Farmers & Mercenaries (23 page)

Understanding crept into Clytus as to why Sier Blanch had sent this particular boy. “How long since you were given the blue robes?”

“The better part of two moons past.”

“And you were still living at the Academy?”

“Aye. I am not posted yet.”

Jintrill’s puzzled look told Clytus the Shaper did not follow the events that bound him on this quest. Clytus felt sorry for the young man. “The Grand Elder, in all his pompous wisdom, sent you with me to get you out of his hair.”

The boy stared off into the distance, his face a blank mask.

It would be a hard line to swallow for any man. More so for a newly raised Shaper.

“Be that as it may.” Clytus clapped a hand to the young Sier’s shoulder. “You are here, and we will have need of more healing before this journey is finished. I promise you that.”

Jintrill’s face took on a look of gratitude. “My thanks to you, Mir’am Rillion. I will do my part.”

Clytus rose and gathered the dirty bowls. “Just so we understand each other. This will be no picnic. You are not in the protection of a city any longer. Stay sharp and do as you are told. If things fall apart, keep your head down and try to stay close to me. If I am not here, find Alimia. She will keep you as safe as she can.”

“My thanks to you, sir.” The Shaper’s spirit seemed higher.

And spirit may be all this boy will have to keep him alive out here.

“Now, get some sleep. It will only get rougher as the days go on.” Clytus turned and headed back to the cook fire.

A
lant Cor watched the last sliver of sun bubble down into the ocean’s depths as darkness fell over the whitecaps that stretched off into the endless distance. Stars came out to dot the sky like glittering jewels spreading out over a black cloth. Long ago, what little he could put down during lastmeal had abandoned him into the wake that trailed behind the
Mistbreeze Trader
. With the ship’s gentle rise and fall subsiding, so did Alant’s queasiness. Try as he might, he had found nowhere on this accursed boat to hide from the relentless rocking. Yet here, sitting with his feet dangling over the back edge of what he now knew to be called the quarterdeck, he at least did not feel so retched. He had spent most of the last tenday sitting here.

At dusk, looking back at the sun as it sets, I could almost call it beautiful.

Yet, he could not think of much that had been pleasant on this journey. It would take them the better part of three tendays to reach Hath’oolan. With more than half that time behind them, Alant’s only hope was not to starve to death before they reached land.

“I did think I would find you here, Sier.” The now familiar squeaky voice of Krin sounded behind him and lifted Alant’s spirits a bit. The boy waddled up, slid his almost jet-black legs under the railing, and plopped down next to Alant. “Tis be beautiful, this part of day, huh?”

“Aye, one of the few moments I find peace on this miserable boat.”

“Do no be so glum, Sier. You did keep your lastmeal for near three aurns this eve. You be improving.” The boy giggled. “I do bet that by the time we do reach Elmorr’eth, you will done made a fine addition to this here crew.”

“Oh, aye! Laugh it up! It surely did not feel much of an improvement when it went over the side, even if it did stay in my belly for three aurns.” Alant did not begrudge the boy the jest. Despite their age difference, Krin had become a friend. He reminded Alant of a young Arderi, so full of life and happiness, eager to see the Plane and all its wonders. Unfortunately, this always reminded him of how much he missed his home and family.

Alant cut his eyes to the cabin boy whose room he shared. The sea breeze tussled the curly black hair that sat on Krin’s head, and threatened to drape it over his large, innocent eyes as they stared out to sea.

So full of wonder. I wish I could take life with such ease.

“Krin, you say you have been to Hath’oolan?”

Without taking his brown eyes from the distant horizon, the dark-skinned boy nodded. “Aye, Sier. About once every turn of the seasons or so.”

“Tell me of it.” Alant’s voice had an airy sound to it.

The cabin boy hrumphed and shook his head slightly. “No much to tell, truth be told. The Elmorians be a private race and do guard the secrets of their city well.”

“What do you mean?”

“They do let no one past the harbor gates except them and their Gralets.”

“Gralets? What are those?”

Krin took his eyes off the horizon to look at Alant with a serious manner Alant had never seen on the boy. “I be unsure myself, Sier. I asked the Captain about them once, except he had no answers neither.” His normal wide friendly smile sprang back to his lips. “Have you ever seen an Elmorian, Sier?” When Alant shook his head indicating he had not, the boy’s smile broadened. “I have on occasion. They be dainty creatures. Tall and thin like a mast, they do no pose much in the way of a physical threat, you might say.”

