The Difference Between the Sword and the Knife
Yearling planted a wooden post into the ground and Zacharion had Sihaya attack it time and again with a variety of weapons. They also had her spar against them, individually and both at once. In both cases, Zacharion pressed her firmly and Yearling pressed her fiercely, showing her how to deal with the often unfavorable conditions put before her. They also used their gifts from the Sun and the Moon to soothe the pains of body and mind while facilitating the comprehension of lessons, accelerating what ordinarily would take years into weeks.
Meanwhile, the boys would take turns investigating the area about their camp. Yearling, in particular, hunted regularly to provide for the three of them. The waters nearby provided what game could not, so the three lived simply but well enough for their needs. The three quickly developed the skills in Sihaya that she needed, polishing those of the boys in doing so.
After one session, in the evening, Sihaya smiled as she bit into a piece of venison. Then she turned to Zacharion and said “Are you pleased with your sword?”
“No,” he said, “but I am rather pleased with my knife.”
Sihaya looked at him, puzzled. “Am I not to be your weapon?”
Zacharion smiled. “A sword is excellent on the defense. Its length is that of a man’s arm, and with the proper balance it is a light and powerful extension of that arm. A warrior can block blows with ease, warding away death, and then once his assailants are over-extended he strikes. Yes, he may kill them, but more important is to drive them away.
A knife is different. It is short and while one can learn to defend while using it, it is instead the case that using a knife requires a mode of aggression one need not have with a sword. If one seeks to fight with a knife, one must commit wholeheartedly to the strike- he must kill in his heart before he ever kills with his hand. They are made with different intentions behind their use; you must master this.”
Sihaya paused in her eating to take in Zacharion’s words.
“What of the spear and other weapons?” she asked, curious.
“The spear is a pole with a blade on its tip. Like the sword, it is a weapon one uses first and foremost to defend- principally, oneself. Staves are used in a similar manner to spears when used with two hands, using reach and leverage to wear away opponents until they can strike and then—again—it is to drive them away or compel submission, not to kill. Killing is, at best, secondary as it is with swords. The same is true of clubs and axes, as these are tools first.
The knife is not these things. One has to commit to the kill before driving it home, because to strike that blow and be effective one has to risk all. This is not so with other war-making tools. Those are tools for fighting. The knife is a tool for killing, and that makes all of the difference.”
Yearling, also sitting at that fire, nodded his concurrence.
“One does not take up the bow or spear to kill. They fight with such things, but it is enough to wound a foe and either capture or drive off that foe. When one draws his knife and intends to use it, he must intend to kill and only kill with it or he will fail against his foe every time. If the foe is armed, then he must use cunning to get past those arms. If armored, he must strike past it somehow and that also takes cunning. Heart and hand must be devoted to the slaying without question, for nothing else will do.”
Sihaya recalled the bruises sustained when she hesitated and let either of the boys smite her with slim branches acting as training weapons, or throw her to the ground, or grapple her into a hold she could not break.
“With our aide, you’ve come a long way in a short period of time.” Zacharion said, “Yet there is more to master. You have the hands, but not yet the mind or heart.”
“You must learn to forge your love into the knife within yourself.” Yearling said, “A woman’s will to kill comes most fierce from defense of family, and in that task we can only guide you- you must do this work yourself.”
Sihaya looked upon the two she had come to trust with more than her life, and she saw that they—who, like she, was not yet of age—had already killed at least once in exactly the manner that she now learned. They carried knives, had killed with those knives, and not in self-defense; her father, by comparison, had trained her only to fight and from the same premise of defense. She knew to defeat an opponent, though she had slain them in recent days, but this was something else. She was a nascent warrior- they were killers, manslayers, stalkers, the very threat she learned to combat.
“Why would you want a woman to be as you are?”
“When you next see your mother,” Yearling said, “ask her. ‘Keela of the Knife’ is not purely due to her use of knives as a healer.”
Sihaya was about to object, when Zacharion waved her off saying “Not now. Confront her when the time comes, and not before. Trust that I know what needs to be done and why, for when you must act you shall- without hesitation.”
“Sleep on it, sister.” Yearling.
“Tomorrow, we go into the ruins. We’ve tarried here long enough.” Zacharion said, “It is time to move on.”
Showing posts with label legacy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label legacy. Show all posts
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Legacy of the Hero: The Last Meets the First-20
The Coming of Twilight
Zacharion, Yearling and Sihaya broke camp a few days later, having satisfied their need to fill all their provision needs, and set out once more.
“Where are we going?” Sihaya said, curious.
“Before we strike out towards the Sons of Ken, first we must visit a long-forgotten ruin of a temple.” Zacharion said, “It exists in a place of perpetual gloom, resting at all times between day and night. Therein we are to seek out knowledge we must have before we seek the homeland of the Sons of Ken.”
“What knowledge?” Yearling asked.
“Where we can find the Twilight Son, the child born of the previous union of Sun and Moon, who will be able to ensure that the Daughter of Ken meant to be my Moon-wife and I will fulfill our duties to Man and the Creator.”
Sihaya waved at Zacharion. “Does this son have a name?”
“Not quite. He has a label, passed from one to the next as the Sun and Moon select their own mortal agents. As he represents the last remnant of the Creator’s chosen people, he is called ‘Seph’. The Dark Lords of old, in turn, toiled for the traitorous servants of the Creator, and they spawned the race of liars known as the Khazarim.”
Yearling looked worried. “Did not my mistress and your master not throw them all down?”
Zacharion nodded. “The Dark Lords are forever gone, beyond the reach of all but the very Creator that they spurned ages ago, but the Khazarim remain. If left unchecked, they will succeed their masters. This much I know because Ilker taught me well his own history.”
The others nodded, agreeing, having heard similar lore from their own elders.
“Why would Seph hide? Would he not know, as we do, when this work of yours must be done?” Sihaya asked, “Or does he remain secluded until the time comes?”
Zacharion shrugged. “I don’t know. All that I do know is that, to be certain, we go there first and learn how to find him. Ilker said that the knowledge rests there, and the Witch confirmed it.”
* * * * * *
Many days passed as they travelled through dense forests and across many lakes and rivers, the hills increasing in size and number as they made their way north. Then, at the headwaters of what was once a great and powerful river said to divide the whole of the Old World in two, the three of them saw not far away a ruined building, and in their youthful eyes it seemed to match the descriptions of temples to the gods and saints that once ruled the peoples of the Old World before the Azure Flames.
They marked its features as they drew closer. Its frame remained standing, as did its roof, but what once seemed to be windows had long since been destroyed somehow—in their places crude wood planks, half-rotted now, stood—and its main gate seemed unlikely to open due to the pervasive rust on the iron-wrought doorframe.
Zacharion felt a warm spot on his forehead, at the spot of Ilker’s Kiss, and understood.
“This is the place.” Zacharion put down his burden. “It’s been a long journey, and this ruin will be here tomorrow. I say that we camp here and tonight and go on tomorrow.”
Yearling nodded, as did Sihaya, and they too put down their burdens. They made camp, and drew fresh water from the springs feeding into the headwaters nearby. Yearling brought down game and over their fire the three considered their position.
“We’ve been fortunate so far.” Zacharion said, cutting a piece of venison from the whole, “I’ve had one hostile encounter after Solland, and none since the Witch’s sanctum. It is unreasonable for this to endure. Once the cunning amongst the wicked deduce what is truly going on, a full search for us will begin.”
“Will they not also seek out this girl?” Sihaya asked.
Yearling laughed, and he too cut a piece for himself. “The Khazarim—for they are the only ones left cunning enough to deduce the facts—would have to send an army into the homeland of the Sons of Ken to kill her. If the beasts native to their lands do not destroy such a force, the Sons will, and any seeking to slip past them will find the Daughters of Ken to be no less dangerous. The women chosen by the Moon are never, ever weak.”
“She is well-protected, and already as formidable as you are, my warrior-princess.” Zacharion said, “I’ve seen her from afar when I visited the Witch, and her father is the warlord that your father and mother once travelled alongside.”
“The Painbringer is her father?!”
The boys nodded and smiled. “Imagine, then, what woman could possibly be a worthy wife to him- and thus this girl’s mother!” Yearling said, “Oh no, there is no reasonable threat to her at all.”
Zacharion then took her by the hand and locked his eyes with hers. “It is I, Sihaya, that is in peril here. The Moon-girl has a great and powerful warrior-nation surrounding her, guiding her, and training her to be the Moon on Earth. I am bereft of my master, with naught but you and Yearling to support me and relying on only what we three alone can do to stay alive and fulfill my duty. It is I, not she, they seek to butcher.”
Zacharion turned over Sihaya’s hands and put his palm to hers. “I rely upon you to take these, your soft and courtly hands, and harden them into the hands of a warrior-woman in truth- and in this I will see that your heart becomes your hands, and your courage becomes your prowess. Our enemies did not think that your mother was a threat until after she cut them down and their foul ichor sprayed the ground, and neither do they think that you are anything other than a foolish, headstrong girl with dreams of wooing princes in your head.”
Sihaya, then, for the first time, felt a terrible tremor in Zacharion’s voice: “Your father taught you how to fight. I will teach you how to kill.”
Silence dropped down on them suddenly, as the weight of the words grew too heavy to hold, but only for a moment.
“Why?” she asked.
“Because you love me,” he said, “and I love you.”
The echo between them and Sihaya’s parents was not lost on either of them, though only he knew that both of them realized it at that time, and thus began the transformation of Sihaya of Solland into Sihaya the Sun’s Shield.
Zacharion, Yearling and Sihaya broke camp a few days later, having satisfied their need to fill all their provision needs, and set out once more.
“Where are we going?” Sihaya said, curious.
“Before we strike out towards the Sons of Ken, first we must visit a long-forgotten ruin of a temple.” Zacharion said, “It exists in a place of perpetual gloom, resting at all times between day and night. Therein we are to seek out knowledge we must have before we seek the homeland of the Sons of Ken.”
“What knowledge?” Yearling asked.
“Where we can find the Twilight Son, the child born of the previous union of Sun and Moon, who will be able to ensure that the Daughter of Ken meant to be my Moon-wife and I will fulfill our duties to Man and the Creator.”
Sihaya waved at Zacharion. “Does this son have a name?”
“Not quite. He has a label, passed from one to the next as the Sun and Moon select their own mortal agents. As he represents the last remnant of the Creator’s chosen people, he is called ‘Seph’. The Dark Lords of old, in turn, toiled for the traitorous servants of the Creator, and they spawned the race of liars known as the Khazarim.”
Yearling looked worried. “Did not my mistress and your master not throw them all down?”
Zacharion nodded. “The Dark Lords are forever gone, beyond the reach of all but the very Creator that they spurned ages ago, but the Khazarim remain. If left unchecked, they will succeed their masters. This much I know because Ilker taught me well his own history.”
The others nodded, agreeing, having heard similar lore from their own elders.
“Why would Seph hide? Would he not know, as we do, when this work of yours must be done?” Sihaya asked, “Or does he remain secluded until the time comes?”
Zacharion shrugged. “I don’t know. All that I do know is that, to be certain, we go there first and learn how to find him. Ilker said that the knowledge rests there, and the Witch confirmed it.”
* * * * * *
Many days passed as they travelled through dense forests and across many lakes and rivers, the hills increasing in size and number as they made their way north. Then, at the headwaters of what was once a great and powerful river said to divide the whole of the Old World in two, the three of them saw not far away a ruined building, and in their youthful eyes it seemed to match the descriptions of temples to the gods and saints that once ruled the peoples of the Old World before the Azure Flames.
They marked its features as they drew closer. Its frame remained standing, as did its roof, but what once seemed to be windows had long since been destroyed somehow—in their places crude wood planks, half-rotted now, stood—and its main gate seemed unlikely to open due to the pervasive rust on the iron-wrought doorframe.
Zacharion felt a warm spot on his forehead, at the spot of Ilker’s Kiss, and understood.
“This is the place.” Zacharion put down his burden. “It’s been a long journey, and this ruin will be here tomorrow. I say that we camp here and tonight and go on tomorrow.”
Yearling nodded, as did Sihaya, and they too put down their burdens. They made camp, and drew fresh water from the springs feeding into the headwaters nearby. Yearling brought down game and over their fire the three considered their position.
“We’ve been fortunate so far.” Zacharion said, cutting a piece of venison from the whole, “I’ve had one hostile encounter after Solland, and none since the Witch’s sanctum. It is unreasonable for this to endure. Once the cunning amongst the wicked deduce what is truly going on, a full search for us will begin.”
“Will they not also seek out this girl?” Sihaya asked.
Yearling laughed, and he too cut a piece for himself. “The Khazarim—for they are the only ones left cunning enough to deduce the facts—would have to send an army into the homeland of the Sons of Ken to kill her. If the beasts native to their lands do not destroy such a force, the Sons will, and any seeking to slip past them will find the Daughters of Ken to be no less dangerous. The women chosen by the Moon are never, ever weak.”
“She is well-protected, and already as formidable as you are, my warrior-princess.” Zacharion said, “I’ve seen her from afar when I visited the Witch, and her father is the warlord that your father and mother once travelled alongside.”
“The Painbringer is her father?!”
The boys nodded and smiled. “Imagine, then, what woman could possibly be a worthy wife to him- and thus this girl’s mother!” Yearling said, “Oh no, there is no reasonable threat to her at all.”
Zacharion then took her by the hand and locked his eyes with hers. “It is I, Sihaya, that is in peril here. The Moon-girl has a great and powerful warrior-nation surrounding her, guiding her, and training her to be the Moon on Earth. I am bereft of my master, with naught but you and Yearling to support me and relying on only what we three alone can do to stay alive and fulfill my duty. It is I, not she, they seek to butcher.”
Zacharion turned over Sihaya’s hands and put his palm to hers. “I rely upon you to take these, your soft and courtly hands, and harden them into the hands of a warrior-woman in truth- and in this I will see that your heart becomes your hands, and your courage becomes your prowess. Our enemies did not think that your mother was a threat until after she cut them down and their foul ichor sprayed the ground, and neither do they think that you are anything other than a foolish, headstrong girl with dreams of wooing princes in your head.”
Sihaya, then, for the first time, felt a terrible tremor in Zacharion’s voice: “Your father taught you how to fight. I will teach you how to kill.”
Silence dropped down on them suddenly, as the weight of the words grew too heavy to hold, but only for a moment.
“Why?” she asked.
“Because you love me,” he said, “and I love you.”
The echo between them and Sihaya’s parents was not lost on either of them, though only he knew that both of them realized it at that time, and thus began the transformation of Sihaya of Solland into Sihaya the Sun’s Shield.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Legacy of the Hero: The Last Meets the First-18
The Way Through the Wastes
Zacharion and Yearling left the lair of the Witch and travelled for some days through the Wildlands, following paths that the Lunar Nation blazed generations ago that kept the youths far from prying eyes and malevolent hands. Across thick forests, wide lakes, tall grasses and rolling hills filled with game full and fair did they travel. In some places, they noticed traces of settlement long past—a bit of foundation, a scrap of rusted iron, a ruined piece of wall with unknown script written on it—and in so noticing these traces they became aware that someone else was within a day of them. This unknown apparently seemed to be attempting to contact them.
The boys talked briefly, agreeing that they ought to see who this unknown is, and so camped on the bank of a river. That night, as the boys enjoyed the bounty of an evening spent fishing and foraging, they heard the approach of a solitary figure- one not trying to be stealthy. Yet this figure did not come into view, not of them. It kept its distance. It seemed to watch, to wait, to stalk like a predatory beast and not come forward like a man.
Neither of the boys felt any fear. Thinking that this was someone seeking advantage, they saw to it that one would feign fatigue and bed down while the other remained awake and alert. Zacharion bedded down, Yearling stood watch, and there began their game. Some time passed, and Yearling got up to relieve himself, conveniently leaving Zacharion open. As the boys expected, the figure crept into their camp and moved next to Zacharion, and pulled back the blanket to see his face. When the figure, hearing Yearling’s return, tried to flee it suddenly found itself held fast as a bare foot whipped out from underneath the blanket and struck the figure in the small of the back, inducing paralysis instantly.
Yearling sauntered into the camp and roughly removed the figure’s cloak, revealing a girl underneath. Zacharion got up and took a look at this girl, obvious from the first as being nearly his own age, and sensed that something else so common to the living mythic cycle had again occurred. Without ever looking at her face to be certain, he struck again in the small of the back and removed the paralysis.
“Princess Sihaya, allow me to introduce Yearling of the Lunar Nation, apprentice to the Witch.” Zacharion said, “Yearling, please clear a place for our companion.”
Yearling chuckled, and then he complied. Indeed, it was Sihaya, come a great long way, with naught but a blade and a ring to show her true status. Before Sihaya could ask, Zacharion answered her question: “No one else would come so as if to kill me, yet pause to admire me, before either acting or fleeing. I apologize for my action, but I did so to satisfy any suspicion that I was wrong, and I knew as soon as we touched that I was right.”
Sihaya looked at him, stunned, and it took a moment for his words to make sense. Yearling then sat her down by the fire, and Zacharion continued.
“If you are here, then I can only conclude—given your behavior—that your parents are at war and that this war has so embroiled Solland that it would be safer for you to be with me than to be with them or one of their followers.”
Sihaya nodded.
“Zacharion, is this the one that Mistress mentioned?” Yearling said, curious.
“Indeed, she is, and if she made it here on her own then she is even tougher than I previously thought.”
Sihaya looked at Zacharion, her eyes asking another obvious silent question.
“Yes, Your Highness, you may stay with us. If you got this far, there’s no going back- a fact that I think all three of us can live with.”
Sihaya kissed Zacharion on the cheek and cuddled up to him.
“You two can stay up a while now as I sleep.” Yearling said, taking advantage of a clear opportunity before him, “I am certain that you have much to talk about.”
Which they did, starting with the civil war in Solland and the incursion by the mutants, which in turn led to a series of crisis and revolts by remaining traitorous opportunists that all hit at once- starting with a second assassination that resulted in many of Zebulon and Keela’s followers falling under knives meant for them instead. She didn’t witness much more, but during her flight she learned from the few men guarding her that long-standing pressures burst forth and generations of suppressed resentment and hated held in abeyance by Ilker now washed like successive tidal waves.
Soon word came that similar eruptions occurred amongst the Sea Princes, rendering aid to or from them impossible as the isolation solidified. Hostile riders then closed in on her and her party, a group of men she had to leave behind at a critical crossing out of the realm. She’d been on her own since she crossed into the wilderness, being careful to avoid contact with anyone, yet she couldn’t avoid feeling as if she was being watched, guided, herded in a desired direction.
“That sounds like the Witch.” Zacharion said, “You were in her domain, and known to her, so I have no doubt that she quickly deduced the matter and saw fit to help you catch up to me.”
“I felt certain that I would find you, as if my love for you would be enough.”
He kissed her forehead. “It was, and tonight that is all you need to know. Sleep now, my warrior woman, for tomorrow I have much more to teach to you- and it will not be at all easy for you to hear.”
Zacharion and Yearling left the lair of the Witch and travelled for some days through the Wildlands, following paths that the Lunar Nation blazed generations ago that kept the youths far from prying eyes and malevolent hands. Across thick forests, wide lakes, tall grasses and rolling hills filled with game full and fair did they travel. In some places, they noticed traces of settlement long past—a bit of foundation, a scrap of rusted iron, a ruined piece of wall with unknown script written on it—and in so noticing these traces they became aware that someone else was within a day of them. This unknown apparently seemed to be attempting to contact them.
The boys talked briefly, agreeing that they ought to see who this unknown is, and so camped on the bank of a river. That night, as the boys enjoyed the bounty of an evening spent fishing and foraging, they heard the approach of a solitary figure- one not trying to be stealthy. Yet this figure did not come into view, not of them. It kept its distance. It seemed to watch, to wait, to stalk like a predatory beast and not come forward like a man.
