Time's March, Dragonmarch Chapter 1

Greetings and welcome to chapter 1 of Dragonmarch, the Canticles of Andurun book 2! I am pleased to finally bring the second chapter of my fantasy saga to my readers. If you have not read Dragonsong yet be warned that there are spoilers within chapter 1 that will ruin a portion of the story for you. If you have read Dragonsong, then I cordially invite you to join me as we return to Andurun for the next leg of the journey. Without further ado I present to you Dragonmarch chapter 1: Time's March!

“When will this abysmal rain cease?” August Ravenlore declared vehemently, waving a ring-encrusted hand toward the open expanse of window atop the heights of his tower. Rain had fallen without fail for the last weeks of summer’s passage, ushering in a dreary and soaking autumn. Summer’s reign was dwindling. The sky was a morose shade of gray, while heavy clouds, laden with rain unspent, gathered to renew their fellows. Soon the beleaguered land would give up its ghost, and the lush green prevalent in the woodland and foothills about the Thistlebrush Wastes would decline, setting the stage for nature’s most cruel play: winter.

            “My lord,” Aran Wintermane began slowly, vying for August’s attention. “I know that you are cross with me, but I implore you one last time: allow me the troops to raid priesthood camps for word of your son. You know that even the least of the Dragon Clerics would know the value of the man they have captured, and they would visit no harm on him to that end. I can find him!”

            “You failed to slay a simple country boy when he returned from what should have been his death, Lord Wintermane,” August retorted bitterly, pointing an accusing finger at the man and snarling like a dog. “You failed to kill the whelp, and now he’s making a claim for my throne! And the Order supports him!”

            “He is being named the King of the North, as I hear it,” Aran replied quickly, trying to avert his lord’s wrath. August had been very dispirited of late, with Uriel vanishing in battle and Justias Eventine being named the favored of the Order of the Valar. South Deep was in dire straits, and Aran knew it. There were others who knew as much, and soon would come the time of loyalties tested. Those who were faithful to the Old South would remain, others would flock to a new hope, foolish as it all was, while still others would silently fall away and be seen no more.

            “What care have I for his title?” Lord Ravenlore snapped, snatching a goblet of Fire Wine and draining half the draught. He swiped his mouth on his fine sleeve and cast the wine into the kindled fire scant feet from him. A sleeping dog yelped when the flames spat from the wine and skittered away, whining. “What care have I for this commoner, should he wish to pretend he is something more than what he was born to be?”

            “You need not care at all, my lord,” Aran agreed readily. “He is king of the north; let him be that. There is nothing north of Myrodia that is worth ruling anyhow, save for Orizon, city of the Valar. But they rule their own, king or otherwise, as they have since the times of Telaine. Let him be king of the wilderness, for all that it does him.”

            “I’ll not pass on my tribute lands to common men!” August roared. “They have been spoils of the south for hundreds of years, and they shall remain so!”

            “But the kings of the south are long dead, my lord,” Aran dared to point out the obvious. “It was their stake to claim such province in God-forsaken lands far from our gates. If that keeps this young man placated, then it should be considered, as an ally in this dire time would be better than making yet another enemy to guard our door against. I have heard that he is not even certain that he will make such a bold claim as kingship.”

            “Ha! At least the little churl has a sense of propriety to him. He knows when something is beyond his reach.”

            Aran felt rather differently about that comment. Was kingship beyond the scope of a man who slew a Dragon in pitched battle? Never had the young southron knight heard of such valor. Not even Uriel Ravenlore had been so recklessly valiant. Aran felt a grudging admiration for this young pretender, and felt that Justias might make a fine ally after all.

            “My lord,” Aran ventured again, “Have you consulted the Book of Prophets?”

            “Immanuel’s writings?” Lord Ravenlore scoffed at the mere mention of the tome of divine knowledge that was once sacred to the people of the southlands. But that had been before the Dragons and the razing of Telaine and all the majestic south where men had ruled without opposition for hundreds of years, even striking great alliances with the Dwarves and Elves, each in their own terms.

            “The writings of a dead prophet are simply that, Master Wintermane: dead. The validity of Immanuel’s teaching died with him when he journeyed to Orizon and was slain by highwaymen. Where was his divine insight at the time when he needed the will of the One God most? Why, if he were a pious man, did the One forsake him?”

            “My lord, you know the tales concerning his death as well as any noble born within the last hundred years, if not better. Immanuel was said to have known that he foresaw his doom awaiting him on that stretch of road, but he went regardless because it was simply his time to die. The One commanded his obedience.”

            “I hardly believe that the One God demands death from his loyal servants!” August declared in the heat of his anger. “No! Long ago the sages decreed that his teachings were the fallible and deluded instruction of the Infernal Lords, spoken through him to beguile those who would probe too deeply into them. What gain has South Deep or the kingdom of the southlands gained by adhering to that false prophet’s raving?”

            “I request permission to remove the Book of Prophets from the vaults of the city, and verify myself what the Order of the Valar declared concerning our young new ‘king’.”

            “They are crafty vipers, my friend,” August spat as he circled his desk, running a pair of fingers over the glossy top, as if it were the placid surface of some pool, whose chill waters might still the fire of his rage. He plucked his fingers from the desk’s surface and examined them briefly before tightening his hand into a balled fist. “If the Order sides with the young Dragon Slayer, then I fear they will bend the prophecies of the old fool into truths that the common folk will swallow like bitter poison. No, let them anoint this churl and bring him north, where his farce of a kingdom shall be erected. Perhaps he will not survive his journey to the north, not grow in strength and support enough to become a danger to the throne I determine to give my son. And if Uriel, the One God watch over him, no longer draws breath, then I shall surrender the throne of council and ruling to a man worthy of service, first to me, and then to South Deep.”

            “What does my lord will?” Aran Wintermane promptly strode forward and snapped a rigid salute, eyes focusing sharply on his master. He understood at once the offer that was being made, and his wonder over the young man that had killed Brackaelyk was gone. Greed enticed a new sense of devotion.

            “You have failed me once, captain.”

            “I could not strike at the sky, my lord,” Aran argued. “He rode upon the back of Phoenix, and we might well have war with the Dwarves if we hunted or slew their ancient allies.”

            “They will not be traveling north with Phoenix, or any other creature half so majestic this time, captain. This time it will be but a squadron of men that will depart South Deep, and they will be vulnerable in the wilds before they reach Eastport and charter passage back into the wild north.”

            “You wish me to slay Justias and his company?”

            “I wish for you to do as you are commanded,” August answered plainly, slinking back behind his desk and seating himself as a man of authority, a man suddenly restoring control over a scenario that, for a time, seemed nightmarishly out of his grasp. “And what I command is that you do not allow a single member of their party to survive the journey north. Not a man or woman.”

            “But…there will surely be a member of the Valar with them! Am I to slay the members of the Order? Agaen, in particular, has taken a fondness to the young hunter.”