“Aye, yet they are very powerful with the Essence.”

The boy’s smile faded and his face grew somber. “Oh, aye, that be true enough, Sier. Most times when one do take notice and really looks at me, I do feel… well, exposed for lack of a better way to say it. Like they be no looking at me so much as inside of me. Yet, still…having one or two of their monstrous Gralet’nars beside them—each built like a blacksmith’s anvil—will set any man on the path of what be right and true.”

Alant nodded his head. “So, the Gralets—Gralet’nars?—are some type of guard for the Elmorians?”

“Aye, Sier. Big and powerful, they be. Like a walking tree that has a sword at its hip. Tis said they can no be killed by any natural means. They handle any labor the Elmorians needs be done—hauling cargo and the like.”

Waving the boy to stop, Alant shook his head. “Aye, very well and good. Yet the city! Tell me of that! You must have seen
some
of it.”

Eyes twinkling, the easy smile returned to Krin. “Tis be called the White City for a reason. Yet, as I did say, Sier, they no allow outsiders to enter the city proper. The only sight to see be those that do top the outer wall…” Krin let out a low, long whistle. “Tis a sight worthy to see, though. Beautiful spires and towers that do stretch up to the sky, unbelievably thin, and they be so white that if the sun do catch them just so, your eyes water. It be said that the White City be no built by hand, rather it did be pulled from the very ground by the power the Elmorians have over the Essence.” Krin looked back to the horizon and let a long, slow breath escape his lips. “Mere words do no give it justice. I would give much to walk its streets proper. No matter the cost the Elmorians may take from my hide.”

Joining the cabin boy in staring off into the distance, the two fell silent. The last of Krin’s words brought to mind the last thing Sier Sarlimac had said before Alant boarded the
Mistbreeze Trader
.

I am going inside, into the very heart of the city itself. I wonder what price I will be forced to pay?

T
he tall grasses of the field bent slightly in the warm breeze that danced past him from the east. Holding out a hand, he stroked the floret on their tips, and smiled. He loved the tranquility of being in a field, surrounded by an ocean of grain. He gazed at the gentle rolling hills that spread off into the distance in every direction. Spinning in a slow circle, he filled his very core with the sights that surrounded him. A splash of white on the greenish-brown landscape unfolded before him, and his heart leaped as his eyes fell upon the sight of a boy sitting on a blanket, nibbling at some cheese. The boy giggled at something his mother said to him. Clytus Rillion stood there watching his family, his heart aching with affection.

They had tried for so long to have children—Lilaith came from a large family and had wished to populate the entire Plane. As the winters rolled by with no offspring, his wife would say it was the will of the Gods, and they must not feel the time right to bless them with children.

Clytus snorted.

The will of the Gods! More like simple old bad fortune.

They sought out Shapers, drank enough Oolant drought to choke a mule—not to mention pauper a rich man. Clytus had even allowed his beloved to drag him down to her priests, all for naught. They gave up more than a decade ago. Still, Sindian had been born late in the autumn, near six winters past. So small. So innocent. Clytus could almost have believed in the Gods, with such a perfect gift cradled in his arms.

Now, when I stand off and look upon him, I realize what the true meaning of immortality is.

The snap of a twig drew his attention from his family, causing him to glance to his left. The entire field remained a steady swaying motion in the light breeze. A wisp of movement, and the grasses parted like water before the prow of a ship, some hundred paces away. Fur, perfectly colored to match its surrounding, sliced through the stalks as the hunter crept forward.

Clytus tried to call out warning, yet his voice failed him. The creature dropped to the ground, flicking its tail. In an explosion of power it lunged, propelling itself forward at an incredible speed, directly toward his family…

My son.

Forcing himself into action, he tore across the field, heading for a spot that would intersect the prairie lion before it reached its destination. He hefted the short hunting spear he carried in his right hand, and reached out for the Essence. The Sight of the Essence—all motion and energy—dropped on the field like a thin blanket of translucent fog. He saw its swirling Strands all around, interacting with the wind, the edges of the grass, the space between him and the lion sprinting across the field. As fast as he had ever done, he tied together the Strands as he ran, binding the spear to the lion. When he felt the connection complete, he hurled the weapon. His form powerful, yet perfect, his aim true, yet enhanced by the power he wielded through the Essence. The steel oak-leaf tip glinted in the sunlight as the missile arched, streaking across the sky. Alas, even willing the Essence to guide his throw, he felt it slip from him. The Strands unraveled and the spear spun sideways, tumbling in the air end over end. It landed well short of its target, swallowed up by the sea of tall grass.

