The Hralan Glade
The glade was the southern outpost of Clan Arvad—indeed, of any of the clans. Nestled in the hardwoods of the Rhesai Forest, the glade sloped downward until it met the banks of the Serphan River. From here the river ran northward twenty miles around a gentle bend and under Fate Bridge before it joined as a tributary to the larger Naraganth. Those were dangerous paths, for the Fate Bridge was the gateway to the Election Fields and its stones had been trod by more armies down the centuries than any other bridge in all of Hrunard. The armies of the Elect from the lands of both the dragons Satinka and Jekard marched proudly to their doom across this bridge, and never in over four hundred years did they return. Though the days of the Election Fields were past, the war that it caused ground on. The rules of war had changed but its purposes remained the same, and thus Fate Bridge was still in use carrying men to their deaths.
Such dark paths were well to the northeast of Hralan Glade, a name taken from an ancient map fragment passed down to the inhabitants of the local small villages—also well to the north—and whose origins had long since been forgotten. It was a place of peace and beauty, blessedly situated out of the way of warring human and dragonkind and therefore remained untouched.
Caelith considered it all for a moment, rooted where he stood on a small knoll rising amid the gentle slope of the glade, his arms folded across his chest. Was this grassy expanse named for some ancient conqueror or just some forgotten local hero? From the sound of it, the name was fairly obviously Rhamasian, but was it a place, or a person, or a feeling, or just meaningless syllables that someone thought pretty? It was idle speculation, he realized, something to keep his mind occupied rather than dwell on the things that were of real concern.
“Master Caelith,” came the gruff, familiar voice behind him. “The company is assembled per your instructions.”
Caelith nodded without glancing at his lieutenant. “So the mists have gathered, have they, Master Kenth?”
The aged warrior chortled. The company was given the title “Mists of Arvad” by the clan elders in recognition for their service several years before. What had once been a source of embarrassment had since become a label of pride. “Aye, gathered and awaiting your word.”
“Would that the rest of our party was as prepared.” Caelith frowned, his gaze still fixed across the glade. Several hundred feet away, Margrave was making a fuss in a voice that was entirely too loud about having to leave their wagon behind. Throughout his histrionics, several warriors from his company were trying to load their supply saddles across the back of the braying torusk. The young servant girl did her best to comfort the beast while Eryn Caedon stood nearby studiously ignoring everyone around her despite the horrendous din.
“Which do you think is louder,” Kenth sniffed. “The torusk or that plumed fool?”
Caelith cleared his throat and scowled. “What difference does it make; either one could give our position away to any deaf man within ten miles. Honestly, Kenth, I’d prefer a straight-up fight with Vasska himself to baby-sitting this lot on holiday.” Caelith suddenly called out down the slope. “Lucian! Why the delay?”
The tall mystic extracted himself from among the supply saddles and jogged quickly up the slope toward them, stopping several feet away and holding his hands up.
“Master Kenth,” Lucian asked with a flash of humor in the corner of his eyes. “My good fellow, do you think it safe for me to approach your fearsome leader? The last time I surprised him in his reveries—”
“You became intimately acquainted with a tree, I believe,” Caelith finished without a smile.
“Ah, but you do not look nearly as formidable as you did on that day,” the tall man said, dropping his hands and casually approaching. “And it is a beautiful day to begin such an adventure as merry fellows. I detest beautiful days.”
“You detest them?” Caelith asked, knowing even as he did that he did not want to hear the answer.
“Indeed I do, sire.” Lucian nodded in mocking solemnity. “For a beautiful day is never so wondrous as it is in memory—and impossible to enjoy properly at the time. Moreover, I believe bad rehearsals—as our friend Margrave may be inclined to say too loudly and too often—make for good performances. We seem to be starting out, as it were, in the hole.”
“Hmm,” Caelith grunted in reply, folding his arms critically. “Well, I told you I don’t know anything about formal theater, but if you are looking for a bad rehearsal, I think you’re looking at one now.”
