Go For Stories

The sun shone through the window of the chamber, raising the temperature and the Earl of Stone’s mood. The so-called Natural Order had been quiet of late, allowing his troops to strengthen their resolve. After a few more months of this, his troops would be ready to rid the area of the Order, for good.

Sweat trickled from his hair and into his eyes. He swiped the back of his arm across his face, clearing his vision, but he allowed the rest to drip down his neck and be absorbed by his shirt. The heat always made the Earl happy; the hot season bothered his troops and worked them into a fighting frenzy. It would make the promotion all the more interesting. Since he had done away with the old ways of choosing leaders in the ranks, his force had grown stronger and more daring.

There was a knock at the door, cutting into his reverie.

“Enter.”

The door creaked open and in stepped a tall Pyresman pulling an Order slave, shackled and miserable.

“My lord, there is a messenger to see you,” said the soldier.

“Thank you, Rokyl,” said the Earl, pouring himself a goblet of warm ale. “How go the preparations?”

“Very well, my lord. The Arena is set and the sand has been laid.”

The slave shuffled from foot to foot, impatient at having been ignored, no doubt.

“And the traps?” asked the Earl. “Are they ready?”

“Not as yet, I’ve been told.”

The Earl rolled his eyes.

“Why ever not? I gave specific instructions for the traps to be prepared by the day’s end.”

“There is still time, Earl. It is half a day before the sun is due to set.”

“And when have I ever accepted merely on time as good enough?” He took a deep gulp from the goblet and stared at the Pyresman, who gave a nervous swallow.

“I, I have been assured that the promotion will be of the highest standard this year. The proposed traps are said to be quite entertaining. Quality takes time, it would seem.”

“Very well.” He cast a glance at the slave who shuffled from foot to foot and heaved a great sigh. “Yes? Tell me what you’re here for.”

“It’s the Northern Barracks, my lord. They’ve been infiltrated and …”

The Earl waved his hand. “Carry on.”

“The Pyre Leader and the Lead Guard have been murdered.”

The Earl bit down a wave of rage and smiled. “Well, isn’t it lucky that we have a promotion prepared? Now it shall be twice as interesting.”

Rokyl cleared his throat and nodded at the slave. The slave lowered his head.

“That isn’t all,” he said, his voice faltered, unable to bring himself to continue.

“What? What is it?”

“The Helm of Ren’nel has been stolen.”

The goblet flew across the room as the Earl’s rage grew too great.

“WHAT?!”

The slave staggered backwards, but was pulled straight by the soldier that stood by his side. He opened and closed his mouth, sucking in shallow breaths.

“Please, it wasn’t me. I was just sent to deliver the message.”

The Earl stormed across the room towards him.

“But it was you, wasn’t it? Every one of your ‘Order’ is connected in some disgusting way.”

“If you will excuse me, my lord,” said Rokyl, “there is no proof that it was the Order.”

“Rokyl,” the Earl turned to face the soldier, “the Helm of Ren’nel is a highly sought relic for the Order. It once belonged to a member of theirs that chanced upon a dying quadrant and fought his way through an army of sick and infirm soldiers. Do you not see? They believe that that helmet belongs to them. Right now, they need any symbol they can get in order to rally their people in some form of rebellion. There is no other explanation as to who would have stolen it.” He turned to the slave. “And this, this snivelling creature is one of them. If we allow this deed to go unpunished, the Order will rise as one and, whether they succeed or not, they will attempt to drive us from our homes. So, who do you think really stole the helm, Rokyl?”

Rokyl stood to attention. “The Order, my lord.”

“Very good. Take this thing to be executed.” As the slave whimpered, he turned back to his desk. Changing his mind, he returned his glare to the now-quivering slave. “Better yet, have him worked into the traps somehow. I want this to be an example for the Order. I want them to know what happens when one of their own defies me.”

The slave dropped to his knees, his body wracked by silent sobs.

“Of course, Earl,” said Rokyl after a short pause. “Will that be all?”

“No, for your questioning of my judgement, you shall now be personally responsible for finding the thief and bringing him to bow at my feet.”

Rokyl nodded and grabbed the slave from the floor. He dragged him from the room. The Earl could hear his cries as the chamber door closed. He took no pleasure in the misery of the slave. If he had chosen the right way, he would never have needed this punishment. A man’s death should be his own and nobody else’s.

He returned to his desk and drank straight from the flagon. To infiltrate the Northern barracks only showed the growing boldness of the Order. He had to stop them before they spread like the weeds they were, choking his land with their old fashioned nonsense.

*          *          *

V’esen set out at a leisurely pace, enjoying the solitude after the frantic social schedule his return had sparked. He wore leather pants and a simple leather vest, opting for speed and agility over the armour that he had picked up on his last mission. He had a bag full of bread and smoked meat, a pair of daggers, and a small crossbow with a leather band full of bolts strapped to his wrist. He figured if he ran out of food before completing his quest, he could probably take down a horned-cat or some other creature.

