Paths Of The Chosen (continued . . .)

(Author's Note: Okay, I think that the old thread might be getting too long, because I keep having trouble adding any more to it. So, future additions will be made here [unless/until this gets too long as well]. Also, if you have any, and I mean ANY, comments, good or bad, please reply or PM me. Constructive criticism makes good writers become great. And if you haven't already read the previous chapters, you can find them in the thread "Paths Of The Chosen" here in this same sub-forum [Writing]. This all being said, I now return you to our regularly scheduled program)







Time & Date; Unknown

In the Northeastern-most part of the continent known as the Dragon, there rests the fair city of Cristyne. Ever has it been a pleasant and peaceful dwelling to it’s inhabitants, they who do what they can for their city, doing for themselves whenever able. But that is not to say that they shun the outside world; the citizenry quite readily welcome the trade of goods with the several outlying villages that surround it, augmenting the already-riant and jubilant atmosphere it shared with the world around its walls.

Those little villages, in turn, are partially reliant upon the same trade with Cristyne.

Just a bit more than a day’s travel south of Cristyne, one of the quiet villages existed in harmony with it’s neighboring settlements. Officially, this village did not have a name given to it. But the some two hundred residents called it home.

The village was not large. It possessed some seventy or eighty simple thatch houses and boasted it’s very own smithy, a shop with so much work to be done that there were two blacksmiths who tended it. There was even a small marketplace where goods were traded throughout most of the Long Calm. But the market was closed this late into Sun Fade.

There were also two inns; the Carpenter’s Thumb, which had two floors and could accommodate ten patrons if needed; and a smaller one, which did not even have a name, but was affectionately referred to as “Lady Tamara’s”.

The proprietor of the smaller inn was not, by any legality, a true lady, but her mannerisms, her speech and her exceptional beauty caused travelers who passed by to question her seemingly-peasant origin.

Tamara was quite unique among the other villagers. She was taller than the other women, lacking a mere inch of being six feet. The almost-exotically tan skin of her face and hands was smooth and supple, unblemished from the long hard work she did maintaining the inn. Her striking blue eyes were contrasted sharply by the flowing, jet-black hair which cascaded around her shoulders and halfway down her back. She was, in this village, quite unique and well-loved.

Once, several years before, a traveler had seen her and made a lewd remark. The whole village had stood by watching grimly as Mykalis, Tamara’s husband, chased the vagrant out with the hammer he used at the smithy. Tamara had not been happy about her husband’s actions, but since then, the men of the village tended to greet him with a slap on the back and the phrase ‘by Myk’s hammer’ became a common swear-phrase.

Myk and Tamara were not rich, even by the standards of the peasant-folk, but they were a little well-off. Besides the inn, which they owned and ran with the help of a hired hand from the village, Myk spared whatever time he could to the smithy, making and repairing tools for the village when he was not repairing the inn, though he was always able to find time to spend with his family.

They both loved running the inn and helping their fellow neighbors, and they valued the inn very much for sentimental reasons. (Myk’s father had owned it until his death). But the inn was not their most prized possession. No, that position was reserved for something so much more precious.

Myk and Tamara were blessed with two children; a girl, the oldest by six years, and a boy. The girl, at age eleven, was a smart, energetic, and cheerful child. She was named Tykara, a name which, according to Tamara, meant ‘precious treasure’. She looked so much like her mother, it was almost like an illusion from a traveling wizard’s show. Even at such a young age, Tykara was very beautiful.

The boy, Hal, was equally intelligent and playful as his elder sister, and he adored her every bit as much as she did him. Indeed, the two were nigh inseparable. Hal inherited his mother’s black hair and his father’s broad-shouldered physique. The boy was a headstrong lad who, more oft than not, got what he desired. But he was not a bully; he was very charming and sweet. The child had not a single malicious bone in his body.

Myk and Tamara were proud of their little ones. Though well-meaning, well-behaved and oft helpful, they still tended to get into the same trouble as most children do. On occasion, Hal would help his father at the smithy, fetching tools and the like for the elder Sol-Talon. Tykara usually aided her mother in the daily chores of the household, as well as the chores of the inn, when she was not playing with her younger brother and their friends.

