The World Stone - Arc One: Bound by Blood
Fully Complied Arc One Story
recap |
My apologies, but this is a long post that brings together the complete Arc One story of Tasol and his sister Myra. Simply scroll down and start reading…
You can also download a PDF version here to read in your favorite reader.
Or, if you would prefer to read it in its original serialized format, you can follow this link to the Table of Contents and slip into the story episode by episode (to clean up my feed I changed the dates of the episode posts, but they’re all still there).
If you’re new to detect magic, here’s a little teaser about story…
In a world where water and magic are scarce, Tasol Jasper inadvertently exposes a crucial secret, putting himself and his estranged sister, Myra, in peril. As family bonds resurface, Myra confesses a shocking act committed to protect Tasol, but an ominous visitor shatters their fragile reunion, forcing them to confront an oath to their deceased parents. Bound by blood, they embark on an adventure to save Waterfell and restore the flow of water to the land, but to do so they must navigate the perilous waters of their family’s past, much of which has been hidden from them, until now.
Enjoy!
The World Stone - Arc One: Bound by Blood
Tasol was a gentle man on the inside, but the outside didn’t match. A scowl forged permanently on his face from a less than ideal childhood, but then who really has an ideal childhood these days, the days of the Desiccation. Aside from his scowl, there was the smell, omnipresent and overbearing. It was difficult to justify the use of water for bathing, and if you did, one had to be ever watchful. Other than the salted water of the great seas, water was scarce, especially fresh water. There was little of it left on the island of Waterfell, and what there was either fell from the sky or was called up from the depths by Waterweirds. Given its rarity, water was the currency of the land now, and it traded like coin used to years ago. As for bathing in it, only the water barons could afford such a luxury, and people would line up for blocks for the chance of being given some of their soiled bath water. Water was water, soiled or not. Still, if one were persistent, one could find enough water to survive. That’s what Tasol had done, and so far, he’d kept his secret, cloaking it in his own stench, being careful not to catch anyone’s attention.
Keeping it secret was his only real option. Although he’d been taught to fight, he wasn’t a fighter, he wasn’t even a yeller, preferring to keep in the shadows. He had no wife, no children, and only one sister, Myra, who had long ago abandoned him, telling him he was weak–too weak to protect her and their mother. So, when Myra married, they moved away with her husband, Getty, to the slums of Bannion, a small settlement on the southern edge of the Great Forest of the Ancient Ones in the shadows of the Silvermoon Mountains. The last Tasol had heard, Myra was doing fine, scrapping by on Getty’s meager earnings as a sewer rat. City life, especially in the slums with its crime and seediness, was not the life for Tasol. He enjoyed the freedom of the forest, but still appreciated the conveniences of living near a town. As for his secret, he was lucky to have found it, a spring buried deep in a nondescript cave hidden by the foliage of the forest a few miles outside Bannion. He kept it modest, hidden, and was careful to make certain the surrounding forest didn’t look lived in, as that would’ve been a sure sign to the water hunters that scoured the forest for springs just like his.
Tasol settled down by a small fire, sitting on a rocking chair he’d built from a fallen cypress tree, his hand resting on the smoothed arm of the chair. He gently rocked as the fire crackled and spit. Watching the flames dance about, he leaned closer to the sooty, black iron kettle hanging above it, filling it with just enough water for a cup of sage tea. The sage he had harvested himself on his way back from Bannion, where he’d traded a small amount of his water earlier. He always tried to trade with different vendors to not arouse their suspicions, but something about the trade today bothered him deeply.
It was just a simple slip up on his part really, but mistakes were not something someone in his position could afford. Well, truth be told, it was stupid, and that’s what had him concerned. He’d simply made the mistake of saying he had some spring water to sell, rather than his usual options of stolen or subsidywater. The theft of water was commonplace, and many of the poor in Bannion were often given water by the rich as a form of charity or payment, so neither would raise an eyebrow. He’d quickly corrected himself, but not before a wry eye was cast upon him by the water trader, Saul. Tasol had done his best to cover the mistake, but the damage had been done. That one word, the difference between keeping his secret and not. He’d made a mental note to avoid trading with Saul for a good spell, or anyone within a short distance, as news, especially news about poor water traders, spread like wildfire in Bannion. He kicked himself all the way home, and had a good deal of extra time to do so along the way. Weaving his way through the streets and back alleys of Bannion, he frequently checked to make sure he wasn’t being tailed. Once convinced he wasn’t, he’d made his way back to his cave where he now sat, brooding over his mistake, staring into the fire, waiting.
The whistling of the kettle startled him, and he reached forward, taking a rag in his hand, lifting the kettle with ease. He turned, pouring it slowly in the cup sitting on the side table by his rocking chair, careful not to spill a single drop. Turning back to the fire, there was an equally sooty black iron cook-pot, and he lifted the lid to the fragrant smell of wild onion and rosemary. Sliding the lid aside, he quickly emptied the remaining water from the kettle to the pot, careful not to allow the heat of the fire to steal even the smallest amount of water by turning it to steam. He quickly covered the pot with the heavy iron lid and settled back into the rocking chair for a moment longer as his tea steeped, filling the room with the smell of summer sage. Finally able to relax, he leaned back, blowing on the surface of the tea to cool it. Taking a small swig, he thoughtfully moved it around in his mouth, swallowing it with the release of a great breath as his shoulders drooped.
Just then, a small silver bell over the fireplace let out a series of dings. Tasol froze in his chair and his eyes narrowed, moving slowly up to the bell with a resigned acceptance. He’d half expected it, but he’d still held out hope he’d covered his tracks well enough. Guess not.
The chime of the bell echoed in Tasol’s mind. He knew what he needed to do, but was finding it hard to convince his mind to put down the tea. Instead, he took a long, slow draw from the tea cup until it emptied. He purposefully set the teacup down on the table, moved the soup pot from the fire, and reached for his machete, its dull metallic surface glinting in the light of the fire. Dinner would be a bit delayed tonight. Now, he had to go deal with his mistake from earlier in the day. He only hoped that it was a scout and not a full-on search party. Scouts can be dealt with quietly, hidden and forgotten. Search parties can’t, and the idea of keeping his little cave and its spring a secret would be sheer folly. He hated killing, but options were often limited and seldom within his control. Still, he would do what had to be done, nothing more, nothing less, just as he always did.
He paused at the door, pulling the hooded jacket from the peg. Buttoning it tightly, he secured all the buttons on the dingy black jacket, ensuring it fight tightly, minimizing the chances it would catch or snag on anything. No unwanted noises at unwanted times. He reached up to the shelf, taking a set of daggers, sliding one into a hidden sheath on each boot, and then placing the remaining blades in sheaths on his forearms, hidden inside the sleeves of the jacket. As he passed out the entrance of the cave, his hand moved to touch an old wooden carving of an acorn, the sacred symbol of the dryads, that hung above the entrance. The carving was smooth, well oiled from the countless touches over the years. Not only oiled by Tasol’s touch, but the touch of his father and his father’s father doing the same as they left their homes, seeking the safety and protection of the dryads of the forest. He’d been told stories of his family’s connection to the dryads, along with cryptic warnings that the family owed a debt to them that would have to be repaid in the future. Tasol’s parents had told them other stories of dryads, but like many others, he didn’t believe in them and paid the stories no mind. Still, he was superstitious and religiously hung the carved acorn above the door everywhere he moved.
He stepped out into the darkness, taking a moment for his eyes to adjust. It was darker than normal. The sky was overcast, blocking any light from the moon that would’ve shared more details. He nodded to himself, a small grin touching his lips as he adjusted his grip on the machete. The luck of the dryads was already in play, as it’d be much easier for him to hunt whatever was out there in this darkness on his home turf. He knew the surroundings by rote, giving him a distinct edge. With purpose, he headed out, slipping between trees until he was well hidden a hundred yards or so from the entrance of the cave, but still in full view of it, his eyes now fully adjusted to the darkness. Whoever had tripped his alarm would eventually smell the smoke from his fire and make their way to the cave, at least that is what he’d do if the tables were turned. Now, he hoped it was only a scout as he crouched down, staying hidden.
It seemed like an eternity had passed, and Tasol toyed with the idea that it might’ve been an animal that tripped the alarm. He was about to pack it in when, out of the shadows to the left of the cave opening, a slender, cloaked shadow appeared. Its head swiveled, looking in all directions as it smoothly stepped forward, immediately finding the entrance to the cave. The cloaked figure paused, tentatively looking around, and Tasol silently crept forward, convinced he’d found the scout who’d made the mistake of tripping his alarm. He was covering the space between himself and the cloaked figure quickly now, and was always amazed at his ability to move as he did, a clear nod to his father. The figure’s head snapped in his direction and went into a low crouch, its attention fixed in Tasol’s direction. Uncertain if he’d revealed himself, Tasol froze, hidden in the darkness, as he watched the figure’s hand slowly move to its belt. It seemed like hours that the two were essentially looking at one another, until finally the cloaked figure lowered its hand, turning back to the cave opening. It stepped closer to the entrance, calling out in a muffled whisper, “Tasol? Are you here? We need to talk.”
Even in the darkness of the night, and at this distance, he immediately recognized the voice. It was his sister, but what was she doing out here, and how did she know exactly where he lived? They hadn’t spoken since their mother’s passing, and their last words were not pleasant. He stepped out of the shadows, warily coming up behind her.
“Myra,” he whispered in a raspy voice.
Startled, she turned, dark blade in hand, her eyes fixed on him. “Hello brother,” she said, her eyes now connecting with his.
“Quickly, inside,” Tasol said, surveying the forest from where she’d come.
Tasol stepped forward, ushering Myra into the cave, smoothly replacing the tarp that hid the entrance. Turning to Myra, he slid his machete into its sheath fastened to his pants leg. She stowed her blade as well, and milled about the small cave looking around and touching things before stopping in front of the small cistern that held the spring water.
“So, this is where you live now?” Myra asked, as she dipped her finger into the water, pressing it to her lips.
Ignoring her question, Tasol couldn’t hide his concern. “You were careless, coming here like this,” Tasol said, ignoring her question. “Were you followed? Did you cover your tracks?”
“Yes, I was careful. Just as father taught us–both of us.” Her words were crisp and laced with venom as she turned her attention back to him. There was history in that exchange, and her tone made it clear she didn’t appreciate the inference from her brother. She was his little sister, but he knew as well as she did that their father taught her everything that he’d taught Tasol, and she picked it up just as quickly as him, sometimes faster.
Tasol let out a deep breath as he turned away. Stepping to the fire, he removed the lid from the kettle, filling it with water from the spring. “Tea?” he asked, turning back to the fire, placing the kettle on the iron hook above it.
Myra’s shoulders drooped, the tension draining from her voice. “Yes, that would be nice.”
Tasol reached to the cabinet, taking a second cup and placing it next to his on the small table, still not looking her in the eyes. This second cup was her cup, and Myra hesitated, reaching out to touch it.
“Mother’s cup. Where did you find it?” she asked.
