A Picture of the Heart

Laine took one last look at the tents scattered across the plains before heading to the back of the wall and entering the stairwell. At the bottom, he turned left on Southgate toward the armory. He still couldn’t believe that Mr. Meticulous himself was allowing anyone else, especially a new Lieutenant, to handle troop prep. On a typical day, Laine would be lucky if Joran permitted him to observe gear issue. These Weurgen had him concerned, perhaps even scared, and anything that rattled Joran needed to be approached with extreme caution.

Once the wall opened, he turned left and entered the short tunnel where two wooden training dummies stood guard on either side of the armory door. Out of habit, he smacked one of their hands as he passed, causing it to spin in circles. He smiled as the dummy—someone had taken the liberty of painting a goofy face on—spun. It was childish but had become something of a ritual for him and his archers.

He hadn’t made it two steps inside before it was obvious why Joran had opted to skip the preparations. Instead of the chaos generally caused by his archers, Joran’s men, without instructions, had formed two lines in front of the issue windows. The men on the left received swords before moving to one of the three long tables—donated to White Oak courtesy of the Bergsteiger—while the men on the right received gear and moved to numbered spots on the floor where they laid out their armor. At the tables, the defenders secured their swords into brackets and started sharpening them.

Like a well-oiled machine, whetstones ground against the edge of blades while others silently inspected gear. Not only had he never seen his men inspect their daggers, but he also couldn’t recall seeing any of them inspect their leathers. Still, the differences were easy enough to understand. His men, for the most part, were safely tucked away inside the towers or behind parapets, while the defenders expected face-to-face combat.

He’d just decided supervision wasn’t required and needed to simply stay out of the way when a nearby defender asked a question.

“Lieutenant, will you inspect our gear before or after we don it?”

He hadn’t planned on inspecting anything. After all, he’d never worn iron armor. “What would Commander Joran do?”

“The Commander randomly picks a few defenders and inspects their gear at the window as it’s issued. Then, after we’ve donned our gear, he comes around and chooses a few of us to inspect.”

“Whose senior ranking?”

The defender scanned the room and pointed to a man at the far table sharpening his sword.

“Thank you,” Laine said, heading directly for the most senior defender and assigning him the inspection task before returning to his spot beside the wall.

In the brief time he’d walked away, the man who’d asked about the inspections had donned his gear. Laine watched as the man worked each piece around at the joints. Apparently satisfied, he went to one of the practice dummies near the exit. Assuming a wide stance, he pulled his sword and sliced upward from waist to head. Then, with bone-shattering force, he brought the blade down onto the dummy’s head. The blow was so powerful that it buried the sword several inches into the dense oak. Laine glanced around, wondering if anyone else had seen the display, but no one seemed to take notice. I’m glad he’s on our side, he thought.

Once every defender was armed, their armor donned, and weapons sharpened, Laine breathed a sigh of relief. The process had gone smoothly but taken longer than he would have liked. Clearly, Joran’s men adhered to the concept that slow was smooth and smooth was fast. Regardless, they were fully prepared, which was the most important thing. Outside, Laine looked west, tempted to take the shorter route to the courtyard, but that meant passing those creepy old shacks. So, instead, he opted to turn right and take Southgate to South Outer Court.

Turning left onto South Out Court, he was passing by the barracks when a flicker of motion caught his eye from the first-floor window. He watched as two defenders engaged in fierce combat. The sight brought back memories of his first week in White Oak. Then, he’d spotted the same event and had run into the building, intending to break up a quarrel, only to find two Upstarts—the name assigned to new defenders—sparring downstairs. These days, he didn’t think much about the familiar sight. Although, he did wonder if they had any idea what was waiting on the other side of the southern wall. For that matter, did he have any idea what awaited them? Of course, his personal uncertainties would probably be resolved after his meeting with Joran. In contrast, the Upstarts would have to go into battle blind. That was if they were permitted to fight in this battle, and if they were, it would probably mean things had gotten desperate for White Oak.