            “Not a man or woman left alive, captain. Did that somehow delude you to believe that the Valar were exempt from my orders?”

            “No, my lord,” Aran replied with a stiff bow, sudden fear drawing over him like a cloak of darkness. “I hear and obey my lord’s will.”

            “As it should be,” August reminded him sternly, leaning forward with his arms folded upon his desk. He fetched the decanter of Fire Wine and a new goblet so he might pour himself another draught.

            “Who, then, shall be found to hunt for your son, my lord?” Aran asked solemnly. When August eyed him with a measure of curious scrutiny Aran matched his lord’s gaze.

            “I am not in such need to forward my position that I have forgotten about the welfare of South Deep’s rightful heir, my lord. I long for Uriel’s strong leadership to be restored to his people, who is a more rightful leader of the rebellion against the Dragon Clerics than this young usurper.”

            “You make a fine point, captain,” Lord Ravenlore admitted slowly. “But I have given you orders for another task, and I deem there is another I may coax into hunting for my son, one that has claimed the name of friend with him.” August reclined at table and rubbed his ring-clad hands thoughtfully, focusing upon nothing for a moment. Then he fixed Aran with a knowing look and slowly spoke.

            “But first, there are allies to gather, and a war roster to muster. The old banners of the south must fly, and to that end, I must needs send someone hastily to the Nightshade Forest. I must secure the alliance of Chardyss and mayhap House Gardys.”

            “The Nightshade Forest?” Aran grimaced, considering the fell tales of that haunted patch of forlorn earth. “What satrap shall my lord send to that distant place?”

            August nodded in regards to his captain’s trepidation about the matter. Long had it been since the Nightshade Forest was a true concern either to the Old Nobility or to the priesthood. But sparse times commanded the surety of all alliances, old or new. “A pity that our young ‘ally’ cannot go. The Dragon Slayer may prove also to be a staunch wolf killer.”

***

            Agaen sat back in a richly cushioned chair within a study deep within the Castle of Lords. Beside him was a small table and a lantern, complete with a tiny flickering flame trapped inside the glass dome that encompassed it, and a small decanter of light wine that had barely been touched. Agaen had a mammoth tome of old knowledge laid out upon his lap which he had been reading to some interest or another for the last four or five hours. The last of the daylight fled through a tiny window that accorded the only natural light that the chamber had seen since it had been founded five hundred years ago. Now only the twilight hue of night rekindled glistened through the frosty pane of thick glass, and the small lamp-light flickered golden yellow against it. Agaen pulled his aching eyes away from the tome and cast them on the window afar, intent on the comforting silence about him. He had to find the Book of Prophets. It foretold the coming of the King of the North, and the forging of his kingdom. Agaen’s Order possessed a number of scrolls in Orizon that were small pieces of the Book, but those indicated only a measure of the knowledge Immanuel and the fellow prophets of yore had spoken by the will of the One God. Agaen knew that August Ravenlore did not acknowledge the truth of the prophecies that Immanuel made two hundred fifty years ago, but he was a noble of the southlands, and the Book of Prophets was a treasure of ruined Telaine. Therefore he might not divulge it to Agaen, or even acknowledge that the Book yet existed, though the Order of the Valar knew without doubt that it still existed in South Deep, under the zealous and ignorant guard of the Old Nobility.

            Agaen wanted to conduct a proper coronation for the future king and the city of South Deep, last of the royal blood from the ancient kingdom of Humans, was the only fitting place to do so. Justias could not enter into Orizon and gain the Valar’s aid until he was made king outside the sacred city.

            The Valar closed the heavy tome and placed it beside the lantern, setting free a light cloud of billowing dust that had collected on the table’s surface. He had only risen when Justias and Kendra entered behind him, the young hunter carrying a candle holder to ward off the gloomy shadows of the ancient castle. The click of the door closing was like thunder in the quiet chambers of that archive, and the gathering footfalls like pelting rain as they approached Agaen. The Valar snatched up his glass of wine and pressed it to his lips, his eyes never wavering from the tiny window. It was such a small thing; that window. Yet through it, if one were able to travel outward, was an expanse so abounding with beauty that words would utterly fail to achieve any justice to the grandeur or scope of its celestial glory. A deep sigh of regret escaped the Valar’s frame as Justias called to him and Agaen turned on his heel to regard the young man.

            “Master Eventine, what may I do for you?”

            “I’ve been looking for you for two days, Agaen!” Justias declared as he stormed toward the Valar, candle held in one white knuckled hand, Kendra following closely at his heel. Agaen wondered if she followed to stay Justias’ temper, or to make sure the youth’s flame did not kindle his own? This thought amused him if only a little and he smoothed his features so that his smile did not further fan the young man’s already heated mood.

            “You declare that I’m to be a king of some sort, right before the entire bloody crowd of mourners in the royal cemetery, and then you vanish! You’ve been avoiding me for bloody weeks now! I didn’t even get to question what in the name of the Oath you were talking about!”

            “I had much reading to do, Master Eventine,” Agaen sighed as he sipped at the wine he held. “There is so much that the Order lost possession of or access to when the Old Kingdom fell to the power of the Dragons. But an old prophecy laid down by Immanuel himself declared that after calamity had shaken the kingdoms of men, there would come one from a wasteland to relieve their suffering. He would be a humble man, simple in thought but born to endure greatness.”

            “None of the old southroners even believe a word of their prophet!” Justias spat back. “Lord Ravenlore said as much to me!”

            “He believed that Immanuel was speaking about Telaine and its bounty when the prophet forged the Lantern of Immanuel, to ward off the coming evil that would encompass the entire land of Kallendaros. I believe that Immanuel didn’t suggest Telaine at all, but a future threat, yet to be known by our race.”

            “Something worse than being subject to the Dragons?” Kendra wondered meekly. Agaen only nodded his agreement. She shuddered at the prospect involuntarily.

            “Which is why I must have the Book of Prophets. It alone contains the entire writings of the One’s Bible.”

            “What would you like me to do, Agaen? March to Lord Ravenlore, march to the master of South Deep and its army, and demand this book that he may not even have? You’re a member of Valar! Why don’t you ask him for it? How could he refuse you such a thing?”

            “There is enmity between the north and the southlands. Long ago, the kings of Telaine in all their splendor, invited the Order of the Valar in Orizon to remove their tower from the foundation of the northlands and settle in Telaine, or Teamora, or any other city we wished, by their leave.”

            “I’ve thought it queer that your Order is so far removed from the people that you are supposed to lord over,” Kendra stated plainly, adding, “Save for Kartia, of course.”

            “Lord over!” Agaen declared as if she had highly offended him, but there was sincere shock written over his face. “Not that, my lady. Never that. We are servants of the Great Power, children of the White Flame. We are not lords at all, the Order, but servants given power by their Benefactor. It was He that commanded us to build upon the sterile grounds of the northlands, and to entreaty the trustworthy Dwarves to build the Artisan’s Tower as we specified. To remove our tower would indeed be removing its foundation, and no structure can stand when its cornerstone is taken from beneath it.”