Again ignoring her question, Tasol stared blankly into the fire, leaning his head against the wall. “Why are you here, Myra?” he asked in a solemn voice. “Why have you come? Now?” They had not seen one another since their mother’s sudden passing, and they parted ways, both bitter and blaming the other for things out of their control. Little was spoken between them after their father’s death, and even less after their mother’s passing.
“Your little slip up today, with Saul,” she said.
Tasol leaned back, looking at the ceiling. “Shit,” he cursed, partially in disbelief, but mostly in disgust with himself. It was such a stupid mistake.
“It’s drawn some attention,” she continued. “They’ve been asking all over Bannion about you–about me.”
Tasol let out a sigh as his eyes lowered to the fire. “What about Getty?” he asked quietly.
“Well, you know Getty. He wanted me to sell you out. He’s still bitter about what happened when mother passed.”
“And you? Are you still bitter? Did you want to sell me out as well?” Tasol asked, now turning to meet Myra’s gaze.
“Bitter? No, not bitter,” she answered. “Sad, disgusted maybe, but mostly just disappointed. Disappointed that after all our parents did, you just abandoned us. She died with a broken heart because of it, because of you, Tasol. And sell you out? How can you even ask me that? I’m still your sister, your only remaining flesh and blood in this crappy world.”
“Sit,” Tasol said, motioning to the chair as he placed a small bundle of wild sage in each cup, pouring a bit of water over to steep them. “Would you like some soup?”
“What the fuck is wrong with you, Tasol? Would I like some soup?” she repeated his words in a raised voice. “I come out here telling you that you’re being hunted, that Getty wanted me to sell you out, and you just ask me if I want some soup?”
“I just thought you might be hungry,” he answered in a calm voice, “and it’s clear we have some things to talk about, so better to–”
“Do it on a full stomach,” she said, finishing his sentence, this time in a more restrained voice. “Yes, I know mother would’ve said that, but she’s not here anymore. You need to let the past be the past. Let it go and move on with your life.” She leaned forward, talking in a hushed tone. “This shit is real, brother, and you know the same things about our family as I do. Father told both of us. Remember?” She paused, looking intently in his eyes. “It falls on both of us. You cannot do it alone.”
As she finished, Tasol placed his hand gently on her shoulder, pressing her to sit in the chair. Turning, he spooned up two bowls of soup placing them on the table, handing her a wooden spoon.
“Eat. Then we talk,” he said.
Myra scoffed at Tasol, but she didn’t reject the food and they both sat in silence eating.
Tasol looked across the table. It was nice to see his sister, even in these circumstances. He’d wished things had been different for them, for her, but reality was a wet blanket at times, neither comforting nor desirable, and now his mistakes were being visited upon her.
“Wild onion? And is that feverfew I taste?” she asked.
Tasol nodded as he looked up, placing his spoon on the table and reaching for his tea.
“Mother’s favorite,” she said. “You always were a mama’s boy.” A smile creased her face for the first time since she’d arrived, for the first time in–well, Tasol honestly couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen even the hint of a smile on Myra’s face. It had been hard years, but then still seemed like yesterday when the times were happier, when their parents were both around. But those days were gone.
“I always liked the feverfew,” Tasol said, a smile now touching his lips too. “Calms me down, gets me thinking straight.” He sipped his tea, looking over the rim to Myra. “Thanks for coming. Letting me know.”
She nodded, lifting her mother’s tea cup to her mouth, sipping the wild sage tea. Tasol noticed that Myra’s hands were shaking ever so slightly.
“Myra, are you ok?” he asked, leaning forward and placing his hand gently on hers. Her eyes turned away as he spoke, glassy with moisture. “What is it? I know you, I know that look.”
“It’s Getty,” she said, turning her eyes back to Tasol once again. “He was hell-bent on turning you over to them, and I told him I’d leave him if he did. But he wouldn’t listen. I kept pleading with him, but the bounty they were floating was too much for him to ignore. He’d made up his mind that…”
“That the bounty was worth more to him than my life,” Tasol said. Myra nodded, wiping the tears from her eyes.
This was a story that was told over and over again in Waterfell. That’s why people from the slums never got ahead. The bounties were never enough to be truly life changing. Just enough to pay some debts, and the ones from the slums who earned the bounties still stayed in the slums.
“I tried to stop him, I really did,” she said, her confidence returning. “I tried with words as mother always told us to, but when the words failed.” She took another sip of tea, but her hands still shaking as she sat her mother’s tea cup on the table. “But, as father was quick to remind us–when words fail, it is time for action. So, I grabbed Getty as he was leaving, but he turned, pushing me to the ground.” She looked away, the tears again streaking her face, reflecting the firelight. “He kicked me, and said that I was trash and needed to learn to stay in my place. It broke my heart, Tasol, he broke my heart. I swelled with anger, and before I knew it I had swept his legs like father taught us and,” she paused and started weeping, looking down at her hands. For the first time, Tasol saw blood on the sleeves of her white tunic. “I just hit him with the cast iron skillet and kept hitting him and hitting him until–” She stopped her story, looking at Tasol. “I don’t know what came over me, but I can’t go back there, ever.”
Tasol reached out, taking his sister’s hands and speaking to her softly, like he’d done when they were younger, happier. He lifted her chin until their eyes meet. In the past, he’d always had a steadying influence on her, just as it did now. “Myra, it’s ok. What’s done is done. Getty never deserved you–that was part of my problem with you marrying him. But like always, you did what needed to be done. You did it for mother because I wasn’t there for you. You were stronger than me, and I just ran when father passed. I’ve been running ever since, but you–you survived, and now it’s my turn to step up and be the big brother. I won't let anything happen to you, ever.”
“But I killed him, Tasol. Getty’s dead, and they’ll know I did it. They’ll be looking for me.”
“Perhaps, but don’t forget he’s a nothing in Bannion, a sewer rat. We both know the powers in Bannion are completely fine letting the scum of the city off each other. It’s less water needs, less food, more of everything for them.” She took a deep breath, nodding her head in agreement. Tasol raised his hand, wiping the tears from her eyes, and ladled more soup into her bowl. “Eat, the feverfew will calm you. You can stay here. You are my sister, and I’ll make sure no one finds you.”
Just as he finished, the little bell over the fireplace let out another series of small dings and Tasol’s eyes slowly, reluctantly moved up to the bell. Myra’s eyes following suit.
“What’s that?” she asked, looking from the bell back to her brother.
“Early warning sign,” Tasol said, lowering his head. “Someone’s coming. Looks like this night of excitement’s not quite over yet.” He hadn’t expected it to ring again this evening, but the fact remained that he’d made a serious mistake with Saul earlier in the day, and now he worried not only about his own tracks, but Myra’s.
“I covered my tracks,” she said, almost as if reading her brother’s mind. “There’s no way anyone followed me.”
Tasol pushed himself up from the table, placing his hand on Myra’s shoulder. “I’m sure they just scented the fire. Stay here and keep quiet. I’ll be back.” He leaned over, dousing the candles, plunging the room into darkness save for the smoldering light of the kitchen fire. Eerie shadows bounced off the walls of the cave as the firelight spit and crackled.
“No,” Myra whispered with a hardness in her tone. “I can fight too, just as good as you,” she added for good measure.
Tasol’s eyes lowered from hers. “Myra, you’ve been a housewife for years. We’re going to have to kill them,” he said, his eyes pleading with her to stay put, but an anger he knew well surfaced, and in the next instant a blade was at his throat. He looked into her eyes, measuring her resolve, and gently placed his hand on her wrist, lowering the blade.
“Ok, we go together. But this is my piece of the forest. I know it well. You follow my lead. Got it?” He looked into her eyes keenly awaiting a response, her brown eyes equally as fierce as his, and she nodded.
“Got it. I follow your lead.” She stepped in behind him as Tasol once again donned his hunting gear, stowing the daggers and sliding the machete into the sheath on his leg. Myra followed suit, pulling her hood over her head, her eyes peering out from the darkness, framed by her raven black hair. Reaching to the side of the door, Tasol took out a second machete, handing it to her, watching her spin it in her hand, testing its weight and balance. They would be silent and deadly, just as they’d been trained. Passing out of the entrance, Tasol reached up running his fingers across the surface of the carved wooden acorn, and Myra followed suit just as she’d done so many times before. Tasol glanced back at his sister seeing her move with a muted excitement, ready for whatever awaited them outside.
As they left the cave it was still dark, darker than earlier even as clouds had moved in, occluding whatever light had remained earlier. They stood in an almost complete darkness, waiting for their eyes to adjust. Tasol smiled as he patted his sister on the back.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Ready,” she whispered back.
The darkness was a gift, and he could sense Myra knew it as well. Whoever was out there was at a great disadvantage. With their eyes adjusted, Tasol motioned for Myra to follow, and he stepped forward, softly, silently. After a few paces, he hadn’t heard Myra following, and he turned to find she was right on his heels. She nodded to him, and he could see her lips raise, cracking a smile. He’d forgotten how quietly she could move through the woods, and found himself grateful that she was with him. Making a mental note, he’d apologize for calling her a housewife, if they survived this night.
They moved silently, passing from shadow to shadow, pausing frequently as a light rain started to fall. Tasol turned his head upright, catching a few drops in his mouth, never one to pass the chance of free water. His attention snapped back to the darkness, to the crack of a branch on the path leading to his cave. Placing his arm across Myra’s chest, they held their position, and he motioned in the direction of the noise. She nodded, having heard the noise too, and as she nervously spun the machete in her hand. Tasol motioned for her to hold her position, and he turned, slinking through the woods along the side of the path, uncertain if there was only one hunter or if more had come this time. Sliding his machete from its sheath, his heart raced, and his breath shortened, both of which were unusual. Perhaps it was because Myra was with him. When he was alone, things were easier, less complicated. His mind was wandering, dangerously so, and his foot caught on a small branch making an oversized sound, crunching below his boot.
He paused, cursing himself, and crouching down into the underbrush, his eyes darting from side to side. Uncertain if he’d been heard, but hoping he’d not blown his cover. The rain was now coming down steadily, dripping from his hood onto his face. He studied the path, patiently waiting, but nothing came, and he heard no more sounds other the rain dropping to the ground from the branches above. Turning back, he looked toward Myra, but she was out of sight, almost certainly watching the path just as he was. Minutes passed and there were no more noises from the forest. Tasol started to wonder if an animal had set off the bell. That had happened in the past, but he’d tried to set the trip lines in a way that animals wouldn’t trigger them, even though it was difficult to do. A few more minutes passed, and Tasol tensed, hearing the crunching of leaves behind him. He turned quickly to see two black, beady eyes looking at him from beside a tree. Tasol’s quick movements startled it, and the deer turned, bounding up through the forest toward Myra. Dropping the machete to his side, he let out a sigh of relief and the tension drained from his body. They’d found what set off the bell, the hunt was over.