Neither of the boys felt any fear. Thinking that this was someone seeking advantage, they saw to it that one would feign fatigue and bed down while the other remained awake and alert. Zacharion bedded down, Yearling stood watch, and there began their game. Some time passed, and Yearling got up to relieve himself, conveniently leaving Zacharion open. As the boys expected, the figure crept into their camp and moved next to Zacharion, and pulled back the blanket to see his face. When the figure, hearing Yearling’s return, tried to flee it suddenly found itself held fast as a bare foot whipped out from underneath the blanket and struck the figure in the small of the back, inducing paralysis instantly.
Yearling sauntered into the camp and roughly removed the figure’s cloak, revealing a girl underneath. Zacharion got up and took a look at this girl, obvious from the first as being nearly his own age, and sensed that something else so common to the living mythic cycle had again occurred. Without ever looking at her face to be certain, he struck again in the small of the back and removed the paralysis.
“Princess Sihaya, allow me to introduce Yearling of the Lunar Nation, apprentice to the Witch.” Zacharion said, “Yearling, please clear a place for our companion.”
Yearling chuckled, and then he complied. Indeed, it was Sihaya, come a great long way, with naught but a blade and a ring to show her true status. Before Sihaya could ask, Zacharion answered her question: “No one else would come so as if to kill me, yet pause to admire me, before either acting or fleeing. I apologize for my action, but I did so to satisfy any suspicion that I was wrong, and I knew as soon as we touched that I was right.”
Sihaya looked at him, stunned, and it took a moment for his words to make sense. Yearling then sat her down by the fire, and Zacharion continued.
“If you are here, then I can only conclude—given your behavior—that your parents are at war and that this war has so embroiled Solland that it would be safer for you to be with me than to be with them or one of their followers.”
Sihaya nodded.
“Zacharion, is this the one that Mistress mentioned?” Yearling said, curious.
“Indeed, she is, and if she made it here on her own then she is even tougher than I previously thought.”
Sihaya looked at Zacharion, her eyes asking another obvious silent question.
“Yes, Your Highness, you may stay with us. If you got this far, there’s no going back- a fact that I think all three of us can live with.”
Sihaya kissed Zacharion on the cheek and cuddled up to him.
“You two can stay up a while now as I sleep.” Yearling said, taking advantage of a clear opportunity before him, “I am certain that you have much to talk about.”
Which they did, starting with the civil war in Solland and the incursion by the mutants, which in turn led to a series of crisis and revolts by remaining traitorous opportunists that all hit at once- starting with a second assassination that resulted in many of Zebulon and Keela’s followers falling under knives meant for them instead. She didn’t witness much more, but during her flight she learned from the few men guarding her that long-standing pressures burst forth and generations of suppressed resentment and hated held in abeyance by Ilker now washed like successive tidal waves.
Soon word came that similar eruptions occurred amongst the Sea Princes, rendering aid to or from them impossible as the isolation solidified. Hostile riders then closed in on her and her party, a group of men she had to leave behind at a critical crossing out of the realm. She’d been on her own since she crossed into the wilderness, being careful to avoid contact with anyone, yet she couldn’t avoid feeling as if she was being watched, guided, herded in a desired direction.
“That sounds like the Witch.” Zacharion said, “You were in her domain, and known to her, so I have no doubt that she quickly deduced the matter and saw fit to help you catch up to me.”
“I felt certain that I would find you, as if my love for you would be enough.”
He kissed her forehead. “It was, and tonight that is all you need to know. Sleep now, my warrior woman, for tomorrow I have much more to teach to you- and it will not be at all easy for you to hear.”
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Legacy of the Hero: The Last Meets the First-17
The Mystery of Sun and Moon Reveals Its Externalized Existence
Night fell in the Thousand Lakes. Zacharion sat next to a fire, lost in thought, just outside the homely home of the Witch of the Wastes. Across from him stood Yearling, rotating meat over that same fire while inside came the smell of a brewing broth.
“It is enormous.” Zacharion said, still in awe of the task before him, “I think I now begin, a little, to understand what came before me.”
Emerging from within, the aged Witch—with a dramatic timing honed by generations of craft—came out with bowls filled. She smiled, hearing wisdom from a boy so young, and entertained a hope of success for the future.
“Your master felt that same enormity when this task fell to him.” she said, as she passed him one of the bowls and sat beside him, “It wasn’t much different than this. He took refuge here because he had to flee from the Dark Lord of Iron and Rust, where he came from, and yet could not turn away from this calling. I was a young woman then, and the woman who taught me was the one known as ‘The Witch of the Wastes’, but I expected him because I sensed that I would take up a role in this cycle.”
Zacharion looked up, away from the fire and into the clear night sky. Quickly his eyes adjusted as he saw more and more of the distant stars filling the firmament above, and then he noted the lack of a moon. A flash fired in his brain. “This is auspicious.” He said, “The moon is hidden tonight, after your revelation earlier today. If I am not mistaken, when the moon turns away from Man’s sight it is said that this is because the Moon takes that time to renew herself for another cycle.”
The Witch nodded and motioned for Zacharion to continue.
“The Sun also has its cycles, one of the year and one of the day, and the day’s cycle varies by the year’s cycle. It is said that the cycle of the Sun is akin to the life of a man, where days change from good to bad and back again over the span of his life, but life itself—so long as it honors the Sun and adheres to its wisdom—cannot help but to be full, rich and prosperous even if it begins in a wretched state.”
Again, the Witch motioned for the boy to continue.
“The marriage of Sun and Moon is the mirroring of these cycles of the world with those of the peoples of the world, bringing us into harmony with the cycles of the world- of all that exists. It is this mirroring that the Dark Lords denied, hence why they held their titles and why their realms always became horrific realms of abomination, degeneracy, perversity and deviancy against all that is natural and pure.”
The Witch smiled, her face showing a true joy at seeing a youth come to understand such an important truth. “Without this,” she said, “the peoples of the world forget themselves and their true natures. It is because our forefathers forgot this wisdom that the Dark Lords became our overlords and oppressed for so long, yet one cannot stamp out natural law forever. Inevitably, it wins out, and acting through your master and I that did happen at last. But, as with all natural cycles, it must be renewed- and there is no way to avoid either the task or the enormity of the task.”
Yearling began carving meat off of the animal and passing it to the others. As she ate and drank, Zacharion went on. “So, then, this duty to be the Sun-husband and find my Moon-wife is as much an act of ritual drama as it is a necessary act to safeguard our freedom and retain our ties to all which is around and greater than us. If that is so, then there is no difference between these things- they are all one and the same, and the differences are illusory, merely places from which one may appreciate it.”
“It is that.” She said, “It is all that, and you shall come to appreciate more subtleties as you grow into manhood.”
Yearling took up his own bowl now, at last ready to partake.
“This time is the courtship of Sun and Moon.” she said, continuing, “Have no doubt that the daughter of that ancient warlord has one like me sitting with her, as I sit with you now, telling her about this matter as I advise you—even about this very point I speak of now—so do not think that she shall know nothing of being a Moon-wife. When you come unto her, some years from now, both of you shall be ready and able to fulfill your roles, for she is about your age and as unready for the critical knowledge as you are.”
Yearling laughed, and looked at him with a knowing smirk. “Until then, you will need some companions who are initiated into such knowledge to guide you. Wise as you are, Zacharion, you are yet a boy and lack first-hand experience.”
“Indeed.” the Witch said, “Yearling shall join you when you leave this place, which must be soon, and begin making your way to the homeland of the Sons of Ken.”
Night fell in the Thousand Lakes. Zacharion sat next to a fire, lost in thought, just outside the homely home of the Witch of the Wastes. Across from him stood Yearling, rotating meat over that same fire while inside came the smell of a brewing broth.
“It is enormous.” Zacharion said, still in awe of the task before him, “I think I now begin, a little, to understand what came before me.”
Emerging from within, the aged Witch—with a dramatic timing honed by generations of craft—came out with bowls filled. She smiled, hearing wisdom from a boy so young, and entertained a hope of success for the future.
“Your master felt that same enormity when this task fell to him.” she said, as she passed him one of the bowls and sat beside him, “It wasn’t much different than this. He took refuge here because he had to flee from the Dark Lord of Iron and Rust, where he came from, and yet could not turn away from this calling. I was a young woman then, and the woman who taught me was the one known as ‘The Witch of the Wastes’, but I expected him because I sensed that I would take up a role in this cycle.”
Zacharion looked up, away from the fire and into the clear night sky. Quickly his eyes adjusted as he saw more and more of the distant stars filling the firmament above, and then he noted the lack of a moon. A flash fired in his brain. “This is auspicious.” He said, “The moon is hidden tonight, after your revelation earlier today. If I am not mistaken, when the moon turns away from Man’s sight it is said that this is because the Moon takes that time to renew herself for another cycle.”
The Witch nodded and motioned for Zacharion to continue.
“The Sun also has its cycles, one of the year and one of the day, and the day’s cycle varies by the year’s cycle. It is said that the cycle of the Sun is akin to the life of a man, where days change from good to bad and back again over the span of his life, but life itself—so long as it honors the Sun and adheres to its wisdom—cannot help but to be full, rich and prosperous even if it begins in a wretched state.”
Again, the Witch motioned for the boy to continue.
“The marriage of Sun and Moon is the mirroring of these cycles of the world with those of the peoples of the world, bringing us into harmony with the cycles of the world- of all that exists. It is this mirroring that the Dark Lords denied, hence why they held their titles and why their realms always became horrific realms of abomination, degeneracy, perversity and deviancy against all that is natural and pure.”
The Witch smiled, her face showing a true joy at seeing a youth come to understand such an important truth. “Without this,” she said, “the peoples of the world forget themselves and their true natures. It is because our forefathers forgot this wisdom that the Dark Lords became our overlords and oppressed for so long, yet one cannot stamp out natural law forever. Inevitably, it wins out, and acting through your master and I that did happen at last. But, as with all natural cycles, it must be renewed- and there is no way to avoid either the task or the enormity of the task.”
Yearling began carving meat off of the animal and passing it to the others. As she ate and drank, Zacharion went on. “So, then, this duty to be the Sun-husband and find my Moon-wife is as much an act of ritual drama as it is a necessary act to safeguard our freedom and retain our ties to all which is around and greater than us. If that is so, then there is no difference between these things- they are all one and the same, and the differences are illusory, merely places from which one may appreciate it.”
“It is that.” She said, “It is all that, and you shall come to appreciate more subtleties as you grow into manhood.”
Yearling took up his own bowl now, at last ready to partake.
“This time is the courtship of Sun and Moon.” she said, continuing, “Have no doubt that the daughter of that ancient warlord has one like me sitting with her, as I sit with you now, telling her about this matter as I advise you—even about this very point I speak of now—so do not think that she shall know nothing of being a Moon-wife. When you come unto her, some years from now, both of you shall be ready and able to fulfill your roles, for she is about your age and as unready for the critical knowledge as you are.”
Yearling laughed, and looked at him with a knowing smirk. “Until then, you will need some companions who are initiated into such knowledge to guide you. Wise as you are, Zacharion, you are yet a boy and lack first-hand experience.”
“Indeed.” the Witch said, “Yearling shall join you when you leave this place, which must be soon, and begin making your way to the homeland of the Sons of Ken.”
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Legacy of the Hero: The Last Meets the First-16
The Magical Marriage of Sun and Moon
“Ilker said that the Sun is the source of Civilization,” Zacharion said, “the power that drives growth in all things and compels it into ever-greater forms of complexity and refinement. The Sun does this by organizing individuals into groups and leading them so that they accomplish together that which they cannot do alone. The drive to do this compels a centralization of authority, and if left unchecked that very fire and light can scorch the land and blind the eyes of men, seizing the will and making hives of cities and drones of men in a horrific mockery of reason.”
Yearling, eager to show his quality, responded. “The Moon watches over the darkness of night, when men are removed from the prying eyes of their fellows and are truly themselves. The Moon does not care what your title is, who is above you or below you in the structures of Men, but only who you are and what you do in and of yourself. It is the leveling way, the hidden truth of the world, where none but merit makes you or breaks you. Yet, if left unchecked it men scatter into the wilds and become not men- but animals, bereft of reason and consumed by emotion.”
Now the Witch, pleased by these youths, spoke. “This is why Sun and Moon must renew their bonds. Ilker and I undertook this task in our day, and another couple must do so sometime soon- and the resurgent enemies of our peoples know this to be true. With Ilker’s death, mine is soon to follow, and our enemies will work hard to see that there is no renewal. All of us that knew Ilker realize this, in some form or another, and they will do what they can to see us fail.”
The Witch paused, gave Zacharion a good look, and smiled. “I see now why Ilker chose you, Zacharion, for you live up to your name. What you need now is a worthy Moon-wife. I think that I can help you find her. Winning her, however, is up to you.”
“You think, then, that Zebulon’s daughter is a bad choice?” Zacharion said, curiously.
The Witch shook her head. “Ilker had a wife, other than me, my boy. That he did not mention any of them to you does not surprise me, as you did not need to know. What you do need to know is that we were not married in ourselves, but in our capacities as representing the Sun and Moon. While we engaged in the ways of a married couple, we did so only in that capacity when the sacred world called for us to do so. Thus, as he took wives to further his mission as the Sun and the head of the Solar Nation, so did I have consorts from amongst the heroes of the Lunar Nations. You too shall do this in time, and in Zebulon’s daughter you’d have a fine priestess-queen for the Solar Nation, but they are not the Moon-wife you shall have.”
Yearling moved about the room, anticipating his mistress’s next move, preparing ritual tools and laying out reagents of varying kinds before her.
“Lay out the remaining icons of the other companions before me. Through them, you shall find your Moon-wife, Zacharion.”
She drew blood from him and had him spill it over the icons, and then she took some unknown liquid from a vial and spilled that over the icons. Speaking in a tongue he did not understand, in tones too low for anything but ritual work, she took a branch from the firepit and seared the smeared icons with its flame while covering it with smoke. Each icon in turn reacted, the energy of sympathy burning the catalysts and forming flaming symbols of varying colors and radiance. Yet one burned with a silver hue as bright as a full moon, an icon made of jade inlayed with silver and edged in gold with a device of a white tiger upon it.
“Your journeys are far from complete, my boy.” the Witch said, “I remember well this one. He was the Warlord of the Sons of Ken, a ravenous eater of things most foul. The White Tiger was not just a warrior, but a predator without peer, and thus first and best amongst the warband of the Sons that he led on Ilker’s behalf. When we went our own ways after we cast the last of the Dark Lords down, he was much older and often scarred, but yet mightier than ever. It would not be surprising to see that he went home, took many wives and sired scores of children.”
“Yet the Sons of Ken are as they are because it is only the men amongst them that become those fearsome feral stalkers of the unnatural and corrupt, are they not?” Zacharion said.
The Witch nodded, confirming his curiosity.
“Then this girl would be what then?” Yearling said, puzzled, “Would she be like you then, mistress?”
“I know beyond any doubt that the women amongst those changed men are no less strong or stout, because the very nature of the Sons cannot be tamed even at the very inception of its life, so it is necessary for their women to be similar in quality despite being far more like us than the men. Wisdom, not unlike what I possess, is a woman’s duty to pursue amongst the Sons. They direct the hunts, warn of threats, and possess powers of healing and cleansing that rival those of the Humble College of Medics- powers as able to kill and afflict as they are to heal and cleanse. They are not meek or weak women, or they would not live to become women, and they judge would-be husbands accordingly.”
“The Sons are far, far from here.” Yearling said, continuing, “If you visit this White Tiger last, you may yet be ready for manhood when you arrive.”
The Witch cackled. “Indeed! What awaits you, Zacharion, is not merely a tedious task of travel with some episodes along the way. It is the sacred quest of gathering new companions for the renewal of the bond of Sun and Moon. You already sense this, do you not? Have you not already taken one into your band?”
“Ilker said that the Sun is the source of Civilization,” Zacharion said, “the power that drives growth in all things and compels it into ever-greater forms of complexity and refinement. The Sun does this by organizing individuals into groups and leading them so that they accomplish together that which they cannot do alone. The drive to do this compels a centralization of authority, and if left unchecked that very fire and light can scorch the land and blind the eyes of men, seizing the will and making hives of cities and drones of men in a horrific mockery of reason.”
Yearling, eager to show his quality, responded. “The Moon watches over the darkness of night, when men are removed from the prying eyes of their fellows and are truly themselves. The Moon does not care what your title is, who is above you or below you in the structures of Men, but only who you are and what you do in and of yourself. It is the leveling way, the hidden truth of the world, where none but merit makes you or breaks you. Yet, if left unchecked it men scatter into the wilds and become not men- but animals, bereft of reason and consumed by emotion.”
Now the Witch, pleased by these youths, spoke. “This is why Sun and Moon must renew their bonds. Ilker and I undertook this task in our day, and another couple must do so sometime soon- and the resurgent enemies of our peoples know this to be true. With Ilker’s death, mine is soon to follow, and our enemies will work hard to see that there is no renewal. All of us that knew Ilker realize this, in some form or another, and they will do what they can to see us fail.”
The Witch paused, gave Zacharion a good look, and smiled. “I see now why Ilker chose you, Zacharion, for you live up to your name. What you need now is a worthy Moon-wife. I think that I can help you find her. Winning her, however, is up to you.”
“You think, then, that Zebulon’s daughter is a bad choice?” Zacharion said, curiously.
The Witch shook her head. “Ilker had a wife, other than me, my boy. That he did not mention any of them to you does not surprise me, as you did not need to know. What you do need to know is that we were not married in ourselves, but in our capacities as representing the Sun and Moon. While we engaged in the ways of a married couple, we did so only in that capacity when the sacred world called for us to do so. Thus, as he took wives to further his mission as the Sun and the head of the Solar Nation, so did I have consorts from amongst the heroes of the Lunar Nations. You too shall do this in time, and in Zebulon’s daughter you’d have a fine priestess-queen for the Solar Nation, but they are not the Moon-wife you shall have.”
Yearling moved about the room, anticipating his mistress’s next move, preparing ritual tools and laying out reagents of varying kinds before her.
“Lay out the remaining icons of the other companions before me. Through them, you shall find your Moon-wife, Zacharion.”
She drew blood from him and had him spill it over the icons, and then she took some unknown liquid from a vial and spilled that over the icons. Speaking in a tongue he did not understand, in tones too low for anything but ritual work, she took a branch from the firepit and seared the smeared icons with its flame while covering it with smoke. Each icon in turn reacted, the energy of sympathy burning the catalysts and forming flaming symbols of varying colors and radiance. Yet one burned with a silver hue as bright as a full moon, an icon made of jade inlayed with silver and edged in gold with a device of a white tiger upon it.
“Your journeys are far from complete, my boy.” the Witch said, “I remember well this one. He was the Warlord of the Sons of Ken, a ravenous eater of things most foul. The White Tiger was not just a warrior, but a predator without peer, and thus first and best amongst the warband of the Sons that he led on Ilker’s behalf. When we went our own ways after we cast the last of the Dark Lords down, he was much older and often scarred, but yet mightier than ever. It would not be surprising to see that he went home, took many wives and sired scores of children.”
“Yet the Sons of Ken are as they are because it is only the men amongst them that become those fearsome feral stalkers of the unnatural and corrupt, are they not?” Zacharion said.
The Witch nodded, confirming his curiosity.
“Then this girl would be what then?” Yearling said, puzzled, “Would she be like you then, mistress?”