            “Did your ancestors reason as much to the king of Telaine?” Kendra asked.

            “Berien, our headmaster at the time, did indeed bring a polite and sensible answer to the king of Telaine, though that haughty man believed us to be slighting him. He was a shrewd man, with a mind for obtaining allies and controlling enemies, or detaining them at all costs, and if you could not be counted among one, then he deemed that you have already chosen your loyalty.”

            “Why was this book you seek not left in the Artisan’s Tower, to the north?” Justias questioned, still feeling more than a little disturbed by the strange events that had in the last several weeks utterly unhinged his life.

            “Because unlike the king of Telaine, my Order believed Immanuel to be a prophet of the One God. You know the tale as well as any about him prophesying his own death on that lonely highway beside Myrodia’s boundary, as he traveled for the sacred city.”

            “I’ve heard it, but I never understood how a man so favored by the One God could be left to die like that. He knew that the One decreed his death on that road and he went despite that?” Justias scoffed. “What sort of witless fool would have gone along that road after the One warns you that you’re going to meet your end there?”

            “You misunderstand the tale,” Agaen sighed and refilled the goblet he was holding. He offered the decanter of light wine to both, but they held their hand aloft to show their lack of interest.

            “Of course I do,” Justias remarked offhandedly as he strode away from the Valar, retreating into the gloom of the study chambers, where the flickering glow of the long lamp cast shadows like running water across the darkened walls. Justias’ candle was a tiny flame, a minute mirror to the lamp, which endeavored in vain to be like the greater light.

            “Mind your tone, Master Eventine,” Agaen warned in stern tones as he called after Justias. “You may mock me as you see fit, but no man, king or pauper, may mock the will of the One God without risking His wrath, and the wrath of those who love Him.”

            “How did we misunderstand the story, Agaen?” Kendra ventured when it became clear that Justias would not relent on his stand against the Valar. Both men stood still like statues, the young hunter’s newly tempered will set against Agaen, and Kendra could nearly feel the strength of force within the man, enough to make her fear him, and fear the power of the One God. “Please,” she repeated earnestly, “How did we misunderstand?”

            “Do you not see the will of the One God at work within Immanuel? Here was a man, from his youngest years, that followed the will of his God without fail, unto death. It did not matter to the prophet when the One God made him know that death was near. It only pleased Immanuel to serve his God, right into the grave. Immanuel was given a distinct honor to die in such a manner, Master Eventine. The One God has the life of every man written before him in His own Book. This Book carries the word of the One, and there can be found the date of every man’s end; yours and mine alike. To hand the date of one’s end to a lowly servant was an honor that could only be lovingly adhered to. That was Immanuel’s truest test.”

            “A test of what?” Justias and Kendra both asked at the same time.

            “A test of loyalty, of course,” Agaen answered simply. “The One God gave to his prophet a true test; to see whether or not this man loved his God best, or his own life. In the end, Immanuel perfected his loyalty and his love.”

            “…Back to this Book of Prophets,” Justias amended, a little perplexed by Agaen’s topic of conversation. He couldn’t help but suddenly feel a measure of conviction concerning his dreams and subsequent failure that prompted the anger of his friends. Justias saw now, too late, a test of his own came upon him. His rash actions and self-aggrandizing, only incensed the One that had truly saved him from the Dragon’s fire. But hadn’t his own strong arm brought him through that trial? Justias shook his head sharply, shaking away his doubts.

            “What of it?”

            “If I go to Lord Ravenlore, he’ll certainly know where I inquired the knowledge of the book from. He’ll likely ask why I want it. What should I tell him if he asks?”

            “Likely he will ask you why you want it,” Agaen agreed quickly. “The Book of Prophets was written in Celestial, the language of the Eldritch.”

            “Immanuel knew how to scribe the heavenly tongue?” Kendra was floored by the small revelation. It was taught that no man born of mortal blood could know the sacred tongue of the Higher Born, and that even should he chance to hear it spoken, or see it written, he would not divine its nature for it was so high above him.

            Agaen could glean what she meant in her shocked query and laughed a little good naturedly. “Immanuel had the Spirit of the One God upon him when he prophesied many times, or Eldritch of the One God would visit him with words that he was meant to bring to the people. No, much of the book is foolishness to the common man. But those who serve the One God, like Immanuel, may have the Spirit of the One God visit them and thus they are capable of deciphering the text. There are common tongue translations within the book as well, scripted long ago by laity who have made it their goal to follow the teachings of Immanuel. Without the anointing Flame no man may know the will of the One God.”

            “Why the devil is he going to surrender such an artifact to me?” Justias wrung his hands in frustration at this prospect. “The Book of Prophets must he cherished by the southron folk. What good could you find in it anyhow?”

            “There is still much use to be found within the pages of the book, Master Eventine,” Agaen assured him calmly. “And don’t worry about trying to coerce Lord Ravenlore in allowing you access to the book. He is going to be finding you soon enough to attempt a quest easily as formidable as your Dragon Quest. You will know when the time has come to inquire in regards to the book.”

            “You failed to tell me what you expect to find within it, Agaen.”

            The Valar paused and appeared to regard Justias closely, almost feeling like the man peered straight through him, or deep into his soul. He walked over to the small table beside the chair that had been his rest for the last five hours and stared intently at the gleaming light of the oil-fed lamp, transfixed. “I wish to learn from the book all of the prophecies concerning the Dragon Slayer that would become the first king of the northlands.”

            “Immanuel foretold about…me?” Justias wondered aloud, his voice echoing across the valley of awe and confusion that yawned within him. Agaen had just rent a precipice that logic could not bridge, and intellect failed to fathom. Only faith might tread such a path, and in light of that sudden revelation Justias found himself sorely lacking. He rebuked his weakness and set his face like flint.

            “What will the Lord Ravenlore ask in return for the use of this book?” he continued, as if nothing Agaen just revealed to him had taken root in his heart or his thoughts. It was too difficult to conceive that another man, born so many generations removed from this war-ravaged land, would foretell in times of prosperity that a new line of kings would succeed the kings of the south. It was harder still to predict that Justias would be the king that the prophet spoke of. Let Agaen believe what he wishes, Justias told himself sullenly. He only wanted to repay the Dragons.

            “I do not know,” Agaen answered at length. But you haven’t long to wait, I feel. One of the lord’s lackeys is soon to come. He’s been taking council for days now, debating what he might do with you.”

            “Do with him?” Kendra broke in, a little alarmed at the tone in Agaen’s voice, and the way he phrased his response gave her concern. “You make that sound a little dire, Agaen.”