He stepped onto the path to collect Myra, heading back toward the comfort of his cave. Even though he welcomed the rain, it was still cold and had soaked through his clothes. He moved quietly up the path, and seeing Myra, he signaled to her that all was clear. She started to step out, but paused, her eyes widening as she reached for her belt, motioning for him with her free hand to take cover. It was a clear hand signal, one that their father had taught both of them. Reflexively, Tasol dropped to the ground, rolling over as he drew his daggers at the ready. Coming up the trail behind him was a lone shadow, hunched over, and closing on him quickly. Tasol braced, his muscles softening, anticipating the coming struggle as a whooshing sound flashed over his head, ending with a wet thud. The shadow staggered, falling backwards, the handle of a blade protruding from its skull. Tasol’s heart raced as he rolled up to his knees, feeling a hand on his shoulder, Myra’s hand.
“He came out of the shadows, behind you. That was clumsy,” she said.
“I’ll give you that,” he said, reluctant to admit it to her. He clasped his hand over hers, and he rose to his feet, “But, I’m glad you were here.”
“Looks like the old housewife did okay, huh?” she said with a chuckle.
He knew she was smirking at him as he smiled, patting her shoulder. “Ya, the old housewife did okay. About that–”
“No need bro. It has been a long time, but the things father taught us never fade. I’m still a Jasper.”
The rain had faded quickly, and the clouds spread again as the moonlight lit the path where they stood. Tasol’s smirk was hidden in the darkness, but she was right, the things they learned as children didn’t fade.
He walked toward the fallen hunter down the path behind him. “The least I can do is retrieve your–” Tasol said, pausing as he kneeled next to the body. He’d expected it to be a hunter, someone vaguely familiar from the underbelly of Bannion, but as the moon shed its eerie glow, the tattoos on his face were unmistakable. This wasn’t a water hunter, it was something different, much different. Myra noticed his hesitation.
“What is it?” she asked, the smirk gone from her face.
“Things have gotten more difficult for us,” he answered, running his fingers through his stringy, wet hair. “It isn’t anyone from Bannion. It’s a Seeker, from the Tower. It seems someone’s finally discovered us.”
“But how?” she asked, fear tinging her voice for the first time tonight. “Father said it was hidden, we were hidden. Maybe it’s just a coincidence.”
“You know as well as I do that this is no coincidence. He came for us. There can be no doubt about it.”
“But–”
“No, buts,” he said, interrupting her. “You know what this means, father was clear about it. We can’t stay–not now.” He leaned forward, pulling the dagger from the man’s skull, wiping it on the man’s cloak before handing it back to Myra. “We have to pack up and leave, tonight,” he said, turning to head back to the cave.
“Wait,” Myra whispered. “We still need to keep our wits.”
Those words caused Tasol to stop and turn back. Their father had drilled that phrase to them so much that Tasol had grown to despise it. Irritated, he turned back to her about to speak, but then paused as he saw her searching the Seeker’s pockets, looking for anything that might help them. She rolled the body this way and that, taking its backpack, committing to look through it later. Glancing back to Tasol, he motioned for her to hurry, but kept his eyes on the surrounding forest, his impatience growing with each pocket she searched. She stood, turning back to Tasol as the glint of the Seeker’s blades caught her eye. Reaching for the blades, it was clear they were of a design and workmanship beyond the means of the smiths in Bannion. Pulling the blades from the man’s grasp, she noticed he wore a ring, and she leaned down, struggling to remove it from his swollen fingers.
“What are you doing?” Tasol said, his irritation finally getting the better of him. “We need to go–now. Take what you can and let’s be off. Where there’s one of them, we can only assume there’ll be more.”
She turned, looking at him. “But it’s a ring. That could be many things, the least of which is a lot of coin. We may need something to trade.” She turned back, continuing to struggle with it, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Shit,” Tasol cursed, knowing she was right. He, too, knew the value of rings, or their potential value, but they were wasting valuable time. “Watch out,” he said, moving his sister’s hands out of the way as his machete flashed down. There was a dull cracking sound as the machete cut cleanly through the man’s wrist. “There, now you have the ring,” he said, picking up the hand and holding it out to his sister.
“That was gross,” she said slowly, “you always were so barbaric.” She dropped the hand into the backpack and they both turned, making their way to the cave. The moon had disappeared once again and the rain started to fall again, but harder this time. They splashed through puddles already forming on the ground as they arrived back at the cave. It’d be a good night in Bannion. With this moisture, all the rain coffers would be full for a few days, giving everyone some needed relief.
Tasol pulled up short of the cave entrance, pausing to scuffling sounds from inside. Motioning to Myra, he placed a finger on his lips, telling to be quiet. Inching closer, the sounds continued. He tried to get a look inside, but couldn’t. The stories about Seekers were often beyond belief, but now that he’d seen one, he wasn’t in a mood to press his luck again. Thanks to Myra, he’d survived, but he wasn’t going to make a mistake like that again.
They both crouched down, hiding in the darkness outside the door. Tasol motioned again, directing Myra to the other side of the entrance. She handed him one of the scavenged short swords from the Seeker as she passed by. He took it, feeling the weight in his hand, perfectly balanced. It was an assassin’s weapon, and he felt doubly lucky his sister had visited him tonight, but he still couldn’t shake the fact that a Seeker had found them, and now there was another. More sounds filtered out. They were searching for something–something Tasol couldn’t let them find. He motioned for Myra to follow as he slinked inside, sticking to the shadows as best he could. The table by the fire was turned over, and he scanned the room looking for the intruder, but saw nothing. His head snapped to the left, hearing the sound of someone trying to get into a locked cabinet without the key.
He rushed forward, bumping a chair, sending it skidding across the floor, revealing his position to the intruder, who turned, glaring at him. Seeing its beady eyes, Tasol let out a sigh of relief.
“It’s ok. It’s just a worhnock,” he said.
Scavengers at heart, worhnocks were a menace, a weird mix of a squirrel and a raccoon. It wasn’t the first time it’d visited his cave, but this time Tasol was grateful it was merely a worhnock instead of a Seeker. Upon seeing the two of them approaching, it turned, scrambling back and forth before spying a misguided escape route. It recklessly dashed forward, scattering embers from the fire, its furry tail catching fire before it finally disappeared into the night. Tasol turned, closing the door.
“Scrappy little bastards, aren’t they?” Myra said, starting to clean up the mess.
“There’s no need for that,” Tasol said, placing his hand on his sister’s back. “We have to leave this place, as soon as possible.”
Myra turned to meet his eyes, nodding without a word.
Tasol stood silently in the cave, the Seeker’s short sword in his hand. It was exquisite, a craftsmanship one would never find in the remote forest town of Bannion. It came from the forges of the great cities, a rich man’s weapon. He moved to the pantry, pulling out food for traveling. Dried fruit, jerky, nuts that he’d collected in the forest and stale bread. He quickly wrapped them in oiled skins, binding them with twine as Myra joined, helping him.
“I’ll pack this and fill the water skins. Where’s the artifact?” she asked.
Tasol let her take over packing supplies. “It’s well hidden,” he answered, a dark look clouding his face. Their father, Artus, had always warned them that someday people would come looking for them, for the artifact, and once that happened they were to trust no one except Belidor. They were to seek him at Ward’s End, one of Waterfell’s five major “pool cities” that rested at the end of ancient canals called “spines” that extended outward from the Great City of Fount. Before the Desiccation, an ancient spring known by all simply as the Source was located at the Tower in Fount and supplied all of Waterfell with ample water. But as magic was stripped from the land, so too was the water from the Source, leaving all the great cities left to fend for themselves. Ward’s End had fared better than most, harvesting fallen snow from the Silvermoon Mountains, but at its heart it was a mining town, supplying Waterfell with stocks of gold, silver, gemstones, stone, minerals, and other things only found deep underground. It lay miles to the south of Bannion in a grand valley deep within the mountains. It was only accessible by the Kings’s Road that skirted the ancient canal, and even then, it was a long way from here–at least a few days journey even in the best of conditions.
Tasol moved across the room, pushing aside the remaining embers from the fire with his boot. Bending over, he brushed the floor clean and Myra joined him. Cut into the floor were three small finger-shaped indentions. Tasol grabbed a cup of tea from the table, pouring it into the holes as steam rose, extinguishing the small cinders that filled them, and then he dug them out with a stick from the wood pile. He placed his fingers in the holes and spun it clockwise as a part of the floor of the cave started to unscrew from the floor and raise. After a few rotations, he lifted the capstone, revealing a dark chamber holding a small iron box that sat snugly inside. He pulled the box out and turned, placing it on the table. Reaching inside his shirt, he removed a round metal disk that hung from a braided leather cord around his neck. It was adorned with different shapes, holes, and indentions that were intimately familiar to them both. It had been their father’s, and he always wore it. Before his passing, he’d given it to Tasol, explaining to them both what to do in the event this day ever came. Myra nudged Tasol, anxious to see what lay inside. He ignored her, placing the disk into a round indention on the top of the iron box, snapping it into place, and then he spun it to the left. The disc ground against the stone, and after a half rotation it clicked, no longer turning.
Tasol eyed Myra, and she moved in close, hovering over his shoulder. Neither of them had ever been allowed to even hold this box until their father’s passing, and then only with strict admonitions to keep it well hidden–their father swearing the box had been warded to hide it from the world. It all sounded crazy, especially as Tasol got older. He had thought of opening it on a few occasions, but his father’s voice always echoed in his mind, telling him to leave it be until people came looking for it. That day had now arrived, but Tasol knew not what to expect other than his father said it contained something of great importance, something their family had kept hidden all these years. He still wasn’t sure what it all meant, or if it was even real.
Lifting off the lid, he tipped it over on the table and the contents spilled out–a note written in their father’s hand on a smooth sheet of vellum, another piece of vellum sealed with their father’s mark, the name Belidor written on the outside, two rings, and a small pebble the size of a mushroom top which he assumed was the artifact. It struck him that they really knew nothing of the artifact or its purpose apart from the cryptic words of their parents. They only knew that their parents had dedicated their lives to keep this thing, whatever it was, hidden from the world.
Tasol reached down, picking up the pebble. It looked dense, like a piece of granite, but as he lifted it, it had no weight to it at all. Running his fingers along the surface, it was etched with runes that were unfamiliar to him. Turning to Myra, he handed it to her, obvious she shared the same questions as him.
“Why is this so important?” she asked.
Tasol shrugged his shoulders. “I have no idea,” Tasol said, shrugging his shoulders, “but we both promised that if this day came, we would take it and find Belidor.”
Still holding the pebble, Myra picked up the letter from their father, reading it aloud.
I am sorry that this burden has fallen to you, and can only assume that since they’ve found you that your mother, Evra, has also passed. It was only her magical wards that kept us all hidden over the years. Mourn her passing–she was a sweet woman and one of the best Spellweavers that this world has ever known.
“Spellweaver?” Myra said, pausing as she looked at Tasol. Magic was a myth, a myth only held by the most fringe, radical people in Waterfell. It was rumored to exist long ago, but the King had put an end to that, hunting and killing all who claimed to wield magic. Even speaking of it could still get one in a great deal of trouble. Their father never spoken of magic, and anytime the topic was raised, he put it down as the beliefs of lunatics who chose fantasy rather than real-world concerns.
“Keep reading,” Tasol said, pointing to the vellum.
