It was the crisp bite of the cold morning air that woke Kelverin from his troubled slumber. He carefully opened one eye, squinting against dawn's rays. His left eye had swollen shut during the night and he could still taste blood in his mouth. His wrists ached from where the manacles bit into them.
Kelverin stretched as he opened his mouth in a gaping yawn. He was stiff and hurt all over. As he stretched his sore neck muscles, he looked through the bars. To the east, the predawn light sent blues and pinks streaking through the grey sky. Snowclad peaks and green firs stood silently about him as if the brightening sunlight had not yet woken them. The perfect quiet of the morning-yet-to-come settled on him and, as he looked at the mountains, the trees and the color-streaked sky, he thought that he had never seen so beautiful a sunrise. And that this might be his last.
With a brief flash, the second sun crested the horizon and joined the first. The colors of the dawn gently shifted; two lazy orbs overlapping, the blue dwarf and the yellow giant blurring together in a dream of green.
A movement caught Kelverin's eye and held it. Three white birds flitted to and fro chasing each other in an aerial dance. Three more leapt from snowy branches to join in the play. Higher and higher they went until Kelverin was forced to lift his aching head to follow their circling show. They glided circling, spinning and diving at each other against the treetops. One by one, they tired of the chase and each alit atop a towering emerald fir tree. They preened themselves and looked at him curiously. Six white faces peering out at him from the thick foliage. Kelverin smiled at the sight. A thing he had not done for days.
The smiled faded as a shadow swept over him and a figure appeared, blocking his view. Kelverin flinched as a shower of snow was kicked into his face by a booted foot.
"Wake up, wizard!"
Kelverin wiped the snow from his eyes and looked up at the armored soldier. The rusting chain mail, tattered cloth and heavy boots were all familiar. This guard, with the red hair and crooked teeth, had taken a liking to tormenting him, taking any opportunity to cause the wizard pain or embarrassment. Kelverin rolled his bulk over, gripped the bars and pulled himself up to a seating position. He was uncomfortable. There was little room to move about the wagon as all nine of them were crowded into the confined space. He looked about at the other prisoners. Some slept, huddled in the dirty straw and blankets. Those who were awake sat in odd poses, staring out at the snow covered mountains with blank expressions. They all had endured much, especially the Prince who sat in the corner staring out through the bars. The prince had spoken little since their capture, apparently blaming himself. Kelverin wanted to comfort the young man, but had not been able to find the words.
The wagon that held them was little more than a large cage on wheels. The sides of the wagon were mere iron bars and did nothing to keep the cold air out. The roof above them was made of solid oak planks with a locked trapdoor. At least it kept the heavy, wet snow off them. The floor of the cage was covered in thick straw and provided some small measure of warmth.
The red haired guard reached a gauntleted hand through the bars and swatted Kelverin roughly on the stomach. "How is it, wizard, that we feed you so little and yet you stay so fat?" said the soldier. "By Kael, they fed you to well at the guild." A few nearby soldiers laughed at their comrade's joke. Kelverin ignored them and turned, looking down at the figure who had slept beside him through the long night. Valdemar, his friend. Frost clung to the old man's grey beard. His thin body shivered beneath the tattered blanket.
A bucket of cold gruel was lowered into the cage wagon from the trapdoor in the roof. Kelverin reached down and gently shook his friend.
"Valdemar... Valdemar."
Pale grey eyes fluttered opened.
"Breakfast," Kelverin said.
"Gruel?"
"Yes"
"Cold?"
Kelverin nodded.
Valdemar closed his eyes and rolled over. Around the wagon, soldiers were saddling horses, breaking camp and getting ready to move. The other prisoners were waking up and passing the bucket of gruel around, each taking a few handfuls of the slop.
Hogarth, one of the other prisoners, got to his feet, which was little more than a crouched stoop in the confines of the wagon, and scuttled over to where Kelverin sat. He was a tall, well-muscled man with the leathery skin of a wilderness scout. He had inherited the white pupilless eyes and mane of white hair of his Borrellian father, but his features were softened by his human mother. Hogarth laid his blanket across the sleeping Valdemar and then placed his own cloak about Kelverin's shoulders.
"I think we're getting close to wherever it is they're taking us. Very close. We may even reach our destination today."
"How can you tell?"
"The food and provisions are getting low, but they aren't foraging or hunting and their leader doesn't seem worried." Hogarth nodded toward the leader of the soldiers, a heavily armored man sitting upon a black and white speckled Kitarian warhorse. "That one knew exactly where they were going and how long they'd be gone."
