ground and the shot of warm energy again coursed up his arm. It was not painful, but was almost overwhelming in its power.  It took him a second to realize that the feeling in his arm was exactly aligned with the familiar, pulse like surges in his feet. It was the same perception, but magnified a hundred fold. He closed his eyes and concentrated.

The energies climbing into his consciousness from the ground itself seemed to solidify, suddenly coalescing into vivid images in his mind. The fat leader of the band, closing in on the pith tree stump at a slow trot, the other thieves lined up behind the leader with their bows and swords at the ready, two other men closing from the left with short swords and daggers, two more men with bows closing slowly from the right, horses tied to trees about fifty yards distant, a man with a strange-looking sword and silver gauntlets standing in a clearing ringed with deep shadows, a trader’s wagon pulled by a team of four workhorses along the Jury Road, the crowded marketplace in Oern village, leagues away on the river–.

Argand jerked his hand from the ground and gripped the sword hilt in both fists.  His eyes were nearly watering from the intensity of the sensations and flitting pictures that had just flashed across his thoughts. The views of those men and places were so clear this time, with his hand in the soil and fallen leaves. He had never felt anything like it. What’s happening to me? he thought.

But there was no time. He could hear the heavy wheezing of the fat lead thief just on the other side of the stump. Argand held his breath, uttering a silent prayer to the Creator for help… and for continued accuracy from Kosin. He didn’t want to end up with one of those perfectly sharp throwing knives ruining his day.

In one fluid motion, Argand rose from behind the stump and slashed powerfully with his big blade, knocking the sword out of the fat thief’s hands. Without pausing Argand leapt over the stump and brought his sword’s pommel down hard on the leader’s bearded, filthy head with a sickening crunch. But before the thief’s round body could hit the ground, Argand was upon the next three brigands like a storm of metal. He engaged them with the short, circular arcs of the Highlander blade technique, and the sound of ringing steel filled the shadowy wood. Less than two heartbeats later Argand disarmed the first of them with a fake slash followed by a quick twisting jab through the thief’s wrist. He then felled the other two by shattering their short swords with two lighting fast, crushing overhand swings followed by a swift kick to the gut of the nearest man that dropped him to his knees. One of the thieves’ arms appeared broken by the blow which had demolished his sword. His screams of pain merged with those of the other shocked, wounded bandits. It was clear that they were in no way expecting such a powerful response from Argand.

But the others, led by the scrawny fellow with the hawk nose, had recovered from their surprise at Argand’s furious onslaught. Hawk-nose stood in front of Argand with his sword at the ready as the men behind him quickly fanned out to cut off any escape. Two of the thieves had bows up and drawn. Argand’s time was up, and he knew it. He charged ahead anyway.

Then Kosin struck.

Both of the bowmen screamed loudly as their extended hands were pierced by shining metal knives that came whistling down from the canopy above. They released as they howled, their arrows launching aimlessly into the ground around them. The hawk-nosed man and his companion dropped their swords and screamed in pain, blood gushing forth around the throwing knives that split their wrists from the back to the front.

More screams erupted from the woods to the left and right, and Argand could sense – again via the pulses in the ground – that several of the men that had been attempting to flank them were now bolting for their horses.  The wounded and bleeding men in front of him turned and sprinted out of the pithwood, cradling badly sliced hands and working to stop their bleeding. A few of them managed to yank the knives free and drop them as they ran. Argand was careful not to move at this point; Kosin’s aim was impossibly good, but he didn’t want to mistakenly step into the path of one of those deadly blades.

Then Argand sensed that there was still one thief that had not run. He was hiding behind a tree to the right. Argand held his sword at the ready, but knew he had no chance to cross the distance in time if the bandit had a bow.

Quickly searching the canopy high above, Argand was able to spot Kosin. With unreal agility, he ran down a tree limb almost over Argand’s head, slid around the trunk, then vaulted up and over several thin branches to land on another, higher branch. Kosin scooted down this one nearly to its end, balancing nearly on the tips of his toes as he approached the farthest point out that would bear his weight. Then he dropped into a crouch.

Argand slowly lowered himself and placed his left hand on the ground. The chorus of images quickly cleared into a vision of the hiding thief, and he did indeed have a bow with an arrow on-string. He was older, with long white hair worn in a braid and a round shield strapped to his back.  Glancing back into the tree tops, Argand gasped in alarm as Kosin drew and threw one of his gleaming knives as hard as he could towards the open space in front of Argand – and simultaneously there came the high twang of a bowstring release.