You may think this the rantings of an old man, but I have worked hard to protect our family, to protect the artifact for as long as I could. Now, it is your turn to take your place in this world, but I tell you now–magic is real, the artifact is real. They will be coming for it, for you, now that you can be seen. Keep it hidden in the iron box. Your mother made it, and its wards will keep the artifact hidden for a short time, perhaps at least until you can get to Belidor at Ward’s End. He is old and wise. Listen, to him, trust him. He will help you understand.
I love you both dearly. There is a ring for each of you Imbued by your mother. Take them, put them on and never take them off from this day forward. You will learn from them, and they will harness the true power of the blood that courses through your veins. My words are too many. Now it is time for you to get on with it. I just have one final warning. You should be scared, it will keep you alert, alive. Now, my children, you must run.
Love, Artus
They both looked up from the letter, their eyes connecting, mirroring a level of panic from their father’s ominous warning. Their father was a rational man, and always spoke the clear words of truth. For that reason, they knew they were in danger, they needed to go.
Tasol reached down, picking up the two rings, looking at them. They seemed to be made of a metal he hadn’t seen before. One was in the shape of an unopened tulip bud, the other an acorn. He handed the tulip ring to Myra, placing the acorn ring on his finger, as Myra did the same with her ring. A strange feeling surged through his body, his heart raced, his vision blurred momentarily, and then it resolved. He looked at Myra as she staggered backwards, placing her hand on the wall to steady herself.
“Do you feel it too?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, shaking her head and regaining her composure, “that was strange, but somehow it feels, right.”
He knew what she meant. He reached down, taking the sealed letter to Belidor from the table and stowing the artifact in the iron box, locking it with the disc on his necklace. As he did that, Myra was rummaging through the Seeker’s backpack, removing the severed hand, using her short sword to cut the dark, black metal ring from his hand before placing it in her pocket. Tossing the backpack aside, a small coin shaped objected cascaded out, bouncing off the leg of the table. Tasol leaned over, picking it up. It was coin-shaped, but it wasn’t a coin. It was a blueish-black metal with smooth surfaces. He turned it over in his hand to see a shadowy blue light pulsing wildly in the center of the metal disc. It was cool to the touch, and nothing he did stopped the light from pulsing. The mystery of this device would have to wait, for now, they needed to leave. He placed the metal disc in his pocket and returned to preparing the packs for their escape.
Moments later, Tasol handed Myra a loaded pack, and she stowed her things in it while he did the same. He was always clever with his packs and showed her how they could carry two blades on their back, out of the way, unless needed. Tasol stowed his machetes, and Myra the two Seeker blades. Packed and ready to leave, they both reached up, touching the wooden acorn, and then Tasol took it from above the door, stowing it safely in his pack. When they stepped out, the moon was high over head and the rain had stopped. It was a quiet night and Tasol weighed the words of his father–scared and run–keeping his senses keen. Not missing the irony of it, they started the long journey to Ward’s End, heeding their father’s warnings to them. They were running from Bannion, the only place they had ever known, and were heading to find a man they didn’t know. Tasol thought about his mother, a Spellweaver? How could he not have seen it when now it seemed so obvious? There’d always been something oddly unique about her. He looked at Myra and could see she was turning the same thoughts in her head, trying to make sense of it all.
⧔ 30 YEARS AGO ⧕
Artus stood at the door to the Tower, a cool sheen of sweat on his brow, as Evra calmly approached.
“Quickly, inside,” he said, waving her in, “before the guard comes.”
“You are the guard,” Evra said in a mocking tone, “no one would question either of our presence here. You, the head of the Protectors, and me, the venerable daughter.”
“Illegitimate daughter,” Artus said, correcting her.
“Illegitimate or not, I’m still his flesh and blood,” she said, stepping inside the doorway as Artus swung it shut, locking it with the key that hung from a chain around his neck. “We’re both the same, you know. I betray blood, you betray loyalty. We’re a perfect match,” she said, smiling as she leaned kissing him, pressing her body against him.
“There will be time for that later,” he whispered, placing his hand softly to her cheek, leaning back. “The others are already inside,” he said, reaching for a torch on the wall. “Quickly, we only have once chance at this. If we’re discovered, it’s the end of us all.”
“It’ll work. Trust me. He’s blinded by his stupidity, and by Aithne’s fealty to him. He wouldn’t miss my sister's stupid nuptials for anything,” Evra said. “And lucky for us, it provides us with this perfect opportunity,” she said, falling in step behind Artus, their plan finally in motion. Ever since she’d learned of her father's plans, she knew what she had to do, and was grateful Artus shared the same view, as did the others. Their plan had been a full year in the making. They’d almost been discovered, and if not for Evra’s quick wits and steely fortitude, they would’ve been.
One thing was certain, once it was taken, her father would know–everyone would know. They’d have precious few moments to flee with it before the Spellweavers came seeking the reasons for the disturbance only to find it gone, at least that was the plan. Her own powers would ensure their escape, but it would take the others to buy them the time necessary to get outside the walls of Fount, hidden by Evra’s warding skills. The others would make sacrifices for Waterfell, ensuring Evra and Artus’ escape with it in tow. The land forever changed, reshaped by its absence, but her father would be doomed, his ire relentless. They’d have no choice but to escape and conceal their presence to all–somewhere no one would ever look for them. The end of the world, or as some called it, Bannion.
As they entered the main chamber, it was cavernous, and a great lake filled it from wall to wall. Looking up, the walls of the Tower extended upward for hundreds of feet, thrusting into the afternoon sunlight outside like a needle through fabric. The water was dark and its surface still, hiding the secret of its depths as the areas inside the doorway receded into a sizable beach that extended out before itself disappearing into the dark waters. In the middle of the lake sat a rock outcropping where a pedestal stood, illuminated by some internal glow, pulsing as if it were alive. Spread out on the beach were the others, fellow Spellweavers that she’d known for years, many of which were more like sisters than Aithne had ever been.
Passing by, she silently nodded to them as Artus stood speaking to another man dressed in clothing like his, a fellow Protector. She couldn’t overhear what was being said, but the tones were somber, their eyes hinting concern. With a nod, Artus turned back to Evra.
“Ok. Let’s go for that walk.”
“Right,” Evra said. Stepping forward, she reached her hand upward, intoning her words with the pitch she learned, leaning down she pressed her hand to the surface of the water. There was a flash of light and a pulse of force that jolted them all slightly. Standing, she reached for Artus’ hand, pulling him along. “Let’s go,” she said, confidently taking a step onto the surface of the water, her boot landing above on its surface, finding solid footing. Reassured, Artus now stepped forward, following her as they strode across the surface of the water until they reached the stone outcropping some half mile away. Releasing his hand, Evra stepped forward and Artus turned back with a watchful eye to the beach.
Evra stepped forward, looking at the pedestal. She’d been here only once before, many years ago, when she was a young child–all Spellweavers come here when they are entering the service of the land of Waterfell. It looked the same, but in reality she didn’t recall much apart from the glow of the stone pedestal. She recalled how she’d wondered how a stone could glow, but now she knew. She’d learned much since then, excelling in her studies beyond anything ever expected of her, even beyond Aithne’s prowess as a Spellweaver, which was something that had become a bit of a sore spot between them. Circling the pedestal, she knew she would only have one chance at this, and even at that, she had to be at the top of her game. She paused, moving closer and reached out toward the pedestal. A spark of energy arced out from the pedestal with surprising tenacity, and she pulled her hand back, shaking the sting from it.
“What is it?” Artus said looking over his shoulder, hearing her wince in pain.
“It’s nothing,” Evra snapped back. “I just didn’t expect it to care.”
“What do you mean?” Artus said, the concern growing on his face as he glanced back to the beach.
“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” she said, again circling the pedestal, her thoughts flipping through all the pages she read about it.
“Quickly,” Artus said, “they’ll be here any moment.”
“Stop bothering me,” Evra snapped back, “I need to concentrate.”
Across the room, the other Protector called out and the Spellweavers all fell in line behind him, each woman prepared for battle in their own way. “Stand your ground ladies,” the Protector called out. “We have to give Evra and Artus more time. They must escape or this will have all been for nothing.”
⧔ PRESENT DAY ⧕
Tasol and Myra travelled east through the darkness on game trails that only Tasol knew. He felt certain they hadn’t been followed, neither of them hearing anything. They pressed through a copse of old oak trees as the morning’s first light glittered through the rainfall still clinging to the leaves. In the clearing ahead was a well-worn path, rutted by wagon use.
“That’s Garren’s Path,” Tasol said, coming to a stop and sharing a bit of leavened bread from his pack with Myra. It had been a long night hiking through the woods with their senses on full alert, so this was a welcome respite. “It leads to the King’s Road, the only road into the valley where Ward’s End lies.” Myra knew the roads around Bannion as well as Tasol, but for some reason he felt the need to speak it aloud. Garren’s Path led from Bannion, west to Livery, joining the King’s Road–a road that ran from Fount to the northwest through Livery and continuing southeast, knifing through the Silvermoon Mountains along the canal to Ward’s End.
“Is it wise to be on the roads?” she asked.
He knew what she was intimating–there’d be people looking for them. Tasol closed his pack, turning his attention back to her. “It’s the only way to Ward’s End. I’m not crazy about it either, but we just need to keep to ourselves and stay clear of other travelers.”
“Stay clear of others?” Myra scoffed, chewing a piece of bread. “Are you crazy? The roads are full of people, people that are way too happy to share what they know for a little water. There’s got to be another way.”
“You’re right,” Tasol said, stroking his chin, looking up into the high, snowy peaks of the Silvermoon's that rimmed the trail to the south. “There is–” he began, his voice trialing off in thought.
“There is, what?” Myra asked, her eyes following his, looking toward the mountains. “Ok,” she said, throwing her hands up in air, “so you are crazy. It’s settled.”
Tasol sighed. “It’s the only other way I know of.”
“People that go up there die,” Myra said, not taking her eyes from him.
“Just hear me out,” Tasol said, trying to settle her. “If the Snowmelters can travel through Ward’s Way, so can we.” She didn’t interrupt, so he continued, motioning to the mountains. “There’s a trail used by the goat farmers down by the cliffs–I’ve overheard them talk about it at the taverns. They say it goes all the way to Ward’s Way, and the tunnels that go under the mountains to Ward’s End.”
Myra looked from the mountains to her brother. Down the path, the tinkering, clomping sound of a horse cart echoed from around the corner, the horse pulling it coming into sight. Impetuously, Myra grabbed her brother’s arm, bounding up a small game trail on the far side of the path. They barely made it unseen, now hidden behind a growth of ceanothus bushes just as a caravan of wagons rolled past.
Once the caravan cleared out, Myra turned to Tasol. “The goat trail. Do you know exactly where it is?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“You think so, or you know,” she said, her eyes fixed on him.
“I know,” he said confidently. “It’s an old trail just south of here by the cliffs on Smith Creek.” He paused, glancing back to the road.
“Let’s get moving then,” she said, nudging him, “there’s nothing left for us here.”