And on this particular day, Tykara was lending a hand to Tamara as the dark-haired woman scrubbed the laundry against a washboard. Her mother’s motions were continuous and steady while she listened with rapt attention to her daughter.

“Oh?” She said, an eyebrow raised as she worked. “And what happened then?”

“Well,” the girl continued, “Larnin tried to grab me from behind, but then I twisted,”and she demonstrated, “like so.......and he went ‘whoosh’ right over my shoulder and splashed right into the mud.”

“Mm-hmm”, Tamara sounded. “That would explain all the mud on your clothes yesterday. But that still leaves the question of why?”

Kara shrugged her shoulders, “It was fun.”

“I see.” Her tone gave no reprimand, but neither did it carry approval. “I’m not certain that you should still be playing like that. You’re not a child much anymore, love.”

But Tykara did not fully understand what her mother meant. “What difference does that make? Larnin won’t ever be able to out-wrestle me. He’s just not fast enough.”

“My dear,” her mother started to explain, “in another year or two, you’re going to begin to change. And so will the boys. By that time, they won’t feel the same about a girl who can win against them in a wrestling match.”

“Why not?”

Then Tamara smiled at the girl. “When it happens, you will start to understand. And if you do not, then I will be near to help you.”

Tykara frowned, wondering what her mother might have meant, though she did not lend voice to her ponderings. For a several minuted, they worked together in silence, and all the while, the girl’s mind ventured in many directions, as varied as the wind. Eventually, however, she did find herself with a query.

“Mother?”

“Hmm?”

“Can I learn-”

“Ah-ah”, Tamara interrupted, but Kara was already correcting herself.

“May I learn to use a sword?”

Tamara was silent for several minutes. “Who will teach you?” she asked finally.

“Old ma- I mean, Mr. Mordig said he’d teach me.” the girl offered readily.

Tamara understood immediately. The aging Vel Mordig, grey of hair (where he still had it) and keen of eye, was a retired officer from the Cristyne city guard, and he was constantly going on about how he believed women should learn to protect themselves, should the event occur (Kami forbid!) that the men of the village were unable to do so. But, aging as the man may be, one could not deny that he was still as fit as a plow-horse and capable of teaching even the dullest simpleton. He also loved to spend time telling old “war stories” to the child, though their parents all knew well that Vel had never once fought in any war.

“A fit teacher”, said Tamara, “if any man be.” She continued to scrub the laundry in silence for several minutes. “I suppose it would be a good thing to know how to take care of oneself. But the final decision will rest with your father, as it always has.” Inwardly, she felt certain that her daughter would grow bored with the lessons in short fashion, so she did not try to dissuade the girl.

Tykara nodded to her mother. “May I ask him tonight?”

Tamara glanced at the pile of laundry remaining and estimated it would be able to finish in a quarter of an hour. Looking at her daughter, her smile widened a bit.

“You know what? I think I’ll be able to manage the rest on my own if you want to ask him now. He should still be at the smithy.”

Tykara’s eyes lit up brilliantly, sparkling in the waning light of afternoon. “Can - May I?” Her soap-covered hands came out of the wooden washtub and her arms wrapped tightly around her mother. “Thank you!”

Tamara dried her hands on her apron and returned the hug. Then she patted the girl on the back.

“You had better hurry. The smithy will be settling down for the day before long.”

Tamara smiled contentedly as she watched her daughter run off down the town road.





“Blessed Kami, we now give thanks for the blessings You have laid upon us. We place our lives in Your loving hands, that we may be guarded by Your will. We thank You for the food You have placed before us, that it may nourish us, and we pray that we will honor You in our actions.”

When Myk fell silent, all those around the table did the same, allowing for a moment of reverence before the commencement of their meal. After the appropriate length of time had passed, Myk motioned for young Hal to pass his plate and the boy complied with a grin. While he filled the plate, the elder Sol-Talon spoke to his daughter, who sat opposite the boy.

“Well, Kara, did you wear out another sword today?” It was, of course, a jest.

Little Hal’s grin grew wider as Tykara answered without skipping a beat, adding to the joke, “Not today. But Mr. Mordig said he might have to send it to the smithy for repairs.”

