The Spring Breeze

The sky opened; sunlight poured like a fountain of gold. In sodden lanes between tents, people smiled, looking to the pillar of warmth which promised to dry the land. The rain had gone on for three weeks, and the entire camp was muddy, sticky and unkempt. The sunlight brought a sweet breeze perfumed with the hint of blossoms, which carried away the wet, foul smell of the encampment. What reprieve the early spring storms had brought them from the enemy was welcome; it had bought time to fortify the pass. It was likely the horrors would come again, and soon.

The Slums

Stone pounded underfoot, jarring her pumping legs as she sped from the scene. Wrapped in her dark cloak and leathers, she was a shadow, if a noisy one. In this part of the city, few cared about the sound of a running girl. If she ran to or from something was no concern of theirs. They could not be bothered to repair their homes or move the garbage piled in the alleys; they only cared about being left alone, alive and un-bullied. Ducking around a corner, she slowed, entering the back of a tumbledown inn, where unobtrusive clothes were waiting.

The Planning

It was rain again. Six days of constant, soaking drizzles from the gray sky was taking a toll on morale. The ground was soggy; the camp smelled like a swamp. Soldiers and officers alike huddled in tents, for what little good it did after so many days of constant dampness. Even braziers lit to dry the enclosures only added to the oppressive mugginess. The quartermasters were the busiest, struggling to keep dry goods unspoiled. Argen, Rosalyn and Anya wanted to keep to their tents, but spent most of the week planning. They had to be ready when the weather changed.

The Remembered

Fragments of the Hinterlands campaign came back to him while riding. He had still been young, vital, full of life. The Anointed Sir, Steven Elan Trengale of the Path of Solace flashed in his memory. Recollection was imperfect, as through bubbled, smoky glass, but the blue embroidered white coat over formal Cavalier’s dress was impressive. His face was fuller, his shoulders less stooped. He did not reek of age or feel the aches of time’s millstone. He was warmer, more trusting, but unpolished, less deadly. The Hinterlands made him a man, made him a hero, and cost him his freedom.

The Hero's End

One error in judgment and it was over; a shard had pierced cleanly through. He collapsed, blood pouring from his throat, soaking the white finery under his duster, turning the embroidered blue helix a sinister plum. His eyes strained to stay open. His arm, still grasping his revolver, folded across his chest. The black cloaked sorcerer approached; he did not laugh, did not gloat.

He knelt over Steven’s fading body, “Would you return whence you came, Cavalier?”

Steven managed an affirmative reply, struggling even for such. The sorcerer nodded began conducting a gate. Argen had to know how it ended.

The Cavalier's Dues

Sleek and lithe, she stretched gracefully, yawning with her hands linked above her head. Her spotted mare was groomed and saddled. The stableboy handed her off to Anya and she swung into the seat, her long dark hair settling across one shoulder, accenting the lightning bolts climbing her grey woolen dress’ sleeves. The village was old; paint flaked off the buildings, the whole place smelled of horse and harvest. It had welcomed her and she had made the Cavalier’s dues, tending the sick and wounded, hearing their trials in exchange for food and shelter; it was time to move on.

The Morning

He relaxed his stiffened muscles slowly, relishing the release of tension, the tingling awakening of his muscles, the slow calm that roused his drowsy, stiff body as the process vitalized him. He was supple; the willow bending in the wind. His mind stilled, the rift was at his command, but he resisted the urge to seize it. He leaned against a stack of crates adjacent to his tent, taking in the scents of breakfast and smoke drifting in darkness. Firelight flickered, illuminating his pursed lips. Asleep after midnight, he was up before dawn. It promised to be another long day.

The Taking

Blood ran down his face from a gash that should have opened his skull. He twisted at the last moment, lost his sword to a blow to his arm and had been taken. The three did not bind him; weak as he was. One supported him lazily, half dragging him when he stumbled. His arm hung limply, tingling. His mouth tasted of salt and iron. The fat one had his sword. The corridor stank, and through red glazed eyes, he saw they had brought him to a dungeon. With a sharp creak, a cell opened; he was cast into darkness.

The Peace

The sun shone down on them, warm and bright under cloudless sky as they crossed the open field. Tall grass wavered gently in the wind, which carried the scents of wildflowers interspersed across the plain. The wagon tracks they traveled were the only place in sight where the grass did not stand waist high, surrounded as they were by a sea of green and gold, interspersed with colored fragrant blooms. They halted. Anya smiled slightly, standing on tip-toes to see as far as she could. Rosalyn leaned on Argen’s shoulder and sighed. A moment of peace and beauty was welcome.

The Theatre

The theatre was damp from the leaky ceiling; ill lit, with splintery benches and stagnant smoke filling the hall. It was a copper to enter, and wine flowed freely for another per pour. Patrons had to bring their own mugs. Rosalyn had never seen such a foul, common degradation of the actor’s art. The fearful players yelled their parts to cut through the rambling of the audience, though few listened. A copper for shelter from the rain was a deal in even the poorest quarter of Alandren. She followed her prey here; she would wait for him to move on.

The Elder Wood

The soft patter of the rain on the leaves reminded him of his youth, and the running footsteps of the tenant boys upstairs. Sporadic beams of sunlight broke through the clouds, creating dazzling rainbows for a few moments before fading. For all the beauty of the forest, with its tall trees and soft earth, there was eeriness to it. Not something evil, but something old, primal, wafting up with the scent of the decaying leaves. He wrapped his cloak tightly, the rain slicking off the oiled exterior, and pressed deeper into the elder wood. He sought, but knew not what.