“I know beyond any doubt that the women amongst those changed men are no less strong or stout, because the very nature of the Sons cannot be tamed even at the very inception of its life, so it is necessary for their women to be similar in quality despite being far more like us than the men. Wisdom, not unlike what I possess, is a woman’s duty to pursue amongst the Sons. They direct the hunts, warn of threats, and possess powers of healing and cleansing that rival those of the Humble College of Medics- powers as able to kill and afflict as they are to heal and cleanse. They are not meek or weak women, or they would not live to become women, and they judge would-be husbands accordingly.”
“The Sons are far, far from here.” Yearling said, continuing, “If you visit this White Tiger last, you may yet be ready for manhood when you arrive.”
The Witch cackled. “Indeed! What awaits you, Zacharion, is not merely a tedious task of travel with some episodes along the way. It is the sacred quest of gathering new companions for the renewal of the bond of Sun and Moon. You already sense this, do you not? Have you not already taken one into your band?”
Legacy of the Hero: The Last Meets the First-15
Sun and Moon in Nature
Not long after meeting Yearling, Zacharion came before his mistress, the very Witch herself. Now worn, white-haired and withered she was, yet in her aged form a careful eye can sense the past possession of vitality and vigor in her youth for she still displayed prowess and health made possible by hard-won knowledge and age-old wisdom. In this moment, Zacharion saw what drew his master to her generations ago. Though years from the experience of man-like passion, even as a boy he could see that a younger Witch, in naught but her full-body tattoos, would be irresistible to lesser men.
For her part, the Witch quickly assessed this boy before her. Ilker’s final apprentice, just now at the point where the passage to manhood appears on the horizon, for all his skills and ability, is still a boy and not a man- certainly not a fully-matured man like his master. Yet she had heard of what he’d done, and seen some of it herself; this boy was no weakling- even at the end, Ilker’s eye for quality did not fail.
“You have that which I placed in your late master’s care.” the Witch said, bluntly, “I do not grant audiences lightly, boy, so produce it.”
Zacharion drew forth the icon with the Witch’s mark from the bag. It was a disc of carefully knapped obsidian, polished to a glass-like sheen, with the carving of a crescent moon inlayed with silver and edged likewise.
“Three of then you’ve returned now.” Yearling said to Zacharion, and then turning to the Witch he said “Why is this important?”
Zacharion answered. “Each icon is a symbol, crafted by the signifier, representing themselves as they see themselves. There are more icons here than there are companions of Ilker, and some of these icons depict scenes that are not pleasant- nor necessary.”
“Correct.” the Witch said, “Ilker understood things hidden from the eyes of men, and he used that wisdom to achieve many worthy ends, but to achieve those ends he had to engage allies that he did not trust. Using icons like this, he could achieve some reliability from those too foolish to see as he did; we who were loyal to him, we made icons to cover the purpose and hide it from those same fools who did not possess the vision and maturity necessary to understand why we did what we did so long ago.”
“That is as he put it.” Zacharion said, “If less gentle.”
“We now exist closer to a state of nature.” Yearling said, “I understand that this is possible due to the efforts of you, mistress, and the others. Yet it is not truly resolved, is it? Some of these enemies were not destroyed, but merely held in abeyance due to the fear of Ilker, were they not? It is they that now move to renew the corruption?”
“Indeed. An imperfect, yet improved, world made possible by the sacrificing of blood and bone in the wars against the Dark Lords and their cancerous corruption choking the world and degenerating the people into unnatural monsters living in hives wrought of things unliving that drive those sad thralls mad and burn them as sacrifices in pits and mazes to produce the foul fuel for the Dark Lords’ needs.”
The Witch picked up some dust and blew it out before Zacharion and Yearling, forming into an image as the dust fell through the sunlight coming into the place where they stood, an image that spoke. A montage of images, some of figures known and some unknown, showing the youths fantastic vistas both sublime in their natural glory and grotesque in mockery of the same. Then come the wars against the Dark Lords, as treacherous as they were powerful, with Ilker as the blessed commander united the many nations of Man against them. From the coastal lands of the Sea Princes, to the wastes where endured the Sons of Ken, to Solland and the establishment of the Solar Nation and its compact with the Lunar Nation in the wake of the final war- a compact that holds, for now.
Ilker and the Witch sealed the compact with a unity of words and deeds, a binding of Sun and Moon, as old as Man himself and no less sacred or powerful for it. While Ilker’s Solar allies went home to being regenerating and cleansing the war from their papers, the Witch returned with the guarantee of the compact in hand and restored the way of the many Lunar peoples to its proper place in society, by what wiles and words (and wrath) she had to use to get that done. The Sun and the Moon moved about the world, sometimes meeting, often apart, each seeing to the health and vitality of the world in their own way. Then the image dissipated.
“Where is your son?” Zacharion said, wondering.
She smiled. “Where he needs to be, doing what he should be doing, and that is all you need to know for now.” Taking up the icon, she took a moment to admire her former handiwork and see that it is now as it was then- like the moon, like the universe, like herself.
“Ilker was the sun, boy.” The Witch smiled. “He let his soul burn brightly, brining fire to the minds of men and light to the world wherein they lived. He burned away the clouds covering the lands fouled by the Dark Lords, letting them be exposed and cut down. Then he burned away the sickness so the healing could begin.”
“And you would be the moon, then?” Zacharion said.
She nodded. “I am. Where he was open, forthright and without mystery I stood away and let his shadow shelter me. In the dark, when the cool night refreshed the world and the men within it, I do my work. Mine is the hidden way, the path obscured, unable to be taught but always able to be learned. It is a way that rolls from side to side, and not from sky to earth as the sun does. Different, but neither the lesser nor the greater, for the universe needs both Sun and Moon for its health and prosperity.”
Not long after meeting Yearling, Zacharion came before his mistress, the very Witch herself. Now worn, white-haired and withered she was, yet in her aged form a careful eye can sense the past possession of vitality and vigor in her youth for she still displayed prowess and health made possible by hard-won knowledge and age-old wisdom. In this moment, Zacharion saw what drew his master to her generations ago. Though years from the experience of man-like passion, even as a boy he could see that a younger Witch, in naught but her full-body tattoos, would be irresistible to lesser men.
For her part, the Witch quickly assessed this boy before her. Ilker’s final apprentice, just now at the point where the passage to manhood appears on the horizon, for all his skills and ability, is still a boy and not a man- certainly not a fully-matured man like his master. Yet she had heard of what he’d done, and seen some of it herself; this boy was no weakling- even at the end, Ilker’s eye for quality did not fail.
“You have that which I placed in your late master’s care.” the Witch said, bluntly, “I do not grant audiences lightly, boy, so produce it.”
Zacharion drew forth the icon with the Witch’s mark from the bag. It was a disc of carefully knapped obsidian, polished to a glass-like sheen, with the carving of a crescent moon inlayed with silver and edged likewise.
“Three of then you’ve returned now.” Yearling said to Zacharion, and then turning to the Witch he said “Why is this important?”
Zacharion answered. “Each icon is a symbol, crafted by the signifier, representing themselves as they see themselves. There are more icons here than there are companions of Ilker, and some of these icons depict scenes that are not pleasant- nor necessary.”
“Correct.” the Witch said, “Ilker understood things hidden from the eyes of men, and he used that wisdom to achieve many worthy ends, but to achieve those ends he had to engage allies that he did not trust. Using icons like this, he could achieve some reliability from those too foolish to see as he did; we who were loyal to him, we made icons to cover the purpose and hide it from those same fools who did not possess the vision and maturity necessary to understand why we did what we did so long ago.”
“That is as he put it.” Zacharion said, “If less gentle.”
“We now exist closer to a state of nature.” Yearling said, “I understand that this is possible due to the efforts of you, mistress, and the others. Yet it is not truly resolved, is it? Some of these enemies were not destroyed, but merely held in abeyance due to the fear of Ilker, were they not? It is they that now move to renew the corruption?”
“Indeed. An imperfect, yet improved, world made possible by the sacrificing of blood and bone in the wars against the Dark Lords and their cancerous corruption choking the world and degenerating the people into unnatural monsters living in hives wrought of things unliving that drive those sad thralls mad and burn them as sacrifices in pits and mazes to produce the foul fuel for the Dark Lords’ needs.”
The Witch picked up some dust and blew it out before Zacharion and Yearling, forming into an image as the dust fell through the sunlight coming into the place where they stood, an image that spoke. A montage of images, some of figures known and some unknown, showing the youths fantastic vistas both sublime in their natural glory and grotesque in mockery of the same. Then come the wars against the Dark Lords, as treacherous as they were powerful, with Ilker as the blessed commander united the many nations of Man against them. From the coastal lands of the Sea Princes, to the wastes where endured the Sons of Ken, to Solland and the establishment of the Solar Nation and its compact with the Lunar Nation in the wake of the final war- a compact that holds, for now.
Ilker and the Witch sealed the compact with a unity of words and deeds, a binding of Sun and Moon, as old as Man himself and no less sacred or powerful for it. While Ilker’s Solar allies went home to being regenerating and cleansing the war from their papers, the Witch returned with the guarantee of the compact in hand and restored the way of the many Lunar peoples to its proper place in society, by what wiles and words (and wrath) she had to use to get that done. The Sun and the Moon moved about the world, sometimes meeting, often apart, each seeing to the health and vitality of the world in their own way. Then the image dissipated.
“Where is your son?” Zacharion said, wondering.
She smiled. “Where he needs to be, doing what he should be doing, and that is all you need to know for now.” Taking up the icon, she took a moment to admire her former handiwork and see that it is now as it was then- like the moon, like the universe, like herself.
“Ilker was the sun, boy.” The Witch smiled. “He let his soul burn brightly, brining fire to the minds of men and light to the world wherein they lived. He burned away the clouds covering the lands fouled by the Dark Lords, letting them be exposed and cut down. Then he burned away the sickness so the healing could begin.”
“And you would be the moon, then?” Zacharion said.
She nodded. “I am. Where he was open, forthright and without mystery I stood away and let his shadow shelter me. In the dark, when the cool night refreshed the world and the men within it, I do my work. Mine is the hidden way, the path obscured, unable to be taught but always able to be learned. It is a way that rolls from side to side, and not from sky to earth as the sun does. Different, but neither the lesser nor the greater, for the universe needs both Sun and Moon for its health and prosperity.”
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Legacy of the Hero: The Last Meets the First-13
Along the River Comes Danger and Opportunity
Zacharion sat alone on a raft, a pole thrice his height sitting on his lap, drifting down a gentle small river. He’d left the Solar Nation behind weeks ago, and with it the degenerating social order that he knew that his appearance precipitated. Soon that left his mind, dismissing it as a matter best left to his hosts to handle, for his mission concerned far more—and far greater—concerns.
The Wildlands, being before him in his mind, occupied his attention. He felt a certain pull, a tug here and a nudge there, directing his travel out of Solland. In his sleep, he encounters the dream form of the very woman he seeks: the Witch of the Wildlands. Already, they dance- and they have yet to see each other with waking eyes.
“You bear my icon, and his mark, boy. That will get you to my presence, but it does not gain you my attention. Prove yourself.”
So, here on this raft, the boy Zacharion now pondered what would possibly be sufficient proof of worth to such a crafty crone. He threw his mind back, back as far as could be had, to the words of his late master: “The one men know as ‘The Witch of the Wildlands’ is old, very old, older than me despite all contrary claims- and thus remembers a time before the dawning of the sun, when the night lingered on long past its time, and thus remembered many secrets of the days before the Azure Flames. She will not yield easily to those she knows not, but she can and will yield- I conquered her, and so you must if it comes to it.”
Just then, as he rounded a bend in the river, Zacharion spotted a landing. On that landing he saw an abandoned house. Quickly, he got to his feet and pushed himself to the land and made landfall; he dragged the raft out of the water as much as he could, and then tied it to a nearby tree to prevent it from drifting away. Picking up a club-like branch on the ground, he then approached the empty house; seeing it empty, but also recently inhabited, he quickly searched it for anything useful- but as he made to leave an explosion—a loud crash and a blast of air—threw him on his back.
“Who trespasses here?” boomed a throaty voice, and as Zacharion’s vision cleared he saw that a monstrous man stood in the doorway, a man-like thing misshapen in its flesh as if it melted. The boy got to his feet, faced the thing and answered: “I am Zacharion, last apprentice of Holy Ilker, and I travel to the Wildlands to fulfill my master’s final order.”
The man-thing looked over the boy with its man-like eyes, and recoiled at the sudden flair of Ilker’s Kiss upon the boy’s brow. This did not escape Zacharion’s notice, and he pushed the thing to the floor. Kneeling on its chest, he stared into its face.
“I will fulfill that order.” Zacharion said, “Now, tell me who—and what—you are!”
Recoiling away from the sunlight from the boy’s brow, the thing’s anguished voice arose and it said “I am Gek, Chained to the Horde of the Frozen North!”
Zacharion remembered that group. Ilker destroyed them a generation before his birth, when a young man. “Ah! A survivor of the broken horde, and one of the slaves at that- you are a wretched one to live like this.”
“Not alone.” Gek said, “I am one of a band that ranges here, and soon they will come with food and loot- and they will find you quite entertaining.”
Again, recollection: Ilker once said to Zacharion “The thralls of the Dark Lords are numerous, but base in thought and deed. They are obsequious to their masters, and brutal to those weaker than they, covetous and cunning in their way. They hear and remember secrets, hoarding them as they do their treasure.”
Zacharion drew a knife from his belt and slipped it beneath a fold in the skin, near its neck. “I have killed before. I know you now, Gek. Thrall to a Dark Lord you were, and you did not fight Ilker; you fled, deserting like the coward you are, before you caught sight of my master’s steel and steed. Yet you are here, in comfort suitable to your kind, and that tells me that you deserted not to avoid battle- but to betray your master for another Lord’s banner.”
Zacharion cut away some of the rags about its neck, revealing a brand on its flesh- a brand that he knew, that of the Dark Lord of the Fel Wastes, which would explain the melted flesh. “Yes, you took up the Flesh-Shaper’s banner. Bad enough that you’re of a kind that betrayed its fellow Men, but you go on to compound your sin by committing treachery of your own will- and now you know what it wrought. What did you offer in return for the Shaper’s brand?”
Gek hesitated, and the knife cut shallow into its neck, a black ichor streaming from the wound.
Zacharion glared at Gek now, the Kiss’s sunlight now like midday, and the intensity seared Gek greatly; “I cannot!” Gek said, “It is all that preserves me!”
Zacharion drove the knife into Gek’s neck, sinking it to the hilt. “No longer shall it preserve you. Soon you die, and go where you should have long ago. Your secret is worthless now, so give it to me.”
The boy knew he risked failure, as this one was not witless, but yet it was a thing unnatural- one without a place in the world, save what it stole from others. He left the solar fire from the Kiss flow out, down his arm and out his hand, through the knife and into the brand. Gek screamed in agony.
“Tell me, Gek! Tell me and death becomes easy and swift for you!” Zacharion said, hoping that the pain scrambled the thing’s reason enough to make it talk- and it did.
“I know the Witch’s name!” Gek said, and he spoke it. The boy marked it, and let Gek die.
Zacharion sat alone on a raft, a pole thrice his height sitting on his lap, drifting down a gentle small river. He’d left the Solar Nation behind weeks ago, and with it the degenerating social order that he knew that his appearance precipitated. Soon that left his mind, dismissing it as a matter best left to his hosts to handle, for his mission concerned far more—and far greater—concerns.
The Wildlands, being before him in his mind, occupied his attention. He felt a certain pull, a tug here and a nudge there, directing his travel out of Solland. In his sleep, he encounters the dream form of the very woman he seeks: the Witch of the Wildlands. Already, they dance- and they have yet to see each other with waking eyes.
“You bear my icon, and his mark, boy. That will get you to my presence, but it does not gain you my attention. Prove yourself.”
So, here on this raft, the boy Zacharion now pondered what would possibly be sufficient proof of worth to such a crafty crone. He threw his mind back, back as far as could be had, to the words of his late master: “The one men know as ‘The Witch of the Wildlands’ is old, very old, older than me despite all contrary claims- and thus remembers a time before the dawning of the sun, when the night lingered on long past its time, and thus remembered many secrets of the days before the Azure Flames. She will not yield easily to those she knows not, but she can and will yield- I conquered her, and so you must if it comes to it.”
Just then, as he rounded a bend in the river, Zacharion spotted a landing. On that landing he saw an abandoned house. Quickly, he got to his feet and pushed himself to the land and made landfall; he dragged the raft out of the water as much as he could, and then tied it to a nearby tree to prevent it from drifting away. Picking up a club-like branch on the ground, he then approached the empty house; seeing it empty, but also recently inhabited, he quickly searched it for anything useful- but as he made to leave an explosion—a loud crash and a blast of air—threw him on his back.
“Who trespasses here?” boomed a throaty voice, and as Zacharion’s vision cleared he saw that a monstrous man stood in the doorway, a man-like thing misshapen in its flesh as if it melted. The boy got to his feet, faced the thing and answered: “I am Zacharion, last apprentice of Holy Ilker, and I travel to the Wildlands to fulfill my master’s final order.”
The man-thing looked over the boy with its man-like eyes, and recoiled at the sudden flair of Ilker’s Kiss upon the boy’s brow. This did not escape Zacharion’s notice, and he pushed the thing to the floor. Kneeling on its chest, he stared into its face.
“I will fulfill that order.” Zacharion said, “Now, tell me who—and what—you are!”
Recoiling away from the sunlight from the boy’s brow, the thing’s anguished voice arose and it said “I am Gek, Chained to the Horde of the Frozen North!”
Zacharion remembered that group. Ilker destroyed them a generation before his birth, when a young man. “Ah! A survivor of the broken horde, and one of the slaves at that- you are a wretched one to live like this.”
“Not alone.” Gek said, “I am one of a band that ranges here, and soon they will come with food and loot- and they will find you quite entertaining.”
Again, recollection: Ilker once said to Zacharion “The thralls of the Dark Lords are numerous, but base in thought and deed. They are obsequious to their masters, and brutal to those weaker than they, covetous and cunning in their way. They hear and remember secrets, hoarding them as they do their treasure.”
Zacharion drew a knife from his belt and slipped it beneath a fold in the skin, near its neck. “I have killed before. I know you now, Gek. Thrall to a Dark Lord you were, and you did not fight Ilker; you fled, deserting like the coward you are, before you caught sight of my master’s steel and steed. Yet you are here, in comfort suitable to your kind, and that tells me that you deserted not to avoid battle- but to betray your master for another Lord’s banner.”
Zacharion cut away some of the rags about its neck, revealing a brand on its flesh- a brand that he knew, that of the Dark Lord of the Fel Wastes, which would explain the melted flesh. “Yes, you took up the Flesh-Shaper’s banner. Bad enough that you’re of a kind that betrayed its fellow Men, but you go on to compound your sin by committing treachery of your own will- and now you know what it wrought. What did you offer in return for the Shaper’s brand?”
Gek hesitated, and the knife cut shallow into its neck, a black ichor streaming from the wound.
Zacharion glared at Gek now, the Kiss’s sunlight now like midday, and the intensity seared Gek greatly; “I cannot!” Gek said, “It is all that preserves me!”
Zacharion drove the knife into Gek’s neck, sinking it to the hilt. “No longer shall it preserve you. Soon you die, and go where you should have long ago. Your secret is worthless now, so give it to me.”
The boy knew he risked failure, as this one was not witless, but yet it was a thing unnatural- one without a place in the world, save what it stole from others. He left the solar fire from the Kiss flow out, down his arm and out his hand, through the knife and into the brand. Gek screamed in agony.
“Tell me, Gek! Tell me and death becomes easy and swift for you!” Zacharion said, hoping that the pain scrambled the thing’s reason enough to make it talk- and it did.