“We’ll have to pick our way through the forest from here,” he said, turning back, “but we’ll find it.” He knew it’d be a slow-going, and he could already feel the lack of sleep in his legs, but like always, he pressed on. Myra followed close on his heels with little sign of fatigue. They headed toward the cliffs, but were still close enough that they could glimpse the road through the trees. The ceanothus and undergrowth were getting thick, but as they pushed through, they found themselves standing on a small trail that seemed to track with the road.
“A cutpurse’s path,” Myra said with a smile.
“Keep your voice down,” Tasol said quietly, “and keep your wits. This is a dangerous path.” He paused, glancing up and down the thin, well-worn trail. “Let’s get a move on. The cliffs are only a couple of miles from here. If we’re lucky, we’ll get there without being seen.”
Myra nodded, and they settled into a harried pace, but not so quick as to be reckless. Tasol’s senses were on alert as they ghosted along the trail, ensconced in the trees. A heavy, sweet fragrance filled the air from the ceanothus brought to life by the rain. The trail curved ahead, slowly making its way to a plank of wood passing over a dry creek bed. Lifting his head from the plank, Tasol saw a man on the trail in the distance and froze.
The man matched him, also holding his position. He was a tall man with long red hair and a braided beard. A long bow slung over his back, the quiver of arrows protruding over his shoulders, and a short sword hung at his side.
“Myra,” Tasol said quietly, his hand moving for his machete.
“I see,” Myra responded, catching sight of the red-haired man before gingerly leaping from the plank onto solid ground, next to her brother. “I’ll follow your lead,” she whispered so only he could hear. She might have a wiry frame, but she was tightly bound with muscle and stood barely an inch shorter than her brother.
They knew they had the advantage in the most basic sense–two against one. Tasol stepped forward, Myra following. The man was a couple hundred yards away, and as Tasol crept forward, the red-haired man mirrored his actions. They moved with caution, slowly pressing forward, closing the gap between them. The closer they came, the more details came into view.
The man leaned forward, squinting, and then stopped, raising a hand, and calling out. “Tasol? Tasol Jasper? Is that you?”
It was a voice Tasol knew all too well, but it was impossible–Daymel was dead.
“Is that Daymel?” Tasol heard Myra ask from behind, her voice thick with disbelief. “But he died in the raids.”
Tasol cast a wary glance down the trail, struggling with what he was seeing. As the man came closer, Tasol broke into a smile. “Daymel? How can it be? They said you’d–”
“Been killed in the raids,” Daymel said finishing Tasol’s sentence. “That’s the front the crew uses when you pledge to it–a way for a clean start. But you, my old friend, what are you doing out here?” By the time he finished, they were face to face, exchanging a bear hug as they laughed. Daymel turned to give Myra with a smile. “And Myra, it’s been many years, but you look good.” He reached out for a hug, but she pushed him away.
“I can’t believe you think I’d hug you after what you did. You just left. Without a word.”
“Ok, I probably deserved that,” Daymel said, stepping back to give her some space.
She shot him an icy gaze, “There’s no probably about it.”
Tasol leaned in to his sister, whispering sternly, “We don’t have time for this.” She glared at him, her frosty exterior not softening. Myrna’s reception was understandable. Before Daymel’s disappearance, he and Myra had sort of been a thing. Tasol knew she’d taken it hard, but she was strong and reluctantly moved forward, settling on a life with Getty. That’s also about the time Tasol’s relationship with Myra soured, as Tasol didn’t like Getty. Still, it was nice to see Daymel, and it reminded him of better times.
Daymel turned his attention back to Tasol, smiling again. “You shouldn’t be on this path. It’s dangerous, and not for city folk.”
Tasol glanced up and down the path, knowing Daymel spoke the truth. He’d actually heard rumors of this path during late nights at the tavern when people’s tongues got loose, and they told stories a crisper mind would not speak. The stories were always shrouded and indistinct, but the gist was the same. A thieves trail tracked along Garren’s Path, and was guarded and only used by the Jackrabbits, a deadly crew with tentacles everywhere.
“We just need to get to the slide by the cliffs along Smith Creek. We can’t travel out there today,” Tasol said, motioning towards the main road beyond the trees. “We need the cover of the forest.” He placed his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Do you guard this path? Can you grant us passage?”
Daymel looked down the path behind them nervously. “It’s not my place to grant anything. You shouldn’t be here,” he said, growing more nervous, mindlessly flexing his hand. “You need to leave this trail now, before it’s too late.”
“We’re being hunted,” Tasol said firmly, “so, we can’t. Move out of our way or help us, but either way it’s clear we need to go now.” Tasol pushed past Daymel, turning to Myra, nodding for her to follow. “We have to pick up the pace. Seems Daymel’s nervous about something that comes from behind.” In a matter of moments they were off past Daymel, who was quietly objecting, chasing them along the trail. A small crew of Jackrabbits bounded the corner behind them on the trail, but Tasol and Myra had luckily turned a corner just out of sight. Before they knew it, Daymel had overtaken them on the trail.
“God damnit, Tasol. You haven’t changed a bit. Follow me, don’t slow down,” he said tersely, leading them forward. “Up ahead, there’s a side trail to the creek. From there, you’re on your own. I’ve already risked too much, and there’ll be questions why I wasn’t on guard.”
They pushed up the trail, breaking off on to a barely noticeable side trail. Within seconds, they were hidden behind some bushes, and they paused, catching their breath. They’d been at close to a full sprint for almost a mile, and Myra was gasping for air, not used to the exertion. A moment later they heard the soft patter of footsteps coming down the trail. A branch broke nearby, startling Myra as Daymel reached over covering her mouth, placing a finger across his lips, telling her to keep quiet. The footsteps continued down the trail and out of hearing.
Daymel rose with a stern look and all business. “Quickly, they’ll soon learn we’ve left the trail and circle back.” Before he even stopped talking, he was off down the trail, Tasol and Myra in pursuit.
The forest was dense with underbrush. It had been decades since a fire passed through this area, and the forest floor was littered with tinder. Branches, leaves, and the fallen trees, much of it old and brittle. The trail itself was quite narrow, and it was impossible to avoid snapping branches as they pressed on. Tasol shook his head. Their haste was leaving a noticeable trail behind such that a blind man could track them. Still, Daymel crashed forward, cutting the path, breaking branches and stomping twigs along the way. Tasol turned to check on Myra, and no surprise, she was close on his heels, her footsteps as silent as ever. Ahead, the tress started to clear into a narrow opening as Daymel turned, motioning them all to slow. Coming to a walk, the clearing in the trees came into focus. It was a dry creek bed covered with scattered rocks of varying sizes.
“That’s Smith Creek. The slide’s down there a few hundred yards, back toward the main road,” Daymel said, pointing ahead of them while staying hidden in the trees. “You’re own your own from here.”
Tasol looked ahead to the creek bed. On the far side of the creek was cut into the wall of the mountain itself, carving its path over the centuries and leaving a steep cliff–too steep to climb without a top rope. On closer inspection, cut high into the cliff, Tasol saw a narrow trail terracing across it, climbing upwards until it crested the cliff in the distance.
Daymel caught the direction of Tasol’s gaze. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“What?” Tasol said, turning back to Daymel.
“You don’t speak it,” Daymel said, locking eyes with Tasol, “but traveling the old trail through the Silvermoon's is foolish.”
Tasol said nothing.
“That’s a dangerous trail,” Daymel continued, “we’ve lost whole crews up there. It’s not a place for a man and his sister.”
Tasol held his gaze. “We can manage. Sometimes it’s easier for the mouse to pass than the bear.”
Daymel shook his head, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He then passed his eyes briefly to Myra. “And Myra. You need to know that leaving Bannion, leaving you was…”
“You can shut it, Daymel. The time for apologies is long overdue. You didn’t just leave. You let me think you were dead, and so you will remain–dead to me.” She turned to Tasol, pushing forward to the creek bed. “We should move on, get up the cliffside before nightfall.”
Tasol nodded, placing his hand on Daymel’s shoulder. “I don’t share her scorn. I’m pleased to see you’re alive, and hope you’ve found a better life.”
“Thank you, I have,” Daymel said, his eyes again flashing to Myra. “Take care of her. I always thought there was something special about her, about you both, really.”
“More than you know, more than you know, my friend. Thank you for the help, and may Devron watch over you.”
“And you too, my friend. May Devron watch over you both.” With that, Daymel turned pushing back into the brush of the small trail, disappearing back around the corner.
Tasol turned, scurrying after his sister. She’d already pushed further down the creek, but he noticed that she’d slowed, positioning herself behind a tree on the bank of the creek. The next instant, she flashed a hand signal to him, telling him to stop, hide.
Hide, he thought, from what? And rather than just doing as she said, he stepped out to get a look around the bend of the creek. He then saw what she had, but it was too late to now do as she’d told him. He’d been seen.
Tasol’s mind raced about what to do as he glanced at Myra, safely hidden behind a tree, knives out. The look on her face was a solemn mix of concern and stoicism. With her hidden from sight, he turned his attention to the crew ahead. There were four of them. Tasol heard a low chatter among them as three of them fanned out, one staying back, drawing a longbow similar to Daymel’s– more Jackrabbits. They’d flushed out their prey, now ready for the taking.
Tasol glanced warily from side to side, his mind racing. He was badly outnumbered, and the archer now had a bead on him. Perhaps if he could draw them forward, Myra could surprise them, but still, the archer was a problem. Just as he was formulating a plan and taking a few steps backwards, an arrow whizzed past his ear, smashing into the trunk of a tree next to him, and the lead man called out.
“The next will not miss, my friend. Hold your position and keep your hands out to your side where we can see them, and perhaps you’ll survive this day.” He smiled a crooked smile of a trapper catching its prey.
Tasol stood his ground, flashing a knowing glance to Myra who returned it as she flexed her grip on the daggers, steeling herself for what was to come. He almost gave up her position as he searched to understand what he was seeing. A soft almost translucent glow seemed to envelope Myra’s entire body. Her arms crossed her chest holding the daggers, her fists played with the handles of the blades, and then he noticed a soft glowing light pulsing from the little tulip on her finger–from her ring. His eyes caught the movement of the advancing men, and he turned his attention back to them. He raised his hands, noticing the same soft glow from the acorn ring on his finger. He didn’t know what it meant, but he knew they needed to convince these men to let them pass, somehow.
“My apologies, kind sirs. Perhaps you can point me back to Garren’s Path. I’d just wandered off from my caravan to relieve myself and seem to have gotten turned around. I was hoping this creek bed would lead me back to the Path. Does it?” Tasol asked, doing his best to play the part he’d devised.
“It’s a far way from the road, and beg my forgiveness, but you don’t look like a caravaner. With those blades and all,” the man said, throughly unconvinced by Tasol’s quickly contrived story.
“I’m a hired hand,” Tasol answered quickly. “Protection for the caravaners. That’s all,” Tasol said as if what he were saying were the complete truth, but inadvertently moved his hands closer to his blades.
“Easy now,” the man barked as the archer pulled his string taut. “But the reason for your presence are neither here not there. Perhaps we can come to some arrangement to let you return to that caravan of yours.” The man then stepped forward, flanked by the other two, the archer maintaining his aim on Tasol.