Looking west, Laine checked the sun’s position and decided he best get moving. Continuing north, up South Outer Court, he climbed the hill and entered the courtyard through the gate in the waist-high stone wall. Instead of taking the straight path to the throne room, he turned left onto the trail hedged by tall bushes. At the end, he popped out in front of the shorter structure connected to the throne room’s left side, where Nichols was leaning against the wall beside a wooden door.

“About time you showed up.”

“Wanted to make sure Commander Joran’s men had everything they needed,” Laine replied.

Nichols shook his head and pulled the door open. Inside, a red rug stretched from the entryway to the end of the long hallway. Many high-backed chairs sat beneath paintings of various parts of the realm. As they approached the end of the hall, two stoic guards took one step to the side in unison.

“Any idea what that is?” Laine asked, pointing to the carving on the door of a large man with wings.

“No, and I don’t care,” Nichols said, stepping through the door and turning right.

Laine looked at the guards and shrugged. The guards stared ahead without acknowledging. Tough crowd today. Stepping through the door, Laine turned right. Nichols was already sixty feet ahead and about to disappear around a curve in the hall. Great, Laine thought and jogged after him. When he rounded the curve, he spotted Nichols, thirty feet ahead, disappearing into the left wall. Jogging ahead, Laine paused at the door Nichols had gone through. War Chamber, he said to himself as he read the sign above the door. He started to grasp the handle but decided to knock instead.

“Lieutenant Laine, come in and shut the door behind you,” Joran said.

Joran and Nichols were on one side of a round table, and a tall man was on the other. The first thing that stood out wasn’t his grey eyes, long white hair, or the sash with the blue fringes draped across his shoulders. Instead, the white oak embroidered on his tunic over his chest caught Laine’s eye. In contrast to the sweat-stained tan tunics the defenders and archers wore, this man’s shirt was brilliantly white, and, of course, the white oak over his heart was a unique touch.

“Lieutenants, this is Keeper,” Joran said. “Keeper, would you mind telling the Lieutenants about yourself?”

“Of course. Simply put, I record the past, present, and sometimes the future events involving White Oak and parts of the surrounding realm.”

“The future events?” Nichols asked sardonically.

“Look around, Lieutenant,” Keeper said, motioning toward the bookshelves surrounding the room. “These books represent everything pertaining to White Oak’s history. Some of them happen to contain details about its future.”

“Intriguing,” Nichols said. “So, we came for a history lesson?”

How Joran kept his composure while Nichol’s irreverence spewed out was beyond Laine.

“I believe now is a good time to show them,” Joran said, ignoring the comment.

Keeper nodded and glided to a shelf while towing the rolling ladder behind him. He only needed the third rung of the ten available to reach the book on the tallest shelf, which he carefully placed in the center of the table.

“The book of knowledge will show you what you need to know,” he said, nodding to Joran before leaving the room.

“Joran, why not just tell us what we need to know so we can get on with it?” Nichols asked.

“Some things, Lieutenant—” Joran said, emphasizing the word Lieutenant, “you won’t understand until you’ve seen them for yourself, and trust me when I say you’ll want to have some idea about this enemy before you face them in battle.”

How could seeing it for themselves in a book be better than hearing a first-hand account by Joran? Laine pondered. Stepping over beside Nichols, he examined the leather book. Embossed on the cover was a tree he recognized as oak.

“It’s just a book, Laine,” Nichols chided, reaching out and carelessly flipping it open.

“Find the section titled Battle of Black Oak,” Joran directed.

“Haven’t we been over that battle enough by now?” Nichols asked impatiently.

“We have referenced the battle many times; however, after today, I doubt you’ll ever look at it the same again.”

Taking advantage of Nichol’s distraction, Laine pulled the book closer and flipped through it.

“Found it,” he said, pointing to the title and interrupting the tense moment between the two men.

Nichols clearly had issues with Joran. Witnessing his disrespect and blatant contempt for his superior was painfully uncomfortable. It was something Laine simply couldn’t understand. After all, he’d had his fair share of grievances concerning Sikes. Still, he’d learned to separate his professional and personal opinions early on. After all, Sikes had a job to do in the Vale. One which he took very seriously. For all the man’s faults, no one could accuse him of not doing his job.

