Stormfyre Chapter Five

  

            The hot summer sun was just fading over the horizon in the streets of Banthas. It had been a hot and unforgiving day in the trading city that day, and the temperature had shown in the faces of the people that walked it. Children were unruly, screaming as they were drug off by parents that were a hair's breadth from slapping them until they bruised. Merchants grumbled and fumed as the meats and fruits they sought to sell went bad from the sweltering heat, cutting into their sales. Horses could barely be prompted or threatened onto the street, loathe to leave the grim comfort of the troughs with their depleting water.

            One of the older villages that flew the banner of Southcross, it had seen much in its day. An independent village, nearly a city in that time, two hundred years ago, Southcross only governed over the trading routes that travelers used to get there and beyond it. Banthas also laid claim that it was the biggest village in-between the kingdom and the mighty port city of Twin Port. It would still claim independence, free to govern as it would if not for the thieves’ guild that plagued it for the latter half of the last century. The thieves were known as the Silent Brotherhood. It was a name that served it well, for none that ever saw a guild member lived to tell the tale. The guild functioned for decades in the same trading route, never being caught while they never seemed to take great care to avoid it. Salvation finally arrived in the form of Gabriel Warrek, then king of Southcross. He led his armies on a campaign to ferret out the Silent Brotherhood, a task that took better than two years. But Gabriel made his pledge to the people, asking them to rally behind him. If they were to pledge their village under the banner of the burning sword, the stygian of the Southcross army, he would set patrols in the village's boundaries and set his army hunting.

            The hunting brought him much fame, especially at the end of the hunt when the ring leaders of the guild hung from the neck in Southcross's town square, effectively ending the Silent Brotherhood. It was a day that was often spoke of, and none spoke with greater pride when Gabriel Warrek was mentioned then the people of Banthas.

            Still there were hurts in the village. But that was to be expected. None went out of their way to openly harm another, save for when tavern brawls were broken up by the garrison. The heat would be endured as it had every summer since the village's inception, and the people would live under the banner of the Flaming Sword.

            One of these occupants was Benmont Grimnight. He was young, no older than eighteen, and large for his age. It wasn't that he was obese, just that he often found employment helping the local merchants lift their cargo from wagon back into their Shoppes or the other way around when a noble would order it in large quantity. He found that after years of lifting and straining that he was larger than most that he called friend. Standing well over six feet he had arms the width of most youth's legs and legs that were nearly double that. Not to mention that his back was broad, skin smooth and tan from many days in the hot sun. He found that he had little to complain about. He lived with his mother, Adrianna, in a small wooden shack that was in the eastern side of the village. He had never known his father, never cared to. Adrianna had given him anything that he might have ever wanted for. There was always love in her voice, even when he had done something that he wasn't supposed to and she went about scolding him for it.

            Benmont was walking to his home that evening, rubbing shoulders that were sore with heavy lifting. He had been helping the librarian with carts of new books that he had ordered months ago from the city of Bordertown, only just arrived that day. The boxes were heavy, far heavier than he thought they were going to be. He wouldn't be surprised if he woke the next morning to find that he had pulled a muscle in his side. It sure felt like it.

            He passed another street, nodding a hello to a young couple that walked by in the night, laughing. He stared after them, sighing. He had never been very good with women, never found the right things to say to them. It seemed that whenever it was that he found himself near some pretty girl his tongue would bloat up like a leech were attached to it. It was things just like that he would tell her, honest to a fault, and she would look at him disgusted and brush him off. He found that the only person he could talk to was his mother. She always had time to listen, even when she was plying her trade, sewing something for one of the neighbors.

            Sighing again, he entered the door to his home and knew right away that something was not right. He froze. In the dark he could hear breathing, labored. Beyond the frame of the door was a hunched shadow. Not a lantern or candle was lit. Benmont scanned the open faced room and the doorway beyond. After the doorway there was a stairwell that took one to the basement. It was little more than cold storage for foodstuffs and wood. Benmont returned his gaze to the first room. The table had been moved, slid from the left side of the room by more than a foot. Other things were out of place, too.

            "Mother?" he called out. Only stillness answered him. He stepped into the room, pawing his way over to the stand against the left wall where he knew he would find a lantern and matches to light it. He kept his back to the wall, fearing things he couldn't understand. He had never been a superstitious child, even when he was very young. Ghosts were things of the mind, given strength to frighten only if that person allowed them to. He never did. But in the shadows there was something wrong.

            He slipped when his foot fell in a pool of water that had spilt over the floor. He thought with relief that must have been why the table was moved. His mother had been cleaning a spill. Cursing himself for being so easily spooked, he pushed away from the wall and snatched up the lantern. He struck a match along the wall and lit the wick. Turning the wick up further, he raised the lantern over his head to examine the room and gasped. In the dark he couldn't have seen the overturned chairs and the bureau that lay half in the far door, near the back of the house.

            "Mother!" he cried sharply, fear constricting his throat, "Where are you? What's happened here?" He stepped back for the door. Perhaps she had run to get the garrison. Benmont ran, fully intending to join her when he stopped short, his breath failing him. He saw the pool of water on the floor, the one he had slipped in. It glowed bright red in the yellow light of the lantern.

            "One God..." Benmont mouthed, following the trail of slick blood with the wave of his arm. It led to the food closet by the front door. There was a huddled shape in the corner of the closet. Stealing himself, Benmont leaned down, placing one knee in the crimson liquid and reaching his hand in to grab the shape. It was cool, not quite cold to the touch, he thought, never having felt anything like it in his life. He grabbed a fistful of soft fabric and pulled it closer to him, daring to get a better look.

            A head swiveled on a stiff neck, eyes wide and lifeless, mouth closed with lips colored blue. A woman, her throat slit from ear to ear, the gash deep with traces of blood seeping from it still. He saw the face of his mother. She was pale, her wide eyes accusing him, burning into him. He screamed, letting the body fall back into the corner. He tried to wheel away and slipped in the blood, falling face first into it. Into my mother's blood, he thought, his mind racing with shock. Dimly there was the creak of a footfall behind him, someone that didn't know where the weaker boards in the house were.

            Guilt and fear changed swiftly to rage and Benmont pivoted around, snarling like a wild animal. He leapt for a heavily cloaked man that stood behind him, dropping the lantern to get a better grip on him. Cursing, the cloaked man brandished a long dagger in his right hand. He swung with the blade and Benmont grunted as cold metal sliced open his side, staining his work shirt crimson. He and the man toppled, one over the other as the light danced crazily in the room, the lantern rolling back and forth as if to mimic the battle that it silently witnessed. Benmont pulled back one fist, muscles bunching along his arm, and punched the cloaked man square in the jaw. There was a loud crack and the man crumpled under him, going still. Benmont balled up his other fist and slugged him a second time, rocking the man's head to the side, sending a trail of blood along the floor.

            A shadow filled the doorway from the back room and Benmont leapt up to meet it, vaguely aware that he clutched the cloaked man's dagger in his hand. The dagger had been used to kill his mother, he was sure. He fully intended to give it back to them.

            He paced the second man, waiting for him to enter. The second man swiveled his head, hidden beneath the hood of another cloak, and looked at the body for a second. Without a word he rushed, baring steel that had been hidden in the folds of his cloak until then. A sword flashed out, small, but double edged, more than twice the length of the dagger that Benmont carried. He dove back, tripping over the first attacker’s body and landing on his back. The sword whipped though air, making a high pitched whine when it found nothing to connect with. Benmont rolled up and onto his feet, holding the dagger before him.