            “Justias is suddenly well liked by the people, a celebrity, if you will. He’s become a public rival to the line of lords that has governed South Deep, and the southlands, for hundreds of years. August Ravenlore knows that his strength is at last failing him, and Uriel might well have been the last successor to hold the lineage of lord over the city. Uriel is a warrior, through and through. For him there would be no children and no wife to take and love. Uriel’s love is for his father and the people of South Deep, spent like precious coins against the priesthood that he has grown to detest. Time is against him, and soon he must surrender command of the southlands to another.”

            “How can you know this?” Justias snorted derisively. “More prophecies?”

            “The wise learn,” Agaen merely answered stiffly. “The wise watch and learn wisdom in what they see, regarding all and forgetting nothing. The Order of the Valar keeps vigil over Kallendaros and the race of Humans.”

            “Why haven’t you helped us against the Dragons?” Justias roared at once, spinning on the Valar and raising his voice until it split the quiet of the study chamber like sudden thunder springing from morning clouds. Kendra shrank back from him when she saw his anger hot upon him, but the Valar merely matched his gaze without flinching, his features cool as ice. “When the priesthood was branding my fellow villagers in the north, not a hundred miles away from Orizon, why did you not stop them, Agaen? Why didn’t you keep Julias Darkmane from killing my entire village?”

            “You’ve been brooding over your village for months now, my young friend,” Agaen answered in his same tone, cool eyes like calming pools that dragged a man to peace by force of will, and Justias couldn’t help but drink from them despite himself. “What you really mean is why could you not be there to effect some change? Why did you not die with your people, or be taken prisoner along with your father by the Dragon Clerics? The answer to that is obvious, isn’t it?”

            “The prophecies!” Kendra exclaimed in disbelief. “If Justias is this king that the Order has been awaiting, then he couldn’t have been there, because he wasn’t meant to suffer such a fate!”

            “You have great faith in the will of the One, Kendra Stornlan. But the Order has not been waiting for sign of the Dragon Slayer. The whole of Kallendaros is groaning with the labor of the Dragon’s yoke, eager to throw it off of them. Justias, you have adopted the mantle of their liberator.”

            “Did I choose this path, or was it set before me?” Justias blurted heatedly. “Which was it?”
            “What if I answered both?”

            “Then I would tell you that you’re mad, Agaen,” Justias threw his hands into the air in exasperation. “I haven’t time to bandy words with you, nor the patience at this hour. I have a sudden urge to find my bed and sleep.”

            “What of your threat that you spoke concerning Lord Ravenlore?” Kendra broke in quickly before Justias could stray too far.

            “Oh, the city lord won’t plan mischief against the lad in South Deep,” Agaen volunteered. “But that doesn’t mean that he won’t endeavor to devise something against you abroad, when you undertake your next great goal. He covets his entitlement dearly, and you are now a rival, whether you believe that or not.”

            “Does he intend to dispatch me on another Dragon quest?” Justias marched over to a line of dust-clad books and swept the bindings with an open hand to reveal the writing, like darkened spiders clinging beneath. “I’m not certain where to travel next, or what wyrm is lurking near enough to strike at. After the battle with Brackaelyk, and the trials that came before we even encountered the wyrm, I’m not certain who will even follow me again.”

            “You led them into victory against an enemy that Human and Goblin alike had deemed gods for the last two hundred years, Justias. They will follow you to the four corners of the realm at your bidding. But do not worry over that matter as of yet. There is your coronation to address, and the task that Lord Ravenlore will set you to.”

            The loud click of the door latch opening made Kendra leap out of surprise, and Justias wheeled around as if a Dragon had found him right inside the Castle of Lords. But there was a well kept and dainty-looking man standing there with his hands folded neatly before him. He was short and slender, with the glow of the hall-lantern beaming in behind him and dragging his shadow far across the chamber floor. He swept a short, stiff bow toward Agaen, and nodded at both the youths before speaking.

            “Master Eventine, the City Lord requests your presence in his private study at once. He asks forgiveness for the late hour, but he wishes to discuss the matter of the coronation the Order of the Valar insists upon giving you.”

            “I want to come with you,” Kendra pleaded, grabbing Justias’ arm before he could follow the servant out of the chambers.

            “The Lady Stornlan will accompany me,” Justias declared boldly, as if his words were orders to be given, not asked of the lord’s servants. To his mild surprise, the servant only bowed slightly in agreement and bade them to follow him.

            “I will find you soon, Master Eventine,” Agaen called after them. The Valar watched the door close and stood in renewed silence, his thoughts turning inward; turning to the brilliant, elusive presence of his God. “There is little time, and so much left to be done,” he prayed among the gloom and the sullen shadows, and they flickered with secret understanding.

***

            It was a humid, demanding late summer morning, filled with churning clouds and forks of purest lightning that lanced the heavens with fury. Sheets of warm rain soaked the Thistlebrush Wastes. The eves and water spouts of South Deep were swollen from the days of heavenly mourning, pouring like minute rivers through the broad streets. The esteem of the city was not dampened by the foul drizzle, however. They had been tutored to renew hope when hope was least looked for. A champion came to them, with strength and wit enough to slay a wyrm, the first to have done so in all of chronicled history. No one knew where rumor of this great and daring youth favored by the Castle of Lords began; but new rumor spread word that this struggle had been a crucible to show him worthy of nothing less than kingship, guaranteed by the presence of the Order of the Valar. There was to be a new line of kings in Kallendaros after two centuries of slavery to the Dragons and their own people, who gave them over for wealth and privilege.

            Churches resounded with the chorus of praise as the people of South Deep called upon the name of the One, glorifying Him for sending a man to free them of the evil of the Dragons, to give them hope anew. This deliverer would not stand to combat their brothers, fathers and friends within the priesthood; instead he would bypass this and attack their mutual foe: the wyrms. The tragedy that truly heralded summer’s exodus was nearly forgotten in the wash of change that threatened to cover all the city with dreams of freedom restored, heaped onto the shoulders of an already troubled young man.

            Standing alone near the city’s outer wall, where the great cemetery resided, Sara Garand mourned for her husband and the young lord that was the last hope for South Deep. Sara knew the bitter truth that so many folk rebuked in their euphoric state. She saw the evidence as she looked through the haze of mist and warm rain at the sodden ground below, at the cold, unfeeling marker that testified that her precious husband had lived at all. Hopes died. Nothing beneath the heavens of the One God endured, and she would hold to that truth with all her waning strength. Who was this pretentious young man that he should saunter in and claim to do what Uriel Ravenlore and her husband could not?

            Her mind was adrift in the seas of her despair when fresh faces entered the city. The gates were thrown open as market day was in its most fevered pitch and throngs of folk bought, sold and bartered on the city streets as they did on any other day. But if there was a little more fervor or energy present than usual, that too might be attributed to the bold young man and his company from the northlands. Sara gazed at this odd trio, soaked to the bone with the passing showers and swaddled in clothing that made them look like refugees instead of travelers. There were two men hauling a third upon a stretcher, and they were stooped and weary with their progress, while the third man twisted like a writhing snake, in the throes of some feverish delirium.