He had never failed to feel at peace in the Marad’r forest. This was where he played and climbed as a child and learned to fight and love as an adolescent. This forest was just as much a home as the house he grew up in with his parents. Being in the forest reminded him of exactly why the Order were against the Earl and his men. For every forest in view, it was only a matter of time before it was destroyed and turned to cities of stone and misery where the only trees were planted in unnatural rows and trimmed into odd shapes.

He stopped walking and knelt down on the ground. It had been too long since he had prayed to the Soil. Due to his occupation, he tended towards the gods that aided in his quests: the Wind, Rain and Moon. He lowered his head and whispered thanks for the plants that grew from the ground and the foundation upon which his home was built.

When he stood, he felt both relaxed and eager to complete his mission. If he were to continue at the pace he had set, it could take weeks before he achieved anything.

So, he ran. His bag bounced upon his back as he sped through the trees and over fallen logs. His legs were a blur beneath him as he revelled in the feeling of the wind through his hair. His blue marks were exposed but, if his vision were true, there was nobody about to see. He felt free and happy.

Before long, he reached a point where he could hear the stream bubbling nearby. This meant he had already travelled further than expected; an exhilarating thought. Once more, he remembered the first time he had met Caral. He was smitten with her and had fought for so long to catch her eye. For years she teased and flirted, making his life miserable. Eventually his muscles had begun to fill out and she seemed to take an interest. Though it pained him at first to think she was only attracted to his body, he grew to believe that was pure coincidence of timing. Now, in their own way, they were happy together.

He ran over the small hill that obscured the stream from his view and sprinted straight to the small cascade that babbled away with happy abandon. He dove off the edge and into the pool with barely a splash. The water was cool against his sweat-soaked skin and the current washed him away from the round pool. He knew not where he was going, but had only trust of his visions to go on. Wherever his destination, this was the beginning of the journey.

Once clear of the pool, he rolled onto his back and kicked gently pushing himself further downstream. The flow was strong enough that he outpaced his run, but calm enough so as not to threaten drowning. After a while, he rolled back over and kept his eyes open for any signs of something that may lead to a castle. He swam like this for hours, gently kicking to keep himself afloat and enjoying the chance to relax..

Not too long before nightfall, he came upon a bend in the river. He hadn’t seen it in his vision, but something compelled him to swim to the riverbank. The ground at the water’s edge was soft and his legs were weakened by their time in the water. He puffed and groaned as he struggled through the mud, dragging his feet clear at last.

Now on solid ground, he pulled off his boots, emptied them of water and slipped them back on. As the sun dried his boots and leather clothes, they tightened against his body. He had bought these from the village tanner and knew that the soft leather would retain its pliability but, until his clothes finished drying, he would be forced to slow his pace or suffer for it. As it was the sun had begun its descent and what little light got through the canopy had started to dim, so he searched for a good tree in which to sleep.

The best trees for sleeping are thick with few branches down low. This would keep the branches from snapping while he slept and also protect him from predators that may feel like a middle of the night snack. He found one such tree and leapt, kicking off the trunk and launching himself towards the lowest branch. He grabbed it with both hands and hauled himself up. From his new position he was able to test the true strength of the branch; it was solid enough, but he chose to climb higher to keep him from any prying eyes. About halfway up the trunk fanned out into three smaller sections, creating a rounded bowl in the tree.

“Perfect,” he said, removing his bag and placing it under his head as he lay down.

Within minutes, the sun had gone and the darkness embraced the forest. The canopy was too thick to allow the moonlight through, so V’esen stared into the darkness and tried to get to sleep.

Unfortunately, the horned-cats had a different plan for him. He had barely drifted off before their brash calls woke him. They were close, so V’esen climbed down the tree a way to spot their whereabouts. It took a while for his eyes to adjust to the dark but when they did he saw a group of three big cats prowling the forest floor below him. They sniffed the air and circled the base of the tree, looking for their next meal and calling to each other. Despite the darkness, their white fur and orange stripes could be easily seen, along with their curling brown horns. Not wanting to make their search too easy, V’esen headed back up to his temporary bedchamber.

There he lay, listening to the scratching and shrieking of the horned-cats. Hours later, he fell into a deep sleep and dreamt he was one of the cats, prowling the forest for fresh meat. His senses were alive, sparking with the thrill of the hunt. The smell of a nearby meal came to him, flaring his nostrils. He let out a short grunt. His fellow cats fell in beside him.

A small sound, the breaking of a twig, caught his ears. He snapped his head to the side ran. There was no time for thought, only the chase. He ran and ran, streaking through the woods like a white and orange blur. The others ran behind, ready to kill what he missed. Of course, he wouldn’t miss.

With a dash forward and a shriek, he snared the small animal in his jaws. It wriggled and twisted, fighting for its very life. He allowed it a moment to think it would escape, relaxing his jaws a little. It slipped out the side and fell. Halfway down, he snatched it from the air, clenching his fangs with a satisfying crunch. Blood flowed freely from the creature’s mangled throat and he swallowed, savouring the sensation as it ran across his tongue.

V’esen moaned in his sleep and rolled over. A smile played across his slumbering face.