Argand reflexively tensed for the arrow’s blow, but it never came. He heard a quick cracking sound, then the thud of the arrow hitting the ground somewhere nearby. A moment later, another scream pierced the early morning air. Argand sensed the archer’s steps as he ran out of the pithwood, doubtless carrying another one of Kosin’s blades in his flesh.

Kosin landed on the soft ground in front of Argand, his black cloak flailing around him as he fell instantly into a squat.  He still had a knife in his right hand, pinched between two fingers, but Argand lowered his sword and heaved a sigh.

“That’s it, Kosin.  That’s all of them,” he said, finally breathing easily.

“No,” Kosin said, slowly spinning in place in his crouch and surveying the trees, “No, you said there were thirteen. I don’t see any others either, but I hit eight with knives, and you got four with your sword. Where’s the other?”

Argand’s smile faded.  He sheathed his sword and focused on the sensations in his feet. The pulses were there, but they revealed no other bandits in the vicinity. He squatted and laid his hand gingerly on the ground.

The warm energy spun into his arm once again, but Argand was expecting it and quickly focused on the pulses and their meaning. He instantly saw moving images on the surface of his thoughts, like vibrant oil paintings come to life. He saw the injured thieves as they gained ground on horseback and on foot, working their way eastward back toward the fishingvillageofOernthrough which Argand and Kosin had passed on the previous day. They would be seeking medical attention from the local physician.

But the thirteenth figure, the one in the silver, shimmering gauntlets, was gone.

“What’s this?” asked Kosin, frowning. “A new trick? Or are you worn out from your swordplay with the fat man?”

Argand grinned and stood, brushing the soil off of his hand. “Well, yes. A new trick. I will explain it to you…if I can…later. But no, there’s no one else anywhere near here. I picked out thirteen men, yes, but I don’t think the thirteenth was a thief.  Someone was standing farther off – maybe a lot farther off – not sure. I couldn’t tell the difference.”

Kosin stood and returned the knife to the folds of his cloak.  He continued to scan the pithwood warily as he began hunting for his remaining knives among the leaves and dirt.  It took a lot to get Kosin to relax after an event like this. And events like this were happening nearly all the time these days in Jesserin Duchy.

“Four men, Argand? You took down four men hand-to-hand and don’t even have a scratch to show for it? It’s hard to believe, but you are getting even better with the sword, aren’t you.” It wasn’t really a question.

Argand sighed. “Kosin, it wasn’t even that hard. It’s like…they were ridiculously slow. As if they were moving through a bog and I was going full speed ahead. If it hadn’t been for the archers, I feel like I could’ve taken them all!”

“Well, this time I thought you weren’t gonna make it, Argand,” Kosin said seriously as he picked up another bloody blade and cleaned it on a handful of fallen leaves. He frowned. “I thought that last bowman was going to force me to continue my travels solo.”

“You and me both, Kosin!” Argand said as he leaned against the stump. The fat thief still lay at its base, unconscious and snoring softly. He would have a colossal bruise and an equally large headache once he awoke.  “If that last one was a good shot,” continued Argand, “I think you would be carrying me on your back to the nearest cuperative right now!”

Kosin’s frown faded, but neither did he smile. Argand caught his change of mood and looked at him pointedly. Kosin walked over to an arrow lying on the ground a few dozen feet away, then tossed it to Argand.

Argand caught the arrow and looked at it closely. The arrowhead was intact, but the shaft ended abruptly as if it had been cut. A second later, Kosin tossed him the other half of the shaft with the fletching still in place. Argand’s eyebrows rose high on his forehead as he again looked at Kosin, watching as the small man bent to pick up the last of his throwing knives, buried almost up to its end in the soft earth. This one had no blood on it.

Argand’s mouth gaped open.

“Right,” Kosin said, growing a little pale. “Your archer didn’t miss. I… uh… I hit the arrow. In mid-flight. With one of my knives.”

Argand closed his mouth, then blinked hard.  “A new trick, Mr. Fletcher?”

Kosin smiled then, but still looked a little worried. “Well, yes. I’ll explain it to you… if I can… later.” He slowly shook his head.

“Argand,” said Kosin, head shaking in confusion, “what is happening to us?”

“I have no idea, Kosin. I have absolutely no idea.”

* * *