Myk shook his head, handing the plate back to his son. “Kara, you need to ease up a little, stop trying to catch up with the others. They are five years older than you.” The girl had quite surprised both of her parents with her training. Neither had felt she would stay with it for very long, but it seemed that old Vel had a way of capturing the attention of his pupils, regardless of their age. So, with it now a year later, she was even more enamored of her exercises than when she’d first begun.

Kara replied with, “I know, Papa, but I really want to work my way up to a longsword and my arms aren’t strong enough yet.” She passed her plate to her father, who worked to fill it up.

“Kara,” her mother broke in, “you’ll work yourself to death. You really need to slow down.”

Hal held a different opinion. “She’s the best of all of ‘em!” He pushed his vegetables around on the plate while he talked. “We’re gonna go adventuring when we get bigger, just me and Kara! Just like in the stories!”

Myk laughed as he spoke. “Now he’ll be training next, I think!”

His mirth was joined by his wife until a knock came at the door. He arose from the table, his chair squeaking against the floor as he scooted it backward.

“It never fails,” he remarked. “If you want someone to come visit, sit down to eat.”

Tamara smiled at him while he walked toward the door. Lifting the catch, he pulled the door inward couple of feet. Standing on the doorstep was one of the older boys of the village, dressed in plain breeches and a woolen shirt, a sword tucked into a wide belt at his waist.

“Sir,” the boy said, “I beg your pardon for the hour, but may I have a word with you? Er, out here?” He looked past Myk, toward the children, indicating that younger ears need not to hear the news he carried.

Myk nodded and stepped outside, pulling the door to behind him. Tamara and the children could hear their muffled voices through the door, but the words were too distorted to understand. Tamara looked over at her son and noticed that he was still nudging the vegetables around. She gently scolded him as she filled her own plate, then Myk’s.

“Hal, don’t play with your food, love.”

The boy sighed in resignation and proceeded to eat. The three of them dined in silence for a few moments, until Myk re-entered and beckoned his wife to follow him into the next room. The request alone lent a worried expression to Tamara’s eyes while she stood and made her way from the dining table. She eased the door closed, hiding them from the children’s sight, though the door did not shut completely.

Hal was paying no attention to them, but Tykara was listening close as she ate. She could only catch a few words.

“ . . . caravan missing . . . possibly raiders . . . could be nothing . . . need several of the men . . .”

The was a sound of movement, and when the door opened again, Myk was walking toward the door with a hunting bow in hand, a quiver tied to his belt. As he reached for the latch, Tamara caught him by the arm, pulling him around long enough to place a lingering kiss on his lips.

“Ewww! Gross!” Now the two grown-ups had Hal’s full attention. The boy covered his eyes with his arms, as if warding them off.

Tamara broke the kiss with a laugh and caressed her husband’s cheek.

“Be careful, Myk. I’ll see you when you get back.”

“Aye,” he answered. Then he turned and went back outside.

“Mamma, where’s Papa going?” Hal’s question was the honest innocence of youth.

Tamara swallowed, trying to slow down her run-away heart, then answered.

“The men need his help with something, that’s all, love. Finish your dinner. Then we’ll get you two ready for bed.” While Hal took her words at face value, she could tell that her forced smile was not fooling her daughter in the least.





The situation was far worse than the village elders had first thought, for their antagonists had not behaved at all like raiders, instead laying siege with a force that remained well distant. The brigands remained out of sight, for the most part, and their tactics left old Vel Mordig with the impression that they were great in number; two bandits to every man in the village was his best guess. He gave the rest of the elders a vehement warning that they seemed well-organized, possibly even military.

The villagers had posted watches around the palisade wall, though it did not aid with morale at all. This was, in no small part, due to the fact that some of the watchmen had said they’d seen a grey-skinned man with some of the “raiders”. Of course, all of the adults knew enough of the world to recognize a Shur’ken by description, though no darkman had dared to so much as set foot on the shores of Tei’Vaek since the end of the Fourth Fell Wind War, nearly twenty years before. Nonetheless, the fear of their sorcerous kind was still close to heart, kept kindled by whispered stories among the children and hushed memories of the elders.