Tasol was getting impatient, ready for this game to play out, but did his best to hold it in. The man on the right was steps away from Myra, just a few more steps forward–then things could begin and end, one way or another. Tasol held still, his palms facing the approaching crew working to hide the glow of his ring. He didn’t know what it meant, and he noticed that his body had a certain warmth and vigor to it. He hadn’t noticed it before, but now it was unmistakable, and growing stronger.
“Yes,” Tasol said in agreement, “an arrangement would work, but lies do not become men like us. We are men of action.”
The lead man chuckled. “Well-spoken, my friend. Well-spoken.”
The events that unfolded next happened so quickly that to this day, Tasol isn’t certain what exactly happened, but he knew that without Daymel’s help it would’ve been much different for he and Myra. As the men stepped forward, Myra was on them instantly and the first man fell, his neck sliced open neatly by the blade as he thrashed holding his neck, his life gushing out into the dry creek bed. At the first sign of movement from Myra, Tasol rolled to the left, drawing his machetes. Reaching out to slice through the man’s thigh, Tasol missed as the man as deftly leaped backwards out of range. A moment later Tasol heard the unmistakable slap of a bow string followed by another, and then a slight pressure on his shoulder just before an arrow slammed into a tree behind him. Glancing down the creek bed, the archer in the distance stood precariously and then tumbled over, an arrow lodged in his neck. Two down, but two remained, and the man in front of him was advancing on him quickly, sword drawn. Just beyond, Tasol saw the man who had been speaking facing down Myra, the jovial nature gone from his face, now full of contempt. His eyes weren’t trained on Myra, he was looking beyond her.
Without warning, there was another twang of a bow string and Tasol tightened his muscles, ready for the arrow to strike. But then he realized the sound had come from behind, and before he could turn, there was a wet thud just in front of him as another arrow found its mark. The man looked at Tasol in disbelief, his arm drooped to his side, still holding his sword, but the energy to fight had left him. Before Tasol could react, he heard the thwap of the bowstring again and another arrow found its home, plunging into the man’s head, sending him backwards, toppling over.
The man by Myra held his position, sword drawn. “Daymel! What are you doing? You will pay for this.”
Tasol finally processed the man’s words. Daymel, of course. He must have heard them and returned just in time to help. This finals Jackrabbit stood red-faced, glaring at them as Daymel closed ranks, an arrow knocked into his bow.
“I never liked you, Streel. You were always so pompous.”
“You won’t get away with this. This will be tracked to you, your arrows, and it was known you were on watch over this section of the trail today.” He paused, but before another word left him, Daymel’s bowstring sounded one more time and the arrow plunged deep into Streel’s skull. The man stood, wide-eyed, his body able to maintain balance for a moment until he finally toppled over unceremoniously. That was the end of Streel and his crew. Tasol and Myra both looked to Daymel both shocked but grateful.
“Thank you,” Tasol said to his friend.
Daymel looked at Tasol with a look of pure wonder. “How did you do that?”
“Do what?” Tasol asked, uncertain what he was asking about.
“That arrow,” Daymel said pointing to arrow in the tree behind Tasol. “The archer’s arrow was headed straight for you, and then it hit you but didn’t. There was a shimmer and,” Daymel trailed off trying to find the words. “Then the arrowbounced off you into the tree.”
Tasol turned to look at the arrow. He hadn’t seen what Daymel had, but had felt the pressure on his shoulder just before the arrow lodged in the tree behind him. At the time he’d felt lucky, but now looking at the dull metal of the acorn ring on his finger, he recalled the glimmer of it that enshrouded his body.
“I don’t know,” Tasol said, pressing his hand to his chest, searching for any reason why the arrow would’ve missed him, but he found none. “Maybe it hit one of my blades somehow, I don’t know, but I’ll take that bit of luck today. Luck and the help of an old friend. Thank you again, Daymel.”
“All is good,” Daymel said, nodding, “I never liked that guy, and his crew was just as bad, so good riddance.” He spit on the man as he started rifling through the fallen man’s pockets, taking anything of value, including his water-skin. “You should get their water too,” Daymel said, motioning to the other fallen Jackrabbits. “We’re going to need it if we're going through the mountains.”
“We?” Tasol asked, looking at Daymel.
“I can’t stay here now,” Daymel answered, turning back to Tasol. “Not after doing this. Streel was right about one thing, they’ll track it to me, and soon this place’ll be crawling with Jackrabbits. This was just a small detachment of his crew, and when they don’t return, they’ll come looking for them. We need to go — now. We can argue about my presence later.”
“I didn’t intend to argue,” Tasol objected. “I was just surprised that you’d want to help us or come with us. You don’t even know where we’re going or why.” Daymel glanced toward Myra who kneeled, wiping her blades on one of the dead men’s jacket, stripping him of his water-skin as Daymel suggested and quickly rummaged through his pockets. She stood looking down the creek toward the fallen archer scanning, ever vigilant. Of course, Tasol thought, he was being chivalrous, looking to protect Myra.
“It doesn’t matter. I’ve made my choice.” Daymel said calmly. “All that matters now is that we get to the slide and hide, ready to move up the cliffside at dark. If they find us here, in the open, we’re as good as dead.”
“Right,” Tasol said, nodding. He knew Daymel was right, but found it curious he still trusted him after all these years.
Within moments, they’d pushed down the creek picking up the archer’s water-skin, Myra confiscating his bow. She paused, weighing the bow in her hands, testing the bowstring. She’d been a good mark in her earlier years, and the bow looked natural in her hands as she slung in over her shoulder alongside the quiver she’d also heisted from the fallen archer. In the distance down the creek they saw the slide, its flat grey rock breaking the sheer cliff as the trail cut into it could easily be seen. Daymel was right, with the Jackrabbits looking for them, they couldn’t risk climbing in the daylight without being seen. As they rounded a bend in the creek, Daymel led them out of the creek bed into the deep brush less than a hundred yards from the base of the slide. They huddled together, concealed in the brush, listening for the sounds of their pursuers. From somewhere behind them, a dull sound reverberated through the air. It was so intense he could literally feel it through his skin.
“What is that?” Myra asked, looking around for the source of the noise.
“It’s their alert call–the Jackrabbits,” Daymel answered. “They’ve found the bodies. Soon this place will be crawling.” Daymel looked up to the sky, the darkness finally descending, further hiding them, and some luck falling their way, it was a moonless night, as dark as one could ask for.
“We wait until they set camp and settle for the night, then go,” Tasol suggested.
“They’ll break the search off at dark, but they’ll have tracker hounds here in the morning for certain,” Daymel whispered. “They’re not going to let one of their own do what I just did.”
Tasol could only see the shape of Daymel’s face in the darkness, nothing more. They sat in silence, taking turns to catch some rest, waiting for the thieves’ camp to settle.
Daymel leaned into Tasol as Myra slept. “I’ll go take a peek. Make sure it’s all clear.” He peeled off his bow, water-skin, and anything that would catch or make noise.
As he was about to leave, Tasol caught his shoulder. “Remember, just like when we were kids, skimming the vendors. Not a sound.” Tasol felt Daymel’s hand on his shoulder, and then Daymel was off without a sound.
Tasol looked out into the darkness, waiting, as he settled in next to his sister. He thought of waking her, talking to her about what Daymel had said of the arrow that deflected off him. He was convinced it had to be the ring, and he hadn’t yet had the chance to tell her of how she shimmered with the glow of the magic from her ring. Not only that, but he was uncertain what it all meant, bubbling inside with curiosity. He still wondered in what version of reality his mother had been a sorceress, something his father had openly scoffed. It seemed like hours before Daymel returned, but once he slipped back into the bramble, he laid a few water-skins on the ground.
“Some more water,” he said with a snicker. “They’re sleeping. We should go now.”
They woke Myra from her sleep and within minutes they were ready to move out. Daymel stepped forward to lead them from the brush, and Tasol placed an arm across his path.
“I will lead from here,” Tasol said with a tone that made it clear it wasn’t open to discussion.
Daymel relented, falling in line behind Myra, taking up the rear, whispering. “The easiest way up is from the far side. There’s a path worn in. Just stay low, walk soft, and all will be ok.”
Tasol nodded, and slowly picked his way from thicket to thicket as they methodically worked their way across the face of the slide to the far side, stopping to take a short break and regroup. He peered up the creek toward the encampment, but in the darkness it was challenging to see anything other than dim campfires. Taking a deep breath, he guided them forward toward the path cut into the cliffside.
Within minutes, they were climbing the narrow path carved into the cliffside. It was dark and Tasol could barely make out five feet in front of him. He moved slowly, his feet catching on rocks so frequently that he resorted to leaning into the cliffside itself–one hand firmly on the cliff wall so that if he fell, he would fall into the wall instead of the less forgiving way. He felt the lithe hand of his sister on his shoulder, and paused.
“Hold on,” she whispered, “I have an idea.” The three paused, and she suggested they lash themselves together with a span of rope. They discussed it briefly, and even thought Tasol was not a fan of being lashed together on a cliff, both Myra and Daymel thought it wise. Moments later, they were lashed together, once again slowly plodding their way up the rocky trail.
Tasol looked down into the creek valley below, the only thing visible was a pinprick of light from the fading campfire of the thieves' encampment. They were now directly above it, moving along at a decent pace, having gotten used to the path. As he trained his eyes back to the darkness of the path in front of him, there was a tug on the rope from behind, and he could go no further. He stopped, turning back to Myra.
“What’s going on?” he whispered. “Now’s not a great time to be stopping.”
“I don’t know,” Myra answered, turning to look behind her, “Daymel has stopped.”
They both inched back down the path looking for Daymel, hearing the sound of hushed whispers. They followed the rope back to Daymel, seeing another figure in the darkness that they could barely make out, now hearing a hushed conversation.
“Please, Daymel, take me with you. I can’t stay with these thugs. They killed my family.” The voice was from someone young, someone pleading.
“Tristan,” Daymel whispered back sternly, “you shouldn’t have followed.”
“Daymel, please,” he pleaded.
Daymel let out a deep sign, lowering his head as if he were considering the young man’s plea.
“Daymel,” Tasol said, interrupting. “We need to keep moving. If you bring him with you, then at the top of the cliff we go our separate ways.”
“Understood,” Daymel said in a resigned voice. “Come, Tristan, let’s get you lashed up, and at the top, you and will make a run for it.”
Tasol scoffed, watching as Daymel started to lash this newcomer up with them, but instead, with a quick motion, Daymel made to push Tristan off the cliff. Tristan quickly realized what was happening and grabbed the end of the rope before tumbling over the edge. Tristan’s quick thinking caught Daymel by surprise, making Daymel drop to his butt to avoid going over the cliffside himself. From below, Tristan was trying to climb the rope and grab onto Daymel.
“Daymel! Don’t do this,” Tristan called out, his voice echoing through the valley below. “Don’t let me fall.”
“Shit!” Daymel cursed, calling out to Tasol and Myra. “Brace yourselves. The little bastard grabbed the rope. Hold on before we all go over.” Daymel struggled with the rope, the sudden addition of Tristan’s weight pulling him forward, but with Tasol and Myra’s help, they were able to stop Daymel from sliding any further.