            Stricken with sudden compassion for these fresh strangers, Sara stepped outside of her grief and chased toward them, calling to the other folk outside the cemetery gates for aid. “There is a man wounded come to us!” she declared to anyone within earshot. “There is a man suffering here! Fetch a Mentora, and someone come help these poor fellows carry their burden!”

            Just within the proper wall of the fortified city the first of the men collapsed in exhaustion, while the second staggered from the sudden shift in weight, crying out in surprise and dismay. Sara herself almost slipped in the rain covered streets as she hastened to lend them aid, with a half dozen other men already at her heels, shouting at more people still about the sudden commotion. Men from the City Watch were now coming out of their guardhouses and daring the foul weather, adorned in fur cloaks and sporting tower shields, to see what was amiss. In the rain and the shouting confusion reared up, and the soldiers instantly formed rank with bristling spears pointing outward, half for fear that a riot suddenly erupted. Sara hardly faulted the soldiers. After the last several chaotic weeks few hardly knew what to expect. And the voice they needed most, Lord Ravenlore, was horridly silent.

            “What is going on here?” the watch captain cried out, brandishing his spear at the nearest figure charging him, which happened to be Sara. The woman teetered on the wet cobblestones and would have fallen if not for a man just behind her that snatched at her waist and kept her upright. Her dark hair clung to her face, framing sunken cheeks and bloodshot eyes as she stared with disbelief at the guardsman. But he only thrust the spear more threateningly, the ring of steel tightening about him as he sought to guard the trio that had just entered. At the least he deduced that they were the cause of this mischief, and so they would be warded until the matter might be resolved peacefully.

            “I asked you a question, woman!” the captain restated, rivets of rainwater running down his steel helm and burdening his cloak.

            “My name is Sara Garand, captain,” the woman replied proudly, holding herself erect and tearing herself free of the grip of the man behind her. “I am the wife of Uriel Ravenlore’s closest confidant, brought back a fallen hero on his shield. Are you pointing that spear tip at one of the Beloved Fallen?”

            “My lady!” the captain said at once, raising his spear so the sharpened point stabbed at the mourning heavens, and he knelt before her with his head lowered in shame. He bade his men to follow suit as a form of proper apology before standing again, stamping to rigid attention. “The rain and the confusion beguiled my eyes, my lady! You must forgive me!”

            “You are forgiven,” Sara answered softly, smiling a sad smile. “But the men you have taken into custody behind you look wounded and exhausted for want of sleep. You should take care of them.”

            “What of the crowd gathered here?” one of the soldiers asked pointedly, more to the captain than to Sara, or the assembly.

            “They may disperse!” the captain bellowed loudly, his authority ringing in his tone.

            “We will not!” the man who had snatched Sara from falling returned from behind her, and there was a murmur of dissent that sounded like the kindling fires of rebellion smoldering. “We’ve summoned the Mentora, and we wish to aid these wayfarers in their troubles. Likely, they are victims of the priesthood!”

            “Captain!” came the rattling voice of one of his subordinates, “One of the men is a soldier that rode into battle with Lord Ravenlore, long believed slain! It is Arys Wyngood!”

            The next several moments were utter chaos. Sara was swept aside in a tide of onlookers who swarmed and surged like a host of rats seeking prey. The city watch was hard pressed to push them back, or to keep the beleaguered men from being trampled in their press. Sara found herself on the exterior of the excitement, much to her relief, and she also found herself beside the two men who carried young Arys into South Deep. They were worn, dirty, and covered with old wounds, but there was a deep strength in them still that was plain to see. Sara grasped one man’s hand and bade him to follow her, along with the second.

            “I have food and rest at my house, away from this madness,” she assured them. “You have suffered long and hard, I see. Allow me to treat guests of the city that have returned a soldier of the south to us.”

            “You would not welcome me if you knew me, lady,” the younger of the two gasped, bent down with weariness. He looked as if he might just fall upon the rain soaked street and never rise again. Sara only smiled with gentle assurance.

            “You have proved yourself an ally with a great deed, my young friend. There is no more fear to be found here, unless you have enemies pursuing you. In such case you now have the strength of the southron army to uphold you.”

            “You have our thanks, my lady,” the elder of the two replied in more even tones. “Might I inquire one thing of you before you treat the two of us so kindly?”

            “What do wish to ask?” Sara wondered as she led them off, the city watch oblivious to her departure from the swelling press of onlookers that longed to see the young man returned from the north. They all knew now, in some part or another, about the battle at Lake Purt and the fate of their young lord. There was much embellishment concerning the truth of the tale’s telling. Uriel was said to have betrayed his father’s loyalty to the priesthood, while others claimed that the southern nobles learned of a meeting where the Magistrates gathered to worship and sacrifice to the Dragons. The shouting and noisome quarrels were gaining in strength behind them, and Sara felt obliged to lead her charges far from the maelstrom before something awful occurred.

            “We’ve left our charge behind us,” the elder of the men noted in some haze of recollection and he feebly tugged at her hand to stay her march but Sara ignored him. In his weakened state he could do naught but follow her, and the younger man only walked where his elder led him.

            “Arys will be fine in the company of the city watch, my friends,” Sara answered them sternly. “And I would be a bloody fool to allow you to wander back there and get trampled to death with that crowd whipped into such a frenzy.”

            “Do you know a man named Justias Eventine? We have spent numerous days of unbroken travel seeking him,” the older man questioned.

            “He’s here,” Sara told him shortly. “He’s being hailed as a hero after his Dragon quest. Why? Have you come to pledge your swords to him?”

            “No,” the older man answered in a bewildered tone that gave Sara pause. She turned slightly back to behold him, and she fancied she could see tears of joy mingling with the falling rain over his dirt streaked face. He mouthed a silent prayer, his eyes alight with a fire of hope that no mortal strength could ever supply. “I am William Eventine. I am Justias’ father.”

***

            Midday was a splendor to behold for those who paused long enough to witness it. Rain clouds split asunder for a span of minutes, and through the gloom of ashen smoke there were stark rays of divine splendor, spreading warmth and light upon a land drown in rainfall. It crowned the towering battlements of the Castle of Lords and stayed the proud standards of the House of Nobles fluttering upon the conical rooftops of every tower, falling limply before its majesty. The sunlight crept like seeking fingers through the alley, probing through the windows of many houses and chasing back the shadowed darkness that was draped on the homes of so many below.