All that chaos sewn among the thoughts of the villagers and they had only been cut off from the outside for three days. Such a short time for so many people to creep ever-so-close to panic. If not for the brave souls who watched the walls, that same-said panic would have already seized hold of them.

And on the morning of the fourth day, the worried murmurs were justified.

Like a flood of people, the so-called raiders charged for the palisade gates, screaming their battlecries sounding akin to daemons rising from the Abyss. It was a single, massive wave that rushed at the village from all sides.

The archers among the watchmen were good, some might say excellent, but there were simply too many targets to take down, or to even thin out significantly. But to their credit, not one of the watchmen broke ranks, standing solid against their own fear. There they remained, steady, right up until they were cut down like wheat. The bandits simply swarmed over the fallen and began to lay claim to the empty streets.





“It’ll be alright, Hal.”

Tykara held her brother close as they huddled together beneath her cot. She could feel the heat of his tears as he buried his face against her neck. She ran her fingers through his hair like she did when he was hurt, hoping it would soothe him as before.

They could hear the battle outside, the yelling and screaming, the clamor of the weapons. The sounds of people being dragged from their homes.

Somehow, above the cacophony, they were able to make out their mother’s efforts to move a large dresser in front of the door, trying to bar the way from the inside. And though she struggled with all her strength, the weight of it made her progress agonizingly slow. Or perhaps it was because she wept, knowing that her husband was out there amidst the fighting with the rest of the men.

In the end, the reasons did not matter, for the door of the little room burst open before the corner of the dresser could block it. A man, a human, in a chainmail shirt forced his way in and took hold of Tamara, dragging her by one arm and a fistful of her black hair. And yet, while she must have been filled with terror, the only sounds she made were of defiance.

Under the bed, little Tykara tried to force her body to respond. But it wasn’t until the man had taken her mother from the bedroom that she was able to establish command of herself.

“Hal?” she spoke quickly, but only in a whisper, afraid that the man might hear her and return.

The boy didn’t answer.

“Hal, I need you to do something for me.”

She felt his head move in a nod.

“I need you to be brave and stay here. Don’t make any noise. I have to go.”

“Mamma said to stay here”, she hear his small voice say.

“I know what Mamma said, Hal. But I have to go. Can you be brave for me?”

He didn’t say anything else, just gave her another nod. She kissed him on the forehead then slipped away from him, tugging his arms from around herself.

“I’ll come back for you, Hal, I promise.”

The girl quickly scuttled from under the cot stood up halfway, thrusting her hands under the straw-stuffed mattress. The cool touch of steel greeted her fingers as she drew out the shortsword she’d hidden there. She knew she wasn’t supposed to take it from Vel’s makeshift training yard, but she wanted so much to practice and strengthen her strokes and posture that she’d begun sneaking out behind the inn for an hour each night. Now she was glad of it. The hilt felt at home in her hand.

Her shoes padded against the floor when she made her way from the little bedroom. It connected directly to the main room, which also served as their dining room. The table was askew and the chairs had been shoved aside, likely from Tamara struggling as she’d been dragged through.

The man must have taken her outside. It was time for Tykara to put her training to the test. Her heart was racing, thudding in a frantic rhythm. She couldn’t tell if it was from her fear or from adrenaline. Hurried steps carried her through the room and out the door.

Such a young age to have to see the terrible things that awaited outside.

People running, screaming, burning. Dying. People she knew. Some of the houses were engulfed in flames from torches thrown by the raiders. Those things alone were more than enough to frighten and scar a child’s soul. But Tykara recognized, too easily, the body of the woman who lay in the middle of the road. The modest work-dress, the simple-made shoes, the black hair that lay in a mess, obscuring her face from view. The sight of her mother in the dirt with a raider standing over her, his back to the house . . .

A child should never feel the kind of sudden rage that threatened to explode in her mind. She made no sound, and the edges of her vision blurred. Her entire being was focused on the back of the chainmail the raider wore. She never even felt her feet move. She was simply, and quite suddenly, there, having covered a distance of more than twenty feet. The lightness of the sword surprised her, as did the strength with which she struck. All of her weight went into the thrust. Perhaps the chainmail was poorly made, perhaps the sword was sharper than she’d anticipated. In the end, it mattered not, for it penetrated both the mail and the flesh with equality, piercing just deep enough and at just the right angle to bury an entire inch of the metal into his heart. Truly, anger can drive one to accomplish amazing and terrible feats.