“You’re here to kill me,” Daymel said to Tristan, no remorse in his voice. “I know the ways.” As he finished speaking, he lifted his boot, driving it down heavy into Tristan’s forehead several times, but Tristan would not relinquish his grip on life. Tristan started to plead again, but before any words formed, Myra reached out, cutting the rope with her knife, Tristan screaming the whole way down.
“Problem solved,” Myra said. “Now let’s go.”
Tasol didn’t need to look at the camp below. He was certain that anyone who wasn’t drunk was awake before the body hit the ground. Without another word, they were moving up the path, Tasol’s arm outstretched, touching the cliff wall again for reference. Down below, the first voices of alarm sounded. They inched up the cliff face in darkness until they finally crested the top onto what looked to be a grassy plateau. Within moments, they unlashed themselves from the rope, and Tasol looked across the open plain as Daymel stepped to his side.
“I know you are the leader here, but I’ve been here before. Let me show you the way, at least until we have some distance from them. And there are dangerous things that lurk in the darkness up here–we should remain alert,” he said, pulling a small dirk from his belt. It was a wickedly sharp little thing, the size of his forearm.
Tasol looked at this friend warily as he also drew his weapons. This night would not get any easier it appeared. He then turned to his sister. “Myra, weapons. I don’t know what this place hides, but I’ve heard the rumors of its darkness too.” Immediately when he was done, he felt something pass above them in the night sky and pushed don on their shoulders, forcing them all into a crouch.
“What is it?” Myra asked, her blades now dull shadows in the night, her eyes following Tasol’s tracking something invisible in the night sky.
“I felt it too,” Daymel added. “But strange for things to be airborne in the night sky, especially in this darkness. Perhaps it was just a bat and our senses are heightened with all the excitement.”
They sat for minutes waiting for a repeat of the experience, but having none Tasol finally sided with Daymel’s conclusion. “Perhaps. I can’t think of any other explanation. Let’s just keep moving. We’ve wasted too much time already. Show us the way Daymel.”
With that, they fell into line with Daymel slowly picking his way across a lightly worn path through the grass. The talk of lurking dangers had them all on edge, their blades flashed aimlessly to and fro, their footsteps all falling quietly on the sodden grass below their feet. As they became more comfortable, their pace hastened, and in no time they’d made it across the grass field to the edge of a pine forest. If they thought the night was dark in the pasture, looking into the forest ahead was pure darkness.
Daymel gazed into the forest for a moment before turning to the others. “I think we should work our way in a bit, then light a torch once we’re deep enough to be hidden. We can pick up our pace then considerably then, and things in the darkness tend to shy from the fire as well.”
Myra turned to look behind them. “I don’t see anyone following. Why not just light it now? Then we can move fast straight away.”
They spent a few moments debating the idea and finally resolved to stick with Daymel’s original idea. Myra huffed, but relented as they pressed on, staying in close quarters. Tasol had felt unsettled about the forest and shrugged it off to the darkness of it, but as they got deeper in he realized what was bothering him. The forest made no noise apart from their footfalls and the occasional branch that they broke. The only noises he heard were noises that came from them, and that wasn’t ordinary for all the forests he had spent his life in, be it day or night. He cast a wary glance around him, tightening his grip on his blade. Looking at his hand, that cemented his concern–the acorn ring on his finger glowing and glancing at Myra, her ring was emitting a similar glow like from earlier at the creek bed.
“Myra,” he said, as she stopped and turned to look at him.
“Your ring, it’s glowing,” she said incredulously.
“Look at yours,” Tasol said, “I don’t think we’re alone.”
Daymel had heard them talking, and stopped, turning to see them standing in a subtle glow of light. Tasol looked their faces now lit up by the eerie white glow emanating from the two rings. The glowing light pulsed slowly as if it were alive, growing stronger by the minute. He looked at Daymel, seeing a mixture of confusion and amazement on his face, but pushed on, disregarding the rings–he knew there would be questions later.
“The forest,” Tasol said. “It makes no sound. Either it knows we are here or–”
“Or something else has spooked it to silence,” Daymel said, finishing Tasol’s thought. “I think it’s time for those torches.”
With that, Daymel pulled his pack off his shoulders, scrambling for the torches. Tasol turned looking to the surrounding forest, raising the ring to shine the light from it outward, but the light of the ring, although bright on their faces in close quarters, it was simply too dim to pierce the darkness of the woods surrounding them. Just as he was about to turn back and help Daymel with the torches, a bright flash of light pulsed from his ring, pushing an arc of light upwards to the right. It seemed to collide with something in the air, something reminiscent of a shadow flying toward them until the light from the ring struck it, turning it away.
“We’re not alone,” Tasol said, his adrenaline taking hold. “Let’s get those torches. Now!” His ring was now shining brightly, but the light was still being swallowed up by the darkness just yards away, highlighting his position to anyone or anything out there. He thought for a moment about taking off the ring and plunging the forest back into the darkness, but the words of his father echoed in his mind–never take off the ring. He cursed under his breath and turned as Daymel ignited the torches, their light blazing to life, lighting the woods. All around them, the outlines of towering pines could be seen vaulting high into the sky.
In a shaky voice, Myra pointed to something, “What are all those things?”
“Reflections,” Daymel responded.
“Reflections? Of what?” Myra asked.
Tasol corralled her back to the path. “Daymel, we need to keep moving.”
Daymel nodded, turning back to the path, casting wary glances about him as he pushed forward with Myra and Tasol following.
“What are they?” Myra asked again.
“They’re eyes,” Tasol said, “of what, I don’t know.”
“They’re Ravebats,” Daymel added flatly, with a tinge of concern they hadn’t heard in his voice, not even when staring down Streel.
Tasol had known what they were as well. Ravebats were the things of children’s stories. The things of nighttime that parents used to keep their kids inside and tucked tightly in bed, but as with all children’s stories, they have some truth to them. Ravebats were real and had terrorized many travelers over the years, but they’d been hunted out of existence in the inhabited areas of Waterfell. However, in the wild areas, areas like this, the Ravebats thrived, something that was apparent given the number eyes reflecting back to them from the darkness.
Tasol knew exactly what it was once his ring reached out with its light, pressing the Ravebat away. He didn’t know how the magic of the rings worked, or if it would work again, but he knew that the light of the torches would work to keep the Ravebats at bay, at least that’s what the children’s stories always told. The light of day shall keep them away, the light of fire shall make the situation less dire, take away the fright so you make it through the night–that’s what the stories always said. Never before did he hope that the children’s stories spoke the truth than he did right now, and he felt funny relying on them at such a dire moment.
Daymel paused, turning to Tasol, a concerned look on his face.
“What is it?” Tasol asked, as they came to a stop.
“The trail. It’s gone.”
They all flashed their torches around them, searching for the signs of any trail. It was dark, but the trail they’d been following seemed to be nothing more than a game trail had dwindled to nothing. Getting lost was not part of the plan.
“You must have taken a wrong turn,” Tasol said. “The trail across the mountains was to be clear.”
“These are the wilds up here,” Daymel answered, still scanning for the trail with his torch. “Things grow, terrain changes. Reclaimed by the forest.”
“You’d said you’d been on the path before. You’re certain this is the way?”
“Yes, I’m certain of it.”
“Then let’s press on. Perhaps we will pick it up. Just do your best.”
“It would be better if we could hold tight until morning. It’ll be much easier to pick our way in the daylight,” Daymel said. “It’s unlikely the Jackrabbits will follow us this far into the forest. This is not somewhere they would choose to go without a good reason, and catching me probably wouldn’t qualify as one. Streel and his crew weren’t very popular, so they may look upon it as a favor in disguise.”
They stood back to back, torches facing outward with seemingly hundreds of eyes reflecting from the darkness frequently swooping in closer to the lights, so the shadowy form of their bodies would appear and then quickly disappear. They decided to hold tight for the night, and they sat down in a circle back to back, each burying the base of their torch in the ground in front of them as they watched the creatures watching them. It was as simple waiting game now, as there was likely no more than an hour or two before first light. Tasol sat looking out into the darkness as the light of the torches created a small halo of light in the forest. He looked at his ring and saw that it was ebbing a steady glow of light.
“The rings,” Daymel said, “where did you two get that magic?” He spoke it calmly, as if magic were a common occurrence, but Tasol was still struggling with the fact that he wore it and that his mother was some worldly sorceress. Rather than hiding the truth and playing games, Tasol opted for the truth with his old friend.
“You say it as if magic were a common thing,” Tasol questioned.
“Let’s just say I’ve seen a great many things since leaving Bannion.”
“All I know is that it was a gift from our mother.”
“That makes sense,” Daymel said matter-of-factly.
“Why does that make sense?” Myra now asked, joining the conversation.
Daymel laughed. “Everyone in the Scourge avoided your mother. We all knew she was a dangerous and mysterious lady. That she had something different about her. My parents knew of her from the olden days, but were sworn to secrecy. They never told me much really other than I should be careful around you all, and that’s part of why they pledged me to apprentice with the Jackrabbits. They didn’t want me living my life in the Scourge, even if it meant a life of highway robbery.” He scoffed, rubbing his chin, “but they never asked me what I wanted, but what’s done is done, and once you have the mark of the Jackrabbit, well, you’re marked for life.” He pulled up his sleeve to reveal a tattoo on his wrist.
“I didn’t know any of that,” Tasol said. “I thought you’d been killed by the raiders that day. We all did.”
“Well, then their plan worked,” Daymel answered, his voice trailing off.
“I’m sorry for what your parents did,” Tasol said. “But our parents left us with a great burden too. We have a long road ahead of us and are hunted. That’s all I can tell you for now.” They all sat quietly, eyes intent on the darkness beyond the torches. “But if you would like to join us, we’d love to have another hand along the way, an old hand, a friend. Right Myra?” As he finished, he nudged Myra.
Begrudgingly, she spoke, her eyes fixed on the darkness. “I thought that you were killed that day too, and it explains why your parents never liked me much. I’m sorry for what your parents did, but I’m still not happy with what you did to me. You could’ve at least told me–it would’ve been hard, but a different kind of hard. Instead, you left me to believe you were killed. That hurt, and the pain stings even deeper now that I know the truth of it all, but I am happy to see you’re alive.” Her voice quivered a bit and then regained its strength and continued. “But, I moved on from that day, and it’s fine if you want to join us, but keep the questions to a minimum–we will share what we want when we want. If that is agreeable to you, then you’re welcome to tag along, but it’s likely that only death awaits us. If not–”
“No need with the if nots,” he said, interrupting her mid-sentence. “I’m in for this whatever’s to come, no questions asked. It sounds like a nice break from robbing caravans. I understand that I’m not to ask any questions, but if I’m to join you all, it might be good for me to understand just whom it is that hunts you both.”
“No more questions,” Tasol said, his voice turning dark, but before any more words were spoken, the glow of the rings again pulsed to life, drawing their attention to the dark forest beyond.