"Well, I'm glad to hear that. Where ever our captors takes us, there's bound to be walls to keep the wind out and a good strong fire to keep the chill away."
With the creaking of wood and iron, the wagon lurched forward. As had been the case for six days, the leader rode out ahead. The wagon which contained the prisoners followed, flanked on all sides by a half dozen soldiers. Following after them was a second smaller wagon. Hogarth had guessed that it held miscellaneous supplies and food.
The second wagon was driven by a hulking saurian, a huge reptilian thing that walked upright like men. He sat, staring absently ahead, huddled in a pile of blankets. No doubt, he was miserable. Kelverin had never seen a saurian before, but Hogarth had told him about them. The borrellian ranger had told him tales of far away tropical swamplands and whole tribes of these lizard men that preyed on travelers.
Beside the saurian sat a cloaked figure. None of the prisoners had seen the face of this figure and because of this they had taken to simply calling him Cloak. Rarely did he speak and then only to the leader in hushed tones, little more than a soft, sibilant whisper that died on the winter wind. Kelverin could feel Cloak's eyes upon him and it made his skin crawl. The hooded gaze never wavered. It was because of Cloak that Kelverin knew attempting a spell was useless. They had been warned, he and Valdemar, by the leader. Any use of magic would be discovered immediately and dealt with severely. Looking at Cloak, Kelverin didn't doubt it. Kelverin could feel it... a consciousness... an intelligence, constantly sweeping over them, probing the area, attuned to the field of magic around them. It was the cloaked one. It had to be. He and Valdemar, the only two prisoners capable of magic, had discussed it early on. Better to play it safe, they decided, and keep their minds on staying warm rather than fooling with spells.
As the wagon lurched and bumped its way through the snowy field, Kelverin felt the familiar throbbing ache begin in his back. It always began, first the cold, then the pain. After an hour or so, he would lose feeling in his feet and have to shift positions in the cramped quarters. He hadn't unwrapped his feet for the entire journey and had no idea what condition they were in. But he didn't want to expose them to the numbing cold. It was hard enough to keep blood flowing to his aching hands.
The riders and wagons continued on through the mountains, climbing higher and higher. The leader seemed sure of his course, never hesitating to look at landmarks or consult a map. Despite the ruggedness of the terrain and the thick forest about them on either side, Kelverin got the impression that they were following a road or an old trail. If there was a road beneath them, it was buried in two feet of snow. As far as Kelverin could see, there was no road. There was nothing. There were far from any sign of civilization and heading further into the mountains.
Kelverin closed his eyes and tried to think of pleasant things. Normally, he would be back at the guild hall with some of Brother Jacob's hot rabbit stew and honey bread. And perhaps a bit of wine. Ah yes... Kelverin sighed at the thought. A blast of arctic air snapped Kelverin out of his reverie. Kelverin looked up and saw that the forest was thinning a bit. Rocky outcroppings indicated that the way ahead was getting more rugged. He shifted toward the front of the wagon and peered over the driver's shoulder. Two sheer rock faces came together with a narrow opening between them. The leader seemed to be heading straight for them, straight between them. Far ahead and above them, Kelverin could see the icy blue shimmer of a glacier.
Within another half hour, the leader reached the opening. His great black horse snorted and stamped before heading in and was gone with a flick of its tail. Kelverin's wagon followed closely behind. Hogarth sat next to Kelverin, hands gripping the cold bars, his eyes staring ahead intently, devouring every detail. No doubt, the scout was trying to ascertain their position. But his perplexed look told Kelverin that he had not seen this peaks before. The wall of the rock face was close, within a hundred feet. The wagon turned and headed in, following the leader, who seemed to be finding his way down a trail. The wagon slowly entered the narrow opening between the two rock faces and began to dip down, heading down the other side. As it did so, it turned slightly and the prisoners got a look at what lay ahead.
The trail, for one was clearly visible now, snaked down into a mountainous valley. Sheer cliffs boxed this hollow in. At the center was a castle ringed by a shadowy barrier. A moat, perhaps? Tiny plumes of smoke trailed up from the castle.
Kelverin sat back in the straw and watched the walls of stone slip past. They had reached their destination. With a sinking feeling, he closed his eyes and tried not to think about what that meant.