The raider uttered only the smallest of sounds as he tried to turn, but the ruptured heart was failing him fast. He sank to his knees before falling forward and pulling the hilt from Tykara’s grasp.

A sickness hit her with the knowledge that she had just ended a life. A virgin kill. It twisted in her belly like a knot of serpents. She clutched at her middle as she leaned forward, ready to empty the contents of her stomach. She wasn’t sure which frightened her more; the fact that she’d killed a man . . . or the fact that it had felt good.

Her eyes locked onto her mother, silent and still. Blood matted the hair on the back of her head, not yet fully dried. And in that instant, the sickness fled, leaving her with only a hunger. A hunger to make the raiders pay. She swallowed the bile that had risen in her throat, that bitter taste stinging as it sank downward, and took hold of the sword hilt. It took her two tries, but she was able to wrench it from the mail shirt. And just in time.

Another man, blade raised and hair dancing wildly, was bearing down on her. Tykara knew she could never take him in a straight fight. She simply did not have the upper body strength or training for it. The only thing she could think to do was to seize a handful of dirt, which she flung at his face.

The dust hit him squarely, though he did try to turn his head to avoid it. But he was already committed to his attack, chopping the sword down at her with a single-handed grip. And she very nearly did not escape the stroke. As she leapt to the side, the blade passed by her face close enough that, had it been polished well, she would have been able to see the ugly anger that distorted her features.

The weapon hit the ground with a dulled ring, and the raider tried to rub the dust from his eyes with his free hand. While his effort took less than a second, it was a second that cost him his sword hand. The child retaliated fast and hard, bringing her borrowed short blade down on the man’s wrist and, though it did not pass through completely, it cleanly broke one of the bones and splintered the other.

He gave a yell and reached for his injured wrist, still effectively blinded by the dirt. Tykara’s second stroke took three fingers from the other hand before it cleaved through the wrist. The man’s yell became a howl that assaulted the child’s ears, and a third desperate stroke tore open his throat, changing his cry once again, this time to a horrible gurgling choke.

She stood there transfixed by the sight, slowly coming to know what she’d done, watching the raider’s mutilated hand struggle to stop the bleeding at his neck. With every beat of his heart, the crimson stain spread further down the front of his mail shirt. Tykara felt the sickness return. She did not want to watch, but she couldn’t make herself turn away.

The sword slipped from her grip. When she glanced down, she found that her hands were shaking. Her arms. Her entire body. Trembling. Her legs gave way and she fell in the street on hands and knees, retching violently. How long she knelt there, she did not know. A minute, maybe three. Maybe five. It was a miracle that she wasn’t seen and attack in that time. But she finally got her feet under herself again, using the back of her arm to wipe away the vomit that clung to her chin. She was forced to avert her gaze from her kill or risk becoming sick again.

Then she heard it. A faint cry from the house behind her.

She twisted around and saw the flames crawling, like vile serpents, up the walls and across the roof of her home. All thoughts of the dead raiders fled her mind. Only a singular purpose penetrated her brain.

“Hal!” she screamed, starting forward only to trip on the body of her first victim. She went down, trying to catch herself. She still ended up face-down in the dirt. As suddenly as she’d fallen, she was scrambling back to a stand, uncaring for the dust that had gone into her mouth. “Hal!” She could only faintly hear her brother calling out her name. She nearly fell again, only just maintaining her balance as she propelled her body forward, all of her focus on that smoke-shrouded doorway.

She never even saw the darkman until she ran into him. Oh, he’d been there when she started running; she simply hadn’t noticed him, centered as she’d been on the house. The impact caused her to spin slightly to one side and land roughly on her back, knocking the wind from her. As she gasped for breath, the Shur’ken came close, leaned over her.

The grey-skinned man seized her by the front of her tunic and pulled her up so that she had to stand on the tips of her toes to touch the ground. His black eyes bore into her soul, his dark red hair waving slightly in the breeze created by the smoke and flames. A curious medallion swung loosely from his neck; a medallion bearing a strange engraving of a raven’s claw. And on the man’s collar, she saw a small emblem embroidered into the fabric. A black rose.

