Legend of the Ravenstone (40 page)

Rourke gaped at him. “What happened?”

“I turned myself in,” Hale said. “And I spent many long days in prison. Time was all I had to think about my life. I would have faced the gallows, but it turned out my attacker had been a criminal, and they decided to let me go. That was the second time I met Bill. He helped me to begin again.”

Hale looked up and nodded at the approaching Jornoans, and Rourke bit his lip. “If they intend a friendly bout, then you should not have much to fear. Please do not injure yourself...or them.”

“Easy for you to say,” Rourke mumbled, and he went to meet Hesun and Arshod.

They led him away from the camp, to a lightly wooded area. Hesun stood apart from them and folded his arms.

“He will moderate,” Arshod said with a smile. He drew his sword, and Rourke drew his.

Stance and breathing. Don’t hurt anybody. Don’t get hurt. Aw, Lorth.
Rourke kept his feet spaced, and held the sword in front of him, as he had seen Hale do once before. He felt balanced. And he was breathing—last he checked.

Hesun made a grand gesture to commence the fight.

Arshod started to move, and Rourke moved too, trying to keep his opponent opposite him.

Arshod made a sudden jab, closing the distance between them. Rourke awkwardly leapt back, though he need not have worried. His arm reached out and parried the blow. Arshod smiled and drew back. “You move like a spider tangled in his own legs.”

Rourke shrugged. “’S just how I fight.”

Arshod came at him again, with a side blow, and Rourke’s arm lifted and moved to where it needed to be, the clang of metal against metal ringing through the evening air. “Why not try a move, Enforcer? Or do I intimidate you?”

Hawkwing said to be defensive. No bloodshed.
“I’ll move when I’m ready,” Rourke said.

Arshod seemed to be losing patience, though he maintained a fair demeanor. At once he came at Rourke with a series of quick thrusts and slashes, and each time, Rourke’s sword miraculously deflected every blow.
Maybe I
can
handle this
, the brute thought, gaining confidence. This time, he moved in first, and Arshod was forced to defend. The Jornoan held his own, though he did so with more grace and skill that spoke for years of training.

Back and forth they went, and Rourke was beginning to learn that his magic weapon did not bestow upon him any gift of endurance. It also had no sympathy for unconditioned muscles.
How do I know when it’s over?
He took a breath and watched his opponent warily. Arshod seemed to be assessing him, deciding where and how to strike.
I can’t back down now, but I can’t keep this up, either.

The Jornoan gave a shout and engaged in a new bout. Arshod was relentless, but his attack turned to defense when Rourke decided to meet him with just as much vigor. The Jornoan began to retreat as Rourke gained the upper hand, and with a cry of his own, the brute gave a mighty strike. The air stilled in that moment, the magic blade driving forward toward its intended target. It was a horrible moment—a moment when Rourke was certain that he had made his first kill.

Arshod’s sword lifted and caught Rourke’s blade, the force behind the deflection spinning the brute away. His world reeling, Rourke caught his breath as he started to feel the hilt of his sword slip from his grasp.

“I have you, Enforce—” Arshod’s victory line was left broken, just as his final move was foiled. His lunge met open air as Rourke impossibly evaded the attack. Arshod stumbled forward. Rourke’s sword pulled his body hard, avoiding the tip of the blade. Still spinning, his arm twisted over his back, nearly dislodging his shoulder as the flat of the blade smacked the top of Arshod’s wrist, dropping the sword from his grasp. Rourke’s cry was mistaken for triumph as Arshod took a step back to gape at him.

Hesun held up his arms. “It is over,” he said. “The Enforcer wins.”

Arshod bowed, cradling his wrist. “I cannot fathom how,” he admitted. “You do not fight like any other.”

Rourke turned his grimace into a tight smile. “Ya did alright.” He patted Arshod on the arm with his free hand.

The Jornoan returned a grudging smile. “I must confess that I did not entirely believe your stories,” he said. “It is with new respect and some apology that I must reconsider the truth.”

“’S alright,” Rourke said. “You probably got good stories too.”

“And there will be time enough to tell them over dinner,” Hesun said, looking over his shoulder toward camp. “Come. Our light is fading.”

~*~

T
he fire fed new life into the travelers as food and drink were passed liberally around the circle. Hesun had found no reason to keep the recent battle to himself, and while Argamus and Hale sported reluctant smiles, Rashir and his brothers were more than intrigued by the skills of Rourke of the East Freeland Enforcers. It was, surprisingly, Arshod who spoke the highest of the brute’s victory.