A lone rider moved swiftly through the night. Galloping hooves passed over the grassy land as swift as the wind and almost as quietly. A wave of brown hair flowed behind the rider, whipped to and fro by the wind. The rider paused at the top of a hill, a silhouette in the light of the three moons. It was a woman. Tall and muscular. Dark and intricate tattoos covered her muscled arms and legs, which were bare. Her body was covered by a short outfit of leather that allowed freedom of movement. A heavy blade was strapped across her back.
She looked out across the immense plain before her. To the north, the foothills arose north for kilometers before rising into mountains. Away to the south, she could just make out the towering peaks of the mountains that enclosed the War Vale. To the east, night was just beginning to loosen its grip on the sky and the blackness gave way to a dark blue. Below, she saw the pinprick of a single fire. It's feeble circle of light was engulfed in the great dark emptiness of the night cloaked hills.
Slowly and quietly she made her way down the hill and toward the fire. She moved from one copse of trees to another, carefully listening to the night. She paused a dozen yards from the circle of light and peered between two trunks of a forked tree. A small fire crackled noisily. Facing the fire, a man sat, carving and devouring a piece of fruit with a hunting knife. He was of average height and build. He wore a dark, grey suit of finely woven material that shimmered in the light of the fire. Loosely slung over his shoulders was a grey and white fur cloak. A long smooth wooden staff lay at his feet. Long, grey, unkempt hair straggled to his shoulders in tendrils. His eyes were hidden for he wore a tattered blindfold, the ends of which trailed down his back mixing with his hair.
The man's head cocked to one side as if listening. The woman froze, though she was sure she hadn't made a sound. The horse had also been silent and she was downwind of him. She tensed as the man stood up and turned toward her. Slowly, silently, she drew her sword from its sheath.
"Well met." he called out into the darkness. The woman silently dropped to the ground and motioned for the horse to hold fast. She was cloaked in darkness and was sure he could not see her. See her? He was blindfolded. A blind man armed only with fruit and a tiny dagger. What was it she feared? Did he have accomplices lurking in the shadows. She listened to the night. Smelled the air. Nothing. They were alone. She was sure of it.
"It has been a cold night," he said. "You're welcome to share my fire and some breakfast."
The woman walked slowly toward the camp with her blade before her in a low ready stance. She paused just inside the circle of light and regarded the man before her.
"Stay your blade, m'lady," he said quietly, " I mean you no harm."
"You are blind?"
"Yes"
She sheathed her sword. "Then it is you who should be wary of harm."
He shrugged and smiled, not seeming to care one way or the other., but gestured for her to sit down.
"How is it that you knew a woman stood before you? And with drawn blade?"
"You have the scent of a woman. And your blade made a soft, rasp when it was drawn." He sat back down and wiped his knife off before putting it away. "Almost." he said, curiously, "as if it were toothed." He held out his hands. "May I?"
She hesitated, but then decided that she could easily leap the fire and gut him with his own knife before he could draw her blade against her. He waited, smiling slightly, for her decision. She then unstrapped her sheathed blade and passed it to him.
"You are welcome to some of my stew and bread, if you like" he said. She glanced down at the pot and noticed two bowls were set there, as were two mugs. She filled her bowl with stew and picked up a mug. A red liquid sloshed within. She tore off a hung of bread from a loaf that sat on a log next to her and fell hungrily to her meal.
As she ate, she watched the blind man inspect her blade. His hands gently glided over every inch of the weapon. Finger tips gently tracing the jagged teeth of the edges. The teeth were curved backward slightly, almost like barbs. He let out a low whistle.
"Vicious." he said suddenly. "What manner of blade is this?"
"It's a hurkra. The traditional blade of the my clan, the Ju'Das. That one is called Bodywrecker.
"The Ju'Das?" he asked with a puzzled expression.
"A clan of Bathynia. I am Sinjin, firstborn daughter of Clan Father Raul.
"What manner of name is Sinjin? What does it mean?"
"It means ‘untameable’."
"A bathyn, eh? That would explain the smell of battle spice about you."
"Not all Bathyns smoke battle spice.." she said indignantly.
He smiled and handed her a hunk of steaming meat on a stick. "You do."
She ignored his remark and took the stick he offered. She sniffed. She didn't recognized the meat, but it smelled good. She took a bite. It was good. The man slide the blade back into its sheath and handed it back to her.
"And to whom do I owe the pleasure of a warm fire and hot meal?" she asked, taking the blade back.
"You may call me Caspian."