A call from one of the raiders drew the attention of the Shur’ken, and he looked away from the girl, breaking eye-contact. Then Tykara remembered her brother, heard his call from inside the burning house. She began to struggle, to scream, to try to escape.

She felt the back of the darkman’s hand strike her across the face with great force, snapping her head to the side. Blackness crept in at the edges of her vision. She heard the darkman speak, presumably to one of the raiders.

“Collect the survivors. I’ll question them, and then you may do with them as you like.”

The girl tried to call out to her brother, but her tongue refused to obey her, and her speech was unintelligible. And as the blackness inched further and further into her field of view, she heard little Hal’s voice scream one last time.

“Kara!”

She couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer.





When she regained her senses, her mind was a dizzying mixture of two different people; the innocent child she’d once been, and the calloused bandit she’d become. At first, it confused her, these two contrasting sides of the same coin entwined together, so much so that it took her a moment to even recall her own name.

Tykara. Yes, that was it. Tykara Sol-Talon.

With the remembrance of her name, her vision began to clear like a breeze brushing away a dense fog. Slowly did the darkness recede, bit by bit, until a thin shaft of light cut through, shining in her eyes and nearly blinding her.

“I have found you,” a voice called from behind the light. A voice that, while familiar, was one she’d not heard in nearly twenty years. But she could not yet put a face to it, nor a name. So strange, to know something so well, yet not know it at all.

“Who’s there?” she asked, raising a hand to shield her eyes from the light. “Who are you?”

A cool and gentle wind touched her skin as it traveled by, taking with it the last remnants of the fog. She realized she was standing in the middle of a meadow, one she recognized from her youth, just outside the village gates on the northern side. The air was sweet with the scent of wildflowers, and the zephyrs of mid-Tear Fall made the tall grass and myriad blossoms roll in waves.

So very peaceful.

It seemed to her that she had somehow forgotten what was peace. But for now, she could remember.

“I have been looking for you, love.” That voice, so soft, came again. Now she could make out a silhouette of a woman with the evening sun slowly sinking toward the tops of the distant tress. The woman took a step forward, partially blocking some of the light, allowing Tykara to see who spoke.

She inhaled a short, sharp breath which immediately became a choked sob.

“Mamma.” The word simply felt perfect as it rolled from her tongue, despite the fact that her own voice was no longer that of a child. This part of the dream was new to her. Never before had she experienced seeing her mother through her adult eyes. It was both wonderful and heartbreaking, as she knew that it was merely a dream. As soon as she awoke, her mother would vanish.

The woman came forward and took Tykara into her arms, into an embrace that felt so very real.

“My dear child,” her mother whispered, holding her so tightly that it hurt. Tykara did not mind. She knew that it would hurt even more when she awoke. Better that she stay here in the dream forever. “I have come to unlock your chains,” the older woman said to her. “I have come to set you free.” Tykara didn’t understand what she meant, and she resisted for an instant when her mother withdrew from her grasp.

Strange. She didn’t remember ever seeing streaks of grey in her mother’s hair.

“I’ve brought you the key to your shackles, Kara.” Her mother lifted a hand to a thin cord about her neck, from which hung a plain iron key. “And your friends have come to guide you back.” Her went to something past Tykara’s shoulder, and Tykara followed her gaze.

Several feet back from where she stood, there was a tall man in shining armor, the sun glinting off of the metal. Beside him, a red-haired woman in plain, brown clothes kept an easy stance, emerald eyes watching her intently.

What were they doing here? This was her dream. They didn’t belong in her memories.
She looked back to her mother, then at Kraey and Siltas. Realization struck her like a bolt of lightning.

“It’s not a dream,” she hissed. Then, louder, “This isn’t a dream!” Looking again to Tamara, she felt her voice quake when she spoke. “You’re here! You’re alive!”

“Not quite, love.” There was a smile on her mother’s face, though it didn’t seem to be as full as it could have been. “I am here, and I am alive. But this is still only a dream. It was the only way for us to reach you. Your friends have come here to be your guide home. But you must first travel the dark path of your hidden thoughts, those that you cannot or will not remember.”