            The second attacker swung again, stepping in on one foot and bringing the blade down diagonally. Benmont jumped out of the way and the attacker buried the blade in the table, splitting it nearly in two. Benmont jumped in, snarling. The attacker let the weapon go from where it was held and grappled with the youth, falling to the floor. Benmont fell on top, using all his weight to slam himself on the man's body. A loud gurgle let him know that the air left the attacker's lungs. He pressed the dagger down, piercing the man's flesh. The man screamed silently, not having the breath to pull in a real one, as the dagger slid through muscle to the organs beneath. At last Benmont pierced his heart. He tore back the dark cloak with rough hands to see the man that had tried to kill him. On the floor lay a youth, not much older than he, his eyes filled with pain and shock. He let the dagger go, rolling from the body and sitting against the wall, knees close to his chest.

            The youth wrapped a hand over the hilt that stuck from his chest, trying to wrench it free. Blood flecked his lips and he chocked, making noises that made Benmont moan and close his eyes tight. Then the choking stopped and there was only silence. Benmont opened his eyes again, letting the lamplight show him the carnage that he had wrought.

            It wasn't my fault, he tried to rationalize. They killed my mother! They tried to kill me! They would have too, if I hadn't killed them first! He stood up, panting, the world swimming in and out of focus. He had just killed two men. His mother was dead, in all likelihood slain by these same men. He walked over to one, quietly, almost fearing that one would get up suddenly. That was foolish, he knew, but still the thought was there in his mind, strong. He knelt before the one that he had shoved the dagger into and pulled more of his cloak back. He wore a tunic and breeches of soft wool with riding boots. The face he didn't recognize. Trying to calm himself he stood. He looked back in the closet, grateful that the light from the lantern failed to fall over his mother's body. There was nothing he could do here.

            It took him five minutes to get motor skills enough to wash his hands free of blood at the hand pump in the kitchen. He splashed the water on his face, a face that was numb with shock. There would be questions to answer, questions that he didn't have any answers for. Questions that he wanted the answers to more than anyone else. Who were these men? Why were they here? Why had they killed his mother, Adrianna, who hadn't ever done anything so horrible as to merit her death? And why had they stayed long enough to attempt to kill him? Until he knew he couldn't stay. No one in Banthas would understand.

            He changed clothes in his room, letting the stained ones lay at the foot of his narrow bed. He took a canvas sack from the kitchen and stuffed clothes in it, and bread to eat. He took the coins that he had earned from the summer and tossed them in as well. He snatched his riding cloak from the wall and threw it around his broad shoulders, clasping it in the front. Tears streaking his eyes, he entered the front room again, staring at the blade that stuck from the table. He could see, in his mind's eye, the place he would sit with his mother and talk. Late at night they would share tea and talk of things that troubled him. He could always unburden himself with his mother. Where was she now, he thought sharply, when he needed her so badly? Swiping a hand over his eyes he edged over to the table and laid a tentative hand on the hilt of the short sword. Gritting his teeth, he wrenched back and freed it, letting wood splinters gather at his feet.

            The night had cooled the hot summer air outside, stifling the tempers of the residents. Benmont ran out from the house, crossing the street as fast as he could, listening to his boots scrape on the cobblestone. A garrison wasn't far from him. He could see the lights of their lanterns and voices nearing him. He melted into the shadows of the alleyway, content on lingering in the dark. Five men in light chain armor passed him, swords hanging from their belts. The lantern from one man shined down the alley, but only for a few feet. He knew that none of them would venture down the narrow alley unless prompted to. The garrison passed his house and were gone, their voices and lights fading from his senses.

            Thinking it safe, he ran deeper into the alleys, determined to head north. He hadn't known why that choice sprang to his mind, it just had. Southcross was there, he thought. The mighty Southcross had long been the defender of Banthas. If he could find the answers to his questions anywhere it would be in the kingdom of Southcross. Hastening, determined, Benmont ran from street to street, staring at people as if they were strangers, holding the canvas sack close to him. Sights and sounds blurred to him and later, far from the village and alone in the dark, he sank to his knees in a grief struck stupor. Three were dead, two by his hand.

            "Oh, mother," he sobbed, letting the sack fall from nerveless fingers. He put his hands over his face and lay against a tree, weeping until the morning sun found him, sleeping fitfully, the sack clutched tight against him.

            Ferrin lay in his room at the church, staring dreamily at the window just above his bed. He thought it was awfully nice of the father to give him such a cozy room, especially after catching him with those coin pouches in his pants. Coin pouches that he fully intended to get back before his stay here was done. But he liked it in the church. Father Alohm was a nice, if not naïve, man. He had said to Ferrin the very same day he got to the church that no man was beyond redemption. He wondered if the father was speaking to him at the time or about that Cameron fellow that was chasing him. The two sparred with words on the road that day, nearly putting Ferrin to sleep in the act. Both men had wills of iron, Ferrin noted. Not much for rapier wit, but wills of iron, nonetheless.

            Swinging his bare feet over the edge of the bed he stared at the wall across from him. There was a painting there of some man named Gideon. He was defending the city of Twin Port from a great menace. The painting had been titled "Gideon's Love". What was Gideon's love, Ferrin often pondered when he looked at that painting. Lots of death? That couldn't be right, because then it wouldn't be hanging in a church. But then again, with the wit that the good father sported, perhaps he never paused to think about the true meaning. And if the good father liked the painting, with its violent battle and almost morbid atmosphere, then who was Ferrin to burst his bubble?

            He leaned forward and took a shirt from the chair in his room. The good father had been kind enough to purchase him new clothes, seeing as how the other ones were looking more holy then the church he was staying in. He noted, as well, that the shirt and pants seemed strangely bereft of any large pockets. Perhaps the good father is craftier then he leads on, Ferrin thought. Either that or he didn't have any fashion sense.

            Ferrin slipped the shirt over his head and smoothed his hair out, what little there was of it. He grimaced as his hand found little to go over. He remembered also that day, the good father handing him over to sister Julia. She was a dark eyed beauty with a prim demeanor, until she was away from the watchful eyes of the good father. Then it seemed that some devil or another took possession of her. She had a fiery side, he knew, and wasn't afraid to show it. She was in charge of cleaning the youth, and she meant to make good on that charge. Taking him into the back room where she slept in a simple bed with a small dresser beside it, she tried to comb his hair for him. Tear his bloody hair right off his scalp seemed more to the point, wrenching with her comb in hand, looking as righteous as some paladin smiting evil where he found it. She had stopped after a time, seeing that Ferrin's face had turned beat red and he was on the verge of tears.

            "This won't do," he listened to her say, "I think you need a trim." He bolted. It seemed like the best thing to do. He had made it to the front room where the priest delivered his sermons, and some damn fine ones, if not a touch windblown, when the good father caught hold of him. Once again. He might as well have struggled to free himself from a set of shackles. In fact he would have had better luck with the shackles. They could be picked. Surrendering to his fate, letting the grumbling sister Julia lead him back to her room, she cut his hair.

            It could have been worse, Ferrin admitted silently. She could have asked to see his teeth. He had the most vivid picture of Julia, pliers in hand, leaning over his mouth, speaking to him in a sugar coated voice, "Is that a cavity I see there?" Who knows? Maybe that picture could take the place of Gideon's love? The good father could name it, 'Ferrin's Agony.'

            Laughing without making a single noise Ferrin pulled on his pants. They were short, just a touch too short, revealing the last several inches of his bony legs before his boots would hide the rest. He had tried to keep his boots on as long as he could, declining the good father's advances to make himself comfortable. He had almost gotten away with it, too. But then two days prior he had been in his room, amusing himself with a deck of cards that he found in the pockets of one of the church patrons. He didn't think that the man would miss them, besides, what was he doing in church with a deck of cards anyway? As Ferrin saw it, he did the man a service. The One God might have taken offense if he hadn't found the cards when he did.

