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.