Tykara only had the faintest inkling of what she meant. “This can’t be a dream. I felt you, warm and alive. I’m as awake as I ever want to be.”

Her mother’s smile was strained. “Child, there is so much more beyond this place.” She held a hand out, indicating the beauteous meadow. “True, the world beyond can be hard and cruel. But the path you take will show the truth of who you are.” She brought her hand back, lifted the key from around her neck, and held it out. “This is the key to your past. Until you unlock it, it will hold you captive. You must accept the memory of what you have lived. You must open the book.”

It was then that Tykara noticed the weight in her hands. When she looked down, she found that a thick, heavy tome rested in them. The volume was bound in leather and an iron bracket was formed around it, only a small keyhole suggesting that it could be opened. She was almost certain that the book had not been there before.

Tamara brought the key over the book and set it into the hole, then drew back her hand.

Her daughter shook her head, not wanting to understand. “No, I remember! I remember everything! I can see the entire attack in my head. I can see you on the ground, dead. I can see our house burning, with Hal inside. It’s all here!” She’d moved the weight of the book to one hand and was tapping a finger against her temple.

But her mother responded with patient explanation. “You saw the attack, yes. You saw the house burning, and myself lying unconscious. What you do not remember is what came after, what made you into the woman you became. You can deny yourself and perish altogether. Or you can turn the key, child. Remember yourself. Accept the price and walk free.”

She felt a hand on either shoulder, and when she turned her head to either side, the Knight and the Valkyrie were there beside her, silent, solemn. Her eyes went back to the book, her free hand touching the head of the key. She could not deny that there was a part of her that wanted to know who she was. But there was another part that was very much afraid of what she might find. Her fingers tightened a little on the key. She paused.

“What will be the price?” she asked of her mother. The only answer she was given was Tamara’s smile, small and saddened, but hopeful all the same. Her heart beat a little faster, and she knew that she’d already made her decision. She turned the key.

With a click, the bracket snapped lose and the book opened of its own accord. And on the pages . . . Nothing. Not even so much as the yellowing of age. Tykara frowned and looked at her mother.

Tamara’s form began to fade away like a mirage and Tykara understood the smile. She’d turned the key, and the price to be paid . . .

“No!”

Tykara dropped the book and dove forward, trying to take hold of the fading image. She passed through her mother, and when she did, she had the strange sensation of her mother’s thoughts overlapping her own, almost as if they were trying to merge with hers.. Then the world exploded into billions of shining lights, like a shower of tiny little diamonds.

5:19 High Sun, Et Diem Hominis, 26th of Quintilis, 2134 P.B.

She gasped as though she were rising from a pool of frigid water, her mouth forming an “O” and her fingers tightening around the hands that gripped her own. A sensation of exhilarating energy flooded through her body, snapping open her sapphire eyes. And it might have seemed to a casual observer that her sudden inhalation took the strength from the older woman, who just as suddenly crumbled in a heap, falling to one side.

The Valkyrie, being closer to her than the Knight, broke contact with Tykara and took gentle hold of the meteal, easing her onto her back. She placed two fingers against the woman’s neck, checking her life-signs. Tamara issued a low moan and parted her eyelids a small fraction.

“Can you hear me?” Siltas asked.

Tamara’s lips moved slowly, her voice too soft to make out the words. The huntress leaned down, placing her ear close to the woman’s face. Tamara spoke again, still very quiet, but loud enough for only Siltas to hear.

“Do not hide from yourself too long, child of the Nation. He will need to know the truth.”

The Valkyrie realized that her touch had opened her mind to the meteal, displaying all of her thoughts like a painting. She quickly pulled her fingers away from the woman’s neck.

“Is she alright?”

The Knight’s question made her look back over her shoulder at him. He had already snaked an arm under Tykara’s shoulders and was helping her to sit up. The warrior looked a little pale, but she was awake and aware. Since she was apparently in a cognizant state, it was obvious that his query pertained to the older woman’s condition.

To discern the answer, Siltas put an ear to the woman’s chest, listening to her breathing and heartbeat through her clothing. What she heard was not reassuring. She sat back up and looked at Kraey again, her expression speaking to him without the need for words. Tamara’s heart was failing, and fast.