            It was through this cavalcade of wonder that Justias Eventine strode with eager feet to the house where his father was being treated. Sara, upon bringing William and Philip Wethercrown back to her stately house, sent a servant to fetch Justias from the castle. Now, accompanied by Kendra, Marek and Kit, Justias made reckless haste toward the estate. Caspin’s home wasn’t far from the house of his lord, and it was more a fortress than a typical house, with a high gate and stout walls of shorn stone. There were small windows, and none to be found on the first floor at all, with easy access to a flat roof and a long, open yard where archers might rain down death on attackers. The pair of front doors were reinforced oak, set into indentures of stone that had been long tested by time and the elements and found to be strong indeed. Justias passed the lush green of the front lawn and leapt up to the stoop, sounding the ringer with the force of a man gone mad from wanting. Kendra rung her hands eagerly behind her, hope alight on her face as she chewed on her lip.

            Sara threw back the door, regarding Justias coolly. The youth was strangely composed for a man that was just told that his father, whom he had given up for dead in the Temple of Red Glass, was now within the city walls and being cared for by Caspin’s widow. He sighed at the sight of her and bowed a little clumsily.

            “My lady, I have received the message you sent me. Is my father well?”

            “He is very well,” Sara told him softly. “I would have let the man rest with sleep until the morrow, but you now reflect the same fire I saw in his eyes, and I couldn’t withhold his desire to see you. He’s searched the whole country for you, my lord.”

            “I am no one’s lord, my lady,” Justias replied quickly. “Especially not the lord of Caspin’s wife.”

            “But you shall be one day,” Sara told him in an emotionless voice. Her voice failed her at the mention of her husband’s name, a wound too raw to openly contend with as of yet, so she stepped aside and gestured to her servant to guide Justias and his company to where William awaited them.

            The lot of them cast back their coats and their cloaks in the greeting room, where Sara took them into a closet to collect later and she waved a hand for them to depart when it became clear that she wouldn’t follow them. Grief held her throat and she did not trust her own words, so she removed herself to someplace lonely where she might visit with her husband’s memory without interruption. Justias kissed her hand before following the servant and Kendra offered a kind word, clearly stricken at the shell Sara had been reduced to. She suddenly longed for Reverend Cerson’s wisdom in that moment. If the elderly reverend had been with them he would have known just what to say. There would have been a passage from the doctrines of the One God that would have made the pain have purpose, or give her comfort when the notion seemed so alien. But Kendra was not the good reverend, so she made no effort and followed silently after Justias.

            They progressed down the main hall, and then up a flight of stairs, finding a landing, then turning to the flight of stairs that delivered them to the guest chambers. The hall was smaller in that wing than the main hall and less decorated, but there was a lush carpet lining the floor boards and tapestries of fine wealth adorning the walls, interspersed between a line of doors. The servant led them three doors along on the right, then pushed the door open to find a small oil lamp sitting on a nightstand, the soft glow falling on a man laying prostrate on his back. There was a light sheet draped halfway up his chest, and a mess of torn and dirtied clothing strewn in a heap in the corner. The smell of wild earth and open fields clung within the small guest room, which Justias deduced doubled for a sick room when one of the family or a servant took ill and they had to quarantine them to ensure the health of the rest of the household. William lay with his arms limp at his sides, brown eyes staring at the ceiling above, all but dead in appearance.

            “Father,” Justias called in a broken voice, a wellspring of emotion dancing madly within him. How long had he hoped against hope for this moment? How many reasons were given to him that William was dead, or as good as dead, being prisoner of Julias Darkmane? There was no good reason why this reunion should have ever occurred, save by the grace of One that Justias did not give his fair praise to. He should have sagged to his knees then and given his wholehearted thanks to the One God, but his pride held him aloft and he discarded the notion.

            William rolled his eyes to fix upon his only son and a slow smile crept over his face; a warm smile that explored every crevasse, every exposed contour, so genuine that the old hunter might have redefined what it was to find happiness. “My son,” William declared quietly, all his strength already fled from him. “Justias, I thought I might not see you again, but I prayed without ceasing for it to be otherwise. The One has been good to us, my son.”

            “He has, father,” Justias wept, stumbling over to William’s bedside and throwing himself to the floor, his arms and head resting on William’s chest, sobbing as if he were a young boy once more, his father consoling him over a wound taken in youthful fervor. William stroked his son’s hair, that smile never once waning even a little.

            “Alright you,” Kit hissed softly behind Marek and Kendra, “This isn’t a scene for so many folk. Let the men have their time together; I think they’ve earned that much. When Justias wants us to go in there and meet his father he’ll collect us, I’m sure.”

            “We’ll be outside the door if you want us,” Kendra said lamely, though she doubted either man heard her. Tears of joy trickled down her cheeks as she watched them embrace, closing the door slowly after her. They stayed that way for some long while.

***

            Barlow had joined their eager waiting by the time there was louder discourse coming from the guest chambers, drifting out through the cracks of the door. It was all Kendra could do not to burst through and partake of what they were sharing. She knew that Justias had every right to have William’s sole attention for this time, but she missed the man gravely as well, and her high-hoped impatience was beginning to bore into her better judgment.

            “My brother is the most resilient man I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing,” Barlow explained to Kit and Marek as the three of them sat on cushioned waiting chairs opposite the door to the guest room. “Save for our father of course, and for Reverend Cerson. There are precious few of that sort left to us in the land.”

            “Does anyone know the identity of the young man that is here as well?” Marek asked suspiciously, “I’ve looked in on him and he has the look of a soldier upon him for certain. There is the training of a man groomed for the sword, the likes of which I take note of when I peer into the mirror.”

            “Do you look often?” Kit mused sarcastically. “Just to make sure that your reflection is still there, I mean?”

            “Don’t try to humor me for my sake, Kit,” Marek stabbed back. “I don’t need you taking a fever over my account.”

            “I was just saying that it might have grown jealous that you haven’t been looking often enough and went looking for someone more appreciative to behold it.”

            “Are you trying to say that I’m vain?” Marek accused. Kit shrugged.

            “I’ve never seen more than a whisker on that silk-smooth face of yours, Marek Wargard. You know, mariners consider a beard to be a sign of manhood, a rite of passage for a sailor who’s been sailing the seas for years.”

            “Sailors also consider the albatross a bird of omen, Kit,” Marek shot back. “I’m not looking to bird droppings for divine signs, and I’m not waiting to grow out ear hair to prove that I’ve grown into manhood. Mariners also tattoo themselves as a method of celebration. Perhaps I could prove myself twice the man a mariner is by tattooing a beard over my face to celebrate my manhood.”

            “Sometimes I wonder how we ever managed to return from the Blight with the pair of you bickering like children,” Barlow spat as he rubbed the side of his face. Kendra only shook her head and continued an impatient walk up and down the length of the hall.

            “Marek makes for a rather poor sparring partner after the likes of Grant, but he’s easy to incite,” Kit jerked a thumb at him playfully, which the former Cleric swatted away in irritation.

            Just then the door opened, and a haggard looking Justias peered out. His strength looked spent, and his shoulders sagged in the weariness of worry. “Father asks for you, Barlow. The rest of you can enter and greet him as well if you wish.”

