Before the Battle
The pines swayed slightly in the breeze, and the loose needles wafted in the air like slivered snowflakes. Early morning mist lay heavily on the forest, muffling sounds and blurring distances. Forest animals were little more than ghosts in the swirling wall of gray, and their footfalls were whispers on the dried autumn leaves. Gradually, even these noises faded away, replaced by an unnatural stillness.
It was amid this stillness that Abrom jolted awake. Silently, he pushed himself up from his bedroll, grabbed his sword, and padded out of the tent. As he emerged he slung his worn leather baldric over his right shoulder and slid his weapon into the scabbard which hung near his left thigh. Then he pulled his scarlet cloak around his lean frame to ward off the chill. The sun, hidden behind clouds, had a sullen, silvery quality that cast deep shadows on his brow and cheekbones, making his eyes seem little more than pinpoints of light in darkness. The other members in his company had stirred also, and were congregating around the remains of the previous evening’s campfire. There were smatterings of hushed conversation here and there amongst the group of thirty-odd men, as if they were fearful of hidden forest spirits.
His friend Emias, red haired, barrel-chested and imposing nodded toward him, and then turned his attention to the center of the clearing. Abrom’s throat felt dry; it was uncharacteristic for his friend to be so restrained.
My heart pounds, Abrom thought. We’re in no danger; why do I feel dread?
The commander of the group, man a few years Abrom’s junior, motioned for him to take his place among the others. Abrom obeyed grudgingly, walked silently from his tent and took his place, his stance guarded, and his hand upon the pommel of his sword. He watched as two robed men pulled a linen covering off an object situated near the campfire. A strange gem was revealed, and the light refracted through it in such a way that Abrom wondered if it was alive. It was set upon a rude altar constructed of dry branches tied together and it seemed to pulse with an inner light.
Abrom narrowed his eyes at it. Now the secret was revealed—the company had borne and guarded it across the breadth of Eomar’s forests for the better part of two months now. This marked the first time any but the taciturn robed men had laid eyes on it. This jewel had already cost the lives of five men—a sad fact he now bristled over.
He noted sullenly that the gem pulsed with his heartbeat.
The commander stepped forward.
“Let me begin by saying that my heart swells with pride for every one of you during our task,” he said grandly, spreading his arms. “And allow me to apologize for keeping the purpose of our mission secret. Now that we’ve arrived at the heart of the Oranwald, our trials are nearly at an end. I am gladdened to have witnessed your courage.”
“What trickery is this, Varick?” One of the men called. “Weeks of struggle to protect this bauble?”
Abrom stood silently, but was curious as to what purpose the gem served.
The corner of Varick’s mouth turned up in a half smile. “Listen well—if the Mystics of Callarn are correct, then this ‘bauble’ will help us turn the tide in our war against the Sorcerer Kings!”
At this, them men murmured louder, but their were some hints of disbelief among them.
Abrom’s grip tightened on his sword.
Dare I hope for such a thing?
The conflict against the Sorcerer Kings had involved entire generations of Eomarans. Abrom could recall no point in his lifetime when his people weren’t fighting. He himself had been conscripted in his late teens and had given a little over a decade of his life to the cause. Could the Mystics have finally found a resolution?
Emias, predictably, was a bit skeptical. “Come off it, Varick. How many times have we hoped for an end to hostilities now? How is an overgrown jewel supposed to help us? Do we throw the thing at their heads?”
Varick’s gray eyes bored into the large man. “Is my belief not enough for you, Emias? I have seen the powers this stone possesses.” He motioned to one of the robed men. “The acolytes of Callarn can explain better than I.”
Emias looked at one of the slight robed men. They looked like they could be blown away by a light breeze. Finally he raised both hands in concession and sat cross-legged on the ground. He raised his eyebrows to the Acolyte, imploring him to begin his explanation. The Acolyte looked nervously at Varick for confirmation. The commander nodded, and the Acolyte took his place near the gem.
Abrom pressed his lips together to suppress a chuckle. Trust Emias to give a voice to what everyone was thinking. Varick’s eyes narrowed at the big man, but he knew better than to challenge Emias—having him on his side was the key to keeping the company’s loyalty.
“This um—this is the last part of a quest that have occupied my masters for the last hundred years,” the Acolyte said. “This is one of four artifacts known as the Umbral Stones—”
A surprised murmur loosed from the men.
“They’re just folklore!” one man said. “Stories to tell children at night!”
“If any of you want to keep your tongues I suggest you stop flapping them!” Varick broke in. Despite some protests, the men went silent. “Continue, Lorim.”
The Acolyte nodded. “We uncovered them about a decade back and the Mystics have been studying them. Our research on them indicate that they are indeed powerful enough to stymie the Sorcerer Kings indefinitely.”
“That old tale about that great impenetrable wall?” Emias scoffed. “We’ll need a lot more than four Umbral Stones if we’re to construct a wall large enough to cover Eomar.”
“It won’t be a physical wall, master Emias,” Lorim said. “When situated at the four cardinal points, the Umbral Stones will create a magical barrier that will destroy any abominations that come close. That’s why we’ve arrived at this particular section of the Oranwald. We need only perform the ritual under the red moon for the enchantment to go into effect.”