Lucian turned to look back down the slope. Margrave was now in full voice, gesturing wildly about him, barely missing hitting the warriors as they lifted the heavy bags onto the moaning torusk.
“How long has he been doing that?” Kenth asked.
“About half an hour, I should think,” Caelith responded. “But I’ve been watching him; the entire time he has been complaining, he’s also been unhitching the torusk from the wagon and packing his traveling pack from his own provisions.”
“So, he’s getting ready to leave the wagon,” Kenth considered with scorn, “but insists on protesting it.”
“You know,” Caelith said, “I keep thinking that he’ll run out of words—but so far they just keep falling out of him.”
Lucian drew his head back and laughed heartily. “Very good, old boy!”
“Well,” Kenth muttered. “If you’ll be excusing me, will there be anything else, Master?”
Caelith glanced over at the craggy, weathered face that seemed somehow uncomfortable with the conversation. “Of course, Master Kenth; check everyone’s gear—I’ll let you know as soon as we’re ready to move.”
“At your word, Master.” Kenth bowed and slipped back toward the warriors milling behind them.
“I must say,” Lucian chimed in brightly, “you have assembled a cheerful outing. Kenth there is bursting with good humor, we have ample entertainment in Margrave’s bellowing, and what about the women—handpicked by you, I take it!”
Caelith groaned.
“Oh, come now—can’t be as bad as all that!”
“How much worse could it be? That girl with Margrave—what is her name?”
“Anji?” Lucian offered.
“Yes, that’s it—why can’t I ever remember that? Anyway, just look at her,” Caelith said, pointing to where the young woman was standing next to their emaciated and very sad-looking torusk beast, now heavily loaded with their supplies. She was hugging the creature’s broken tusk in an apparent attempt to comfort it. “How will she survive?”
“So why bring her?”
“We shouldn’t bring her—but Margrave insisted; truth is, he demanded that we bring her,” Caelith said brusquely. “Father and I both tried to dissuade him, but here she is nevertheless. In any event, we needed a torusk driver and she apparently has some ability in that if nothing else.”
“Two fools for the price of one, eh?” Kenth sniffed.
“Three if you count me for bringing them both,” Caelith concluded. “Then there’s Mistress Caedon.”
“How romantic of you to invite her along.” Lucian beamed.
“It was not my idea either,” Caelith snapped, then took in a considered breath. “Brenna Caedon went to my mother and complained that much as she likes me personally, it would be better for the rest of the clans to have Eryn along as an ‘impartial pair of eyes’ to corroborate any actual discovery of this ‘so-called’ Calsandria.”
“What does that make me?” Lucian asked in surprise.
“Partial, apparently.” Caelith shrugged. “In any event, she talked to mother—mother talked to father, and that was pretty much the end of it. I argued against it but I really didn’t have a choice.”
“I thought you liked her,” Lucian asked with affected nonchalance.
Caelith held perfectly still but could feel the corner of his eye twitch just the same. “She’s a fine mystic and a dependable warrior.”
“Just a comrade in arms, eh? Well, that’s not how I heard it,” Lucian purred. “The story that came to me is that the two of you were spending a lot of time together whenever Clan Caedon was visiting. There were even rumors of a few extra and not all that necessary journeys you made yourself to Clan Caedon.”
“Distance exaggerates the story in the telling,” Caelith said with perhaps a little too much force. “We did see each other but that’s apparently all done with now. Besides, I think we have bigger problems that require our attention.”
“I assume,” Lucian said easily, “you mean our guide.”
“I mean our guide,” Caelith said.
Jorgan sat in an area of the glade removed from the rest of them. He was motionless with his pack and walking stick next to him, waiting apparently for Margrave to finish his tirade.
“Has he said anything about the road ahead?”
Caelith shook his head. “Only that our path lies up the Serphan River toward a place called Spirit Valley. Eventually we’ll be entering the Forsaken Mountains wherein—huzzah—lays our supposedly fair Calsandria. Beyond that he refuses to say.”