Lion and man continued their pace, each focused on their own goal. Neither willing to give quarter. Clytus let his hand fall across his body to draw his sword, Dorochi, and almost stumbled when he grabbed the top of an empty scabbard. Whipping his hand to the other side of his belt, he found his dirk scabbard also sat empty. Clinching his jaw, he continued to race across the field, preparing to fling his body at the beast.

I will pay what needs be paid!

He put his head down and quickened his pace. An icy chill gripped his heart when he realized his path would not intersect the creature in time. With every fiber of his being, he willed himself on, yet the harder he pushed, the less ground he covered. He had started his run just a few paces from his family, yet now they sat, oblivious to the doom approaching, well over twenty paces away.

This cannot be!

Again, he tried in vain to scream out warning, still struggling in his pointless flight to intersect the lion. His foot snagged something on the ground and he fell to hands and knees. Tearing through the grass on all fours like the beast he could not hope to catch, he regained his footing and sprinted onward.

Time slowed and the air around him turned thick as honey. His breathing labored and the pounding of his heart thundered in his ears. It pumped blood through his body—blood he would gladly spill to save those that mattered most. Slower and slower he moved, until he stopped, frozen. Frozen like a discarded statue from some long dead civilization.

He looked on in horror as the prairie lion took a loping gait in preparation for its final attack. With hind muscles bunched into tight knots, it sprang forward. Claws glinted in the eerie light that had settled over the land.

Sindian continued to giggle. His mother reached out and brushed a stray bit of sandy-blond hair from the boy’s face.

Maw opened. Fangs gnashing. The huge cat, biggest that ever existed, flew through the air, landing on his son like a hammer striking an anvil.

— —

Jolting upright, the wool blanket slid off Clytus to puddle at his waist. He flung it off and dashed out of his tent on all fours. Firelight burned in his eyes as he sucked in the chilly, late eve air. The land stood silent, save for the snoring of the men surrounding him. The smell of fresh fallen rain filled his nose. He breathed hard, as if he had actually run through the field of grass that now faded from his memory. Willing himself to relax, he reached back into his tent and snatched up his sword. He noted with satisfaction that Dorochi rested in its scabbard. Standing, he strapped it to his waist and nodded to a third watchman who approached.

“Sir? I heard someone cry out.” Concern was apparent on the man’s face.

“Nature calls, Hartin. Continue your vigil.” Clytus waved Hartin away and strode out of the camp.

He did not have far to travel to gain the solitude he sought, for the campsite had been setup small and tight. The large outcrop of rock jutting from the small cliff overhead resembled a giant’s hand descending to crush his men like ants. Finding a large rock far enough from camp to insure his privacy, he sat down and cradled his face in his hands.

I will pay what needs be paid!

Letting out a long, shuddered breath, he lowered himself to the ground and laid his head back against the boulder. It was still cold and damp from the rain that had raged over the past few aurns. Looking up to the heavens, he was gladdened by the sight of the stars shining high in the sky. Tracing the constellations, he found Argillian, the archer, and followed his arrow to Crysineis, the northron most star. Ramstone, the bear, stood just to the far side of Crysineis, roaring defiantly at the archer and preparing to charge. His mind wandered back to the times his own father would sit with him out in the garden behind their home. How his father spent aurns telling him the tales of those who resided on the canvas of the dark sky, forever frozen for all to see.

What will Sindian remember of our moments together? Moments that were all too few. Please forgive me, my son.

He sat up as something pricked his mind. Fear shot along his spine.

Silence enveloped the land.

Even the crickets are hushed!

In one smooth motion he sprang to his feet and drew his blade. He welcomed the worn leather grip to his hand like an old lover. Standing motionless, he closed his eyes, focusing all his attention on his sense of hearing. All around him the quiet became deeper—colder than a crypt. Even the wind had ceased.

A long, low note howled through the darkness, echoing off the cliffs of the Nektine. Its haunting wail cut through the darkness and bit into his very core. He sprinted toward the camp with only one image imprinted in his mind.

O’Arkins!