“Read the title,” Joran said.

“Battle at the Black Oak,” Laine read aloud. In an instant the words melted and merged to form the image of a black oak tree. Its leaves were shaking as if blown about by wind hidden within the page.

“What type of strange magic is this?” Nichols asked.

“The kind you’ll never forget,” Joran said from behind Laine. He’d taken advantage of Laine’s distraction to position himself behind him and Nichols. Shouldering his way between them, Joran grabbed Laine’s wrist with his right hand in a vice-like grip. Laine looked over to find that Joran had Nichols’ wrist in his left hand.

“Joran,” Laine said, looking back to find his Commander with a big smile plastered across his face.

“Get ready,” Joran said, thrusting their hands into the page.

“What’s happening?” Laine shouted as he wrestled against Joran’s iron grip, or perhaps the invisible force within the page, or possibly both.

With his right hand, he gripped the table and held on for dear life as his left arm was pulled into the page up to his shoulder. He wondered which would give first, shoulder joints or fingers. The question was answered as his four-fingered grip became three, then two, and it was over; he'd lost the tug of war. The moment his head dipped into the page, he emerged on the other side to find himself plummeting through the sky toward the ground. In that instant, fear, such as he’d never experienced, overwhelmed him. Held captive within his throat, screams, desperate to escape, remained helpless pleas. With the ground rapidly approaching, every muscle tensed. Closing his eyes, he awaited the impact, only it didn’t come. He peeked. What? He’d stopped two feet above the ground, seemingly frozen in space. Then, without his permission, his body turned upright and was lowered to the ground.

“What was that, Joran?” Nichols, who was on his knees and staring at Joran like a terrified animal in a hunter’s trap, exclaimed.

“Get up!” Joran commanded. “There’s no time to explain. We have to move.”

“Look!” Nichols said, jabbing his finger repeatedly toward the north.

Forcing his eyes to look from the black oak that loomed over the plains like a giant dark monster, Laine turned to see what Nichols was carrying on about. Oh, that’s not good. Had the gate been raised, there wouldn’t have been anything to see, but as it were, a fiery entrance—that could have easily been the gate to the underworld—blazed from within the city wall.

“Look!” Nichols shouted and pointed toward the wall.

Laine desperately tried to make sense of what he was seeing. The city of White Oak wasn’t under enemy occupation, therefore there shouldn’t be tall men with long white hair marching from the city gate. There wasn’t a black oak tree on the plains outside the city; there was a white one. Besides those things, this field was burnt, unlike the golden fields outside White Oak. Nothing made sense, but everything felt real.

The fiery hole in the wall slowly darkened as the men poured out onto the plains. How many were there? He’d lost count at sixty. Could there be a hundred? It didn’t matter because sixty men or a hundred were still too many to fight. They needed backup and needed it yesterday. It’d take every defender and archer in the city to repel an army this size.

“What are they doing?” Nichols asked frantically.

Laine hoped the man would better control his fear in front of his defenders. Then again, that only mattered if they survived the next few minutes.

“Forming ranks,” Laine answered. “And look,” he said, pointing at the gate, where, appearing from the gloomy darkness, was another cloaked figure with a hood over their head. Striding to the front of the army, they stopped and faced the black oak. As if cued by their arrival, the sun dropped below the horizon, and the chaos began as the army of tall, slender men—aside from the one out in front—transformed into hunched-over fur-covered beasts.

“I can’t believe my eyes,” Laine exclaimed, looking to Joran for an explanation.

“Steady, Lieutenant,” Joran said. “Stand fast, men. Be courageous!”

“Are you CRAZY?” Nichols shouted. “You want us to fight?”

“Stand your ground, Lieutenant,” Joran commanded.

Nichols looked at Joran, back to the army, and then turned to run. “How!” the frazzled Lieutenant cried out, his voice trembling with fear.