Caelith looked over at his elder brother—the thought of even having an elder brother jarring him—and wondered how he would ever understand this man. Both he and his father had spoken with the disdainful and arrogant Jorgan over the last week’s preparations, trying to get some understanding of where they were going, but the Pir Inquisitas remained calmly aloof and refused to divulge anything of import.
“So, tell me about your big brother,” Lucian prodded. “What’s he like?”
“I have no idea,” Caelith said abruptly. “He always sleeps away from the clan encampment, refusing my mother’s repeated invitations to stay with us. He prepares his own meals from his own stores and eats alone. He has been forthcoming when it comes to provisions and supplies for this journey. But there is always an air of contempt about him—contempt and something else that I just don’t understand yet.”
“Well, maybe that will come in time; after all, you’ve only had an older brother for about ten days now.” Lucian slapped his companion on the back and drew in a deep breath. “You and I are setting forth into the dangerous unknown with your ex-girlfriend, who is both armed and skilled; a storyteller whose voice will call down every deadly creature within ten leagues if we don’t find a way to shut him up; his waif of a servant girl, who wisely never says anything; and—lest we forget—your dear long-lost brother, who I strongly suspect might just as soon kill us all as sneeze.”
Caelith and Lucian both cast a sideways, skeptical glance at each other.
“Well,” said Caelith sourly, “as long as we know where we all stand. We’ll need my twenty-seven warriors just to protect us from ourselves.”
“Indeed,” concurred Lucian. “A good start.”
Caelith shook his head with a grim smile, then called back loudly over his shoulder. “Kenth!”
“Aye, Master!” came the reply at once.
“Get everyone on their feet,” Caelith snarled as he strode across the field toward where the torusk stood, whining. “Bring the company down and form up in front of the torusk. Let’s get this over with.”
Eryn was apparently done with listening to the complaints from Margrave and had her hand on the hilt of her sword. Anji could barely be seen cowering behind the enormous bulk of the torusk.
Eryn, Caelith thought. What gods brought you into this? He had pushed her out of his mind, buried her memory under a barrow of more urgent tasks and dire circumstances. Yet now she was here again, still beautiful, stubborn, and strong. She was the only thing he ever ran away from in his life and his shame still gnawed at him. He knew strength; it was a thing of battle and survival; it would get him past his doubts about Eryn, too.
“The morning shadows are shortening,” Caelith said loudly enough to cut through Margrave’s jabbering. “It is time we were off. Lovich, is that beast loaded yet?”
“Y-yes, Master Caelith,” the young warrior responded, pulling quickly on the last strap as he spoke.
Margrave quickly raised his hand and moved toward the company commander as he spoke. “If I might just say a few words, Master Caelith—”
“Not now,” Caelith interrupted. “Eryn, did you check the harness on the torusk?”
Eryn shrugged her shoulders, reseating the straps on her traveling pack. “Anji checked it—”
“I didn’t ask if Anji had checked it,” Caelith said with force.
“Yes,” Eryn replied, glowering at Caelith. “I checked the harness and everything is ready.”
“Thank you. I guess all we need is the guide.” Caelith looked around and was surprised to see Jorgan still sitting exactly where he was before.
“I guess we go to him?” Lucian asked.
“I guess we go to him,” Caelith answered, thinking that if every day was going to be this difficult, it would take forever to fulfill their quest, if they ever did. “Master Kenth, get everyone moving; our first journey apparently is to find the guide.”
Caelith led the company and the massive torusk across the slope of the glade. There, amid the grasses, Jorgan still sat motionless, his eyes moving only to follow the approach of the group.
“Are you ready, Jorgan?” Caelith asked with exaggerated patience as he stopped in front of the Inquisitas.
Jorgan faced his brother; the crooked smirk remained on his face. “I am always ready—are you?”