            “If it is just the same to you, I’ll wait out here, and greet the man proper like, when he’s had rest and health restored to him,” Kit answered plainly, leaning back on the cushioned chair as both Barlow and Marek rose.

            “That is fine, Kit,” Justias answered, waving at the others to enter. He stepped aside, ushering them in one at a time, first Barlow, then Kendra, and Marek last. William sat in his bed, propped up with feathery pillows, a second blanket now pulled over him to keep the waning warmth of his battered body close to him. The damp and the rain of the later summer were creeping through the chamber, and any that dwelt their whole life in the deep south of Kallendaros could tell that an early winter was being considered. William was composed but pale. His eyes were bloodshot from sharing tears with his son, but there was a rested look upon him that was infectious, and granted a measure of that same feeling to anyone who looked at him.

            “It’s so good to see you alive, my brother!” Barlow declared as he dropped down beside the bed and wrung both of William’s outstretched hands with great vigor. The brothers laughed and embraced. “Justias had never forsaken hope that you might yet live, somewhere in the land, and he was willing to invade the Temple of Cantlin to find you.”

            “Why the devil would you go there?” William asked sharply, turning a shrewd eye from Barlow to his son.

            “That was where we heard you were most likely to be taken after what became of the village in the north. Justias came north, to Kartia City, but the priesthood followed him there, seeking Master Wargard, and a terrible series of events sent us away from there for fear of our lives.”

            “Barlow lost his house to fire!” Kendra said in a despairing tone.

            “It was a small price to pay for the sake of seeing us safely from the city,” Barlow returned, looking at the young woman who thought of him as her adopted father.

            “We certainly can’t go north again, not to Kartia City at any rate,” Marek stated simply from behind them. The warrior rested near the back of the chamber, beside the door. He was leaning against the wall with his arms folded over his chest, half hidden in the fleeting light that the single lamp accorded. No one could see the man’s face, as it was lost in shadow.

            “But we must,” Kendra insisted. She stared eagerly back at William, kneeling beside Barlow. “Did Justias tell you about Agaen of the Valar? He wishes to make Justias king of the northlands, and the entire Order of Orizon stands with him!”

            “What nonsense is this about a king in the north?” William uttered. “Why not establish a king from the bloodlines of the southern nobility? There are many fine Houses left here, among those who remain loyal to the southlands.”

            “The Valar believes there is a prophecy concerning the ascension of a man born out of the north, who is not of noble birth,” Justias told him bluntly, clearly still in so much disbelief over the matter. “The man who is to be king will be tested by the fire of the Dragon’s flame, or some other such nonsense.”

            “Your son slew a wyrm, William,” Marek said from across the room. “Your son killed the Dragon Brackaelyk to avenge you for what the Clerics had done.”

            “What devil has possessed you, Justias?” William chastised the youth bitterly. “Why would you cast away your life with such an errand? The Dragons are not a trifle of a foe to be faced with steel or strategy. They are ancient monsters from the First Age of Andurun, terrible in wrath and power! Why pit yourself against such a foe?”

            “It had to come, father,” Justias declared. “How long has the south been fighting a war against their own people, while the Dragons benefit from the bloodshed? It costs them nothing that we should kill ourselves in this ceaseless civil war, and I feel that if they were to rule over a land of the dead, that would trouble them little. There are Goblins, or Ogres, or other servants they can gather to serve their ends. Humans mean little to them, and I fear that our use will soon come to an end, and they will do away with the south and the priesthood alike.”
            “Have you considered that what you’ve done has put what you feared into that very motion?” William accused angrily. “Have you deemed to think that now Dragon blood has been spilt they will indeed find our people superfluous to their ends, and do away with the lot of us?”

            “The Tithing and the branding were seeing to that, father!” Justias shot back. “Nothing has changed before I ventured into the land, save for my experience has swollen as I was forced to take in the whole of the realm as I sought you. My opinions about the priesthood haven’t changed, only the means to fight them. Spilling the blood of our fellows isn’t an answer. If it were so, the House of Ravenlore would have bested the Dragon Clerics many years ago and rallied our people to their side. They would have turned the battlefield to the position it rightly belongs at, the doorstep of the wyrms.”

            Justias glowered at the lashing his father gave him, and gave himself over to his full feelings on the matter, letting nothing back behind his teeth or from under his tongue, so it spilled out in the presence of everyone assembled there. “The Old Nobility, though they are good men, fight a battle they cannot win, and their ancient lineage is a tomb! Their noble birth-land’s a cemetery that they are bringing the young and old alike of their land to! They fight as men fought in the battles chronicled of old, with arms and great numbers and valor. They fight pride for pride: fire with fire. But I say fight fire with water, and let valor become stealth, prudence and wisdom, rather than sheer strength and open arms, or soon all will perish!”

            “My son, you have certainly changed in these last few months,” William said with an air of distinction in his voice. “I hardly see the boy that I raised in this young man now standing before me.”

            “He has been a great leader during our trials seeking the Dragon, William,” Barlow told him. “His determination never wavered, and it gave all of us hope. I only went at first to help protect Justias, but in the end it was he that saved all of us.”

            “Master Eventine,” Kendra asked politely, “What of you? How did you escape the priesthood, or did they ever even capture you? Did you manage to elude them?”

            “No,” William said huskily, as if the memory were a catch in his throat that made him choke a little. “Julias Darkmane, after he put paid to the entire village, took me alone captive and left Reverend Cerson to care for the dead, the small hillock of them. Name of the Oath, I can still recall that sight so awfully well…”

            “How did you escape Julias?” Marek asked. “I know the man well enough to know that he does not leave a prisoner poorly guarded. You must have been rather cunning to elude him.”

            “I escaped when highwaymen waylaid the priesthood in northern Myrodia, along the way. A fellow named Sarith Orindhark saved me from the caravan. He was a most interesting man, and much more than he seemed, I wager. Before that time I had been brought to the central city of Greywalk, and placed in the prison along the Tilbit Chasm.”

            “We were near enough to that city,” Barlow added, “When we put to port in the Elder’s Bay in southern Myrodia. That was a bit more upon the threshold of the Praetor Valence’s doorstep. He rules south Myrodia, and holds no allegiance to the priesthood, or the Old Nobility, though he was once a member of that court.”

            “I never saw southern Myrodia,” William replied. “At least not the provinces of the south of it, but I did happen to make very good acquaintance with the Deep Green Sea.”

            “Hell’s teeth!” Barlow yelped in utter shock, making Justias and Kendra start. “Not even the hunters of Holst Township, resting near that accursed woodland, dare to venture through that hellish region! Why, William?”

            “Sarith and his companion brought me through it, though not without its share of danger, I assure you. But there is more to tell, I fear. Sarith believed that Julias allowed me to escape, and he sent some sort of tracker after me, for reasons I do not know. But as for the identity of that bloodhound, I think it is the Gorgon barbarian that Julias took in pledge of service.”