“Where’d they come from?” Laine asked as he spotted what Nichols had already seen. Toward the southern end of the field was another army. This one, composed of men and giants! Laine’s sudden elation was dowsed as he spotted a vast shadow sweeping the sky. “What’s that?”

“Wiggletwigs, now hurry and climb,” Joran commanded.

Laine didn’t hesitate, but Nichols froze.

“Move, Lieutenant!” Joran exclaimed, grabbing Nichols by his tunic and pulling him toward the tree.

No sooner had they reached the safety of the branches did the two armies collided below. The King led the charge with another man who looked exactly like Commander Joran. Laine looked back and forth between the Joran beside him and the one on the ground.

“Keep watching,” Joran said.

Ultimately, the army of beasts was defeated and fled across the plains into the woods. The King motioned to the Joran look-alike, who, in turn, nodded to an archer with a flaming arrow. The man sent the arrow into the branches of the black oak. The flames danced around Laine but lacked smoke or heat. Joran tapped Laine’s shoulder, pulling his attention from the tree to the scene below where two defenders had captured the enemy leader and brought him before the King.

“The roots of the Black Oak run deep, and it will rise again,” the enemy leader said just before Laine, Joran, and Nichols were snatched from the scene and returned to the War Chamber.

Laine gripped the table for support against the woozy feeling in his head. His mind raced to supply answers to what felt impossible. Was it real? Of course, it wasn’t real, but what was it then? A vision, perhaps? He’d heard of people having those, but he’d never heard of anyone having a vision with two others interacting with a scene that felt real.

As if knowing his thoughts, Joran said, “You’re not dreaming, or at least it wasn’t a figment of your imagination. You really did see the scene, but before I explain, there is some business to attend to,” he said reaching over and ripping the White Oak insignia from Nichols’ shoulder lapel before the man could react. “You are relieved of duty. Surrender your tunic and clear out your bunk immediately.”

“What are you doing?” Nichols asked, exasperated.

“Please, don’t make this more difficult than it has to be,” Joran responded, calmly.

“You’re stripping my rank because of that horror scene we just witnessed where you nearly got us killed?”

“I assure you there was no real danger, but as you discovered, it certainly feels real, as intended. Regardless, that’s beside the point. We can’t have a leader who abandons his men, even in dire situations.”

“Dire situations!” Nichols yelled, his eyes wide and his voice cracking. “Who could be prepared for a bunch of...of...monsters!”

“That, Nichols, is exactly what we’re facing outside the walls,” Joran continued, patiently explaining the situation. “That is what every citizen of White Oak will be faced with should we fail out mission. I can’t afford to have anyone in charge that I can’t trust.”

“You’re gonna regret this,” Nichols snarled as he removed his tunic, threw it on the ground, and slammed the door as he stormed out.

Laine stared in astonishment. What was Joran thinking? After what he’d witnessed, they’d need every fighter in the city and possibly more before facing the Weurgen. Would Joran also remove Laine if he knew how scared he was? Sure, he’d obeyed orders and hadn’t run, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t afraid. In fact, the mere sight of the Weurgen was terrifying. How could he expect his archers to stand and face those beasts? Again, Joran broke into his thoughts.

“No one expects you or anyone else to be fearless, Laine. The Weurgen are ferocious opponents, and any defender or archer who says they don’t have fear is lying.”

Did that mean even Joran was intimated by these beasts?

“Whether we like it or not, we are now faced with this enemy, and we will deal with them with all the power and might of the White Oak!”

“If that was meant to inspire confidence, it was a good try.”

“I’m afraid it’s going to take more than a pep-talk,” Laine said, forcing a smile. So far, he hadn’t managed to drive away the invading mental images of vicious, snarling beasts tearing across the plains of White Oak, but Joran was right; like it or not, they had to deal with the threat.

“So,” Laine said, gesturing to the book. “What was that all about?”

“Keeper is better suited to explain the book, but I can tell you that he records the memories, and because of him, the scene in the book comes to life...well, sort of. I don’t really know how to explain it, but as you experienced, you can enter the memory and experience it as if you were there.”