The two ate in silence for a time. She glanced about the camp. A large, black horse grazed off in the distance. A bedroll lay on the ground. What she had earlier assumed to be a simple staff she know saw for a work of art. The six foot shaft was made of darkly stained ironwood,
a tight cord was wrapped about two feet of its middle
She now noticed that had a long blade on either end of a two foot wooden handle. She had never seen a design like it before.
"If you're a Bathyn," Caspian asked, interrupting her inspection, "then you're a long way from home."
"Yes, I've been travelling for several weeks." She finished her meat and stew and then proceeded to scrap the bowl clean with her bread. She hadn't realized how hungry she was.
He turned his head to face her. "What brings you so far east?"
The woman shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, even though she could not see his eyes. Despite the blindfold, he seemed to be studying her. A most unnerving sensation. "I'm... on a quest." she answered.
"For whom do you quest?"
Sinjin stared into the fire. "I quest for the good of my tribe. The ruler of the Ju’Das, our Clan Father, is old and will soon step down. There are many who would claim the title of Clan Father. It is a great honor. Before the Choosing, each warrior is called upon to fulfill a quest to prove their worthiness. Only Bathyn males may compete."
Caspian waited, listening to her breathing. He could feel the anger in her. "So why do you quest?"
She looked up at him, annoyed at his question. "I think it is time for that tradition to change". She spat. "I will be the first Clan... Mother."
Caspian smiled at the woman's bravery. "And what exactly is your quest?" he asked, lifting his mug for another drink.
"What do you know of the Slavers Guild?"
"The Rukemian Slavers Guild? About as much as any citizen. They're widespread, but only powerful in the Empire itself. Kitar, Ormek, Mercia - they've all got a few Slaver Guilds. But in Kitar, they're only just tolerated."
"And the slaves they bring in?" she asked.
"I've seen slaves from many nations. The Empire has only one rule governing the slavers, they cannot prey on Imperial citizens. Foreigners are fair game though. Mostly they take from the south. The Coalition, the Pirate Isles-"
"And Myria."
"Where?" he asked.
"Myria. A small nation south of Bathynia. The Myrians are a simple, timid people, little more than hunters and gatherers. Primitive by your standards. Slaver raids on Myria are common. Myrians make good slaves. But this past summer, a slaver group worked its way up into Bathynia and wiped out the Drekma clan. Many were killed. Two dozen were captured and taken away. Born out onto the ocean on a slaver's ship along with four score Myrians."
"And you're going to free the Bathyns." said Caspian, doubtfully.
"Yes," she replied firmly. "And then bring the Guild to its knees."
Caspian choked on his drink, coughing and spitting. Sinjin waited for him to recover his breath, but was annoyed when the coughing was replaced by laughing.
"Foolish bravery is the mark of a untested warrior," said Caspian. "The Slavers are a powerful guild. They'll not bend knee to a single warrior. Especially a woman."
Sinjin ignored his protests. "For years our Clan Father has worked toward an alliance between the Ju'Das and the Drekma clans. Mighty Threll has blessed me with this opportunity. I must not fail to seize it. The Choosing is very traditional. No woman has ever led a clan. I must shame the others with such a quest. Something grand... heroic... No bathyn that I know of has ever ventured as far east as Rukemia. But to travel here and bring down these slave lords would be-"
"-a fool's quest."
"It can be done. One must simply have faith in oneself. Threll," she said looking up into the stars, "will guide me."
They sat in silence for awhile, each contemplating the other's words.
"Do you know these lands?" she finally asked
"Yes, I know them well. I was born on the outskirts of Kitar, not far from here, and in my thirty seven years have traveled over most of the eastern lands. And lands not known to most."
She didn't understand what he meant by the last. But she didn't care.
"Where can I find these slave lords so that I might kill them?"
He was silent for awhile, seeming to contemplate his response. "I think you'll find what you're looking for in Kitar. It has some political ties to the empire and due to imperial influence, the slaver's are tolerated in Kitar, but only just barely."
"Which direction"
"Northeast. But I recommend-"
"Thank you" she cut him off. "Dawn approaches quickly. I should be off".
"I happen to be going that way. I'll travel with you, if you don't mind sharing the road.
"Agreed. What brings you to Kitar?"
The man hesitated. "I'm searching for someone as well." His voice was quiet, tired.
"And who might that be"
He smile as he turned his face toward her.
"You."
This page last updated Wednesday, December 24, 2008. Copyright 1990-2009 David M. Roomes.