“Absolutely,” Caelith said, ignoring the tone in Jorgan’s remark. He turned around to address the group, assembled now by Kenth in a clear order of march. “Very well. Lovich, Beligrad, Tarin, Phelig, and Warthin—you’ll take perimeter for now. Eryn—”
“Mistress Caedon will remain with the torusk while your warriors trail behind,” Jorgan said, his voice carrying over Caelith’s. “Three scouts will be sufficient in rotation—”
“Inquisitas,” Caelith answered with strained patience, “these men answer to me.”
“No,” Jorgan snapped as he stood up, his slightly larger frame imposing itself over Caelith. “I am in charge here, and you will follow my instructions.”
Caelith turned around, his own discipline barely able to prevent his arms from shaking with the rage that welled up inside him. “You are the guide, sir,” Caelith responded without giving a thumb’s-width of ground, “You may know the way, but I lead this expedition.”
“Excuse me,” Margrave chimed in again. “Before we go—”
“‘Lead the expedition,’ you say?” Jorgan sneered. “To where? It is by the grace of the Pir that you are even being shown the way at all—and it will be by my grace that we move!”
“Your grace be damned, sir,” Caelith snarled back. He could feel the heat of his anger on the back of his neck—as well as the eyes of every member of his company watching this unexpected spectacle with earnest. “Your orders are to be our guide. You show us where to go; not tell us how to get there.”
“Stop it, both of you!” Eryn stepped between the two brothers, planting her open palms on their chests in turn and pushing, with great effort, both of them back a step. “Not five minutes and you’re butting heads? We don’t need a pissing match—not now!”
“Then tell this Pir puppet to do his job and lay off doing mine!” Caelith raged.
Jorgan seethed. “You simpleminded bastard son of a whoring . . .”
“Excuse me!”
Everyone turned toward the shout.
Margrave, gaining attention at last, struck a pose atop the heavily laden torusk and spoke. “In the days of the Dragonkings, five heroes struck out with a company of valiant warriors on an epic quest. One was a balladeer of humble reflection who chronicled their adventures, their dooms, and triumphs of fate. Among them were two brothers: one a priest of the Dragonkings, pious and humble in his service; the other the son of the greatest mystic of their age, a powerful and noble sorcerer of the forbidden arts—enemies at heart but joined at the soul. With them came the mystical friend filled with a humble warrior’s heart and the woman of mystery whose bow shot straight through the heart of their foes and whose eyes could steal their hearts as well.”
Caelith, Jorgan, Eryn, and Lucian all stared at the bard in disbelief. Someone among the ranks of warriors unsuccessfully tried to stifle a laugh.
Margrave was in full dramatic voice as he concluded. “Together—this noble band set out on the greatest quest of their age: to recover the days of glory and the power of their ancestors! Together with one purpose and one heart, the Heroes of the Lost City set out on the greatest quest of theirs or any age!”
“Oh, why don’t you shut up?” Eryn said in disgust. She turned and began stalking off to the south.
Jorgan snorted, then turned back to Caelith. “If the show is now concluded, do you think we might move on before the woman tries to get there before us?”
“Yes, I quite agree,” Caelith said, his voice carefully controlled. “Lead on—please.”
Jorgan turned and began walking toward the south, his dragonstaff swinging easily in his hand with each step.
“Master Kenth,” Caelith called ruefully, “let us follow the priest.”
With a loud protesting trumpet from the torusk, the assembled company finally began moving down to the riverbank, following it and the course of the Pir priest toward the south.
Lucian chuckled, alone in his slow and hollow applause for Margrave, “Well done, old boy!”
“Did you like it?” the bard asked eagerly. “Of course, it’s just a rough idea right now.”
“You left Anji out of it, though,” Lucian observed.
“I’ll put her in later,” Margrave said with a wink.
Over the treetops, Caelith could occasionally catch a glimpse of the tall peaks rising to the south. They seemed farther away than ever to him, and yet he knew that their final destination was to the south far beyond.
He glanced once at Eryn.
It was going to be a very long road indeed.