“Who’s memory was it?”

Joran paused, seemingly pondering the question.

“If you don’t feel comfortable telling me—”

“No,” Joran interrupted, “It’s just, I’ve never really thought about it. I presume the memories are Keeper’s, but that raises even more questions I don’t have answers for.”

“Like the fact that, to the best of my knowledge, Keeper wasn’t at the battle of the Black Oak, and I should know; I was there.”

Laine pondered that. Keeper may have been at the battle, and Joran simply hadn’t seen him, but if not, maybe he could record memories from someone else’s mind. Laine’s thoughts flashed to the Vale, Annalese, the Dragon Ship, and...the Gift. Could Keeper access his memories? Was it something you consented to...or was Keeper able to access your memories without your permission? Laine found himself scanning the shelves. Could there be a book here that detailed the events of his life in the Vale? If so, and if Joran found out before Laine told him the truth, things could get very awkward.

“Anyway,” Joran said, breaking into his thoughts, these are questions for another time, and there’s still a couple more things for us to attend to before returning to the wall.

Laine wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that. It sounded oddly familiar to what Joran had said to Nichols before he ripped off his rank. Reaching up, Laine covered his lapel.

“Don’t worry,” Joran said, smiling. “I think you’ll enjoy what I have to say. Laine, you will lead your archers and a squad of former Lieutenant Nichols’ defenders. I will personally handle the rest of his troops.”

“Yes, sir,” Laine said hesitantly.

“But?” Joran pressed.

“Commander, was it the best choice to remove him from leadership before we go to war?”

“Lieutenant, the man showed us his true nature when he turned to run. He fully intended to flee the battle and leave us. Is a coward the type of man you would want leading your troops?”

“No, of course not; it just seems like bad timing, that’s all.”

“Although very talented with a sword, Nichols allowed seeds of the Black Oak to take root in his heart. You stood with me even in the face of overwhelming odds and certain death. That is the character of a man worthy of leading White Oak Archers.” Reaching into his pant pocket, Joran pulled out a small White Oak patch with two horizontal marks across the trunk. “Effective immediately, you are promoted to Captain,” Joran said, extending the patch to Laine. “Perhaps we can have a more formal ceremony later,” Joran said, turning to leave.

“You knew,” Laine said, remaining by the table.

Slowly Joran turned.

“You already had the Captain patch. You knew Nichols would run?”

“I’d hoped he wouldn’t, but...”

“Right,” Laine said, not sure whether to be frustrated that Joran hadn’t taken action against Nichols sooner or elated over the promotion.

“I’ve had my suspicions about Nichols for some time now, but there hasn’t been a good opportunity to prove them, and unfounded suspicions aren’t the way for a Commander to conduct business. As you know, the Inner Circle is reserved for those closest to the King. No one is permitted here without a very good reason.”

“And the arrival of the Weurgen provided you the very excuse you needed to bring him...us here?”

Right, Laine thought. It wasn’t a matter of inattention but a lack of opportunity. Still, he didn’t like the timing, but nothing could be done about that now. They’d just have to work with what they were given and hope that Nichols’ former troops would take the news well and perhaps were more loyal to White Oak than their former Lieutenant.

Leaving the War Chamber, Joran and Laine turned left and followed the stone corridor around a bend. From Laine’s perspective, the corridor was overly simplistic. Other than the occasional fireplace keeping the place warm and lit, there were no decorations, no windows, no rugs, no pictures...nothing.

“There’s nothing in here,” Laine said.

“The corridor’s empty. No rugs, pictures, windows, or decorations of any kind.”

“Simplicity,” Joran responded.

“Simplicity, that’s what this place stands for. Unlike the corridor, where the dignitaries gather, there’s no need for furnishings here. Only two things happen in the Inner Circle. You’ve already visited the War Chamber,” Joran said, coming to a stop in front of another door with a wooden sign above it.

“Weapons Chamber,” Laine said, reading the sign.