“I know the Witch’s name!” Gek said, and he spoke it. The boy marked it, and let Gek die.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Legacy of the Hero: The Last Meets the First-11
The Mission Urges Ever Onward
Zacharion and Sihaya awoke late in the morning, after the other guests left to resume their journey, and found waiting for them quite the meal- and their hosts. The entire family sat around one of the tables in the common room—husband, wife, four sons and two daughters—waiting for them; two of the boys got up and, in a show of courtesy that both found pleasant (if more appropriate for the court than a roadside inn), seated them. Then came a brief prayer of thanks and blessing, in Ilker’s name.
“We are pleased to have the last apprentice of Holy Ilker and the Princess Royal as our guests.” the husband said, “Even if we must enjoy your company in a manner more like that of a cherished secret than a joyful birth.”
The wife then followed with “As soon as you two retired, we sent word to the palace of your presence here. I would expect that a rider or two left the palace to come for you two as soon as our message arrived.”
The eldest son then spoke, excited at the idea; “Mother, what else are we going to do? It is clear that the realm will soon sunder into civil war. Lord Acton’s ambitions will not let him sit quietly, not when things are so chaotic.”
Sihaya sat amazed at this youth’s erudition, betraying a training far beyond what would be expected of a common-born boy, but when she looked at Zacharion she saw in his eyes the fullness of explanation: as her father once served Holy Ilker, so did their host- and like her father, he passed on all of his wisdom to his children. Class, she slowly realized, did not determine one’s quality of character- only the means to realize it.
“That we shall know when the rider from the palace arrives.”
Time passed in quiet eating, enjoying the meal, when a pair of men entered the common room from the roadside door. Armed they were, and wearing the colors of the Lord Marshal of the palace, as one ought to expect from dispatch riders in the Solar Nation. The husband excused himself, meeting the men while the wife subtly signaled her sons to be ready to assist their father. The wife then took up her daughters and, with Sihaya, cleared the table before retreating into the kitchen.
Zacharion saw this clearly as the couple not taking at face value what they saw, and then acting as if those men were a threat. The husband, wary and showing the wisdom gained by age, approached the men saying “Welcome, riders. You come from the palace?”
One of them, the older of the two, grasped the husband’s outstretched hand and grasped it in a manner that—though strange—pleased the husband.
“His Majesty wishes you well. You shelter the last one?”
“I wish His Majesty well, and I do. His Majesty’s daughter also rests here. Come, quickly, sit and give us the word from the palace.”
Satisfied that they are genuine the couple moved into action. The women returned to the table the meal and fixings while one of the sons rushed out to stable the riders’ horses and the husband put the riders at the table. Sihaya, at her hostess’s unspoken insistence, also sat at the table.
“Please, be seated.” Sihaya said as she entered the room and again took a seat at the table, “You rode long and hard. My father would understand if you forgo the pleasantries.”
They thanked her kindness with a silent nod and a quickly-consumed meal. When they finished, so did everyone else, and while the daughters and younger sons cleared the table and began cleaning in the kitchen the four guests talked with their hosts and the elder sons.
“First, Your Highness, your royal parents are alive and well.” the elder rider said, “The truth of how the attack occurred has been revealed, and your parents believe that your safety again resides in the palace. They bid you to return as soon as possible.”
Without missing a beat, Zacharion broke in: “Then I am the target. Very well, I shall take my leave and resume my journey.”
Sihaya grabbed his hand. “Alone? I forbid it. Whatever ability you possess, you cannot prevail against the forces arrayed against you by yourself.”
The husband and wife smiled, knowingly, at each other. The daughters giggled from their spot at the kitchen doorway, for they also noticed.
“Princess, you need not worry. Go back to the palace, and leave the boy’s safety to us. We will ensure that, as far as we can, we will see him through safely. “ The husband then turned to Zacharion. “Where do you go next?”
“I seek the Witch of the Wildlands.”
The others gasped, save for the husband, who still cocked a disbelieving eye his way.
“She certainly lived up to her legend.” The husband said, “Yet she was Holy Ilker’s peer. I am uncertain that she yet lives, my boy.”
Zacharion, with sternness beyond his years, did not turn away. “She lives. I have proof of it. If you intend to aid me, then show me the best route from here to there.”
“That crone sees no man, and has not since King Zebulon ascended the throne after the Wars ended.” The wife said, “Why would she see you, even if you were Holy Ilker’s last apprentice?”
“She will see me gladly because I bear the very things that Ilker held for her for so long, things that she would want returned- and other gifts that he intended for her beyond those things.”
Zacharion showed the same pouch that he used to prove himself when he arrived in court, and in it he drew another icon- a small, palm-sized medallion bearing the sigil of the Witch, one that pulsed with life as it was made of wood and inked in blood, wood and blood that yet lived by means unknown.
“She lives.” Zacharion said, “This is the proof. That it does not sear my flesh proves that she is aware, and approves of my intention. Now, no more talk of what I will or will not do- only how to see it done.”
The couple looked at their eldest son, who spoke thus: “From here, the Wildlands are a long ride by horse along the road to the point where you turn off to approach. It takes about a month of all-day riding to do this. It takes about as long to ride to the river crossing, and then come to the border by raft or boat, due to the winding route and slow pace. Going through the fields and forests slows the pace, but avoids the visibility of the roads as well as the vulnerability of the river.”
“No, I know another way.” Zacharion said, looking at the eldest son, “Go forth and bring down a bird of prey this day.” Turning to the wife, he said “When your sons bring you this bird, clean and dress it as you would a hen, duck or pheasant. Bring me the two largest feathers and a dram of its blood, and then leave me be. I shall tell you presently what shall be done.”
The words hit with a sacred authority, and none questioned him despite his boyish age and appearance. While the sons went hunting and the rest of the family tended to the house, and the other road-guests that arrived over the day, Zacharion saw off Sihaya.
“I love you, and this worries me. I am far, far too young for this.” She said to him, “My father may be cross with you.”
“No,” he said, “he will not. However, because of this you may soon find yourself with a new sibling- and your mother will make it so. Be well, princess of the Solar Nation, for soon you shall be Queen and the nation will need its Mother Protector.”
Zacharion nodded, and the riders escorted her away before she could protest. Just then, the husband stepped outside.
I heard you just now. Not yet a man in any way, yet you speak as if you’ve lived many times before- and lives not yet come to pass.”
“It’s strange.” The boy said, “I see more than what eyes reveal. I have for as long as I remember, and that is what Ilker struggled with me to master. Time and space are neither straight nor narrow, and for this reason I have quite the mission.”
“To do what? Visit all of Holy Ilker’s peers and students?”
The boy shook his head. “To finish his work.”
Zacharion and Sihaya awoke late in the morning, after the other guests left to resume their journey, and found waiting for them quite the meal- and their hosts. The entire family sat around one of the tables in the common room—husband, wife, four sons and two daughters—waiting for them; two of the boys got up and, in a show of courtesy that both found pleasant (if more appropriate for the court than a roadside inn), seated them. Then came a brief prayer of thanks and blessing, in Ilker’s name.
“We are pleased to have the last apprentice of Holy Ilker and the Princess Royal as our guests.” the husband said, “Even if we must enjoy your company in a manner more like that of a cherished secret than a joyful birth.”
The wife then followed with “As soon as you two retired, we sent word to the palace of your presence here. I would expect that a rider or two left the palace to come for you two as soon as our message arrived.”
The eldest son then spoke, excited at the idea; “Mother, what else are we going to do? It is clear that the realm will soon sunder into civil war. Lord Acton’s ambitions will not let him sit quietly, not when things are so chaotic.”
Sihaya sat amazed at this youth’s erudition, betraying a training far beyond what would be expected of a common-born boy, but when she looked at Zacharion she saw in his eyes the fullness of explanation: as her father once served Holy Ilker, so did their host- and like her father, he passed on all of his wisdom to his children. Class, she slowly realized, did not determine one’s quality of character- only the means to realize it.
“That we shall know when the rider from the palace arrives.”
Time passed in quiet eating, enjoying the meal, when a pair of men entered the common room from the roadside door. Armed they were, and wearing the colors of the Lord Marshal of the palace, as one ought to expect from dispatch riders in the Solar Nation. The husband excused himself, meeting the men while the wife subtly signaled her sons to be ready to assist their father. The wife then took up her daughters and, with Sihaya, cleared the table before retreating into the kitchen.
Zacharion saw this clearly as the couple not taking at face value what they saw, and then acting as if those men were a threat. The husband, wary and showing the wisdom gained by age, approached the men saying “Welcome, riders. You come from the palace?”
One of them, the older of the two, grasped the husband’s outstretched hand and grasped it in a manner that—though strange—pleased the husband.
“His Majesty wishes you well. You shelter the last one?”
“I wish His Majesty well, and I do. His Majesty’s daughter also rests here. Come, quickly, sit and give us the word from the palace.”
Satisfied that they are genuine the couple moved into action. The women returned to the table the meal and fixings while one of the sons rushed out to stable the riders’ horses and the husband put the riders at the table. Sihaya, at her hostess’s unspoken insistence, also sat at the table.
“Please, be seated.” Sihaya said as she entered the room and again took a seat at the table, “You rode long and hard. My father would understand if you forgo the pleasantries.”
They thanked her kindness with a silent nod and a quickly-consumed meal. When they finished, so did everyone else, and while the daughters and younger sons cleared the table and began cleaning in the kitchen the four guests talked with their hosts and the elder sons.
“First, Your Highness, your royal parents are alive and well.” the elder rider said, “The truth of how the attack occurred has been revealed, and your parents believe that your safety again resides in the palace. They bid you to return as soon as possible.”
Without missing a beat, Zacharion broke in: “Then I am the target. Very well, I shall take my leave and resume my journey.”
Sihaya grabbed his hand. “Alone? I forbid it. Whatever ability you possess, you cannot prevail against the forces arrayed against you by yourself.”
The husband and wife smiled, knowingly, at each other. The daughters giggled from their spot at the kitchen doorway, for they also noticed.
“Princess, you need not worry. Go back to the palace, and leave the boy’s safety to us. We will ensure that, as far as we can, we will see him through safely. “ The husband then turned to Zacharion. “Where do you go next?”
“I seek the Witch of the Wildlands.”
The others gasped, save for the husband, who still cocked a disbelieving eye his way.
“She certainly lived up to her legend.” The husband said, “Yet she was Holy Ilker’s peer. I am uncertain that she yet lives, my boy.”
Zacharion, with sternness beyond his years, did not turn away. “She lives. I have proof of it. If you intend to aid me, then show me the best route from here to there.”
“That crone sees no man, and has not since King Zebulon ascended the throne after the Wars ended.” The wife said, “Why would she see you, even if you were Holy Ilker’s last apprentice?”
“She will see me gladly because I bear the very things that Ilker held for her for so long, things that she would want returned- and other gifts that he intended for her beyond those things.”
Zacharion showed the same pouch that he used to prove himself when he arrived in court, and in it he drew another icon- a small, palm-sized medallion bearing the sigil of the Witch, one that pulsed with life as it was made of wood and inked in blood, wood and blood that yet lived by means unknown.
“She lives.” Zacharion said, “This is the proof. That it does not sear my flesh proves that she is aware, and approves of my intention. Now, no more talk of what I will or will not do- only how to see it done.”
The couple looked at their eldest son, who spoke thus: “From here, the Wildlands are a long ride by horse along the road to the point where you turn off to approach. It takes about a month of all-day riding to do this. It takes about as long to ride to the river crossing, and then come to the border by raft or boat, due to the winding route and slow pace. Going through the fields and forests slows the pace, but avoids the visibility of the roads as well as the vulnerability of the river.”
“No, I know another way.” Zacharion said, looking at the eldest son, “Go forth and bring down a bird of prey this day.” Turning to the wife, he said “When your sons bring you this bird, clean and dress it as you would a hen, duck or pheasant. Bring me the two largest feathers and a dram of its blood, and then leave me be. I shall tell you presently what shall be done.”
The words hit with a sacred authority, and none questioned him despite his boyish age and appearance. While the sons went hunting and the rest of the family tended to the house, and the other road-guests that arrived over the day, Zacharion saw off Sihaya.
“I love you, and this worries me. I am far, far too young for this.” She said to him, “My father may be cross with you.”
“No,” he said, “he will not. However, because of this you may soon find yourself with a new sibling- and your mother will make it so. Be well, princess of the Solar Nation, for soon you shall be Queen and the nation will need its Mother Protector.”
Zacharion nodded, and the riders escorted her away before she could protest. Just then, the husband stepped outside.
I heard you just now. Not yet a man in any way, yet you speak as if you’ve lived many times before- and lives not yet come to pass.”
“It’s strange.” The boy said, “I see more than what eyes reveal. I have for as long as I remember, and that is what Ilker struggled with me to master. Time and space are neither straight nor narrow, and for this reason I have quite the mission.”
“To do what? Visit all of Holy Ilker’s peers and students?”
The boy shook his head. “To finish his work.”
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Legacy of the Hero: The Last Meets the First-10
Loyal Hermits
Sihaya and Zacharion rode through the woods and away from the roads all through the night, reaching the fields of a household that held a royal license to operate one of the many way-stations that mark the sides of road and waterways in the Solar Nation. Walled compounds, self-sufficient farmland and room for horses marked these institutions—ancient when the Solar Nation was young, a holdover from a time before the Azure Flames—these places safeguarded the commerce of the people, great and small.
“Hold.” Sihaya said, “We cannot approach yet.”
“I know of these places.” Zacharion said, “Master used the ancient term for them, a loanword from tongues long-dead: caravanserai.”
“My father granted this one to an old friend of my parents, one of their companions.”
“Then we are soon amongst friends?”
“I hope so.” Sihaya said, “They haven’t talked since before I was born. I do hope that there is no animosity.”
“So, why do we hold here? Would it not be enough for you to demand entry on your own authority?”
“It would,” yet the pause betrayed her continued concern, “but travelers room here, and it is they—not the master, not his wife—that worry me. However, I know how to call to them without any fear of discovery- but first I need to see a sign of their wakeful presence.”
“Ah, you intend to signal them?”
Sihaya nodded affirmatively. “It is quite late now, the deepest part of the night. If their habits are as my father once said of them, soon the wife will come forth from the house to dispose of waste from the pot and add it to their pile for feeding the seeds in the spring.”
Zacharion smiled, and then his ears perked up- he heard a distant door creak open. They hushed, listening for a woman’s voice- one they heard cursing a cat as she carried a pail of waste from the interior out to the compost pile. Sihaya hurriedly rummaged through a bag to find a crystal, and she affixed it to the shaft of the spear she previously acquired. Handing it to Zacharion, he understood her desire and whispered a word to the crystal; it exploded with the light of the sun. He handed it back.
“Fix in your mind your name as you signal her.” Zacharion said, “It will eliminate doubt in her mind that it is you.”
Sihaya nodded her understanding, and she waived her light to the distant house. The woman did see it.
“She’s called us forward.” Zacharion said, “Let’s hurry.”
They did, riding across the fields quickly, and soon approached the aged woman, who bowed as courtesy demands.
“Your Highness,” she said, “come inside quickly. Ill words fly swiftly.”
The two dismounted, and Zacharion took the horses to the attached enclosure for stabling. Once all were inside, the three stood in the kitchen- and the light on the spear dissipated.
“I am glad to see you alive.” the old woman said, “My husband and I may have our disputes with your parents, but we remain loyal to them, to the Solar Nation and to Holy Ilker.”
She then looked at the boy. “You must be Ilker’s final apprentice.”
Zacharion nodded.
“Go wake my husband. He’ll not complain if he sees you first.” she said, and he did so.
“You two we can conceal for a few days.” the old woman said to Sihaya, “That we can do, which is enough to supply you properly and get you fresh horses, as well as inform the palace that you two got here and left here safely. After that, we can do no more without risking reprisals from our enemies in common.”
“May I inquire?”
The old woman knew the question before the girl asked. “You just did. Your father and my husband disagreed on your father’s assumption of the throne. It was a heated argument, one that led to a Trial By Combat to settle it, which your father one- barely. My husband, as honorable as any of Ilker’s companions, accepted the result. However, rather than demand loyalty as subject, your father offered my husband retirement as the master of a Royal Waystop; as this was at the end of the Wars, and my husband had long grown weary of war, he accepted. Our marriage was the last time that we saw your parents, yet your mother and I maintain contact by letter.”
“I do not regret either the argument or its consequences.” the old man said, coming into the room with Zacharion behind him, “Your father and I remain true to Holy Ilker’s vision, and differ only in how to achieve it. To his credit, and your mother’s as well, they have done well as the sovereigns of Solland and leaders of the Solar Nation. So long as they remember that vision, we are loyal to them- despite our hermit-like existence.”
Just then, two of their sons entered the kitchen. “Father, Mother- we’ve finished our turn about the perimeter.”
Sihaya and Zacharion rode through the woods and away from the roads all through the night, reaching the fields of a household that held a royal license to operate one of the many way-stations that mark the sides of road and waterways in the Solar Nation. Walled compounds, self-sufficient farmland and room for horses marked these institutions—ancient when the Solar Nation was young, a holdover from a time before the Azure Flames—these places safeguarded the commerce of the people, great and small.
“Hold.” Sihaya said, “We cannot approach yet.”
“I know of these places.” Zacharion said, “Master used the ancient term for them, a loanword from tongues long-dead: caravanserai.”
“My father granted this one to an old friend of my parents, one of their companions.”
“Then we are soon amongst friends?”
“I hope so.” Sihaya said, “They haven’t talked since before I was born. I do hope that there is no animosity.”
“So, why do we hold here? Would it not be enough for you to demand entry on your own authority?”
“It would,” yet the pause betrayed her continued concern, “but travelers room here, and it is they—not the master, not his wife—that worry me. However, I know how to call to them without any fear of discovery- but first I need to see a sign of their wakeful presence.”
“Ah, you intend to signal them?”
Sihaya nodded affirmatively. “It is quite late now, the deepest part of the night. If their habits are as my father once said of them, soon the wife will come forth from the house to dispose of waste from the pot and add it to their pile for feeding the seeds in the spring.”
Zacharion smiled, and then his ears perked up- he heard a distant door creak open. They hushed, listening for a woman’s voice- one they heard cursing a cat as she carried a pail of waste from the interior out to the compost pile. Sihaya hurriedly rummaged through a bag to find a crystal, and she affixed it to the shaft of the spear she previously acquired. Handing it to Zacharion, he understood her desire and whispered a word to the crystal; it exploded with the light of the sun. He handed it back.
“Fix in your mind your name as you signal her.” Zacharion said, “It will eliminate doubt in her mind that it is you.”
Sihaya nodded her understanding, and she waived her light to the distant house. The woman did see it.
“She’s called us forward.” Zacharion said, “Let’s hurry.”
They did, riding across the fields quickly, and soon approached the aged woman, who bowed as courtesy demands.
“Your Highness,” she said, “come inside quickly. Ill words fly swiftly.”
The two dismounted, and Zacharion took the horses to the attached enclosure for stabling. Once all were inside, the three stood in the kitchen- and the light on the spear dissipated.
“I am glad to see you alive.” the old woman said, “My husband and I may have our disputes with your parents, but we remain loyal to them, to the Solar Nation and to Holy Ilker.”
She then looked at the boy. “You must be Ilker’s final apprentice.”
Zacharion nodded.
“Go wake my husband. He’ll not complain if he sees you first.” she said, and he did so.
“You two we can conceal for a few days.” the old woman said to Sihaya, “That we can do, which is enough to supply you properly and get you fresh horses, as well as inform the palace that you two got here and left here safely. After that, we can do no more without risking reprisals from our enemies in common.”
“May I inquire?”
The old woman knew the question before the girl asked. “You just did. Your father and my husband disagreed on your father’s assumption of the throne. It was a heated argument, one that led to a Trial By Combat to settle it, which your father one- barely. My husband, as honorable as any of Ilker’s companions, accepted the result. However, rather than demand loyalty as subject, your father offered my husband retirement as the master of a Royal Waystop; as this was at the end of the Wars, and my husband had long grown weary of war, he accepted. Our marriage was the last time that we saw your parents, yet your mother and I maintain contact by letter.”