            Anyhow, he was barefoot and it was late. He thought the others had gone to sleep already. But there was light from under his door and before he could slip the boots back on his feet the good father entered.

            "I came to see if there was anything that you needed," Damien had asked. Ferrin only shook his head no quickly, a giant smile plastered on his face. Damien smiled back at him but the smile faltered when he saw his feet. Larger than his frail frame needed, with tufts of light brown fur sprouting off the top of them. Hooked nails, almost like claws, sprang from his toes, giving him the appearance of an animal.

            Father Alohm had said nothing, only nodded with a quirky grin and closed the door behind him. That night Ferrin had waited for the men with torches to come and drag him away, the good father leading the whole mob, spouting bible rhetoric the entire way. That had been two nights ago. Ferrin guessed that the good father was alright with his feet. In fact, from the lack of surprise that registered on his face, Ferrin surmised that he had seen that like before. He would have asked him about it, where he may have seen another like him, but there was that pesky mute thing keeping him from it.

            He tugged on first his right boot, lacing it up with grace that few humans possessed, and finished up the other. He was curious what was going on. Neither the good father nor his devil possessed acolyte had come to check on him that morning. He wondered if the joy of having him around had faded so quickly. Or was it that the good father was still angry about yesterday when he ended his sermon and Ferrin had been the only one that was rigorously clapping for him. He had craned his neck from side to side and watched the shocked stares of the villagers form on him. Children laughed and pointed at him. Ferrin grinned at the good father, shrugging. He had been lead by Julia into the back, her face so red that Ferrin thought someone must have goosed her. He was entertaining the thought when she almost threw him in his room, telling him to stay there, stay out of trouble.

            But that was yesterday. He must be over it by now. Unless his sense of humor was anything like his fashion sense. Opening the door quietly, he peered first down the left then the right. Both sides of the hall were empty but his ears picked up voices from the front room. Moving in silence he stalked up the hall, careful as not to make a sound to draw attention to himself. He peered around the corner, past the altar where Father Alohm gave his sermons, and saw him and Julia sitting on the front pew furthest to his right. He crouched low, intent on listening to what it was that they were saying. Both of them looked flustered, perhaps even angry. Sister Julia twirled a lock of her hair with a finger, a sign that she was feeling nervous.

            "It seems the king's ambition knows no bounds," Damien said to her, Ferrin catching only the end of his sentence.

            "It makes one long for the days when Mikal Steelbreeze sat on the throne," Julia sighed, her tone morose.

            "Oh?" Damien looked over at her, his eyes filled with mirth, "And here I thought you were too young to even have noticed those days."

            "I'm not that young, father. And you're not that old."

            "So I'm not," Damien admitted, "So I'm not."

            "Why would the king rally his army?" Julia asked, "To bring them all together and set them westward. I mean he would only do that if he were meaning to..." her words trailed off but Ferrin didn't need them to finish the thought.

            "He wouldn't!" she cried, raising her voice. It echoed in the halls of the near empty church, "Why in the name of the One God would he declare war on Southcross? They have been friend and ally ever since the Krestin dynasty! What reason would he have for wanting to destroy it?"

            "I told you," Damien waved a hand to quiet her and she did, hands falling to her lap, "His ambition drives him. He's nothing like Mikal, I fear. He seeks domination and he hides that dark ambition behind the High Throne."

            Julia gasped a long intake of air as she let the father's words sink in. The High Throne was in Dynasty, off a western island, isolated from the rest of Umbriel. There was no army to defend it. There was no government to control it. The castle that was Dynasty was inhabited only by the Chosen, a sect of priests that had been visited by the One God in their dreams. The One God had given them each a quest, a test of their faith to Him. If they succeeded they became one of the Chosen, to live nearer the One God in spirit and flesh, for only men of the cloth, the most steadfast in faith, were allowed on that hallowed ground.

            The High Father was the eldest of the Chosen, wisest of them and keeper of the Chronicle, the oldest known Testament and the true word of the One God. It held the secrets to the Ritual of Unity, the empowering that a king undergoes when he is bonded to the High Throne, to the wisdom of the One God. Only the Chosen know what the ritual truly consists of. And the High Father above them knows how to invoke it.

            "That's madness! He claims the High Throne! Where did you hear such wild rumors?"

            "A few peddlers came through here earlier this week, saying that he had come into favor with many nobles in the land. They said that rumors abound of those nobles backing the king with coin and men. What other reason would a king need such favor from these noblemen if not a campaign for war?"

            "And you believe these peddlers on their word? Likely that they heard something and then blew it up far greater than it was!" Julia snorted, sitting back, thinking her point proven. Ferrin had to agree with her. Many times had he heard rumors of war, and many times had those rumors been proven false. Still, he waited to hear more.

            "There is more. Just today farmers had come to Hamla saying that their lands were confiscated, animals taken from their pens with only promises that the kingdom of Dagoth would reimburse them. Now they have nothing, only the family that they knew would be here if nothing else. Would you say that there is nothing to their words, either? Or am I that poor a judge of character?"

            "Well you did bring that trouble making boy in here," Julia told him. Ferrin's jaw dropped. Trouble making boy? The woman that nearly tore his hair out by the roots and smiled at him over it had the nerve to call him a trouble maker? He huffed indignantly, then quieted fast to ensure that they didn't hear him.

            "Ferrin is a good lad. He's just never had the chance to prove it. I intend to give him that chance and I expect the same from you," Damien eyed her critically, letting her know that the subject had been dropped.

            "Do you think the king intends to take the High Throne by force?" Julia asked softly, fearing the answer.

            "With this man, I don't know. Perhaps he just wishes to extend the boundaries of his kingdom. Men often grow tired of things they already have, wanting what their neighbor possesses as well."

            "A war now would devastate us," Julia sat back, leaning her head on the back of the pew, "Harvest isn't far from now. A war could harm the land and the people."

            "I fear there is little we can do. We can pray that the One God show him the error of his ways. Pray that lives won't be taken in vain."

            "Wait!" Julia exclaimed, making Ferrin nearly fall over, "The king can't assume the High Throne if he has children! I remember reading somewhere that law forbids, so that the mantle of power never sits too long on the shoulders of any man."

            "Darius has no children," Damien explained, "None that I or any I've spoken with know of."

            "Do you...?" Julia began, and her voice wavered. Damien looked closely at her, silently prompting her to go on. She swallowed; her throat suddenly dry.

            "You don't think that he would force the Ritual of Unity, do you?"

            "It is said that when a man is chosen to rule over three that the One God would come to him and make it known. That is why there hasn't been a High King in some three hundred years. No man must have been found worthy of the task. What's more is the One God also lets the High Father know who this man is, to recognize him when he comes. I doubt the High Father must have known him if King Darius is willing to go to war over it."

            "Is the High Father in danger?" Julia asked him, her face a touch pale.

            "Of course not, sister. The High Father and the Chosen are servants of the One God. He will watch over his children." Ferrin watched the good father as he said this, though, and it didn't look all that convincing. If Ferrin didn't know better he would've sworn there was a hint of worry on that face.

            Having heard enough, Ferrin back peddled and started walking normally again. He entered the room and gave a friendly wave to Julia and the good father. Both returned his greeting, falling silent from their talk.

            "Sleep well?" Damien asked. Ferrin shrugged and nodded, plopped down in the seat beside him. Julia stood from the pew and straightened her skirt before excusing herself, saying that she had chores that needed doing. Ferrin waved after her, not all that sad to see her leave.