“And if everything has gone to plan, the other corps of Eomaran warriors have also arrived at their destinations,” Varick added. “When the red moon rises, the Sorcerer Kings will find Eomar unconquered! Is this not cause for celebration?”
“The red moon rises three days hence,” Abrom said.
Lorim nodded. “That is correct, master Abrom.”
That explains my sense of dread. “Our trials are not yet finished then,” he said. “I now see the wisdom in all the secrecy—but what assurance do we have that the Sorcerer Kings haven’t even the slightest inkling of this enterprise? How are we to know whether the others were successful?”
“The Mystics have a way of communicating with us,” Lorim said. “We will know when the others have succeeded in their task.”
“And what if they’ve already been intercepted?” Abrom asked.
The company’s earlier enthusiasm dimmed considerably.
Varick hushed the others, then stepped closer to face Abrom.
“What are you doing, man?” he said in a low voice. “Such talk will erode morale further than it already is.”
“Your optimism is careless,” Abrom said, an edge creeping into his voice. “Do you not think it strange we lost so few men on such a risky venture? Or were the Sorcerer Kings just waiting for the scope of the plan to finally be revealed?”
Varick glared at him. “Do you really take me for a fool, Abrom? What good will it do to burden the men further? We are so close to the end! Why can’t we have some good news?”
Abrom’s brows lowered, and his eyes were now completely in shadow. “There will be good news only when our mission is finished. The worst is still ahead of us. You’re doing a disservice suggesting otherwise.” He turned to walk away.
The commander grabbed his shoulder. “I will not have you challenging me in front of my men.”
Abrom stood still. “If I recall, you were petitioning my old commander for my service. That means you value my experience. And my experience tells me you take the Sorcerer Kings too lightly.”
Varick’s lower jaw jutted out briefly, then looked about to see the other men listening intently to their exchange. “Shall we ease Abrom’s concerns then?” He asked, looking around. “Look alive then! Secure the camp so that Eomar may finally triumph!”
The men looked at Varick for a moment, then went about their tasks. Abrom walked toward Emias, who was still sitting cross-legged on the grass. He offered his friend a hand, and Emias grasped his forearm, hauling himself to his feet.
“Bit hard on the boy commander, weren’t you?”
Abrom raised his eyebrows questioningly.
The bigger man sighed. “Yes, I know he’s been a bit swell-headed after winning a couple skirmishes. No reason to tear him down in front of the others.”
“I’m tired, Emias.” Abrom said. “We’ve both been at this for twelve years. Forgive me if I don’t have patience for people who want an easy solution.”
“The Acolyte seemed pretty sure of the Mystic’s findings. Maybe this is finally the end.”
Abrom allowed himself a smile. “You’re eager to get back to Celia, aren’t you?”
“She’s a damn sight better to sleep with than you are,” the bigger man said, hitting Abrom’s shoulder playfully. Then his shoulders slumped and he sighed heavily. “I’m tired too.” He looked at the Umbral Stone. There was a break in the clouds overhead, and a single shaft of sunlight shone on it, lightening its color so that it was now a gentle lavender.
“You really think that will end it all?” Emias asked.
“It matters what the Sorcerer Kings think,” Abrom said. He walked to the perimeter of the camp and started sharpening stakes with his knife. Emias shrugged and followed him, gathering up an armful of branches to help him.
“I saw you gathering Damerung blooms earlier,” the big man said. “How many vials have you mixed?”
Abrom turned and opened one of the pouches of his baldric. Inside there were eight glass vials containing an amber colored liquid.
His friend looked at him with concern. “You think it’s going to be that bad?”
“I don’t think those sorcerous bastards are going to hold back. Not if the ritual is as strong as the Acolyte says it is.”
Emias started carving a stake. “I don’t trust that concoction. It’s a wonder clan Peregrine haven’t destroyed themselves since its invention.”
“It’s helped us more than once,” Abrom said, pushing the stake into the ground, then leaning it at an angle.
“They’ve talked of executing your clan for witchery on more than one occasion.”
Abrom shrugged. “That would be giving up a potent weapon against the devils, wouldn’t it?”
“I don’t like carrying your half dead corpse around, Abrom. Especially if it’s something you’ve done to yourself.”
The other man put a hand on Emias’ shoulder. “Forgive me for letting you see me in that state, old friend. I wouldn’t have survived at all without your help.”
Emias nodded toward the camp. “They haven’t seen the Spirits of War, have they? What am I supposed to do if they think you’re possessed?”
“Do what you’ve always done—point me in the direction of our foes and let me go.”
“Damn it all, Abrom!” the bigger man said, throwing down the stake. “You speak as if you’ve nothing to go home to.”
“And what if I don’t, Emias?” Abrom asked curtly. “I don’t have a Celia waiting for me, or anyone else. My clan’s been ravaged by this ongoing conflict, and by years end I’ll probably be the only one left. So forgive me for not sharing in your enthusiasm.”
With the conversation concluded, Abrom gathered up some branches and walked off, leaving Emias open-mouthed and unable to respond.