            “He won’t be taking you back, father,” Justias answered sternly. “You are safe in the city. And when you are well, if Sara can bear to part with you, I will bring you to the Castle of Lords and you will be safer still behind its walls.”

            “Where in Kallendaros is safe with the cloud of war gathering so mightily, Justias?” William asked him, but the youth didn’t answer.

            “If I might inquire, what did the Lord Ravenlore ask you about last night, Justias?” Barlow wondered, taking off the subject. Justias pursed his lips, reflecting for a moment before answering.

            “He wants a delegation to travel west, into the Nightshade Forest, where Lord Chardyss governs, a distant member of the Old Nobility, like the Praetor. He commands the entire woodland and dwells in Castle Chardyss, at the heart of the forest.”

            “Seeking old allies to renew friendship?” William queried. Justias nodded agreement.

            “Do you believe the folklore surrounding that forest, lad?” Barlow asked.

            “What folklore?”

            “There are queer tales about the Nightshade Forest and the lord who rules it. They say that wolves lord over the land every bit as much as he does, and that in the late of night he gives himself over to their call and joins them in their hunts, becoming a wolf himself.”

            “You must be joking,” Marek laughed. “Do you honestly believe that sort of children’s fable? You are a hunter, Barlow, not a mariner, filled to the gills with their suspicions and superstition.”

            “That tale has been told by many hunters that have ventured out of the south for generations, Marek.”

            “How many of these great hunters or warriors have ever seen the Lord Chardyss become the wolf and join the hunt? How many can attest to seeing this with their own eyes that are alive in this day?”

            “I rightly don’t know,” Barlow answered him honestly. “But every fable, no matter how well contrived and how aggrandized it has become, carries a seed of truth that perpetuated its growth at the first.”

            “Fables and prophecy don’t sound so far apart from one another,” Justias quipped.

            “Don’t mouth blasphemy, Justias!” William rebuked him harshly. “The will of the One is not a fable, nor is its prediction subject to debate by men, who are only created and unworthy of such lofty ponderings. The will of the One is, every much as He is in the heavens. To deny His presence is surely the mark of a fool, and I would hate to think that the Order of the Valar is going to crown a fool in the north, or that I have raised you to be one. Consider what you have seen and done on this journey thus far, and then tell me without doubt that you do not see the hand of Providence working for you.”

            “Master Eventine,” Kendra broke in again when the silence hanging in the chamber became oppressive, “Who are your companions that came with you?”

            “A young man that we carried in wounded, but I did not catch his name, only that he served South Deep and the House of Ravenlore. He has been ill the entire time, and I have done what I could with the herb lore that I learned over my years of hunting. But the other young man, here with me, is a member of the priesthood Marek defected from.”

            “A Dragon Cleric!” Barlow cried out in alarm.

            “You’ve brought the enemy under the roof of our allies?” Marek asked in mild wonder.

            “He is a turncoat, like yourself,” William returned. “His name is Phillip, and he was a subordinate of Julias. He and some other fellow named Argent were pursuing the soldier we carried into the city, and they fought when Argent didn’t want to surrender the chase.”

            “I know that name,” Marek snarled in disgust. “Argent was the inquisitor for Julias when he had prisoners to question, and the headsman when there was an execution to reside over. Argent took too much of a liking to it, and that seemed to garner favor with Julias, who was of like mind. The only difference between the men is that Julias exercises restraint, while Argent does not.”

            “He has plenty of it now,” William added sadly. “Phillip slew him in battle, when he had the chance to show the man mercy. I should have seen what was going to happen and stop the lad from laying a killing stroke, but I was not swift enough.”

            “He received a just reward for how he spent his life,” Marek remarked.

            “Are all men of the sword like minded, then?” William snapped in sudden heat, very much sounding like his son in that moment. “That very judgment is hanging over your head as well, Marek Wargard! As it hangs over the head of every man that condones such behavior! We are not cattle, to be killed on another’s whim when it serves the sake of expedience!”

            “I can see why you and Reverend Cerson got along so well, old man,” Marek grumbled icily.

            There was a loud rap at the door and Sara entered, spilling the light of the hall into the small room and making them all blink with blindness. There was no window in that chamber, as the sharp light always made the sick feel ill at ease. The cool darkness made it more soothing to recover from sickness, but there was a small window perched in the hall across from the door which could be thrown open so fresh air could at least be given to the suffering if they desired it. It was closed now, because of the rain, and a tremor of distant thunder alerted the gathering in the room that the drizzle was simply another prelude to a tempest renewed.

            “Master Eventine should find sleep for now, all of you,” she chastised them each in turn. “There is a Mentora here to look after him, and I will care for his needs until he is well enough to decide where he wishes to go after that.”

            “My lady, I would like to stay with my father for the day,” Justias pleaded with her. “I have been waiting to share a day with him for a long time.”

            “You may stay,” Sara said after a second of hesitation. “But Agaen of the Valar may come seeking you, Master Eventine.”

            “Then we will have brief discourse. Only my father matters to me today.”

            Sara nodded approval, and one by one the assembled said their goodbyes to William, and bade him a swift recovery before filing out and closing the door behind them. Sara went last, informing the men that the Mentora was almost finished looking over the young man that William brought with him, and would be knocking on the door in a moment. Then they were alone.

            “I have one last thing to say while you and I may speak in private, my son.”

            Justias knelt down and clasped his father’s hand warmly. There was no rebuke William could give him this day that would make Justias turn a foul face or biting word on him. The young hunter only waited.

            “While I was prisoner in Greywalk, Julias Darkmane subjected me to a torment of abysmal creation. A Mirror of evil crafting, possessed of a spirit most vile. I looked in that Mirror, and I have inherited the curse within it.”

            “I don’t follow, father,” Justias wrinkled his brow in wonder and fear, half ready to call back his company for the defense of his father, as if this evil spirit might suddenly intrude right then and there.

            “The curse is in the eyes, Justias. When I see myself reflected in a mirror or polished surface, I will see her as well, and she will not rest until she has strangled the life from my body, fulfilling her curse, a curse handed down to her from the Infernal Lord, Ebonseer.”

            “What can I do for you, father?”

            “Pray for me, Justias,” William told him plainly. “Pray for the mercy of the One to save me from this curse. Fetch Reverend Cerson for me if you may. He came with you to the distant south, did he not?” William shook his head and chuckled lightly. “That old man must have suffered on such a long voyage at his age, especially at his age in life.”

            “Reverend Cerson cannot help you, father,” Justias replied dismally.

            “He cannot?” William replied, though his tone betrayed his knowledge: William immediately gathered what Justias would say next.

            “Reverend Cerson has gone to his God, father. There is no help there.”

            “He’s gone to his rest, then,” William said reverently. “In the days to come, there will be many that wish they were him, and do not have to witness what is coming. Those that die in times of peace are the fortunate ones.”