            Ferrin signed, Do you think I upset her? Damien watched the hand display and shook his head.

            "I'm sorry my young friend. It seems that I'm no better at reading this 'sign' then I was last week. It seems that I make for a pretty poor student."

            Yes, you are a pretty poor student, Ferrin signed again and smiled. Damien clapped him on the back and stood up. He offered his hand to Ferrin and the youth took it. Damien brought him to his feet and scanned the high ceiling of the room. Everything was polished oak or tainted glass, giving the church a slightly gothic appearance.

            "We have work today, you and I," Damien said. Ferrin looked up at him, eyes wide. He prayed that he misunderstood what the good father just said. When the father walked over to the wall and retrieved a broom with dust pan he knew he hadn't.

            "Let's get to it then, shall we?"

            Cameron paced back and forth in the hay loft of the barn, his thoughts troubled. He listened to Huros enter the barn from the main doors, calling for him. The youth was eager to return to the old church and pick up where they had left off yesterday. Huros walked under him, into the stables, still calling for him. He gave up after a short time and left from the same front doors, not bothering to close them. A warm wind blew in, stirring up hay, brushing his hair. Cameron sighed and paced in the other direction, arms overlapped.

            "A month here and I think you're growin' tired of this place, Cameron Reol," he heard the voice of Karnov near. He spun on his heel to see the old man in a dark corner, under one of the loft doors. He had a large floppy hat on, tilted toward his face and both of his work shoes were cast down into the loose hay. A flagon of Meldian Spirits was clutched in one hand. Cameron couldn't help but think that Spirits didn't sound half bad at the moment. He carried himself over to the old man and sat down on a hay bale just beside him, using the wall to lean against.

            "What makes you say that, old man?" Cameron questioned, taking the flagon from Karnov's hand. He laughed hard, wheezing and sitting up partially. Cameron shook the flagon and put it to his mouth. Three quarters gone, no wonder the old man's so quick to laugh.

            "Cause here ya are, pacin' and mopin' when the young master just ran in an' out lookin' for ya. I figure that there's somethin' on your mind. Somethin' that's makin you ready to dash on outta here. Tell me if that's not what you're thinkin?"

            "I can't say that the thought never crossed my mind," Cameron admitted, taking another nip from the flagon, "But five silvers a day is good money for watching over a pair of kids that never seem to find trouble. I can't complain."

            Karnov took the flagon back from him, downing the last of the Spirits and tucked the flagon into a front pocket in his over-alls, "And yet you do. Complain, that is. Not so much with yer mouth, but with your eyes. Ya got the look of a caged animal lookin' for a way outta here."

            Was Karnov right? Perhaps that was what was really bothering him. The fact that he wasn't on the go like he had been so used to. But that had been out of necessity. He found someplace that he liked. Hamla was a nice village. Devlin Telba, for all his exterior roughness, was a great man. A good employer.

            "No, I don't think I'll be leaving. I told lord Telba that I'd be on for a year and that's what I intend to do. Nothing more, nothing less."

            "I can understand that," Karnov replied, "You're a man of your word. What else are you a man of?"

            "Pardon?" Cameron asked.

            "What else is there to you? What brought you to Hamla in the first place?"

            "Circumstance," Cameron told him. When he thought the old man was going to continue with his questions he added, "It was between myself and Lemall."

            There was a creaking noise below, one that Cameron recognized. He guessed that Huros had finally discovered where his tutor had been hiding and was coming to claim him. But instead he saw Kirstin, dressed in a dress that was pulled in at the sides, sewn sturdy to endure the rigors of horseback riding. She had leather gloves covering her hands, a gift from her mother after they had left mass yesterday. She smiled ruefully when she found him sitting there beside Karnov. He was sure the smell of Spirits hung in the air. To her credit she said nothing.

            "Are you coming with to escort me?" she asked him.

            "Where would that be?"

            "Riding, silly! I want to go to the village and ride north. There's a field there where wild flowers grow. Mother said she wanted to know if I could pick some for her. Seeing as how you're my guardian, I thought you would want to come with me."

            "Of course," he muttered, patting Karnov on the shoulder before he stood up and went to fetch Starn. He could still feel Karnov watching him as he went down, his eyes never leaving him. Kirstin already had her horse outside the barn; Edgar was helping her mount it. My doubts are my own, Cameron thought as he watched her prance about on the horse, laughing and waving to him. Nothing is going to happen, nothing at all. Still he couldn't help but feel the foreboding in him. Something was coming, all of his battle instincts warned, and nothing was going to change it.

Stormfyre Chapter Four

If you didn't catch my post on facebook, it turns out that this story was from 1999; I finished writing it in October of that year. I hope no one confuses Stormfyre with Dragonsong. Stormfyre was written about seven years or so before Dragonsong saw the light of day. Dragonsong is book one of my Christian fantasy series: The Canticles of Andurun. You can find excerpts here and here. Stormfyre, while a fantasy story, could not be considered Christian by any means. It is  a secular story, and while not offensive (I hope!) it is not faith-based; which is the vehicle that drove Dragonsong. Anyhow, God bless, and I hope you continue to enjoy the story!

            Morning in all its glory crept over the kingdom of Dagoth. The sea line in the distance danced gold on the north horizon and the green of the evergreens that surrounded the majestic castle were at their fullest. Sitting atop the cliff side, looming over a portion of that woodland beauty the castle stirred as well with the morning. The gold rays of the sun found servants stirring, ready to make good another day of work in service to their king. Bright light spilled over the stone craft guard posts that lines the outer gate at the bottom of the cliff to the north and another that stood before the main wall of Dagoth. Soldiers in their blue and grey uniforms with the symbol of a golden arrow piercing a hollow sun exchanged watches, some fresh from the night, some worn for the same reasons.

            In the top of the castle, in the east wing at its upper most turrets lay the bedroom to the king of Dagoth. Darius Steelbreeze roused from sleep as well. He knew as he stepped from his giant canopied bed that he had a long day ahead of him. He was seeing guests from Banthas. Nobility from a high ranking house where being loyal to the crown of Dagoth could get one's neck stretched. He was sure that they had come to pledge themselves to his banner, hearing that he may very well try for the High Throne. He wasn't surprised. The last week he had seen two other such families pay him heed, bringing gifts and pleasant lies to him. A baron had even invited him to the Tower of Cromley. Avernus Cromley, a blue blood that held tight reigns in the land near Twin Port. That was South Cross's reigning territory, where its armies were strongest. He dared not to accept the invite but didn't fail to send a courier back to Cromley tower, giving him much the same notice. He dared guess that he would be entertaining Avernus come the next day. Or the next week at the latest.

            He allowed his attendants to unclothe and bathe him while he stayed in his thoughts. They picked out a royal blue suit with colors that favored the grey reddish hair and beard he sported. He dressed and they attended to his hair, trimming his beard and brushing through his hair to make him look well enough before his guests. One of the servants added a dash of cologne to him, on either side of the neck. He smiled at the mirror. His dark green eyes flashed with anticipation. The wave of a hand dismissed the attendants. They filed out of the room, closing the twin doors behind them. He made his way across the wide stone floor to where the balcony was, scooping up his ring, and symbol of the royal family. He stepped onto the balcony and took in the view, looked far beyond the view of the ocean and the trees. He saw another ocean. He saw an island where his destiny awaited him. He leaned on the sculptured railing, holding his head high into the wind. You think that you are greater than I, he sneered at the wind, but soon I will be greater than any man, any force on the face of this world! You will see, he thought. You will all see.

            There was a sound behind him, knocking on his door. The raps were persistent, which told the king that his guests may have arrived earlier in the day than he had anticipated.