“I cannot say how he made that final move but for an unseen spirit of expert swordsmanship,” Arshod said.

Hesun nodded his agreement and held up a coin. “I am grateful to that spirit.”

There was laughter all around but for Nesif, whose voice silenced them. “I wish I could have borne witness to this amazing feat.”

“Do not worry, brother,” one of the lot said. “For all the Enforcer’s boasted skill, you have never been bested.”

“Do not say that,” Nesif said quietly.

“
She
does not count,” Hesun said. “
She
was a devil—not of this world.”

“And she is gone. We are better for it,” said another.

“Enough.” Nesif silenced them again. “We will speak no more of Captain Xiuss.”

“So we have mighty swords in our party,” Asmat said. He glanced around the ring. “What use are swords in the Haunted Forest?”

“Do you expect resistance?” Nesif asked. “I did not think you placed faith in ghosts.”

“Yet we have a demon,” Asmat argued.

“But even he bleeds,” Arshod said.

“Yes, but Veloria is another mystery—a timeless tale with enough legends to fill a tome,” Rashir said, and all heads turned to him. “Do not forget that we seek the enchanted waters of a stream that grants life eternal. What sort of life, do you think, is fed by such a stream?”

“Fairies,” Rourke blurted. He was grateful the darkness hid his blush.

“Dragons,” Arshod said with a nod. “They are said to guard the boundaries of the forest.”

“Dragons burn forests,” Hesun said. “Unicorns guard it.”

“The trees guard themselves,” said another. “They uproot and walk as men.”

“Ridiculous!”

“Is it?”

“Wait.” Rashir lifted his head. “We have in our midst an expert of magic and lore—a Medoriate from Mystland.” He patted Argamus on the back, and the wizard nearly choked on his wine. “What lore have you heard of the Haunted Forest?”

Argamus straightened. “Well, you might speak of pixies and the like, but as I understand it, the forest is ruled by immortal spirits of Light. The Ilangiel.”

“Elves,” Rourke said.

“Call them what you will.” Argamus waved his hand. “They wander the woods, giving life to all within it. They are said to be as old as the world itself, having taken form in the Beginning.”

“I know of these ‘Ilangiel,’” Rashir said. “Their touch is said to heal any wound or illness.”

“Indeed.” Argamus turned to his pipe and did not say more.

“It is incredible to me,” asserted Hale, “that no one has seen one, yet so many miraculous abilities are attributed to such creatures of folklore.”

“Because they hide in the forest,” Rourke said.

“Does your opinion differ from your leader’s?” Rashir asked him, though his gaze remained upon Hale. “Do you believe in elves and unicorns, Enforcer?”

Rourke looked down at his empty plate.

“There is no shame in it,” Rashir assured him. “We would not be on this journey if we did not believe in the enchanted stream.”

“I do,” Rourke admitted. He looked up to find a wry smile pass and vanish from Hale’s stern face.

“So again I ask,” Asmat said, “what good are swords against magic?”

“You spent hours ‘training’ that demon,” Hesun said. “It better be of some good!”

Laughter rose with the flames again, but conversation soon quieted as the meal ended and weariness settled with the night. Arshod kept first watch, and Rourke once again found himself in the Jornoan’s company.

“I, too, believe in the spirits of the forest,” Arshod admitted to him. “It is why we have the demon. Rashir believes it to be a creature of Shadow, and therefore able to oppose the Light of the Ilangiel.”

“Have you seen it do magic?” Rourke asked.

“I have seen it call in a great storm,” Arshod said. “The very one through which you rode when you first arrived.”

“Ya think a storm is gonna stop an elf?”

“No.” The voice belonged to Asmat, not Arshod.

“Brother, I did not know you were awake,” Arshod said.

Asmat stood—perhaps a little wobbly from the wine. “That creature will not save us. It is a freak—an anomaly that had been used for a convincing performance. The Prophet’s pet has no power.”

Arshod frowned and held out his hands. “Why would Rashir bother with it, then?”

“All for show,” Asmat said.