“I do not regret either the argument or its consequences.” the old man said, coming into the room with Zacharion behind him, “Your father and I remain true to Holy Ilker’s vision, and differ only in how to achieve it. To his credit, and your mother’s as well, they have done well as the sovereigns of Solland and leaders of the Solar Nation. So long as they remember that vision, we are loyal to them- despite our hermit-like existence.”
Just then, two of their sons entered the kitchen. “Father, Mother- we’ve finished our turn about the perimeter.”
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Legacy of the Hero: The Last Meets the First-9
Treacherous Companions
The palace soon quieted from the clamor of combat to the subdued din of cleaning the halls and walls, dragging away corpses of friend and foe for accounting, and assembling the key courtiers for royal council. In a sealed side room, secret from most that walk the halls of the Solar Nation’s royal palace, an unwelcome—yet sadly familiar—meeting commenced. Therein the privy council of the Solar Nation met in circumstances that would be shocking to the majority of courtiers at court.
Zebulon sat on a stool, naked to the waist, bleeding from a number of cuts about his arms and torso. Behind him Keela stood, herself bereft of queenly modesty as she again assumed the demeanor of a doctor, bandages covering her own wounds as she wielded her instruments again upon her royal husband. The council, slim in number, consisted of long-time trusted companions- but that didn’t mean that they found the scene acceptable, only that it was unwise to voice such opinions.
“Now that all five of you are here,” Zebulon said, “I expect a report.”
The Lord Chancellor, a man as ancient as Ilker, and thus remembering when his king was but an infant in his mother’s arms, looked up from a hastily-written letter to say “My king, the assassins are no more. All of the traitors are slain, as are their confederates, save for one.”
“Lord Chancellor, I bid you hold that a moment. Lord Marshall, what word of my daughter and the boy?”
A man in his prime, the Lord Marshall was once Zebulon’s squire during the wars. “Master,” he said, out of long habit, “neither I nor my men can find either child within the walls. The last report was that they got to the stables and defeated a group of traitors that assailed them there, leaving a few slain and the rest dazzled.”
Quickly, the Court Fool—also the Master of Spies—added that “…two of my men saw them ride hard away from the palace out a sally port. They are gone, Your Majesty, but not beyond the eyes and ears of my people.”
Keela tapped her husband on the shoulder, and he gripped two iron holds on either side of him- holds anchored to great weights of stone. She took up a short iron bar, whispered an unheard word in a curt and insulting manner, and saw it immediately grow red-hot as if plunged into a forge or fire. Then she seared closed the wound on his shoulder, and all saw his grasp on the holds tighten instant as the touch- but not a sound passed his lips. Keela removed the brand, and with her free hand whispered a second phrase unheard to the seared flesh in a loving and tender manner; instantly the scar healed and only a red bruise-like mark remained.
Keela handed the brand to a woman next to her, who whispered to it and cooled it thereby, before putting it aside. This woman was the Mistress of the Palace, the Lord Chancellor’s grand-daughter, one of Keela’s former students and the lover of the Master of Spies. “Majesty,” she said, “if they are followed, then certainly they shall flee for safe and friendly places. Would we not be wise to send word to those closest to the palace, telling them to expect our precious personages?”
Another woman, the Court Healer (sister of the Mistress, student of Keela and the Marshal’s wife), disagreed with this proposal, saying “Word of disaster travels faster than word of warning, and more so at short distances, and thus I say that our friends would already expect them. Instead, let us have words with the living traitor. I suspect that this was an attack of opportunity, not a well-planned act of treachery, but nonetheless the first move in a great scheme of treason and insurrection.”
Keela and Zebulon looked knowingly at each other, then smiled.
“Proceed now, Lord Chancellor.” Zebulon said.
The old man harrumphed. “The guard captain we have chained and isolated in the Sorcerer’s Cell. We stripped him from head to toe, having discovered nothing by way of hidden marks of any sort.”
“Did you have him shaved?” Keela said.
“No, my queen.” the old man said, “You intend to have him examined?”
“I intend to secure his health.” Keela said as she bound up her husband’s wounds,
“Transfer him to the House of Healing and place him under guard therein. His wounds shall be cleaned and dressed as if he were a free man.”
“Mistress,” the Chief Healer said, “shall I attend personally?”
“Yes, in my presence.” Keela said.
The council saw Keela’s intention, and that ended discussion. The corpses, once identified, were disposed of properly—lest unclean things foul the palace—and by dawn the palace betrayed no signs of its overnight occurrence.
When the prisoner awoke, he found himself naked and chained to an infirmary bed. Standing over him was the woman he betrayed, Queen Keela, and the Chief Healer- her former student. Two of the royal ladies-in-waiting stood by to assist their mistresses in their intended task of interrogation.
“You are wounded.” Keela said to the surprised prisoner, “I chose to attend to you myself.”
The Chief Healer motioned to the waiting ladies to bring water and cloth as Keela prepared to administer treatment.
“I ordered your transfer during the night.” Keela said, “I have prepared you for treatment, which is why you might feel utterly exposed.”
The prisoner looked closely at his arms, for that was all the more of himself that he could see, and noticed that what hair he had was gone- his flesh now seemed smooth like a baby. That was when he noticed the lack of hair upon his head, and his countenance withered from shock to horror.
“What are you going to do?” he demanded, his voice trembling.
“Heal you.” Keela said, and just then the other women began washing his body- starting at the feet and moving up, “I shall clean and close your wounds, as I’ve done for so many men before, such that you shall be back on your feet before midday. I shall not harm you in any way, nor allow others to do so.”
His disbelief needed no words, for his face said all that Keela needed to hear. She took a wet cloth and wiped clean a wound, and with that bloodied cloth she whispered a question. She then stood as if listening to an unseen messenger speaking into her ears, and then she again looked at her patient.
“I thought as much.” Keela said, and the Chief Healer nodded her agreement, having done the same into another, differently-soiled cloth.
“You are a fool.” Keela said, “Tell me this woman’s name, and mercy may yet be had despite your weakness.”
“I guarantee sanctuary for your daughter,” the Chief Healer said, “and a future greater than any that her mother would grant her, an honorable and harmonious future.”
They looked at him, wordless, for another five minutes as all four women finished preparing him for treatment. Then he broke down, sobbing, and could not stop. Keela wiped away his tears, and then soothed him with words whispered into his ears. She handed that cloth to the Chief Healer, who then took her leave and reported to the Master of Spies the name of the spy that compromised him and got her in chains before midday. By evening, she too confessed- and revealed that civil war had begun.
The palace soon quieted from the clamor of combat to the subdued din of cleaning the halls and walls, dragging away corpses of friend and foe for accounting, and assembling the key courtiers for royal council. In a sealed side room, secret from most that walk the halls of the Solar Nation’s royal palace, an unwelcome—yet sadly familiar—meeting commenced. Therein the privy council of the Solar Nation met in circumstances that would be shocking to the majority of courtiers at court.
Zebulon sat on a stool, naked to the waist, bleeding from a number of cuts about his arms and torso. Behind him Keela stood, herself bereft of queenly modesty as she again assumed the demeanor of a doctor, bandages covering her own wounds as she wielded her instruments again upon her royal husband. The council, slim in number, consisted of long-time trusted companions- but that didn’t mean that they found the scene acceptable, only that it was unwise to voice such opinions.
“Now that all five of you are here,” Zebulon said, “I expect a report.”
The Lord Chancellor, a man as ancient as Ilker, and thus remembering when his king was but an infant in his mother’s arms, looked up from a hastily-written letter to say “My king, the assassins are no more. All of the traitors are slain, as are their confederates, save for one.”
“Lord Chancellor, I bid you hold that a moment. Lord Marshall, what word of my daughter and the boy?”
A man in his prime, the Lord Marshall was once Zebulon’s squire during the wars. “Master,” he said, out of long habit, “neither I nor my men can find either child within the walls. The last report was that they got to the stables and defeated a group of traitors that assailed them there, leaving a few slain and the rest dazzled.”
Quickly, the Court Fool—also the Master of Spies—added that “…two of my men saw them ride hard away from the palace out a sally port. They are gone, Your Majesty, but not beyond the eyes and ears of my people.”
Keela tapped her husband on the shoulder, and he gripped two iron holds on either side of him- holds anchored to great weights of stone. She took up a short iron bar, whispered an unheard word in a curt and insulting manner, and saw it immediately grow red-hot as if plunged into a forge or fire. Then she seared closed the wound on his shoulder, and all saw his grasp on the holds tighten instant as the touch- but not a sound passed his lips. Keela removed the brand, and with her free hand whispered a second phrase unheard to the seared flesh in a loving and tender manner; instantly the scar healed and only a red bruise-like mark remained.
Keela handed the brand to a woman next to her, who whispered to it and cooled it thereby, before putting it aside. This woman was the Mistress of the Palace, the Lord Chancellor’s grand-daughter, one of Keela’s former students and the lover of the Master of Spies. “Majesty,” she said, “if they are followed, then certainly they shall flee for safe and friendly places. Would we not be wise to send word to those closest to the palace, telling them to expect our precious personages?”
Another woman, the Court Healer (sister of the Mistress, student of Keela and the Marshal’s wife), disagreed with this proposal, saying “Word of disaster travels faster than word of warning, and more so at short distances, and thus I say that our friends would already expect them. Instead, let us have words with the living traitor. I suspect that this was an attack of opportunity, not a well-planned act of treachery, but nonetheless the first move in a great scheme of treason and insurrection.”
Keela and Zebulon looked knowingly at each other, then smiled.
“Proceed now, Lord Chancellor.” Zebulon said.
The old man harrumphed. “The guard captain we have chained and isolated in the Sorcerer’s Cell. We stripped him from head to toe, having discovered nothing by way of hidden marks of any sort.”
“Did you have him shaved?” Keela said.
“No, my queen.” the old man said, “You intend to have him examined?”
“I intend to secure his health.” Keela said as she bound up her husband’s wounds,
“Transfer him to the House of Healing and place him under guard therein. His wounds shall be cleaned and dressed as if he were a free man.”
“Mistress,” the Chief Healer said, “shall I attend personally?”
“Yes, in my presence.” Keela said.
The council saw Keela’s intention, and that ended discussion. The corpses, once identified, were disposed of properly—lest unclean things foul the palace—and by dawn the palace betrayed no signs of its overnight occurrence.
When the prisoner awoke, he found himself naked and chained to an infirmary bed. Standing over him was the woman he betrayed, Queen Keela, and the Chief Healer- her former student. Two of the royal ladies-in-waiting stood by to assist their mistresses in their intended task of interrogation.
“You are wounded.” Keela said to the surprised prisoner, “I chose to attend to you myself.”
The Chief Healer motioned to the waiting ladies to bring water and cloth as Keela prepared to administer treatment.
“I ordered your transfer during the night.” Keela said, “I have prepared you for treatment, which is why you might feel utterly exposed.”
The prisoner looked closely at his arms, for that was all the more of himself that he could see, and noticed that what hair he had was gone- his flesh now seemed smooth like a baby. That was when he noticed the lack of hair upon his head, and his countenance withered from shock to horror.
“What are you going to do?” he demanded, his voice trembling.
“Heal you.” Keela said, and just then the other women began washing his body- starting at the feet and moving up, “I shall clean and close your wounds, as I’ve done for so many men before, such that you shall be back on your feet before midday. I shall not harm you in any way, nor allow others to do so.”
His disbelief needed no words, for his face said all that Keela needed to hear. She took a wet cloth and wiped clean a wound, and with that bloodied cloth she whispered a question. She then stood as if listening to an unseen messenger speaking into her ears, and then she again looked at her patient.
“I thought as much.” Keela said, and the Chief Healer nodded her agreement, having done the same into another, differently-soiled cloth.
“You are a fool.” Keela said, “Tell me this woman’s name, and mercy may yet be had despite your weakness.”
“I guarantee sanctuary for your daughter,” the Chief Healer said, “and a future greater than any that her mother would grant her, an honorable and harmonious future.”
They looked at him, wordless, for another five minutes as all four women finished preparing him for treatment. Then he broke down, sobbing, and could not stop. Keela wiped away his tears, and then soothed him with words whispered into his ears. She handed that cloth to the Chief Healer, who then took her leave and reported to the Master of Spies the name of the spy that compromised him and got her in chains before midday. By evening, she too confessed- and revealed that civil war had begun.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Legacy of the Hero: The Last Meets the First-8
Along the Road at Midnight
Zacharion and Sihaya, unaware of the three men scrying from afar, ran swiftly from their pursuers and escaped them before they could recover their night sight and chase the two of them down once more. Soon they reached the stables, took up two horses and rode out from a hidden sally part. Now free of the palace, they rode hard and fast into the night-shrouded countryside, soon rejoining the road connecting the palace to the rest of the land.
Some time thereafter, as they rested their horses at a pond near the road, the two sat on the ground and rested themselves.
“I should go back.” Sihaya said, slumped on the ground, “Not yet, but soon.”
Zacharion shook his head. “No. Not soon. We’re the targets, so returning to the palace will play into their hands. Your parents, I have no doubt, will defeat this attack and respond forcefully in short order. Let them focus upon that task, princess. Stay for now, and stay until recalled.”
She looked over at him, her eyes screaming her refusal, but he sat unmoved.
“You also have the power of the purse. What we require, you can easily procure, where I have no wealth of either status or coin to do such things.”
This frank assertion hit her mind like a hammer, and instantly she sat up.
“I feel no shame in it.” Zacharion said, anticipating his companion’s mind, “You are the sole princess of this realm, daughter of two heroes and quite ready to assert your own quality when you think yourself provoked. “
“Your consistency of behavior unnerves me. “
Zacharion now got up and drank deep of the water in the pond. Splashing his face with it, he turned to his royal companion once more.
“Most boys aren’t raised as I was. Ilker demands a great deal of his charges, which your father can confirm for you if you doubt my testimony. He not only trained me to fight, but also to think and to feel- and to listen when thoughts and passions uncalled for seized upon me, for they often tell us what we need to know right then and there.”
Slowing rising to her feet, Sihaya joined him at the pond’s edge. “You’re still a boy, Zacharion. What man shall be your father now?”
Zacharion smiled. “I need no other father. Ilker shall always be with me.”
Sihaya looked, as best she could, at this boy’s face. Despite her own youth, she learned her lessons on how to read a face well- her mother, in particular, saw to it. In a guileless face, she usually found a foolish and often unfinished mind. Yet she knew Zacharion to be not only finished, but also of a mind more like her father than the silly boys she is long familiar with. Again, the Kiss cannot be ignored: all that bear it are noticeably apart from the common example of their type and kind.
Just then, he took her hands into his own. He put one upon his heart, and the other upon his brow. “Know for yourself.” he said, and in a moment’s passing she came to see through his eyes- and hear through his ears. Then she felt a distinct presence, a warm and brilliant one of great power and heavy with authority.
“Hello, daughter of my first apprentice.” said a voice old and powerful, a voice that showed itself through the boy’s eyes as Great and Holy Ilker himself. Sihaya gasped, astonished and unable to move or even think.
“My child,” Ilker said, continuing, “I allowed this because now is the time to listen and not speak. You must understand that this boy, my final apprentice, has a sacred charge to execute. It transcends the concerns of the Solar Nation, as it involves the future of the entirety of the free peoples of the world. Yet you have a place in this plan, more than one, and right now that place is to show him out of the Solar Nation. You must place your trust in him, for I have already done so, and now that my lawful time in life is complete this is all the further I may intervene into the world. Your father and mother were my disciples, so I am certain that you also possess that disciple quality. Be the first for the son of the sun.”
At last able to think, Sihaya immediate prostrated herself before the boy.
“Great and Holy Ilker!” Sihaya, reflexively, genuflected. “I am un-“
“Nonsense. Your parents taught you well, despite the cancers worming their way through their court, and what I ask of you now is no harder than what you have already done on my behalf. Arise, my grand-daughter, and take up your place beside my son.”
She did, and she felt the presence ease away. He took her into an embrace and kissed her on her forehead, saying “Don’t lead. Don’t follow. Be beside me. That is all I ask.”
She didn’t know it, but on her brow formed a mark of her own- Zacharion’s Kiss, a Kiss like and unlike Ilker’s own, and it soon took the form of a dot enclosed in a circle. What she did know is that now she is like her own parents, taken into a realm of existence unlike what she had before, and this sense of purpose suffused her being from crown to feet.
She then left his arms and took up the reins of the horses, handing one to him, and mounted her horse saying “I now remember clear the way to a place friendly to the crown. Come, let’s go before we’re tracked down.”
Zacharion and Sihaya, unaware of the three men scrying from afar, ran swiftly from their pursuers and escaped them before they could recover their night sight and chase the two of them down once more. Soon they reached the stables, took up two horses and rode out from a hidden sally part. Now free of the palace, they rode hard and fast into the night-shrouded countryside, soon rejoining the road connecting the palace to the rest of the land.
Some time thereafter, as they rested their horses at a pond near the road, the two sat on the ground and rested themselves.
“I should go back.” Sihaya said, slumped on the ground, “Not yet, but soon.”
Zacharion shook his head. “No. Not soon. We’re the targets, so returning to the palace will play into their hands. Your parents, I have no doubt, will defeat this attack and respond forcefully in short order. Let them focus upon that task, princess. Stay for now, and stay until recalled.”
She looked over at him, her eyes screaming her refusal, but he sat unmoved.
“You also have the power of the purse. What we require, you can easily procure, where I have no wealth of either status or coin to do such things.”
This frank assertion hit her mind like a hammer, and instantly she sat up.
“I feel no shame in it.” Zacharion said, anticipating his companion’s mind, “You are the sole princess of this realm, daughter of two heroes and quite ready to assert your own quality when you think yourself provoked. “
“Your consistency of behavior unnerves me. “
Zacharion now got up and drank deep of the water in the pond. Splashing his face with it, he turned to his royal companion once more.
“Most boys aren’t raised as I was. Ilker demands a great deal of his charges, which your father can confirm for you if you doubt my testimony. He not only trained me to fight, but also to think and to feel- and to listen when thoughts and passions uncalled for seized upon me, for they often tell us what we need to know right then and there.”
Slowing rising to her feet, Sihaya joined him at the pond’s edge. “You’re still a boy, Zacharion. What man shall be your father now?”
Zacharion smiled. “I need no other father. Ilker shall always be with me.”
Sihaya looked, as best she could, at this boy’s face. Despite her own youth, she learned her lessons on how to read a face well- her mother, in particular, saw to it. In a guileless face, she usually found a foolish and often unfinished mind. Yet she knew Zacharion to be not only finished, but also of a mind more like her father than the silly boys she is long familiar with. Again, the Kiss cannot be ignored: all that bear it are noticeably apart from the common example of their type and kind.
Just then, he took her hands into his own. He put one upon his heart, and the other upon his brow. “Know for yourself.” he said, and in a moment’s passing she came to see through his eyes- and hear through his ears. Then she felt a distinct presence, a warm and brilliant one of great power and heavy with authority.
“Hello, daughter of my first apprentice.” said a voice old and powerful, a voice that showed itself through the boy’s eyes as Great and Holy Ilker himself. Sihaya gasped, astonished and unable to move or even think.
“My child,” Ilker said, continuing, “I allowed this because now is the time to listen and not speak. You must understand that this boy, my final apprentice, has a sacred charge to execute. It transcends the concerns of the Solar Nation, as it involves the future of the entirety of the free peoples of the world. Yet you have a place in this plan, more than one, and right now that place is to show him out of the Solar Nation. You must place your trust in him, for I have already done so, and now that my lawful time in life is complete this is all the further I may intervene into the world. Your father and mother were my disciples, so I am certain that you also possess that disciple quality. Be the first for the son of the sun.”