            "Enter," he shouted back to the doors without bothering to move from where he stood. The doors opened quietly and there was the sound of armor jingling mixed with robes flowing over the carpet, "Captain Jaist. Advisor. I trust that our guests are here?"

            "No your majesty," Captain Jaist bent his knee to him, bowed his head after he removed the helmet.

            "Then why have you disturbed my thoughts?"

            "I have important news, your majesty, which cannot wait until later this night. If we could council now?" Raza bowed low, waiting for the king to answer. Darius sighed, leaving the view behind and entering the room, shutting the glass doors behind him.

            "What could be so important that you need bother me while I desire solitude?" Raza looked back to another man in the room, another grey robed, grey haired advisor, older then Raza by nine years. He was just under Raza in command when it came to matters of state.

            "Urien," he gestured to the doors, "Secure them for us so that no others may hear what I have to tell the king." The elderly man nodded and limped over to the doors, closing first one, then the other. He again took his place just behind Raza.

            "What of this news, Raza?" Darius asked, raising an eyebrow to him.

            "The letter, your majesty. The one that you had the courier deliver to Dynasty, where the chosen reside."

            "I know who dwells there, Raza! Get to the point before I lose my patience."

            "Of course, your majesty. The courier had returned after more than a month of hard travel in either direction with the reply." Not waiting for the king to order the scroll read he took it from a pocket on the robe and unfolded it. It read:

            Darius Steelbreeze, king to the throne of Dagoth

              I have read the sequester you have sent, proclaiming that you are indeed the man to inherit the High Throne and to rule over Umbriel but I have found reason to keep you from that goal. The kingdoms of Avalon and Southcross stand against you, if not united, in the notion that you are an unfit choice to seize the High Throne. They will let nothing shy of war allow you to take the throne, so are their words. I have sent my chosen to scour the land, looking for reason to discover why you are unfit to take the throne. Mind you that I harbor no ill will to you, only that it is common procedure to meet out the unworthy when the proclamation is given. My chosen returned with just cause to keep you barred from the throne. As you know, it is forbidden for one to take the throne that has blood heirs to pass the mantle on to. The tradition was decreed two thousand years hence, so that no man may hold absolute power over the land for more than a single generation. I have discovered that you have heirs to your throne in Dagoth, unnoticed by you as it may be, making you unfit to assume the mantle. That reason alone is sufficient to stay your hand and force you to retract your request. This will be the last time that you make claim for the High Throne.

                                                               May the One God's light shine on you,

                                                                                    High Father

            Raza finished reading the scroll and curled it back up, handing it to Urien to carry. He laced his hands together and waited for the king to reply. He started when the king's face flashed to anger. He swung out at the wall, punching it, crying out his rage. Raza paled and Urien took a step back, muttering some oath. Only Emeron Jaist kept his composure standing still and calm in the face of the king's rage.

            "Deny me!" Darius screamed aloud, "He denies me! He sends me the dreams, tells me that the throne is mine only to pull it away like he was baiting a fish with his hook! I won't stand for it!" He stormed past the three of them, crossing over to his dresser where soft blue velvet held the crown of Dagoth. It was silver, not gold, with intricate symbols that traced his lineage back over one thousand year’s time. He set the crown on his beaded brow and faced them.

            "Your majesty," Raza began, feeling burning eyes sink into him, "I knew that you would not like this news so I took the liberty of holding it from you if only for a little while, so that I might find those that the High Father named as your prodigy."

            "You kept this news from me?" Darius's tone was soft, lethal. The advisor shuffled his feet and cleared his throat, hastening to speak before the king could.

            "I sent men all over the land, searching for sign of an heir, illegitimate or not. As your majesty well knows you were very liberal in your youth with young ladies that paid you heed. Your men returned to the castle several weeks ago, having checked the lands where the maids you knew so long ago now call their home. Two such maids were found to have settled in the village of Hamla, better than twenty five days south of the castle. Another was discovered beyond the mountains, in the city of Banthas."

            "You were sure that the whelps were of my blood?" Darius asked, never moving from where he stood. The king loomed over Raza, face calm. If the advisor would have looked down at his hands though, knuckled and turned white from pressure, it would have told the tale of the thoughts that crossed the king's mind.

            "I was not sure, even then, so I took the liberty of sending scouts as commoners to find the youths, verify if they are blood of your blood. The report that each brought back is disheartening. The features, the faces, could only belong to one who is of the Steelbreeze lineage, your majesty." Raza waited then, allowing the weight of his words to sink deep into the king's soul. A shadow crossed his face, doubt worked where before only the knowledge of sureness had once been. But the shadow passed, as they all tended to do, and Darius smiled knowingly, a man that had been given a vision.

            "So the High Father shows me salvation and then snatches it from me, does he?" the king swirled away from them, cloak flowing. He trailed out to the balcony, eyes burning with all the fire of an inferno, "Well the High Throne will yet be mine. The Ritual of Unity is for my ears alone. No other shall have it."

            "Your majesty," Raza stammered, shaken, "The words you speak will surely take us into the heart of war with Avalon and Southcross. They oppose you."

            "And what are they to the might that is Dagoth? Rimerez Eaglesbane fights his own war far to the north. He says that he would oppose me should I try to ascend, but with what force should I decide to wage war for the privilege? There are none more worthy, and if I need to prove that worth by storming all of Umbriel to reach Dynasty, then so be it." The king paused, looking directly at the captain of the Honor Guard. Emeron Jaist nodded to his king, letting him know that for good or ill, he was behind him. Darius returned the nod. Of all the men that swore allegiance under the royal blue banner of Dagoth it was Emeron Jaist that he trusted most with his confidence. The man knew only honor, bound to uphold the will of his king even at the price of death. So he had served his brother. So would he serve Darius.

            "And of Southcross? What of lord Stonethrow? He would not sit back and cast idle threats at you while you hastened for the throne. Perhaps lord Stonethrow has his eye on the throne himself." Raza stepped closer, Urien keeping time behind him, wanting to hear how this conversation would come to close.

            "Captain, how soon would my army be ready to travel west?" Darius cast the question out.

            "I could assemble the entire legion in two days if I hastened, your majesty," Emeron bowed low as he replied and Darius nodded, satisfied.

            "This is good. I want you to make it so."

            "Would that include the Honor Guard, your majesty?" the captain asked.

            "No, I think not. When word is received that my army marches west lord Stonethrow will attempt to smuggle an assassin or two into the land. I have heard rumors that he is quite taken with duplicity rather than warfare. I will need the Honor Guard here to ensure that my safety is maintained."

            "Of course, your majesty," Emeron Jaist bowed low, showing his respect, "Then I will make haste to see that your army can march two days hence. Under what cause shall I say that we struggle?"

            "Tell them," Darius paused, choosing his words, "Tell them that their ruler seeks to lay claim to the High Throne. Tell them that Carridon Stonethrow, blinded by jealousy, would deter my ascension by pitting his army against mine. Tell them that if they need something to coddle."

            Emeron said nothing else and stalked out of the room, leaving the king with his advisors. Darius stared back out the window, watching the beginnings of rainfall on the chiseled stone of his castle as he watched it many times that summer. It was only a light rain, calm and cleansing as it drenched the country side. He imagined that the rain was blood, blood of those that would stop him from attaining that which the dreams told him was his by rights. It mattered not if it was the High Father or not any longer. The dice were cast. Another thought intruded on his. The image of wayward children, bastards that would come to lay claim to his throne when they discovered who it was that had sired them. He couldn't have that. No, he couldn't have that at all.

            "My dear Raza, in what village did you say those children were in?"