It appeared the creatures were mounting some sort of organized effort, circling in the darkness beyond the halo of light. Periodically, the shadowing wings of the creatures could be seen flapping great strokes of air. They started to move in synch, and the flames of the torches started to waver, but as the Ravebats grew in numbers they blasted gales of wind outwards, snuffing the light of the torches. Instantly, they turned their eyes reflecting the glowing light of the magic rings, and descended on their prey as dawn was starting to break in the distance. They let out a terrible screech signaling their victory as they flew in with their talons extended, seeking flesh. The glow of the rings radiated once again, and the power of the two rings joined to create an orb of light surrounding the three travelers. The orb of light ebbed, gaining power, increasing in brightness until suddenly, it flashed outward, magnificently cascading an arc of light that slammed into the descending Ravebats. It hit them hard, like a solid mass of spectral light, sending Ravebats cascading away and literally eviscerating others as if they never existed. The Ravebats that survived the assault hovered outside the glowing aura, screeching madly and then turned in the increasing morning light, flying off to some distant mountain nook to hide from the day’s light. With their retreat, the glowing magic of the rings slowly receded until it was finally gone moments later.
“Holy shit,” Daymel said, eyes wide. “What was that? Your mother made those?”
“Seems so,” Tasol said, his eyes just as wide.
“Yes, it seems as if there is a lot we do not know about our mother,” Myra added. “I don’t know if I should be excited or scared to death.”
“Perhaps both,” Daymel said as the sun crested over the hills in the distance, shining through the dewy morning fog of the forest. As he turned to look behind them, he could see now that they were only a couple of miles into the forest.
“We need to get moving, I thought we’d traveled much further into the forest. We should eat as we look to find the trail.” As he finished, he turned, passing a piece of unleavened bread as he scanned the forest for the trail he’d lost the night before. He approached a fallen tree, leaping on top of the trunk, looking past it. “The trail. It continues here, on the other side of this fallen tree.” He turned back, offering a hand to Tasol to help him over the tree, and turned back to offer a hand to Myra.
“Thanks, but I’m good,” she said, pushing his hand away. “I don’t need your help.” Within a moment, she landed silently not the ground next to her brother. “Let’s get some distance between us and the whatever might be behind us.”
Daymel again took the lead, the path gently climbing uphill with each step. The woods were dense with deadwood, but the trail was clear and Daymel pressed them forward at a good pace. By midday, the forest started to thin and the twin peaks of the Silvermoon Mountains glared down at them from high above. They pressed on, their feet dragging from lack of sleep. That’s when the flakes starting drifting in the air, and up ahead in the dwindling daylight the pass could finally be seen. It was completely covered in snow and seemed impassable, a fact which would soon be verified by Daymel as he stepped close to Tasol, confirming it and speaking grimly.
“As I feared, it was a late winter. The snow holds fast on the pass late this year. But there is another way.”
Tasol knew immediately what Daymel spoke of, it was the Ward’s Way, an ancient pass through the belly of the mountain. One that was not meant to be used for folly, and had only recently been co-opted by the Snowmelters from Ward’s End. Between the ancient lore and the brutality of the Snowmelters, neither seemed particularly attractive, but it was the only way. The way that they had chosen. The only saving grace was they were a small part of three. Perhaps, using all that they learned from their father, they could sneak through undetected. Hopefully, Daymel was up to task. Tasol wasn’t certain about the dangers from the ancient lore, but the Snowmelters were a different story. The snow on the mountain was worth a fortune in water to those below, and they killed blindly to maintain that monopoly on the winter snows. The Snowmelters were the present danger, and they’d best avoid it at all costs.
“Do you believe the stories about the Melters?” Tasol asked, looking at Daymel.
Daymel gave a half-hearted laugh and looked back to them both equally uncertain as he rubbed his hand on his neck. “Do you?”
Myra just looked at them both with a concerned look on her face, holding her ring finger up as it glowed ever so slightly. “I do,” she said, motioning to Tasol’s ring hand, where his ring was glowing as well.
Tasol took a deep breath.“Things in this world are much different than I’d been led to believe in my little cave. And here I thought the world was about water, and now I see there is much more to it. Much that has been hidden from us. The sooner we get to Belidor at Ward’s End, the better.”
“Wait, you seek Belidor? You go to Ward’s End?” Daymel asked with a look of concern on his face. “He’s a madman, and Ward’s End. Well, that’s a place only for true cut throats. Not even the Jackrabbits will do much business there. What would ever drive you there?”
Tasol started to speak, but Myra interrupted him. “That’s none of your business. You know more than you should already, and we pray that you keep it private between old friends. We have business with Belidor that can’t wait, and we will just have to leave it at that. So it matters not what we three believe of Ward’s Way or the Melters. Under the mountain we must go.” Shen then motioned for Daymel to lead on.
“The lady has spoken,” Tasol said, covering the smile spreading across his face as Daymel turned, his mouth open wide. “Do you know how to find Ward’s Way?”
Turning to Tasol, Daymel gathering himself. “Yes. Well, at least I’ve seen the entrance before, but I’ve never ventured inside — it’s usually crawling with Melters and I haven’t been stupid enough too.”
“Well, I guess that ends today,” Tasol said.
“Enough talk. Let’s get moving.” Myra piped in as she pressed them forward, not exactly sure where they were going but ready to get out of the weather. She tightened her cloak, a cool breeze cutting through the air as they continued to climb. The snow had picked up noticeably, and they could barely see a half mile ahead with the sun setting for the day.
“Quickly now. It’s just ahead, but we need to find it before the sun sets. We are not prepared to spend the night out here in this,” Daymel said, now picking up the pace, a tone of concern marking his voice. They leaned forward into the winds, and progress slowed as they pressed on the dwindling light and snow with each step. Finally, they rounded the corner as Daymel pointed to a nondescript outcropping in the rocks. “The entrance to Ward’s Way is just beyond those rocks.”
“What are we waiting for?” Myra asked with steel in her eyes as she looked at the other two.
Tasol looked at her. He knew she’d heard the stories as well and part of him admired her fortitude, but he also knew she had a penchant for foolhardiness, and as the big brother he had to, at times, step in to be a voice of reason. But in this instance, even though he didn’t like it, he knew she was right, and he clenched his gut before he spoke the words. “Nothing, let’s go. We’re dead on Garren’s Path for sure, at least going through Ward’s Way we have a fighting chance and if we’re quiet and careful, maybe we pass through unnoticed, like the mouse.” They now both looked to Daymel, as if he had any say in the matter, which he didn’t.
Daymel just nodded. No words were needed. They were committed, and he stepped forward, leading the way to the entrance. Not even taking a few steps, the wind whipped up fiercely pushing them away is if protecting the path to the entrance. Tasol swore he could hear the beating of large wings above them as the wind forced them backwards momentarily, and they crouched to the ground as the windswept snow blew wildly in their faces, occluding their vision. As they huddled together on the ground, something from behind them caught their attention, and they all turned, drawing their weapons, uncertain if something approached or if the noise of the wind was playing tricks on them. It was difficult to make out anything in the blowing snow, which had increased significantly in the last few moments. Tasol fought against the wind rising to his feet and saw that Daymel and Myra followed suit, bows drawn taut with arrows.
A moment later, the snow stopped, and fifty yards away stood a lone female with dark ebony skin dressed in a billowing robe holding what looked to be a gnarled quarterstaff aloft emanating a curious wave of air that pressed forward toward them creating what seemed to be on orb keeping the winter storm at bay. Tasol and his crew held their ground, weapons drawn at the ready as the lone female stood her ground, but they soon learned she wasn’t alone. From behind her billowing robe stepped another figure. It was difficult to make out, nit whomever it was kept itself hidden deep inside its robes. Tasol looked upon the two newcomers, giving no sign that his side intended to relent. The hidden figure stepped to the side of the robed female as she continued to hold the winter storm’s fury at bay, and a scratchy voice of the robed figure spoke out.
“Are you Tasol? Tasol Jasper, son of Artus and Evra?”
Tasol looked across the open expanse in shock that he was being called out by name in this place by a stranger. He’d never seen anyone openly using magic apart from he and his sister just these past few hours from the rings given to them by their mother. It was all so strange and unsettling.
“Who the hell is that?” Myra asked, as she stood at Tasol’s side, an arrow knocked into her bow ready to fire.
“I have no idea,” Tasol whispered back as his hand spun the machetes. He could sense that Myra was nervous, and he was too. They all unconsciously started taking small steps backwards as they continued to assess the situation. Tasol did not answer, but his eyes flicked back and forth from the lone female to the robed figure that had spoken his given name.
He spoke again briefly. “You can put your weapons down Tasol, and Myra, I assume. Your other friend there, him I do not know, but you, my boy, can relax as well. If we were a threat, then those rings Evra made would be glowing something awful by now. You can be rest assured that Evra would not let any threat get this close to you without some pain being inflicted.”
“Who are you?” Tasol asked as he settled a bit, relaxing the grip on his weapon, but not yet ready to lower his guard. The mysterious man was right, as he looked at his ring it was glowing, but no more than it had been since they started their approach to Ward’s Way. However, Tasol had to admit he had no idea how the magic of the rings worked and for that reason, he stayed cautious as did his sister, her arrow knocked and aimed at the lone female clearly seeing her as the larger threat. Tasol couldn’t argue with that assessment, but he needed to know more. “It does seem that we do have to thank you for the relief from the weather.”
The robed figure let out a scratchy laugh that settled in a fit of coughs before he cleared his throat, speaking once again. “That thanks does not go to me. That goes to Jacelyn here. She’s a promising Spellweaver. Like your mother, Evra, once was.”
Tasol turned his head, looking at the Spellweaver as she continued to hold her quarterstaff aloft, the strange wind flushing from it holding the winter storm at bay. Her robes billowed around her and Tasol could tell she was fit, athletic, but most of her remained hidden from him by the billowing robes. He looked back to the robed figure at her side, confused at the continued references to his late mother, wondering how he’d known who he was, why they were here. “So that’s Jacelyn, but I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“You did not catch my name because I did not give it. But we must get along with this and quickly get in shelter as not even Jacelyn can hold this foul storm at bay much longer. My name is Belidor. I’ve been seeking you for years, but that mother of yours was quite skilled in hiding you. You and the artifact. But you have been hidden from us until Evra’s passing. She was wise to keep you hidden, but not wise to keep you hidden from me–I’m guessing that was Artus’ doing. He was always so difficult and often times just plain obstinate.”
“I would hold your tongue when you speak of my father.” Tasol spat out the words before speaking, a trait that he’d apparently inherited from his father.
“Yes, like father like son, but you can calm down Tasol for your father was my brother, so when I speak ill of him we’re all just talking of family affairs and as you loved him as a father, I loved my brother. His passing was a great loss to this world, as is Evra’s, and I’m sad to tell you both, but you and your sister have some rather large boots to fill. Now, enough with the pleasantries. We must get inside, so we can let Jacelyn drop her spell as we take respite from the storm, and we can talk more. I’m an old man, if I stay out here to talk we may not finish what needs to be spoken and heard.”
The End of Arc One
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As promised, this was a long post!
Love the story. Nicely done.
The flash back to the past was a nice mid point. Makes me want to know more about the parents, and what their agenda was.
Good cliffhanger, having their quarry find them, and they didn’t even know he was their uncle!