At last able to think, Sihaya immediate prostrated herself before the boy.
“Great and Holy Ilker!” Sihaya, reflexively, genuflected. “I am un-“
“Nonsense. Your parents taught you well, despite the cancers worming their way through their court, and what I ask of you now is no harder than what you have already done on my behalf. Arise, my grand-daughter, and take up your place beside my son.”
She did, and she felt the presence ease away. He took her into an embrace and kissed her on her forehead, saying “Don’t lead. Don’t follow. Be beside me. That is all I ask.”
She didn’t know it, but on her brow formed a mark of her own- Zacharion’s Kiss, a Kiss like and unlike Ilker’s own, and it soon took the form of a dot enclosed in a circle. What she did know is that now she is like her own parents, taken into a realm of existence unlike what she had before, and this sense of purpose suffused her being from crown to feet.
She then left his arms and took up the reins of the horses, handing one to him, and mounted her horse saying “I now remember clear the way to a place friendly to the crown. Come, let’s go before we’re tracked down.”
Friday, July 16, 2010
Legacy of the Hero: The Last Meets the First-7
The Midnight Sun Rises
The royal palace of Solland now erupted in a terrible clamor as the royal family bellow a hue and cry, calling forth those of the guard not killed or suborned by the assailants. All throughout the castle a clash of steel rang as loyalist and traitor ambushed one another in the halls and the rooms. Floors soon stained red, slick with the shed blood of hero and villain alike.
From the royal quarters, Zebulon and Keela cut their way through a section of men clad as his own bodyguard- some of whom were his own bodyguards! Husband and wife, king and queen, fighting as a preternaturally-attuned team carefully cut down the traitors seeking to murder them while their daughter fights alongside Zacharion as they seek an escape from the palace.
Outside the palace halls, astride their horses, are a trio of men as black-clad as the infiltrating dagger-men inside. Two of them are, even in the darkness, visibly men of arms. The third man, carefully concentrating on a crystal sphere, was nothing of the sort- instead, frail and withered as if drained by years of dissipation and debauchery had extracted a deep toll.
“Resistance gathers within,” the withered man said, his voice as ruined as his body, “now that surprise is gone. Even with the assistance of those you…convinced…to turn against the king, their failure to slay them in the initial moments is likely to lead to this assault’s failure.”
One of the two warriors dismissed the withered man’s report with a wave of his hand. “It matters not.”
“I concur.” The second warrior glanced over at the withered man. “The men sent are entirely expendable dupes, members of secret groups that we control by the purse and outsiders ensorcelled easily by easy coin for bloody work. Let the Usurper and his whore butcher them like cattle. They shan’t be missed by us, and their deaths serve our ends- beyond this night if need be.”
The withered man cackled, his mouth smirking. “Your necromancy is far more subtle than any I’ve seen in the tomes of the Old Regime.”
The first of the two warriors moved alongside the withered man. “I’d expect humility and prudence from such an experienced scholar of things long forbidden by the Usurper’s master, and not insolence. Now, tell us of the boy.”
The withered man sighed, as if disappointed, and then returned his focus to the sphere. A few moments later, he nodded his head as if satisfied with himself.
“The boy evades your men, and he has the princess with him.” The withered man shot a look at the first warrior. “She seems to be quite good at sticking grown men like pigs with that spear she wields. The boy is no novice either, cutting down men twice his size.”
The second warrior now joined the other two and clapped his hand against his fellow’s shoulder. “The boy, fellow Master, is the objective. The girl can wait.”
The first warrior gritted his teeth, biting down his frustration.
“Masters,” the withered man said, “something is happening. Attend! Look into the sphere with me, and see as I see.”
The three now gazed into the sphere. Therein they saw, as if watching from above, the boy and the princess quickly cut away yet another handful of hostile invaders. As they escape, more come unto them and now outnumbered greatly they are pressed into a corner. As their minions close for the kill, the boy grabs the girl and turns her face to the corner. Then, facing the murderous jackals, Zacharion glared at them- and then a brilliant light, like the midday sun, flashed before them. It burned their eyes, and their horses reared themselves for being spooked. Unable to shield their eyes and regain control as one act, each fell from their saddles- and the sphere of crystal shattered upon the ground.
Stunned, dazed and confused the three men did not arise immediately. Fortunately, their horses did not run; some patron of fools took mercy on them that night. Yet, as the clamor from the palace revealed, their assault would indeed fail- but their objective is had nonetheless. By morning, confirmation would reach their ears that the boy escaped in the night- the game is on!
The royal palace of Solland now erupted in a terrible clamor as the royal family bellow a hue and cry, calling forth those of the guard not killed or suborned by the assailants. All throughout the castle a clash of steel rang as loyalist and traitor ambushed one another in the halls and the rooms. Floors soon stained red, slick with the shed blood of hero and villain alike.
From the royal quarters, Zebulon and Keela cut their way through a section of men clad as his own bodyguard- some of whom were his own bodyguards! Husband and wife, king and queen, fighting as a preternaturally-attuned team carefully cut down the traitors seeking to murder them while their daughter fights alongside Zacharion as they seek an escape from the palace.
Outside the palace halls, astride their horses, are a trio of men as black-clad as the infiltrating dagger-men inside. Two of them are, even in the darkness, visibly men of arms. The third man, carefully concentrating on a crystal sphere, was nothing of the sort- instead, frail and withered as if drained by years of dissipation and debauchery had extracted a deep toll.
“Resistance gathers within,” the withered man said, his voice as ruined as his body, “now that surprise is gone. Even with the assistance of those you…convinced…to turn against the king, their failure to slay them in the initial moments is likely to lead to this assault’s failure.”
One of the two warriors dismissed the withered man’s report with a wave of his hand. “It matters not.”
“I concur.” The second warrior glanced over at the withered man. “The men sent are entirely expendable dupes, members of secret groups that we control by the purse and outsiders ensorcelled easily by easy coin for bloody work. Let the Usurper and his whore butcher them like cattle. They shan’t be missed by us, and their deaths serve our ends- beyond this night if need be.”
The withered man cackled, his mouth smirking. “Your necromancy is far more subtle than any I’ve seen in the tomes of the Old Regime.”
The first of the two warriors moved alongside the withered man. “I’d expect humility and prudence from such an experienced scholar of things long forbidden by the Usurper’s master, and not insolence. Now, tell us of the boy.”
The withered man sighed, as if disappointed, and then returned his focus to the sphere. A few moments later, he nodded his head as if satisfied with himself.
“The boy evades your men, and he has the princess with him.” The withered man shot a look at the first warrior. “She seems to be quite good at sticking grown men like pigs with that spear she wields. The boy is no novice either, cutting down men twice his size.”
The second warrior now joined the other two and clapped his hand against his fellow’s shoulder. “The boy, fellow Master, is the objective. The girl can wait.”
The first warrior gritted his teeth, biting down his frustration.
“Masters,” the withered man said, “something is happening. Attend! Look into the sphere with me, and see as I see.”
The three now gazed into the sphere. Therein they saw, as if watching from above, the boy and the princess quickly cut away yet another handful of hostile invaders. As they escape, more come unto them and now outnumbered greatly they are pressed into a corner. As their minions close for the kill, the boy grabs the girl and turns her face to the corner. Then, facing the murderous jackals, Zacharion glared at them- and then a brilliant light, like the midday sun, flashed before them. It burned their eyes, and their horses reared themselves for being spooked. Unable to shield their eyes and regain control as one act, each fell from their saddles- and the sphere of crystal shattered upon the ground.
Stunned, dazed and confused the three men did not arise immediately. Fortunately, their horses did not run; some patron of fools took mercy on them that night. Yet, as the clamor from the palace revealed, their assault would indeed fail- but their objective is had nonetheless. By morning, confirmation would reach their ears that the boy escaped in the night- the game is on!
Monday, July 12, 2010
Legacy of the Hero: The Last Meets the First-6
Red Hands, Keen Knives and Character in the Dark
Nightfall in the royal chambers brings Zebulon, Keela and Zacharion together at a quiet table. Joining them is a girl, finely attired, about the same age as the boy Zacharion. She acknowledged her royal parents, and then walked up to the boy—standing before her seat—and looked curiously at him.
“Are you noble or common?” she said, her voice betraying her intent.
Zacharion smiled. “I am.” He then seated the girl, who looked to her parents for some form of relief from confusion, and then sat opposite her.
“I shall have words with your attendants.” Keela said, “We taught you better.”
Zebulon sighed. “The old houses still cling to the myth that accidents of birth involve inherent worth.”
“Those people willfully ignore the advantages that their wealth grants them, such as not working from dawn to dusk on back-breaking labor in the fields or fearful service to themselves in person, with all of the denials of a decent upbringing that they enjoy- all marks of privilege.” .” Zacharion said, his voice heavy with an authority far beyond his years, “They deny the inherent nobility that all hold in common, thinking it peculiar to their class, which is a fundamental fraud. I am. That is enough.”
Sihaya shrank in her chair, stung deeply by the three-fold chastising of her parents and guest, and towards the boy she felt a deep sense of shame mixing with confusion- how can a boy no older than she is speak like an old man?
“Daughter,” Zebulon said, “this boy is—as I am sure that you’ve heard by now—Holy Ilker’s final student, and that alone will shake the folly out of anyone if they are to endure such an upbringing.
Sihaya shrunk even further into her chair, blushing a deep red to mirror her embarrassment, but then Zacharion fixed his eyes upon her. Without a word, he got up and moved to her side. Taking her hand, he swept away the girl’s hair.
“I am not mad.” His voice, softened, captured her attention. “I know, already, that you can see as well do- but too many around you wish to blind you as they are, to make you crippled at heart as they are, because of your parents and my master.”
“You’re so different from the boys I know. It’s-“
“-like being in Ilker’s presence.” Zacharion said, and then she looked up to see—vividly—the mark that made him like her parents: Ilker’s Kiss. An iconic mark, but unlike any other she ever saw—which, to be fair, was not many—in that it seemed to be as if a blank coin had been stamped upon his forehead. Then, it seemed that there was some sun-like gleam in that mark—a trick of the light, maybe—but nonetheless she felt a serenity from him that was both unsettling and sublime.
That explained why she did not scream when, without warning, all light snuffed out. A clamor arose outside the room, an onrushing din of steel and roaring of voices. Zebulon grabbed the belted sword nearby and girded himself. As he drew steel, Keela retrieved a pair of knives and herded both of the children near the window.
“My boy,” Keela said, whispering, as she handed each of them a knife, “take this- you will need it. We shan’t hold you you’re your task any longer. Daughter, go with him and tell him how to reach the armory. If you must, ride away with him.”
The assailants reached the door, and as they assailed it a second silent surge crashed through the windows. Zebulon whirled about and cut the first man through-and-through across the waist, each half landing on the table with a dull thud. Keela grabbed the arm of a second invader, stabbed the pit of that arm and then slashed his neck open. She let go and let the man fall to the stone-girded courtyard below. A third man’s hand gripped the open portal, but Keela stabbed it through and then crushed his skull with a handy candlestick. With the door cracking and giving, Keela checked the way and then sent the children out that same window.
“Fly, children. To the armory, and then to safety- now go!”
As they began their descent, using the same rope as the doomed third man used to ascend, the door shattered and felt away from its hinges. More men surged into the room. Back to back Zebulon and Keela stood—not merely King and Queen, nor Husband and Wife, but Warrior to Warrior—and with a voiceless, practiced precision born of decades of experience did they fight despite terrible odds. Each covered the other’s back, he extending her reach while she kept free his space from contention, and soon that small room filled with the cooling corpses of black-clad and full-masked men of foul intent.
Once on the ground, Sihaya took Zacharion by the hand and led him through the halls. Their unknown enemies spotted them as they came close, and they ran as deer flee wolves. Once inside the armory, they closed the doors and barred them.
“I can fight.” Zacharion said, “Are you your mother’s daughter?”
Sihaya answered by picking up a spear and a sword- and tossing him the sword.
“I am my father’s daughter.”
Quickly they found the training armor that the squires wear and helped each other get it on, and then they hid. The door splintered as axes and hammers beat upon it, but once holes appeared they put what skills they had to purpose. Sihaya drew first blood with a thrust that caught a man in the groin, and Zacharion stuck another in the gut. For as long as that door held, they unleashed what fury could be burned by children of that age- enough to escape and live on.
Nightfall in the royal chambers brings Zebulon, Keela and Zacharion together at a quiet table. Joining them is a girl, finely attired, about the same age as the boy Zacharion. She acknowledged her royal parents, and then walked up to the boy—standing before her seat—and looked curiously at him.
“Are you noble or common?” she said, her voice betraying her intent.
Zacharion smiled. “I am.” He then seated the girl, who looked to her parents for some form of relief from confusion, and then sat opposite her.
“I shall have words with your attendants.” Keela said, “We taught you better.”
Zebulon sighed. “The old houses still cling to the myth that accidents of birth involve inherent worth.”
“Those people willfully ignore the advantages that their wealth grants them, such as not working from dawn to dusk on back-breaking labor in the fields or fearful service to themselves in person, with all of the denials of a decent upbringing that they enjoy- all marks of privilege.” .” Zacharion said, his voice heavy with an authority far beyond his years, “They deny the inherent nobility that all hold in common, thinking it peculiar to their class, which is a fundamental fraud. I am. That is enough.”
Sihaya shrank in her chair, stung deeply by the three-fold chastising of her parents and guest, and towards the boy she felt a deep sense of shame mixing with confusion- how can a boy no older than she is speak like an old man?
“Daughter,” Zebulon said, “this boy is—as I am sure that you’ve heard by now—Holy Ilker’s final student, and that alone will shake the folly out of anyone if they are to endure such an upbringing.
Sihaya shrunk even further into her chair, blushing a deep red to mirror her embarrassment, but then Zacharion fixed his eyes upon her. Without a word, he got up and moved to her side. Taking her hand, he swept away the girl’s hair.
“I am not mad.” His voice, softened, captured her attention. “I know, already, that you can see as well do- but too many around you wish to blind you as they are, to make you crippled at heart as they are, because of your parents and my master.”
“You’re so different from the boys I know. It’s-“
“-like being in Ilker’s presence.” Zacharion said, and then she looked up to see—vividly—the mark that made him like her parents: Ilker’s Kiss. An iconic mark, but unlike any other she ever saw—which, to be fair, was not many—in that it seemed to be as if a blank coin had been stamped upon his forehead. Then, it seemed that there was some sun-like gleam in that mark—a trick of the light, maybe—but nonetheless she felt a serenity from him that was both unsettling and sublime.
That explained why she did not scream when, without warning, all light snuffed out. A clamor arose outside the room, an onrushing din of steel and roaring of voices. Zebulon grabbed the belted sword nearby and girded himself. As he drew steel, Keela retrieved a pair of knives and herded both of the children near the window.
“My boy,” Keela said, whispering, as she handed each of them a knife, “take this- you will need it. We shan’t hold you you’re your task any longer. Daughter, go with him and tell him how to reach the armory. If you must, ride away with him.”
The assailants reached the door, and as they assailed it a second silent surge crashed through the windows. Zebulon whirled about and cut the first man through-and-through across the waist, each half landing on the table with a dull thud. Keela grabbed the arm of a second invader, stabbed the pit of that arm and then slashed his neck open. She let go and let the man fall to the stone-girded courtyard below. A third man’s hand gripped the open portal, but Keela stabbed it through and then crushed his skull with a handy candlestick. With the door cracking and giving, Keela checked the way and then sent the children out that same window.
“Fly, children. To the armory, and then to safety- now go!”
As they began their descent, using the same rope as the doomed third man used to ascend, the door shattered and felt away from its hinges. More men surged into the room. Back to back Zebulon and Keela stood—not merely King and Queen, nor Husband and Wife, but Warrior to Warrior—and with a voiceless, practiced precision born of decades of experience did they fight despite terrible odds. Each covered the other’s back, he extending her reach while she kept free his space from contention, and soon that small room filled with the cooling corpses of black-clad and full-masked men of foul intent.
Once on the ground, Sihaya took Zacharion by the hand and led him through the halls. Their unknown enemies spotted them as they came close, and they ran as deer flee wolves. Once inside the armory, they closed the doors and barred them.
“I can fight.” Zacharion said, “Are you your mother’s daughter?”
Sihaya answered by picking up a spear and a sword- and tossing him the sword.
“I am my father’s daughter.”
Quickly they found the training armor that the squires wear and helped each other get it on, and then they hid. The door splintered as axes and hammers beat upon it, but once holes appeared they put what skills they had to purpose. Sihaya drew first blood with a thrust that caught a man in the groin, and Zacharion stuck another in the gut. For as long as that door held, they unleashed what fury could be burned by children of that age- enough to escape and live on.
Legacy of the Hero: The Last Meets the First-5
Darkness Comes to the Solar Court
Lord Acton left the seat of Zebulon’s power, returning to his family’s city lodgings just outside of the palace, when the royal couple retired to their chambers and took the boy as their guest. Several of his allies and followers left with him, all of them accompanying him to the Acton House. Over the day, a steady flow of callers arrived and left, until the evening when Lord Acton hosted a score of lords at his table for dinner.
Once served, the men sealed the room and the house at Acton’s order. Each man present held forth their hands, making the sign of a pyramid with them. “Masters of the Temple” Acton said, his voice intoning a ritualist’s cadence, “we meet because the Great Design demands our attention. We of the Temple, the true brothers of the Brilliant Ones, must now know that the Usurper’s Master is dead.”
As one, the others responded “The flaw in the Design is repaired.”
“Yet there remains a threat. Ilker’s final student, though a boy, bears the man’s symbol upon his brow. He is not to be dismissed, or underestimated, but treated with the seriousness of a grown man.”
“Yet the Design remains unfulfilled.”
“Masters, now we must decide on what to enact next.” Acton said, and with a wave of his hand the mood shifted and the men relaxed out of their ritualist poses.
A secured servant tended to their wishes for food and drink.
“Lord Acton,” one said, “news of Ilker’s death has indeed moved fast. Already word speeds away to the Sea Princes, to the Legion-Fold Lakes, and one of my sons heard from one of the Sons of Ken that they already knew. That boy’s arrival was no mere fulfillment of a dying man’s wish.”
“All explainable by plain means,” another said, “because as soon as we left court runners and riders and flyers great and small flew away from the Usurper’s seat to all places hither and yon.”
“Ilker’s Peace shall die with Ilker.” Acton said, “The Usurper must know this to be true, so he has to act soon if he wishes some measure of it to remain.”
A third grinned wickedly. “We have an opportunity, masters, one wherein we can regain our former dominion. My spies within the court tell me that the boy intends to seek out the entirety of Ilker’s surviving allies and students, or the heirs thereof, as he did with the Usurper and his whore.”
Acton smiled. “I concur. This boy will lead us to the rest of Ilker’s companions, allowing us to strike them from the Design one by one. I would think that the ostensible reason is to return items of personal value to their former owners, but in fact it is to put this boy on a journey meant to foster his development into Ilker’s true and faithful successor- to recreate our now-deceased foe in a new form. We cannot allow this to happen.”
The other lords at the table paused in their feasting and looked at Acton, stunned.
“Fellow Masters, before the sun rises tomorrow we must move against Zebulon and the boy. Do we not have means available to do this?”
“Hold there,” a fourth said, “for is this not rash action? The boy will be held here for a few days, as the Usurper shall surely seek to assess his late master’s last student for himself, and there is sure to be a state funeral to celebrate Ilker’s death and make orderly the widespread knowledge of that death. If this is to be done, it must be done with precision and accuracy for we shan’t get a second chance.”
“No, think a bit more, fellow master.” Now a fifth spoke up, “We need not succeed in killing either, so long as the Usurper is struck down long enough to remove him and the boy’s flight allows us to track him without error. Only one target actually needs to die, and that’s the Usurper’s daughter.”