The Daemon

She shouldered the door open and rushed across the room. A bolt thudded in the doorframe, tearing her dress and opening a gash on her arm. She crashed through the window. It was a short drop from the window to the rocky ground, but a sharp crack left her ankle in a blaze of pain. A sea of rage welled up, consuming her fear. She fumbled for the trance but her conduits were wide open; the rift a raging, vindictive daemon. She screamed in her mind, and only then realized her voice was already a cry of anguish and vengeance.

The Speaker

A crowd bustled around them, nearly crushing them in its celebratory fervor. Anya wavered on her feet, dreamlike, held up only by the soldiers and camp followers which thronged around them. Rosalyn pushed back at the crowd, vainly trying to make room which filled in as soon as it was created. With a sigh, Argen drew his revolver and fired it into the air. The din of the crowd trailed off; a space opened around them and all eyes turned to him. He dropped the gun into his holster, and slipped his thumbs through his belt loops.

“Victory!” he yelled.

The Wait

Holding the power of the rift, she idly tapped at the keys of the harpsichord. Crackling energy circulated through her, longing to be used, setting her nerves and senses alight. Colors leapt from the vibrant tapestries embroidered in thread-of-gold. The sharp scent of the cheese and sausages across the room flowed into her. Touching the rift was pain and pleasure all wrapped into one; every sense enhanced, every emotion amplified. She stilled her mind, though a sea of rage whirled with love was all too present. She would have only one chance to free Argen, and she would not fail.

The Chambers of the First

The windows of Ysrindil glittered like flickering diamonds as he looked out over the city. The thin rift-crafted rail of the balcony was solid, glassy to the touch beneath his hands, though it looked as a brisk breeze might snap its spindly filaments. The moon cast a dull glow from its silver crescent, playing lightly off of rooftops and the shorter towers. The light wood smoke of cookfires from the many inns carried up even this high, though the air was still. Steven sighed, turning to return to his quarters. They honored him, but he would not be the First.

The Gypsy Camp

The music was loud and pounded in her ears, but she reveled, dancing in its eerie rhythm. Gypsy clans roamed all over the westlands. When they came to a village to open their bazaars and trade, the evenings turned to great celebrations where villagers were invited into camp. The villagers shared food; the clan shared exotic passions. Their tinny instruments combined with the rapid beat of drums to heat blood and embroil heart and mind. Incense combined with torchlight to create flickering mania in song and dance. In this, even a killer could forget what she was and feel alive.

The Demon Lightning

Rolling sheets of lightning crackled through the cloudy night sky, the heat oppressive even hours after the setting of the sun. Argen’s mother had called this demon lightning, and considered it an ill omen, as it came without rain. Steven called it dry lightning, and mused that it might be caused by the heat and the thickness of the air. Sweat beaded on Argen’s brow as he lay in the soft grass and watched the sheets roll. The sharp scent of the lightning mingled with the sweet grass and salty sweat, but it reminded Argen of home, now far behind.

The Awakening

When he awoke, it was dark. A delirious fever raged through him. In his confusion, he scrambled to one knee. His revolver was fully loaded and in its holster, and the few pouches he carried at all times: ammunition, a day's worth of trail food, and useful odds and ends were still intact. His clothes were stiff with blood, some his, and some the ocher and slimy green of the horrors. The last he remembered, he was making his to camp. Now, in the moonlight among the dead, it was obvious he had not. How long had he been out?

The Laundry

The white soles of the washroom gleaned with summer sun pouring through the thrown open shutters. The heavy steam of the boilers wafted on the warm breeze. The sheer number of chores the Anointed were expected to contribute to was immense. Of them all, she despised laundry duty. To make it worse, the Anointed were not allowed to conduct while sweeping, mending, washing or cooking. Instructors insisted it built character to do without using the rift for such menial things. With her sleeves rolled to her shoulders, her arms elbow deep in a tub of washing, Rosalyn did not agree.

The Butcher's Field

In the cacophony of battle, he had been separated from familiar faces. The howls of the butcher’s field had fallen dim. He dimly remembered a Cavalier from the battle: middle aged, handsome and plump with faint grey in her brown hair; she extracted the spine from his shoulder and conducted to patch his wound. Few living things remained in this part of the battlefield, the living had rejoined battle if able. He reloaded without thinking. The dawning understanding that it was done, combined with the bone deep weariness, hit him like a hammer. Stumbling from exhaustion, he made for camp.

The Obsidian Hills

They had not seen any life other than themselves in two weeks. The obsidian hills were warm, a welcome break from the deathly chill which they had traversed to reach them. The black glass formed spires and spines all around them, groaning beneath their feet from time to time. Molten rock in a deep crevasse chuffed steam and smoke; the sky responded, dusting down ash and ice. They broke for rough lunch, jerky and trail bread, avoiding the sharp stones which littered potential seats. They drew close now, close to the final resting place of the founding First among Equals.

The Castle Ravensmount

The walls of the keep rose starkly for several spans, expanding into wide battlements. The red stone was flecked with black and gold, fused by Cavaliers of old. Castle Ravensmount was considered impregnable; even the gates were rift strengthened. Atop the walls, Steven looked to the horizon and the shifting colors of the rift. The castle would certainly be besieged again, as it had been so many times before, but the stores would hold; no surrender. A charged breeze carried the buzzing scent of the rift, wafting his cloak clumsily. This riftland rebellion smelled like the wind; not quite right.