            "Hamla, your majesty. And in the village of Banthas, near Southcross."

            "I admire your zeal, advisor. Scheming to divine the identities of my children before telling me. But in this you were wrong, very wrong. I trust an advisor never to hold such secrets from me. You overstepped your bounds this time, Raza."

            "I beg your majesties' forgiveness," Raza murmured lowly, keeping his eyes from meeting the king's. Behind him Urien shifted from one foot to the other, sensing the acid in the king's words.

            "You’re forgiven," Darius spoke calmly, watching Raza's features smooth.

            "Guards!" Darius exclaimed, calling to the hall. A pair of armored men came from the hall outside the door, heeding the call of their lord. They stood at attention just behind the advisors, spear points flush with the floor and hands over their chests in the salute that was customary.

            "Your majesty," one of the guards said, waiting for an order.

            "Take my advisor Raza to the dungeons. It seems that he schemes more on his own behalf than on mine." They looked stunned but were quick to reply. One of them grabbed each arm and were already in the process of hauling him away when the advisor shouted out.

            "Please, your majesty! I beg you not to do this! I was only acting in your best interest! I will never hold information from you again, I swear!" The cries grew more faint as Raza was taken down the hall to the stairs that led into the bowels of the castle. Even then he could hear the distant pleas of the advisor, begging him to reconsider. It was then that Darius allowed his eyes to fall upon Urien. The old advisor twitched under the gaze, lips turned blue with pressure.

            "You were not, by any chance, scheming these things along side Raza, were you?"

            "No your majesty!" the grey haired advisor swore to him, "I knew nothing of Raza's workings. He kept them in secret from me. I swear it."

            "You know, Urien, I believe you." The old man's shoulders sagged with relief, "Now Urien," and those shoulders went right back to being taut, "You are the king's chief advisor. Do you object to this honor? For if so I bid you to speak now."

            "No, your majesty. I live only to serve you. I will give you the best council that I can, so I swear."

            "Good," was all Darius said, "You are dismissed. Oh, and fetch Captain Jaist. Tell him that there is one more matter that needs be discussed. Go." Urien left him, closing the doors behind him just as another pair of guards took up position outside. Darius leaned a hand against the wall. He looked at the ring on his right hand. Teeth clenched, he smiled. There was nothing that would stop him. The High Throne. The Ritual of Unity. He would have it all. Not even Hell could bar the way. Not even that.

           

            Dawn also rose over the village of Hamla, where the rainfall had all but passed by, heading north. The sun crept out from beyond the clouds, a child reluctant to rise when told to. The Telba manor rang with the sounds of workings gone on even before then sun had decided to grace the land with its presence. Karnov, cloaked with thick fur to fend off the damp of the morning went about feeding the horses one after the other, as he had done for more mornings than he cared to recall. Edgar Vollint, still muttering over what he considered to be fair and not, hauled several barrels of fine grain that would be stored in the silo, pushing a wheelbarrow over ground hardened by many tramplings over the years. Edgar shifted his troubled gaze to the woods on the north west ridge of the farmland. Where the last of the green pastures adorned by black and white cows stood towering trees, almost unmarked by the passage of time. Edgar often went to those trees when he had time to relax, when duty wasn't called upon him. Beyond the grove of green he knew of another building. Young mistress Kirstin once told him that it was the remains of a church, not used since the turn of the century, better than forty years ago. At least that was what her mother told her of it. Not often did matters such as derelict buildings rise in their conversations.

            It was all hard brick, grey and smooth, save for where time had chipped the edges, first bringing the sizable roof down, then three of the walls. The south wall stood still, keeping light from the altar where the priest would give sermon or children would be baptized in the name of the One God. The window near the top of the ragged wall still showed the frame of a window, made to look like the Komin, the holy symbol of the One God. It had the appearance of the letter H, with low sides that slanted in and high sides that bulged out, becoming broad, pronounced at the top. It was a great sight when the sun was low and the waning light would shaft through the opening, causing the floor to glow in dying gold. It was there that Edgar found he could be most at peace, away from the pitying looks of those that thought little of him. Or even worse were the snickers of children in the village that chose him as an occasional target for jesting. He thought he knew they were only teasing but there was rage. Something that he knew he always had, but tried to hide from the outside world.

            Edgar picked up his pace, making haste to the silo with the wheelbarrow in tow. What bothered him even more was the fact that Cameron Reol chose that spot to fight with the young master Huros. At times he heard the occasional voice, shouting, brought to him on the wind and he thought of what the young master must undergo when the pair fought there.

            He started when he saw Karnov leave the barn and meet up with lord Telba, sharing words and heading off in the direction of the old church after Karnov rid himself of the cumbersome cloak.

            "Mornin' lord Telba," Edgar said pleasantly as they passed him.

            "Good morning Edgar," Devlin replied as they walked by him. It didn't take them long to reach the fence and start skirting around it. Good, Edgar thought, I hope that the master yells at you, gets mad with you. Edgar smiled at these thoughts, knowing that must be what lord Telba was going out there to do. Without anymore pause he went off about his work.

           

            Cameron Reol raised his practice sword, blocking a wild chop straight down and wood collided with a resounding crack. Huros had put much of his strength into the blow and Cameron knew that meant he had an opening. Again. He slid off the end of the wooden blade and swung low, at his belly. Huros twisted the blade around in both hands, sweat gleaming off his face with the weight of the exercise. Swords locked again and Cameron pulled back, a little, slipping off the end of the youth's practice sword and poking him square in the belly. Huros let out a yelp and staggered back, pride more injured than his stomach.

            Cameron stepped back, taking time to snatch a rag off a large rock and dab his forehead. He wore only the lamb skin vest and leather breeches, choosing to go barefoot in the stone halls of the old church, but that didn't keep him from breaking sweat. Huros wore thicker garb. A long sleeve padded shirt with breeches much the same way, hugging the sides of his boots. He paused long enough to take up a water skin and poured some in his mouth, some on his face before he let the skin fall back down to the floor.

            "Ready?" Cameron asked. The boy answered by leading in with a quick chop to the waistline that he blocked and pushed away. Huros stumbled almost over his own two feet, unready for the strength that Cameron had put into the defending shot. Cameron took a single step forward and leaned in, stabbing once more at Huros' mid section. Huros swatted the blade away and snarled like an animal before bringing his own sword down diagonally with all the speed that he could muster. Cameron stayed on that same leg and leaned under the attack, letting the practice sword swing right over his head. Too late, Huros realized that he had over extended his swing and tried to recover, only to find a sword end resting comfortably on his neck line. Glowering, Huros sighed.

            As they set yet another routine up they failed to notice a pair of shadows that lingered in the woods, just beyond the walls of the church, waiting. For the time being, they were just intent on watching the skirmish between the men.

            Huros led in, stabbing but not committing to the attack. Cameron saw the feint for what it was and just stepped away from it. Huros retracted the blade before he could have it taken from his hands and swiped at chest level, stepping a foot in to get better leverage. Cameron deflected the attack and pushed it down before swinging with practiced grace at the boy's head. Huros gasped and barely got the sword up to block the attack, swords cracking like ice breaking, but failed to block the second as it slapped him hard on the side of the back. The padding in the shirt absorbed most of the sting but he couldn't help but let a hiss of pain escape his lips. Cameron stepped back and lowered the sword; the expression on his face was guarded.

            "One God!" Huros exclaimed, dropping the sword with a clatter to the stone ground and promptly followed it down, "Am I never to get any better at this game?" Cameron smiled at him and walked over to the rag again, taking care to keep his eyes on the shadows that lurked beyond without looking too suspicious.