“Before we go inside, you should know that strange things happen beyond this door. Don’t be alarmed. Just observe.”

“Stranger than being sucked into the pages of a book?”

“Perhaps,” Joran said and pulled the door open.

Laine stared in disbelief at the four long wooden tables where beige fur-covered creatures were seated. Quite possibly, they were staring back at Laine as awkwardly as he was staring at them.

“Pick your jaw up.”

“Who are they?” Laine asked, just above a whisper, desperate not to break into the silence that had overtaken the room with their arrival.

“We call them crafters, but their official name is Koopakarud.”

“They look like small bears,” Laine whispered.

“I never really thought about it, but I guess they do,” Joran said, waving at the three crafters behind podiums across the room.

The three waved back, and the room returned to what must have been their everyday work environment of guttural sounds and expressive hand gestures.

“Oh good,” Joran said, pointing toward the left side of the room where a crafter retrieved a bundle of sticks from one of the many bins on a four-tiered shelf system. “I was hoping you’d get to see their process for making our special arrows.”

The crafter passed out the sticks to those sitting at the far left table. They wasted no time stripping the bark and whittling the wood until it was roughly arrow-shaped. The second table further shaped and sanded the sticks. The third notched the shafts and glued the arrowheads and feathers in place before sending them to table four, which inspected their work.

“I’ve never seen anything like them.”

“They’re from Dragon Vale. The King invited—”

“—them to live here. And, yes, the Vale. Why?”

“Because obviously, I’m not very observant.”

“Have you explored the caves?”

“No. Off-limits.”

“Right, on Sikes’ orders.”

“You’re saying he knew about them?”

“After their arrival, we soon discovered they possessed unique talents.”

“Are they the ones that carved the images in the doors throughout the city?”

“Later. Look at the far table,” Joran said, pointing to the table on the far right. “See the crafter at the far end of the table holding up the arrow.”

Laine’s eyes widened in unbelief as the crafter lowered his paw, leaving the arrow hovering in midair as if hanging by an invisible string. Then, the creature made a swirling motion below the arrow, which responded by slowly rotating. Seemingly satisfied, he pointed at the arrow and then toward the front of the room where the three crafters were standing behind podiums. The arrow sliced through the air directly toward the middle crafter as if shot from an invisible bow.

Laine only had time to shout, “Watch out!” a moment before the creature effortlessly snatched the arrow out of midair. Although the middle crafter didn’t look up, the forty others stopped working and stared.

“I’m sorry,” Laine said embarrassedly. “Please, go back to work. It’s not that funny, Commander.”

“It’s pretty funny,” Joran said. “Happened to me my first time. I distinctly recall Keeper laughing, which I’m pretty sure shocked me more than the arrow flying at the crafter. “Now, watch the one behind the center podium.”

“He should be careful with that book.”

“Not that kind of book. Still, I think you’ll find it equally impressive.”

“How is that possible?” Laine asked as golden words lifted from the page and wrapped around the arrow.

Using the same hand gestures, the creature caused the arrow to rotate as he inspected his work. Seemingly satisfied, he pointed; obediently, the arrow sliced through the air, heading directly for the outstretched paw of the Koopakarud near the shelves. Then, as deftly as the one behind the podium had done, it snatched the arrow from midair and placed it into a bin.

“I need a closer look,” Laine said, walking toward the front.

“Greetings, Master crafter Yahatamal,” Joran said, placing a fist over his heart. “This is Captain Laine.”

Each of the three crafters made a series of gestures with their paws and nodded at Laine.

“They welcome you,” Joran translated.

“Is that what just happened?”

“You’re making unbelievable progress with the arrows,” Joran said, pointing at the shelves full of wooden crates to his left. How many have you completed?”

The crafter held up one digit, followed by three zeros.

“A thousand? That seems incredible for a few days’ work,” Joran said.

The middle crafter rubbed his chin.

“If I remember correctly, that means I’ve said something confusing,” Joran translated. “I assumed you were assigned the task of crafting the special arrows a few days ago when our scouts spotted the army?”