The men of the table quickly concurred by nodded ascent.
“Masters,” Acton said, “I think we are agreed on the immediate issue then?”
As one, they acclaimed their consent by a show of hands. Acton then continued: “Then let those with the ears of the disgruntled, degenerate and desperate whisper words into them. Whisper that Old Zebulon intends to marry his daughter to the boy, cementing his hold on the realm past his own days and ensuring that his regime endures also- at their continued expense. Promise them riches and glory as liberators and heroes, and see that foreign treasure fills their purses.”
Already, some of the lords present produced pens and called for paper and ink.
“Then others with the ears of the old houses should warn them of the treachery, and compel them to make ready. Help them put their sons into the watches and stations at the needed times, and their daughters in the beds of unwary allies and minions of the Usurper. Quietly ensure that Solarian gold fills their vaults, so they be able to procure passages fair and foul to see this done.”
More lords now called for ink and paper.
“We perceive the flaw, engage the problem, prompt a reaction- and then enact the solution. Once the Usurper is put down and his ties severed, we let the old houses flood the streets and fields of the realm with the blood of the fools so as to restore order. Their debts to us ensure our continued rule in the manner which we desire. Is this not wisdom?”
As one, the lords said “It is the sublime truth of the universe. The Masters rule, the Servants obey- and none serve best but those unseeing of chains.”
Lord Acton left the seat of Zebulon’s power, returning to his family’s city lodgings just outside of the palace, when the royal couple retired to their chambers and took the boy as their guest. Several of his allies and followers left with him, all of them accompanying him to the Acton House. Over the day, a steady flow of callers arrived and left, until the evening when Lord Acton hosted a score of lords at his table for dinner.
Once served, the men sealed the room and the house at Acton’s order. Each man present held forth their hands, making the sign of a pyramid with them. “Masters of the Temple” Acton said, his voice intoning a ritualist’s cadence, “we meet because the Great Design demands our attention. We of the Temple, the true brothers of the Brilliant Ones, must now know that the Usurper’s Master is dead.”
As one, the others responded “The flaw in the Design is repaired.”
“Yet there remains a threat. Ilker’s final student, though a boy, bears the man’s symbol upon his brow. He is not to be dismissed, or underestimated, but treated with the seriousness of a grown man.”
“Yet the Design remains unfulfilled.”
“Masters, now we must decide on what to enact next.” Acton said, and with a wave of his hand the mood shifted and the men relaxed out of their ritualist poses.
A secured servant tended to their wishes for food and drink.
“Lord Acton,” one said, “news of Ilker’s death has indeed moved fast. Already word speeds away to the Sea Princes, to the Legion-Fold Lakes, and one of my sons heard from one of the Sons of Ken that they already knew. That boy’s arrival was no mere fulfillment of a dying man’s wish.”
“All explainable by plain means,” another said, “because as soon as we left court runners and riders and flyers great and small flew away from the Usurper’s seat to all places hither and yon.”
“Ilker’s Peace shall die with Ilker.” Acton said, “The Usurper must know this to be true, so he has to act soon if he wishes some measure of it to remain.”
A third grinned wickedly. “We have an opportunity, masters, one wherein we can regain our former dominion. My spies within the court tell me that the boy intends to seek out the entirety of Ilker’s surviving allies and students, or the heirs thereof, as he did with the Usurper and his whore.”
Acton smiled. “I concur. This boy will lead us to the rest of Ilker’s companions, allowing us to strike them from the Design one by one. I would think that the ostensible reason is to return items of personal value to their former owners, but in fact it is to put this boy on a journey meant to foster his development into Ilker’s true and faithful successor- to recreate our now-deceased foe in a new form. We cannot allow this to happen.”
The other lords at the table paused in their feasting and looked at Acton, stunned.
“Fellow Masters, before the sun rises tomorrow we must move against Zebulon and the boy. Do we not have means available to do this?”
“Hold there,” a fourth said, “for is this not rash action? The boy will be held here for a few days, as the Usurper shall surely seek to assess his late master’s last student for himself, and there is sure to be a state funeral to celebrate Ilker’s death and make orderly the widespread knowledge of that death. If this is to be done, it must be done with precision and accuracy for we shan’t get a second chance.”
“No, think a bit more, fellow master.” Now a fifth spoke up, “We need not succeed in killing either, so long as the Usurper is struck down long enough to remove him and the boy’s flight allows us to track him without error. Only one target actually needs to die, and that’s the Usurper’s daughter.”
The men of the table quickly concurred by nodded ascent.
“Masters,” Acton said, “I think we are agreed on the immediate issue then?”
As one, they acclaimed their consent by a show of hands. Acton then continued: “Then let those with the ears of the disgruntled, degenerate and desperate whisper words into them. Whisper that Old Zebulon intends to marry his daughter to the boy, cementing his hold on the realm past his own days and ensuring that his regime endures also- at their continued expense. Promise them riches and glory as liberators and heroes, and see that foreign treasure fills their purses.”
Already, some of the lords present produced pens and called for paper and ink.
“Then others with the ears of the old houses should warn them of the treachery, and compel them to make ready. Help them put their sons into the watches and stations at the needed times, and their daughters in the beds of unwary allies and minions of the Usurper. Quietly ensure that Solarian gold fills their vaults, so they be able to procure passages fair and foul to see this done.”
More lords now called for ink and paper.
“We perceive the flaw, engage the problem, prompt a reaction- and then enact the solution. Once the Usurper is put down and his ties severed, we let the old houses flood the streets and fields of the realm with the blood of the fools so as to restore order. Their debts to us ensure our continued rule in the manner which we desire. Is this not wisdom?”
As one, the lords said “It is the sublime truth of the universe. The Masters rule, the Servants obey- and none serve best but those unseeing of chains.”
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Legacy of the Hero: The Last Meets the First-3
The Sack of the Black Tower
Great and Holy Ilker, his brilliant blond hair streaked with shimmering white, stood before the army with the rising sun of morning at his back. Already he wore the glimmering golden plate that had become iconic, the Panoply of Heaven’s Glory, and his blade of war—Heaven’s Radiant Sword—drawn. The men at his command, the armies of the Solar Nation as well as those of the Wood Brothers, the Sons of Ken and the Sea Princes, had assembled before the small hill that he’d taken for his command post. As he’d decreed, they appeared in good order with their arms polished and in good repair.
“Zebulon!” Ilker bellowed, “We are ready?”
“Ready, master.” Zebulon replied, and he turned to the army before them, “Men of the Solar Nation, friends of the Wood Brothers, mighty Sons of Ken and honorable allies of the Sea Princes, Great and Holy Ilker now speaks!”
“Glory to Holy Ilker!” they cried out, “Glory to the Spear of the Sun Forever!”
“And the tip of that spear I shall be once more, fellow free men of the world!” Ilker said, “A spear that you, my people—my friends, my allies, my brothers in arms—shall wield against the very tower yonder!”
Ilker gripped his sword, pointing to the Dark Tower of the Necromancer Lord behind them.
“Our great struggle has, at last, led to the very edge of this vile hold. We’ve sacrificed many of our brothers to see this day, many of whom died as heroes—as martyrs, blessed and sanctified—to see us through to this place at this time! Yet it is not over, for now comes the worst of it, my brothers. No, now we shall see the terrible, hideous strength of the Necromancer Lord first-hand for this is no more a struggle suitable for subtlety. As no monster is more dangerous than when backed into its lair, so is it that no villain more blatant than when the righteous heroes of the world finally tear down his walls and invade his sanctum. There is no doubt that the Necromancer Lord and his remaining minions have yet to exhaust their foul and demonic powers.”
Ilker now moved down the hill, walking into the array army. “Yet long have we come to know their ways, their deceits, their fatal frauds and more. No my brothers, no more whispered words to weaken wills. Now, now that we have this inhuman ally of all that would enslave and consume Mankind backed into its stronghold of power, we must be prepared to witness the fullest extent of his horrible and all-destroying power used to its most ruthless extent.”
Ilker continued to move through the army. “Monsters heretofore unseen by Man’s eyes shall be cut loose to wreak havoc upon our host. Fanatics, free of any need to survive, shall throw themselves at us uncaring so long as they slay more of us than we do them. All that die today you may be certain to need to slay at least twice, if not more so, for we are in the heart of the enemy’s domain and it is heavy with its power.
Steel your heart, brothers, for fear is the enemy’s ally.”
The white-and-gold steed for which Ilker is justly know—Heaven’s Charger—appeared before Ilker as he emerged from the midst of the army. Mounting it with ease, he took up the Great Banner of the Sun and held it high. Turning again to the men that followed him to the proverbial gates of Hell, he smiled.
“On this day, the Black Tower shall fall! Follow me, my brothers! Follow me, for freedom eternal and liberty ever-after!”
“Glory Forever for Ilker Heaven’s Spear!” the army said, as one, and they followed.
Zebulon Red-Hand, himself mounted on his own charger, rode to meet his master as they approached the edge of the Black Tower’s defenses.
“Master, all is prepared. The Circle is ready and the Square is prepared.”
“Excellent. Take your men and maneuver into position. We’re counting on you, old friend.”
“Master, when have I let you down?” Zebulon said, laughing.
Ilker smiled, and then he too laughed. Dismissing his former student with a gesture, Ilker continued his march upon the gates of the Black Tower. As they approached, the gates opened and a great and vast, vile army of the dead and abominations of the flesh arrayed itself. Some poured out of the gates, and some pulled themselves out of the ground. As they closed the distance, some noticed in the ranks seemingly mortal men amongst them- thralls and sycophants, surely, for by this time naught but the blackest of hearts and meanest of souls would dare think that service to a Lord of Darkness be a wise decision.
No parley. With a wave of his arm, Ilker led the charge against the monstrous army. The men followed, and the Army of the Sun smashed into the Army of Death and Decay before the latter was finished, its impact throwing the foul foe into disarray. Now the rising sun rose well into the sky, and its rays broke through the gloom surrounding the Black Tower, clearing away the obscuring darkness for the full light of a summer’s day. This further hindered the Necromancer Lord’s forces, but Ilker knew that his foe did not care; Ilker knew that the army wasn’t the hammer to smash he and his brothers to death, but instead the anvil to fix them in place for the hammer to fall upon and strike good and true.
The Army of the Sun, hardened and disciplined, kept its order and ripped apart their foes at the gates. Ilker led from the front, banner in one hand while fighting in the other, loyal followers on his flanks. Riding in formation, they crashed through and through, wheeled around and charged again- and did so repeatedly. This kept the Necromancer Lord’s minions from forming a cohesive front, allowing his own men to defeat and destroy in detail, and do so swiftly.
Then Ilker felt the pull of poisoned, polluted power pooling at the apex of the Black Tower. This he knew to be the precursor to some horrific blasphemy against the lawful order of Creation. Time now became precious to him, for he did not know his enemy’s specific intent- only that some work of sorcery soon would spew forth upon the land outside the gates, and he wanted no part of that for himself or his men.
This is the very sign that his own magical men awaited, and the Circle unleashed its power upon the Black Tower. A scintillating screw of ritual wrought wholly to end evil endeavors of supernatural sorts soared through the sky and struck the gathering power at the apex of the Black Tower. Violence of light and color exploded as the powers positive and poisonous contacted and combusted. What magical means meant for intervention most malevolent that the Necromancer Lord desired got destroyed instead, but that is not all that Ilker’s allies cast down. The scourging shield that sheltered the Tower also shattered and crashed, and that is the other sign that Ilker’s allies awaited.
Zebulon, now in position with his riders and raiders, rode riotous upon the Black Tower’s gates, but from another position ill-conceived for proper security. They quickly overwhelmed the defenders and gained the walls. Rushing along the parapets, they cleared the walls from their breach point to the gates before Ilker and the army. They had to hurry, as already the Necromancer Lord reinforced his very vulnerable position by awakening hidden minions under the earth inside the gates and sending those dead against Zebulon and his men. They hurried with twice-slaying those living that they encountered, as they did with their own slain.
Zebulon gained the gates before his old master, and threw them open. Ilker and the Army flew inside the Black Tower’s courtyard and swept aside the onrushing horde of risen corpses and flimsy flesh constructs in an onrushing tidal wave of blood, steel, will and passion. The defenders held for naught, and soon the outer wall of the Tower fell before the might of the Army’s artificers and alchemists. Inside the Black Tower they broke, and within uncounted moments Zebulon joined a steady flow of men struck down by one of the Tower’s many defenses. Rushed out of the battle, he ended his day of battle before the hospital under the keen eyes of the woman known as Keela Steady-Hands.
Ilker did sack the tower, and cast down the Necromancer Lord, but Zebulon did not see that and neither did Keela. Their time in that struggle concluded away from the front, away from Ilker, away from the ever-present pressure to be warriors or healers and instead find time for the very things that Ilker waged war to make possible.
But that is another story.
Great and Holy Ilker, his brilliant blond hair streaked with shimmering white, stood before the army with the rising sun of morning at his back. Already he wore the glimmering golden plate that had become iconic, the Panoply of Heaven’s Glory, and his blade of war—Heaven’s Radiant Sword—drawn. The men at his command, the armies of the Solar Nation as well as those of the Wood Brothers, the Sons of Ken and the Sea Princes, had assembled before the small hill that he’d taken for his command post. As he’d decreed, they appeared in good order with their arms polished and in good repair.
“Zebulon!” Ilker bellowed, “We are ready?”
“Ready, master.” Zebulon replied, and he turned to the army before them, “Men of the Solar Nation, friends of the Wood Brothers, mighty Sons of Ken and honorable allies of the Sea Princes, Great and Holy Ilker now speaks!”
“Glory to Holy Ilker!” they cried out, “Glory to the Spear of the Sun Forever!”
“And the tip of that spear I shall be once more, fellow free men of the world!” Ilker said, “A spear that you, my people—my friends, my allies, my brothers in arms—shall wield against the very tower yonder!”
Ilker gripped his sword, pointing to the Dark Tower of the Necromancer Lord behind them.
“Our great struggle has, at last, led to the very edge of this vile hold. We’ve sacrificed many of our brothers to see this day, many of whom died as heroes—as martyrs, blessed and sanctified—to see us through to this place at this time! Yet it is not over, for now comes the worst of it, my brothers. No, now we shall see the terrible, hideous strength of the Necromancer Lord first-hand for this is no more a struggle suitable for subtlety. As no monster is more dangerous than when backed into its lair, so is it that no villain more blatant than when the righteous heroes of the world finally tear down his walls and invade his sanctum. There is no doubt that the Necromancer Lord and his remaining minions have yet to exhaust their foul and demonic powers.”
Ilker now moved down the hill, walking into the array army. “Yet long have we come to know their ways, their deceits, their fatal frauds and more. No my brothers, no more whispered words to weaken wills. Now, now that we have this inhuman ally of all that would enslave and consume Mankind backed into its stronghold of power, we must be prepared to witness the fullest extent of his horrible and all-destroying power used to its most ruthless extent.”
Ilker continued to move through the army. “Monsters heretofore unseen by Man’s eyes shall be cut loose to wreak havoc upon our host. Fanatics, free of any need to survive, shall throw themselves at us uncaring so long as they slay more of us than we do them. All that die today you may be certain to need to slay at least twice, if not more so, for we are in the heart of the enemy’s domain and it is heavy with its power.
Steel your heart, brothers, for fear is the enemy’s ally.”
The white-and-gold steed for which Ilker is justly know—Heaven’s Charger—appeared before Ilker as he emerged from the midst of the army. Mounting it with ease, he took up the Great Banner of the Sun and held it high. Turning again to the men that followed him to the proverbial gates of Hell, he smiled.
“On this day, the Black Tower shall fall! Follow me, my brothers! Follow me, for freedom eternal and liberty ever-after!”
“Glory Forever for Ilker Heaven’s Spear!” the army said, as one, and they followed.
Zebulon Red-Hand, himself mounted on his own charger, rode to meet his master as they approached the edge of the Black Tower’s defenses.
“Master, all is prepared. The Circle is ready and the Square is prepared.”
“Excellent. Take your men and maneuver into position. We’re counting on you, old friend.”
“Master, when have I let you down?” Zebulon said, laughing.
Ilker smiled, and then he too laughed. Dismissing his former student with a gesture, Ilker continued his march upon the gates of the Black Tower. As they approached, the gates opened and a great and vast, vile army of the dead and abominations of the flesh arrayed itself. Some poured out of the gates, and some pulled themselves out of the ground. As they closed the distance, some noticed in the ranks seemingly mortal men amongst them- thralls and sycophants, surely, for by this time naught but the blackest of hearts and meanest of souls would dare think that service to a Lord of Darkness be a wise decision.
No parley. With a wave of his arm, Ilker led the charge against the monstrous army. The men followed, and the Army of the Sun smashed into the Army of Death and Decay before the latter was finished, its impact throwing the foul foe into disarray. Now the rising sun rose well into the sky, and its rays broke through the gloom surrounding the Black Tower, clearing away the obscuring darkness for the full light of a summer’s day. This further hindered the Necromancer Lord’s forces, but Ilker knew that his foe did not care; Ilker knew that the army wasn’t the hammer to smash he and his brothers to death, but instead the anvil to fix them in place for the hammer to fall upon and strike good and true.
The Army of the Sun, hardened and disciplined, kept its order and ripped apart their foes at the gates. Ilker led from the front, banner in one hand while fighting in the other, loyal followers on his flanks. Riding in formation, they crashed through and through, wheeled around and charged again- and did so repeatedly. This kept the Necromancer Lord’s minions from forming a cohesive front, allowing his own men to defeat and destroy in detail, and do so swiftly.
Then Ilker felt the pull of poisoned, polluted power pooling at the apex of the Black Tower. This he knew to be the precursor to some horrific blasphemy against the lawful order of Creation. Time now became precious to him, for he did not know his enemy’s specific intent- only that some work of sorcery soon would spew forth upon the land outside the gates, and he wanted no part of that for himself or his men.
This is the very sign that his own magical men awaited, and the Circle unleashed its power upon the Black Tower. A scintillating screw of ritual wrought wholly to end evil endeavors of supernatural sorts soared through the sky and struck the gathering power at the apex of the Black Tower. Violence of light and color exploded as the powers positive and poisonous contacted and combusted. What magical means meant for intervention most malevolent that the Necromancer Lord desired got destroyed instead, but that is not all that Ilker’s allies cast down. The scourging shield that sheltered the Tower also shattered and crashed, and that is the other sign that Ilker’s allies awaited.
Zebulon, now in position with his riders and raiders, rode riotous upon the Black Tower’s gates, but from another position ill-conceived for proper security. They quickly overwhelmed the defenders and gained the walls. Rushing along the parapets, they cleared the walls from their breach point to the gates before Ilker and the army. They had to hurry, as already the Necromancer Lord reinforced his very vulnerable position by awakening hidden minions under the earth inside the gates and sending those dead against Zebulon and his men. They hurried with twice-slaying those living that they encountered, as they did with their own slain.
Zebulon gained the gates before his old master, and threw them open. Ilker and the Army flew inside the Black Tower’s courtyard and swept aside the onrushing horde of risen corpses and flimsy flesh constructs in an onrushing tidal wave of blood, steel, will and passion. The defenders held for naught, and soon the outer wall of the Tower fell before the might of the Army’s artificers and alchemists. Inside the Black Tower they broke, and within uncounted moments Zebulon joined a steady flow of men struck down by one of the Tower’s many defenses. Rushed out of the battle, he ended his day of battle before the hospital under the keen eyes of the woman known as Keela Steady-Hands.
Ilker did sack the tower, and cast down the Necromancer Lord, but Zebulon did not see that and neither did Keela. Their time in that struggle concluded away from the front, away from Ilker, away from the ever-present pressure to be warriors or healers and instead find time for the very things that Ilker waged war to make possible.