            "What is this? Are you expecting to learn how to be a master swordsman in a month? If that's what you're after I fear that you would need a better teacher than I."

            "It's not that," Huros told him, "I just don't think that I'm getting any better at this. As you said, for one month now we've danced this dance and still you best me just as quickly as the very first day that we started."

            "Not true," Cameron told him, "I have noted that your reflexes are getting better. And that temper of yours that seemed to flare whenever it was that my blade touched your person, well let's just say that you've been doing well to keep it in check. You cannot be a great swordsman if you allow your anger to drive you. Sometimes it can save you," Cameron explained, "But for the most part it will get you killed."

            "How long had it been since you took up the blade?" Huros asked, his eyes full of wonder like they normally were when they spoke of this matter. It wasn't that long ago that Huros confided that he would give up all he had in life to be just as Cameron was. Wandering free in the world without obligation save to the man that hired his strong arm. Cameron knew a romantic notion when he heard one, and they didn't get much more blinded then that. Still, he wasn't going to fault the youth for being young. Better to fault a tree for standing where it did. It was what it was.

            "Cameron?" Huros raised his voice, "Are you alright?"

            "Hmmm? Oh yes," Cameron assured him, "And as for the answer to your question: Well, I suppose that I was about your age, perhaps a little younger when I received my first lesson in the art. It was a lesson that I don't think I have forgotten to this day."

            "What was it? The lesson I mean."

            "Oh, it was long ago, under the watchful eye of a master that was much harsher than I am to you."

            "I find that hard to believe," Huros laughed, his eyes alight. He stood again, taking time to scoop the wooden sword off the church floor and leveled it before him, "Shall we?"

            "I am afraid that further lessons will have to wait," came a voice from shadow, making Huros start with surprise. He saw his father, with Karnov off his right, still half in shadow, step from the woods, "Your mother and Kirstin are waiting at the house for you. You should hurry back and clean yourself. In case you had forgotten, son, there is mass in less than an hour and I have no intention of being late."

            "Yes father," Huros obeyed, giving the blade to Cameron and casting him a reluctant stare before he headed toward the manor. Karnov let the youth pass him and followed without word. Cameron meant to follow but Devlin held out his hand and stopped him. Their eyes met.

            "Father Alohm told me of the conversation he shared with you last week, after you apprehended some thief. Is it true that he offered you invite to the services that day and you declined him?"

            "It is," Cameron said, "I told the Father that I am not a man of faith and therefore not inclined to sit in the church while he delivered his sermon. I hold nothing against the man, as I hope that he holds nothing against me."

            "I thought that I would just ask you about it, seeing as you have a long time before the contract expires. It would be the best way for you meet the townsfolk, you know."

            "Does that mean you wish to keep me still?" Devlin smiled at him, putting his hand on Cameron's shoulder and there was silence for a time. Then Cameron spoke, "No, I don't intend to start becoming a religious man any time soon. I've seen too many things in my day of a wanderer to ever believe that the One God has power over all. If so, why would he allow the things that happen to continue? Since I cannot answer this question I fear that I'll never know what you see in this God."

            Devlin flinched at the biting words and Cameron realized that he revealed a chink in his armor, a weakness that he couldn't mend, no matter how hard he tried. Taking in breath he took up Devlin's stare again, "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for to be as candid as I was. I'm sure that as a man of faith you find what I just said offensive. I apologize."

            "It was no more offensive," Devlin began, "Than some of the jokes that you shared while we were drinking brandy in my study." The pair of them laughed and Cameron shook his head. Cameron was rarely surprised by any man, but here stood one that he had misjudged at the start. The cold and wealthy land owner, son of a mayoral council, was no more than a careful gentleman that called things as he saw them. There was no judgment being passed here.

            "I will guide you there, to be certain," Cameron told him, "Because there is business that I must attend to."

            "It has nothing to do with the close proximity of the tavern, does it?" Devlin asked, still keeping his cheer. Cameron shook his head.

            "No. There is a man that I wish to visit. I believe your daughter said that he is the wheelwright in the village."

            "You mean Andor?" Devlin told him, "I don't recall you coming to Hamla with a wagon. Has your horse come in need of shoeing? If that is the case then I can have Karnov look him over for you. He is quite good at it, you know."

            "I'm sure that he is, but I don't want either. I just wish to speak to him. About his son." Cameron added in, believing that he needed to clarify. Devlin gave him a peculiar look and the pair began walking out of the church grounds. Cameron held both the swords in hand and he put the rag he carried into his belt where it hung off him like a bright red slice in his brown breeches.

            "This church," Cameron jerked his thumb back to point at it, "Was it standing when you were here?"

            "No. I moved here better then sixteen years ago, long after the church had been laid to ruin. The reason I do not know."

            "Sixteen years ago?" Cameron shifted the conversation, "Then you brought the mistress Mirrian with you when you moved from the north?"

            "She lived here to begin with, in Hamla, having been born and raised here. There was a time that she dwelt away from here, in Twin Port, but she seldom speaks of it. I think that the time was not good with her."

            "I'm sorry for hearing it," Cameron said. They walked longer, breaking free of the shade that the trees offered and skirted the side of the heavy fencing, watching the cows graze with only half interest.

            "If it doesn't bother you too much," Cameron ventured, "Mistress Kirstin..."

            "Is not my child, but that of another man's," Devlin finished the thought, not bothering to turn to look at him. His steel eyes were dark, contemplating, "That is another subject that my beloved rarely speaks of, if ever. The man was less than that. Sharing passion with her and leaving her with the responsibility to that passion. The child was already nearly three when she and I married. I love her no less because of it."

            "I never thought it for a moment," Cameron said, keeping stride with him.

            "You perceive much, Cameron Reol, and give precious few things away, even when drunk on brandy wine," Devlin never turned to face him still, but slowed the pace, allowing them more time to talk. Cameron found that himself wishing for his boots as his bare feet stepped over a fallen branch and scraped the flesh off some.

            "I notice things, true," Cameron chose his words carefully, "But that is what you pay me for, is it not?"

            "I suppose it is," Devlin conceded and Cameron breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

            "You fight well, too."

            "Thank you, my lord." Cameron and he shared no more words while they returned to the house. The rain from the night had turned into a damp in the air that hung like a pall in the morning breeze. Mirrian and Kirstin had escaped back into the house to avoid the damp. Huros was yet to be seen, still making himself presentable for church. Edgar came from the side of the house where the shed was planted, steering the wagon for the family, a pair of draft horses pulled the weight with ease. They whinnied and snorted loudly when the servant pulled them to stop but obeyed.

            "Ready for church, lord Telba?" Edgar asked brightly.

            "I need a change of clothes and then we will leave. Stay here for us Edgar. I will return in a few moments."

            "No problem," Edgar shook his head and leaned back, all but ignoring the fact that Cameron stood there. Smiling to himself he left sight of the wagon and entered the barn, going to the back of the large stables where he knew that Starn would be waiting for him. The stable boy had beaten him to saddling the mare, however, and beamed at him with a tooth missing from his mouth while Cameron led the old horse out of the stables and into daylight. He had mounted the horse just as Devlin led his family to the wagon, allowing them all to climb in before entering himself. Cameron wondered as he watched them. Did Kirstin know that she was not his child? Granted, she did have some marks of her mother, but not enough. And there was that nagging feeling that he should know who it was that he looked upon when he saw her.

            The wagon moved with the snap of reigns, wheels churning up drying mud as it set into motion. Cameron trailed after the wagon, watching the small window in the back and the dark curtain that kept out the sun. There was no one on the road that day. As it was every day that mass was held in the village. The Eve of Rest was a holy day, when many of the Shoppes in the village closed for a time. Small as it was all the peasants in the village would converge in the church while Damien Alohm would recite a speech that he probably spent the better part of the last night writing. Or having his acolyte write it.