“That’s not what I hear.” Rourke folded his arms, ready to defend. “The stories say it can change its size. It can stomp mountains flat, burn trees with its wings of flame. It can shape lightning and make the ground shake—”

Asmat interrupted him with hard laughter. “You best stick to your sword if you believe all you hear. Who do you think created those stories but the Prophet himself?” He gestured for them to rise. “Come and see your great demon.”

Arshod and Rourke followed him to the covered wagon, where the cage sat covered at the back of the bed. Asmat tore the blanket away, revealing the shrouded, huddled creature inside. “Tremble in fear, if you will, Enforcer. The mighty White Demon is here, trapped in an iron prison.” Asmat picked up a stick and rattled it against the wooden spokes of the cage.

“You make too much noise,” Arshod said, glancing back at the sleeping encampment.

“But this is the Great Demon,” Asmat said. “Heralded by Shadow, with eyes that burn like blue flame.” He thrust the stick inside to jab at the creature, which shrank away to the corner. It could not, however, escape the reach of the stick.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Rourke said, trying to sound grave.

Asmat stuffed the stick into his hand. “If you were me? Have your jab. Learn the truth about this sorry beast.”

“Rashir would not be pleased,” Arshod said. “Asmat, you are drunk. Go back to sleep and regain your senses.”

“What I suspect,” Asmat said, ignoring his companion, “is that our Enforcer is a coward. He hides behind his own epic tales. Lies are given so freely; few can back their boasts. Are you a liar or a genuine warrior?”

Arshod moved between Asmat and Rourke. “He need prove nothing to you. I fought him, and I can speak for his skill.”

“Your own skills are not so impressive,” Asmat sneered. He glared at Rourke. “I invite you to take this moment and learn the truth. Regardless of what Arshod boasts, the choice is yours.”

Rourke looked at the stick in his hand, then at the demon. He bit his lip.
Just poke it. Then he’ll be happy. A quick poke. That’s it.
He pushed the stick through the bars and lightly poked at the huddled form.

“As I thought,” Asmat said. Then he grabbed Rourke’s arm and thrust it forward like a foil, stabbing hard at the creature, which merely endured the torture.

Rourke jerked his arm away. “Don’t ever touch me again,” he growled.

“Or what?” Asmat asked. “You’ll poke me with your sword?” He laughed until a slight shadow joined them. He silenced immediately, and all expression left his face.

Rashir uttered one word—a foreign word as sharp as flint—and Asmat slunk away. “Cover the creature, Arshod,” he said and turned to Rourke. “I apologize for Asmat’s behavior. You will find he will have his own apology for you in the morning. There will be no further misconduct on behalf of my party. Good night, Enforcer.”

Rourke was speechless as Rashir disappeared. He looked at Arshod, who had grown sullen. “Do not wait for me; it is best you find some rest,” the Jornoan said.

Rourke nodded, his feet slow to move. He watched Arshod pull at the blanket and found that beneath the shroud, two luminous eyes stared back at him. Even as he turned away, he could feel them follow him into the darkness.

“B
ack off,” Nesif warned, angling his massive frame between the crowd and the Priagent. Several of the other brothers created a living wall, surrounding Rashir, Argamus, and Hale, with Rourke trailing at the rear. Even with the protective measure, the angry people crowded against them, slinging insults, rotten fruit, and even stones.

“Dear me, I cannot imagine what has stirred their ire,” Argamus said.

“Can’t you?” Hale limped his way behind him. “Foreigners.”

“It was my impression that the Freelands were more tolerant of merchants and travelers,” Rashir said, just as surprised by the vehemence of the mob.

“That would depend,” Hale gritted, trying to quicken his pace, “upon your appearance.”

“Ah, indeed,” Argamus muttered, recalling what he and Kariayla had experienced earlier in their travels. He glanced at Rashir. “Do you not fear for the safety of the company you sent to the stable?”

“Asmat, Hesun, and Jamil are quite capable of self-defense,” the Priagent said. “I am more concerned that we not encounter a similar atmosphere once we reach the inn.” The group forced their way to a grand building with a freshly painted sign. “The Minstrel’s Quarter” was as quiet as a winter’s night once they had found their way inside.

The innkeeper greeted them, two burly men looming upon either side of him. “I apologize for the commotion,” he said, eyeing the group. When Rashir stepped forward, purse in hand, he relaxed but a little. “The trouble should be gone in a day or two.”

“Need we fear for our safety?” Rashir asked. “I would sooner keep to the road if there is no haven for us here.”