But that is another story.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Legacy of the Hero: The Last Meets the First-2
Eldest and Youngest Son of the Sun
The midday sun beamed down, reflecting off the polished stone of the castle to illuminate the internal chambers wherein the royal couple sat in repose. Just then, a lady knocked on the chamber door and entered.
“My king, my queen- the boy Zacharion.”
The boy, now bathed and attired in clothes more pleasing to his hosts, emerged from behind his minder. He thanked the lady with a carefree embrace, and then her masters sent her out to fetch food and drink for them.
Turning to his hosts, Zacharion said “What do you wish to know?”
Again sitting, Zebulon waived to a third chair and bid the boy to sit down. “Tell us in whole how our common master passed.”
The boy did sit, and then after a pause he began: “I knew for some days that Master Ilker was not feeling well. Yet, with difficulty, he kept up his work around the cabin. In addition to training me, he also began having me dig into the earth in a space that he marked out and then drag a great stone from nearby to it. In the final few days his breathing became very difficult, and I had to take over his work as he could not complete it anymore. It was then that I realized that he was dying.”
“What did he say to you?” Keela said, her eyes showing what her voice and posture did not, “He sent you here not just to give us things that we left with him long before your birth and tell us that Ilker died.”
Zacharion nodded. “The night before, after he refused supper, he had me help him walk to the hole that I dug for him. He said to me ‘I die this night, after a long life. I had many allies, many enemies, many friends- but no family but what I made. I told you much of myself, as I saw myself, but soon you must leave this place because only you can tell the world that I am at last gone from this place.’ I felt sad, but also at peace. I felt a presence greater than us calming me, as if to assure me that—thought this must end—there is yet a place for me in this world, even if I must journey to assume it.”
White-haired Zebulon and Ever-Fair Keela gave each other knowing looks.
“That was when he said ‘You shall take my horse and go into the world to tell all of my allies and friends that my time in this life is done. I insist that you personally visit each and every one of my former students and allies, and let them tell you of their time with me. When you come to know the truth of my life, then you may come home to claim what I bequeath to you.”
His hosts did not respond in words; their looks were enough.
“I do not know what that is either.” Zacharion said with a shrug.
The elder couple smiled. “To the end, still the same Ilker.”
“I was a young man when I met Ilker.” Zebulon said, “Not much older than you, and with no fortune but what I made for myself as I was the youngest son of a nobleman and had neither land nor any other consideration made for me by my father. My elder brothers were not fond of me, and my father could not find a place for me elsewhere because that was when the Brilliant Empire fractured into warring factions and my father’s old friends had lost their influence in the world.”
"This was the time of the Creeping Night.” Keela said, “The ones then called ‘The People of the Moon’ moved into the world, bringing whole nations into thralldom, using corrupted houses and the men of those lines as vessels for their schemes before they could openly walk amongst us. It was a time of whispered plots, of madness hiding as meanness, and of tongues slick with poison for hearts and minds used.”
“With trouble comes opportunity, for those fearless or foolish enough to risk it, and I was both.” Zebulon said, “Already Ilker had some acclaim as a leader of skill and cunning, thwarting incursions by cult-lead degenerates and bandits, as well as a man of virtue and steel. I asked my father to meet with him, and he did come, but not for my father’s sake- instead, for mine. He heard of the distress that we knew, as times strained our house’s ability to hold us all together, and Ilker took pity upon us. Ilker took pains to test me, and when he found that I had solid skills as a warrior as well as potential for leadership, Ilker struck a pact with my father. My family since then had been faithful to him.”
“Master said that you were one of his best.” Zacharion said, “He often praised your courage and heart, and held your skills in high regard, even if the two of you disagreed on matters of philosophy.”
“I still remember his disappointment when I told him that I accepted the crown. ‘A man like you must be free to the whole world!’ he said, ‘Yet you would chain yourself to a single state, and be thereafter ruled by the interests of that crown instead of all the nations in common. ‘ I felt the sting of his disapproval keenly, but Master Ilker was always far beyond the world in his view of things, though I am proud that my reign has made possible a greater quality in the Solar Nation than ever been seen.”
“I remember him not being so approving of me either, at first.” Keela said.
“An opinion that changed after you saved my life during the Sack of the Black Tower.”
“Yours chiefly, but one of many I saved during that war.” Keela said, turning to the boy, “That was when I became ‘Keela of the Knife’, as I had to cut out so many Life-Stealing Shards from the bodies of so many men- or cut down those so far gone that I could not save them.”
The midday sun beamed down, reflecting off the polished stone of the castle to illuminate the internal chambers wherein the royal couple sat in repose. Just then, a lady knocked on the chamber door and entered.
“My king, my queen- the boy Zacharion.”
The boy, now bathed and attired in clothes more pleasing to his hosts, emerged from behind his minder. He thanked the lady with a carefree embrace, and then her masters sent her out to fetch food and drink for them.
Turning to his hosts, Zacharion said “What do you wish to know?”
Again sitting, Zebulon waived to a third chair and bid the boy to sit down. “Tell us in whole how our common master passed.”
The boy did sit, and then after a pause he began: “I knew for some days that Master Ilker was not feeling well. Yet, with difficulty, he kept up his work around the cabin. In addition to training me, he also began having me dig into the earth in a space that he marked out and then drag a great stone from nearby to it. In the final few days his breathing became very difficult, and I had to take over his work as he could not complete it anymore. It was then that I realized that he was dying.”
“What did he say to you?” Keela said, her eyes showing what her voice and posture did not, “He sent you here not just to give us things that we left with him long before your birth and tell us that Ilker died.”
Zacharion nodded. “The night before, after he refused supper, he had me help him walk to the hole that I dug for him. He said to me ‘I die this night, after a long life. I had many allies, many enemies, many friends- but no family but what I made. I told you much of myself, as I saw myself, but soon you must leave this place because only you can tell the world that I am at last gone from this place.’ I felt sad, but also at peace. I felt a presence greater than us calming me, as if to assure me that—thought this must end—there is yet a place for me in this world, even if I must journey to assume it.”
White-haired Zebulon and Ever-Fair Keela gave each other knowing looks.
“That was when he said ‘You shall take my horse and go into the world to tell all of my allies and friends that my time in this life is done. I insist that you personally visit each and every one of my former students and allies, and let them tell you of their time with me. When you come to know the truth of my life, then you may come home to claim what I bequeath to you.”
His hosts did not respond in words; their looks were enough.
“I do not know what that is either.” Zacharion said with a shrug.
The elder couple smiled. “To the end, still the same Ilker.”
“I was a young man when I met Ilker.” Zebulon said, “Not much older than you, and with no fortune but what I made for myself as I was the youngest son of a nobleman and had neither land nor any other consideration made for me by my father. My elder brothers were not fond of me, and my father could not find a place for me elsewhere because that was when the Brilliant Empire fractured into warring factions and my father’s old friends had lost their influence in the world.”
"This was the time of the Creeping Night.” Keela said, “The ones then called ‘The People of the Moon’ moved into the world, bringing whole nations into thralldom, using corrupted houses and the men of those lines as vessels for their schemes before they could openly walk amongst us. It was a time of whispered plots, of madness hiding as meanness, and of tongues slick with poison for hearts and minds used.”
“With trouble comes opportunity, for those fearless or foolish enough to risk it, and I was both.” Zebulon said, “Already Ilker had some acclaim as a leader of skill and cunning, thwarting incursions by cult-lead degenerates and bandits, as well as a man of virtue and steel. I asked my father to meet with him, and he did come, but not for my father’s sake- instead, for mine. He heard of the distress that we knew, as times strained our house’s ability to hold us all together, and Ilker took pity upon us. Ilker took pains to test me, and when he found that I had solid skills as a warrior as well as potential for leadership, Ilker struck a pact with my father. My family since then had been faithful to him.”
“Master said that you were one of his best.” Zacharion said, “He often praised your courage and heart, and held your skills in high regard, even if the two of you disagreed on matters of philosophy.”
“I still remember his disappointment when I told him that I accepted the crown. ‘A man like you must be free to the whole world!’ he said, ‘Yet you would chain yourself to a single state, and be thereafter ruled by the interests of that crown instead of all the nations in common. ‘ I felt the sting of his disapproval keenly, but Master Ilker was always far beyond the world in his view of things, though I am proud that my reign has made possible a greater quality in the Solar Nation than ever been seen.”
“I remember him not being so approving of me either, at first.” Keela said.
“An opinion that changed after you saved my life during the Sack of the Black Tower.”
“Yours chiefly, but one of many I saved during that war.” Keela said, turning to the boy, “That was when I became ‘Keela of the Knife’, as I had to cut out so many Life-Stealing Shards from the bodies of so many men- or cut down those so far gone that I could not save them.”
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Legacy of the Hero: The Last Meets the First-1
The Boy Arrives at Court
White-haired Zebulon greeted his court, his eyes heavy with care betraying a night bereft of rest and ever-fair Keela confirming it by letting her worry show on her face. The courtiers, their ladies and the attendants—in turn—showed by their uncanny silence and hesitation that they perceived their king’s distress. Wordless, yet clearly said, did those present tell each other that ill-tidings had reached their ears and dread anticipation had seized their hearts.
The doors to the court burst open, and a herald raced into the room. Running to the center, where the gold-inlaid relief of the sun sat at the foot of the dais before self-crowned Zebulon and his long-beloved wife, he stopped and looked up at the foreign-born sovereign.
“Your Majesty! My queen! Most honorable lords of Solland! A rider is at the gates,” the herald said, “a rider astride the white-gold steed of Great and Holy Ilker. He bears Ilker’s kiss on his forehead, my king, and asks for an audience.”
Weary white-haired Zebulon arose, sending all to their knees, and he went before the youthful herald. With the same firm hands that made him king, Zebulon grasped the youth by the shoulders.
“Look at me, boy.” Zebulon said, as a strong king should, “Look at my eyes and tell me, if you know it, what name this child answers to.”
The youth did as commanded, albeit in a hesitating manner, and he too told aging Zebulon that what he witnessed distressed him.
“My king,” spoke the herald, his distress clear in his voice, “the boy calls himself ‘Zacharion’.”
Zebulon pulls the herald to his feat. “Go to the gate and bring this word: ‘Zacharion shall be led straight to this very room, steed and all, and none shall impede his passing.’” With a wave, he dismissed the youth, who ran with all strength and speed out to do as commanded.
Once away, he put his eyes about his court, and with a simple gesture bade them arise.
“You heard as I have, surely, the whispers in the night: ‘The sun has set!’ Ilker, a living legend, hero to nations great and small and friend to all that embrace the warmth of life and wisdom of light that comes from the very center of our existence.”
Zebulon now indicated by hand the very sun symbol upon which he stood.
“So great was Ilker’s devotion that he eschewed all honors and took no titles. Though many nations wished him to be their king, he would take no crown. Though many realms begged him to be a father to their nation, he would favor none. ‘Yet are not all the nations of world deserving?’ he would say, and then depart from them to hasten to the aid of another. Many travelled with him, and many learned from him—I being the first to do so—and by his hand we learned and mastered wisdom that was once lost. We were the Rays of the Sun, bringing the light and life of the sun to the world in ways that he would not—could not—do himself.”
In unison, the court proclaimed: “Glory forever to Holy Ilker!”
“Yet, as Ilker was born a man, it was inevitable that a day would come when he would die like a man. That day, I knew in my mind, would soon come, but in my heart I did not wish it so. Yet now, I am unable to ignore that truth no longer. Nor shall any of the Solar nation.”
Again, the court proclaimed: “Glory forever to Holy Ilker!”
Now arose the radiant queen Keela, still beautiful long past the fading of youth, as she saw her husband be unable to hold back tears no longer. She flit down to his side and kissed away those tears, uncaring of what the court thought of either her or her husband as they always have.
“My husband, I ask that you hold a while longer. Let the child Zacharion report, and then we may grieve and honor Holy Ilker properly.”
Then down from the crowd came Adran, a powerful nobleman. “Majesty, why accord a boy an audience so easily? You assume that this is Ilker’s apprentice. Are not others able to make a horse seem to be Holy Ilker’s white-gold steed? Are not others able to mimic Ilker’s Kiss? Were you not, just this past year, almost slain in pursuit of the villains that stole the future of your house?”
“Indeed, Lord Adran, that was quite an affair and you still have not satisfied our doubts as to your involvement, but I shall answer you plainly: I know of Zacharion, as Holy Ilker speaks to those that once walked the world with him, and he resided near to this very citadel- we met often—and that is enough.”
Just then the doors again opened, and this time the herald led a white-gold horse of great stature. In contrast, the boy astride it seemed ragged and unkept, yet keen eyes saw clearly the mark of the sun in the flesh of the child’s forehead. “Ilker’s Kiss!” they murmured as the boy passed, and then in the sun on the floor man and horse stopped. The herald bent his knee.
“My king, I present the boy Zacharion.”
The white-haired king took the reins from his man and bid him leave, which the youth did and took up his place near the dais. Petting the horse gently, Zebulon saw that his former master’s horse still knew him from his own youth decades ago, and the aging king smiled.
“You are Zebulon, King of Solland?” the boy said, “Zebulon Red-Hand, Fire of the Sun?”
The old king chuckled. “I have not heard that name in a long, long time. Yes, young Zacharion, I am all of those men- and more.”
Zacharion turned to Keela. “And you are Queen Keela? Keela Steady-Hands? Keela Life-Keeper? Keela Sun-Spear?”
She too smiled. “Yes, I am. Keela of the Dawn, for I bring forth new hope—and renewed life—with each day.”
“I am Zacharion.” the boy said, “My master, Ilker, is dead. He passed peacefully, in his sleep, and is no more. This news I am charged to bring to all of the nations and all of the peoples who knew and loved him.”
Zacharion then pulled out a satchel, and from it he drew first an icon a dawning sun and gave it to Zebulon. Then he pulled forth a second icon, of a healer laying one hand on the chest of a fallen man while holding upward a knife, and handed it to Keela. They embraced and wept.
As one, the court again proclaimed: “Glory forever to Holy Ilker!”
Then a pause, a moment before Zebulon regained his composure and said, “The sun has set!”
In unison, the court responded: “The sun shall rise again!”
But, none present—save Zacharion—could avoid thinking the same thing: “Whose sun?”
White-haired Zebulon greeted his court, his eyes heavy with care betraying a night bereft of rest and ever-fair Keela confirming it by letting her worry show on her face. The courtiers, their ladies and the attendants—in turn—showed by their uncanny silence and hesitation that they perceived their king’s distress. Wordless, yet clearly said, did those present tell each other that ill-tidings had reached their ears and dread anticipation had seized their hearts.
The doors to the court burst open, and a herald raced into the room. Running to the center, where the gold-inlaid relief of the sun sat at the foot of the dais before self-crowned Zebulon and his long-beloved wife, he stopped and looked up at the foreign-born sovereign.
“Your Majesty! My queen! Most honorable lords of Solland! A rider is at the gates,” the herald said, “a rider astride the white-gold steed of Great and Holy Ilker. He bears Ilker’s kiss on his forehead, my king, and asks for an audience.”
Weary white-haired Zebulon arose, sending all to their knees, and he went before the youthful herald. With the same firm hands that made him king, Zebulon grasped the youth by the shoulders.
“Look at me, boy.” Zebulon said, as a strong king should, “Look at my eyes and tell me, if you know it, what name this child answers to.”
The youth did as commanded, albeit in a hesitating manner, and he too told aging Zebulon that what he witnessed distressed him.
“My king,” spoke the herald, his distress clear in his voice, “the boy calls himself ‘Zacharion’.”
Zebulon pulls the herald to his feat. “Go to the gate and bring this word: ‘Zacharion shall be led straight to this very room, steed and all, and none shall impede his passing.’” With a wave, he dismissed the youth, who ran with all strength and speed out to do as commanded.
Once away, he put his eyes about his court, and with a simple gesture bade them arise.
“You heard as I have, surely, the whispers in the night: ‘The sun has set!’ Ilker, a living legend, hero to nations great and small and friend to all that embrace the warmth of life and wisdom of light that comes from the very center of our existence.”
Zebulon now indicated by hand the very sun symbol upon which he stood.
“So great was Ilker’s devotion that he eschewed all honors and took no titles. Though many nations wished him to be their king, he would take no crown. Though many realms begged him to be a father to their nation, he would favor none. ‘Yet are not all the nations of world deserving?’ he would say, and then depart from them to hasten to the aid of another. Many travelled with him, and many learned from him—I being the first to do so—and by his hand we learned and mastered wisdom that was once lost. We were the Rays of the Sun, bringing the light and life of the sun to the world in ways that he would not—could not—do himself.”
In unison, the court proclaimed: “Glory forever to Holy Ilker!”
“Yet, as Ilker was born a man, it was inevitable that a day would come when he would die like a man. That day, I knew in my mind, would soon come, but in my heart I did not wish it so. Yet now, I am unable to ignore that truth no longer. Nor shall any of the Solar nation.”
Again, the court proclaimed: “Glory forever to Holy Ilker!”
Now arose the radiant queen Keela, still beautiful long past the fading of youth, as she saw her husband be unable to hold back tears no longer. She flit down to his side and kissed away those tears, uncaring of what the court thought of either her or her husband as they always have.
“My husband, I ask that you hold a while longer. Let the child Zacharion report, and then we may grieve and honor Holy Ilker properly.”
Then down from the crowd came Adran, a powerful nobleman. “Majesty, why accord a boy an audience so easily? You assume that this is Ilker’s apprentice. Are not others able to make a horse seem to be Holy Ilker’s white-gold steed? Are not others able to mimic Ilker’s Kiss? Were you not, just this past year, almost slain in pursuit of the villains that stole the future of your house?”
“Indeed, Lord Adran, that was quite an affair and you still have not satisfied our doubts as to your involvement, but I shall answer you plainly: I know of Zacharion, as Holy Ilker speaks to those that once walked the world with him, and he resided near to this very citadel- we met often—and that is enough.”
Just then the doors again opened, and this time the herald led a white-gold horse of great stature. In contrast, the boy astride it seemed ragged and unkept, yet keen eyes saw clearly the mark of the sun in the flesh of the child’s forehead. “Ilker’s Kiss!” they murmured as the boy passed, and then in the sun on the floor man and horse stopped. The herald bent his knee.
“My king, I present the boy Zacharion.”
The white-haired king took the reins from his man and bid him leave, which the youth did and took up his place near the dais. Petting the horse gently, Zebulon saw that his former master’s horse still knew him from his own youth decades ago, and the aging king smiled.
“You are Zebulon, King of Solland?” the boy said, “Zebulon Red-Hand, Fire of the Sun?”
The old king chuckled. “I have not heard that name in a long, long time. Yes, young Zacharion, I am all of those men- and more.”
Zacharion turned to Keela. “And you are Queen Keela? Keela Steady-Hands? Keela Life-Keeper? Keela Sun-Spear?”
She too smiled. “Yes, I am. Keela of the Dawn, for I bring forth new hope—and renewed life—with each day.”
“I am Zacharion.” the boy said, “My master, Ilker, is dead. He passed peacefully, in his sleep, and is no more. This news I am charged to bring to all of the nations and all of the peoples who knew and loved him.”
Zacharion then pulled out a satchel, and from it he drew first an icon a dawning sun and gave it to Zebulon. Then he pulled forth a second icon, of a healer laying one hand on the chest of a fallen man while holding upward a knife, and handed it to Keela. They embraced and wept.
As one, the court again proclaimed: “Glory forever to Holy Ilker!”
Then a pause, a moment before Zebulon regained his composure and said, “The sun has set!”
In unison, the court responded: “The sun shall rise again!”
But, none present—save Zacharion—could avoid thinking the same thing: “Whose sun?”
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