            The wagon kept steady pace on the road and soon it was slowing before the church at the center of the village. Twin water troughs stood on either side of the wooden walk along with a mast of wood for travelers to tie their horse's reigns to. Edgar brought the wagon to a complete halt beside the church where the grass had been worn away with the many times that they had stopped in that same place. It seemed that the rest of the populace was already inside the church, the bell in the narrow steeple ringing to tell any stragglers that mass was about to commence.

            "Are you not coming in?" Kirstin asked Cameron as she passed him, her brother just beside her. She wore a pretty light blue dress that was plain in appearance but flowed out at the waist and sported white lace that ran up the front. Her golden hair, gleaming in the sunlight, was tied back in a large braid that allowed it to trail most of the way down her back. She smiled at him warmly.

            "Not this time, no," he explained.

            "That's what you say every time I ask you."

            "Then why do you still ask?"

            She pondered it, putting a hand to her chin, and then shrugged a bit, "I suppose to see if you have changed your mind yet."

            "Kirstin," came the voice of her father, commanding, "Come along. Master Reol has business that he needs to attend to. As do we."

            "Yes father," she replied, eyes down. She stopped when Cameron rested a hand on her arm.

            "Sara," he started, "Where is she?"

            "She told us that she was not feeling well," Kirstin said, blushing, "So mother told her that she should rest while we are at church. Mother said that she will ask Father Alohm to pray for her." The red on her face and the quiver that he heard in her voice told him that she was lying.

            The thought entered of the young man that seemed sweet on Sara, going to the farm while the family was away. What was his name? Kamil? He entertained the thought of going back and catching him there but that would end with Sara being sent away and Kirstin getting in trouble. There was no cause for him to play guardian for Sara if the serving girl wished to have Kamil court her. It was no bother of his.

            In the end he said nothing more of it, letting Kirstin follow her parents into the church while he clicked his heels against Starn and rode away, in search of the wheelwright’s Shoppe. He was probably at church, Cameron knew, but he thought that he would try his luck regardless.

            He dismounted from Starn and stepped onto the walk, the shade of the eve making a chill run across his back. He rapped at the door three times and waited. The windows were shuttered, keeping him from seeing if anyone was inside. The doors to the Shoppe were in the same way, closed tight so that none may enter. He stalked back around the side of the stone building and tried once more, hoping that he could catch the wheelwright alone.

            His hopes perked when he heard dragging footsteps coming closer to the door, followed by the sound of a latch being clicked back. Cameron stepped back when the door swung open, seeing an old man there, the wheelwright he first saw when he rode into the village. The old man's face was pale, like he was ill. It got paler still when his eyes fell on Cameron.

            "Good day," Cameron said, trying to sound civil. It looked as though the man had seen a ghost.

            "My son isn't here," the old man told him. Cameron's eyes widened, if only for an instant. How did the old man know what he was here for? He rationalized it, thinking that he only saw the age, thinking that maybe the old man thought he was one of his son's friends come calling.

            "I came to speak with either you or your son, actually. If I could come in for a short time I would be most grateful." The old man allowed him in and closed the door behind him, latching it yet again. Strange, Cameron mused. Why in the world would the old man lock his door? Did he fear the poachers that had yet to be caught? Or was there more to this than even he had begun to grasp? He sought for those same answers.

            "What is it?" the old man questioned, sinking into a rocking chair near an empty hearth, quick to pull a blanket over him to fend off chills.

            "Your name is Andor, correct? Lord Telba speaks well of you."

            "He does, huh?" Andor fixed him with a stare. Cameron matched it.

            “I met your son last week," Cameron began, "He's a very nice young man." As an afterthought he threw in, "Is your wife about?"

            "My wife is seventeen years gone, stranger. If that's what you came for then you are a bit late on the matter."

            "Forgive me. I didn't even introduce myself. My name is Cameron Reol. I hadn't known that your wife had passed away or I never would have brought the subject up. I ask for your forgiveness."

            "I didn't say that she was dead," the old man stated, "Just that she was gone. Gone from me. Gone from Hamla. But not dead."

            "Oh," was all that Cameron managed to say. Andor motioned him to a chair at the dinner table in the center of the room and he took it. He slid it around and sat down, facing Andor and watching as the old man spat up mucus into a dirty rag that sat on a stand beside him.

            "Summer colds," Andor muttered, "You never see them comin' til it's too late for you to do anything about it."

            "Well I hate to intrude while you feel so sick, so perhaps there would be a better time for me to visit. I can just show myself to the door if you don't mind."

            "Why did you come here, Cameron Reol?" the old man asked him, his voice strong in his narrow chest. The sound of a man defending his own. He fears something, fears that I'm here to take it from him, Cameron was sure of it.

            "Truth to tell," Cameron looked plainly at him, "I don't know why I came here. Not entirely. I'm sorry for disturbing you. Good day."          

            The old man kept his eyes on him until he was out the door and closing it behind him. The stagnant air in the house had made him feel stuffed. He breathed deep, patting his horse on the head as he stared at the east road. He had the strangest notion just to mount Starn and ride away before the situation became worse. Something worse was coming; Cameron could feel it, like a calm before the storm struck.

            "I presume that you're Cameron?" came a feminine voice from his side. He spun around and faced a beautiful young woman. She had a traveler’s coat that draped over the most part of her body, but it failed to hide the robes of one who has pledged their lives to the service of the One God. She was young for a priest, early twenties at most, with reddish hair and dark blue eyes. She had a maturity about her for her age; that was certain. But he doubted that any could stay long in the presence of Damien Alohm and not find maturity with God speed.

            "And that would make you mistress Julia," Cameron said, waiting.

            "You're good with names, seeing as how my name couldn't have been brought up in conversation with the father very often. And it is Sister Julia, if you must. Just Julia if it makes you more comfortable."

            "Alright just Julia," Cameron smiled pleasantly at her and she frowned. She smoothed it away quickly, trying to appear uninterested in anything that he had to say.

            "What are you doing this far from the church when mass is in? Did the good father give me one more chance at salvation? Or are you here of your own accord to convert me to the religion?" She stared at him, making her face unreadable, but he thought that her mouth was a little too tight. She stepped past him, not in the mood to mix words, and he moved for her.

            "I'm not here at all for you, so please quit flattering yourself. I heard that poor Andor was under the weather and came to see if there was anything that I could do to make him more comfortable."

            "You're going to heal him," Cameron said, surprised, "I didn't know that acolytes could bring the healing force. I thought only a priest was allowed to..."

            She cut him off with the wave of a petite hand, "It doesn't matter about that. Priest or acolyte, so long as the heart and soul are submitted, the One God will hear and answer the prayers of those that are faithful to him."

            "I always thought it was another form of sorcery, like the Saevant."

            "That just goes to show you, master Reol, that you don't know quite as much as you think you do," Her cheeks burned a touch red, letting him know that the last comment stung her. He decided that he was pressing his luck and let the subject drop, content to watch her huff indignantly at him, "Now if you would excuse me, I have a sick man that I would like to care for." She rapped on the door and was in the process of being admitted in while Cameron was riding off, going to wait at the giant evergreen grove that grew just behind the church. If he was lucky he could catch a nap before they came out. As he rode in the empty streets he thought of the young idealistic acolyte he just met. One Hell of a woman, he thought. Still smiling from the thought he leapt off his horse and made himself comfortable in the shade. In the end the wait wasn't all that long.