“Is there anything -?” He would have finished the sentence, but the Valkyrie was already shaking her head at him. Even if she had the necessary skills, there simply wasn’t enough time.

“Mamma?”

It was a strange thing, hearing such an endearing appellation as that coming from the warrior. Like hearing a birdsong from a dragon. And that one word carried so much weight. For Tykara, it was an immense effort to moved her weakened form closer to her mother, even with the Knight lending her aid. Still, she was able to manage it. As the bandit came closer, Siltas scooted out of her way, allowing her to come to a rest beside the fading meteal.

“Don’t go, Mamma. Don’t go.”

Tamara’s hand trembled as she touched her daughter’s cheek, unconcerned with the possibility of touching minds. As her fingers brushed the warrior’s skin, she spoke in a voice that seemed to come from many miles away.

“Don’t worry, love,” she said. “I’m almost home. Not far to go now.” She was smiling all the while. “I’ll keep a place at the table for you.” Then her voice grew strong, her eyes intense, and she looked hard at her child. “Kami is waiting for you, love. He brought me to you, to give you more time. You’ve been away from Him for so very long. But He is still waiting. Have faith and trust Him . . .”

Her eyes began to dim, her hand began to drift away from Tykara’s face. Tykara seized the hand and pressed it hard against her cheek. “Mamma, please stay . . . I don’t want to be alone anymore . . .”

The corner of Tamara’s mouth twitched just a bit, a feeble smile that never quite formed. Her lips barely moved at all when she whispered, “Oh, my girl. You’ve never been alone. All you have to do is listen. He will speak.” Then the smile manifested itself ever-so-slightly as Tamara looked straight upward, as though something caught her eye for an instant. The she turned her gaze toward Kraey. “Sir Knight,” she mouthed, her voice straining to get out a final message. “My daughter . . . she will need someone to guide her. Her journey home . . . will not be easy.”

Then she glanced upward again, her stare going beyond the roof of the tent, beyond the clouds and the sky, beyond even the stars themselves. “Ohhhh . . . Caelestis is so beautiful . . . Just . . . just a little further . . .”

Tamara sighed contentedly, and her chest did not rise again.

“Mamma?”

Kraey bowed his head out of respect and the Valkyrie followed suit.

The warrior became the child and she laid her head on Tamara’s chest, weeping softly.






By the fourth hour of Ebbinglight, the rain had ceased and the clouds had broken apart enough for a glimpse of the evening sun as it dipped toward the western horizon. Siltas stood quietly outside the tent, the tiny angel bird perched on her shoulder, watching the amber orb’s slow descent and thinking hard on what the meteal had told her at the last. Needless to say, the woman had seen right into the Valkyrie’s thoughts. It was a foolish thing she had done, touching her. But she was a Valkyrie, a protector. It was part of her to care for the injured. Checking the meteal’s life-signs was as much a reaction as it was concern.

Siltas shook her head. It didn’t matter, not now. Tamara had revealed nothing.

The tent flap lifted, startling her from her reverie, as the Knight emerged, his eyes tinged with redness. The huntress was quick to recover, and quick to note that he’d been crying. He was the sort who was sensitive to the pain of others.

“How is she?”

Kraey gave her a thin smile. “She has lost a mother that she already thought lost. But she is awake. And she is alive. If it is a victory, then it is marginal at best. Though, on the positive side,” he added, “Tamara Sol-Talon seemed to be at peace with it at the end. People will try to tell you that there is never any dignity in death. If that is so, then she was able to achieve the impossible through love. And faith.”

That last bit was obviously pointed at Siltas’ opinions on the subject.

“Faith just isn’t for me, Kraey.”

The Knight inhaled deeply of the evening air and looked toward the sunset. “Faith is for everyone, Siltas. You place your faith in yourself, just as I place a portion in myself. I simply choose to place more of it in something greater than me. You should try it sometime. You might be surprised by what it can do.”

She said nothing to him for several minutes. She merely watched the sun creep a lower in the sky. After a moment or two of silence, she asked of him, “Has she said anything?”

“Not yet,” he stated. “The loss is still too fresh for her to reach out. I know the pain of losing a mother and I don’t doubt that Tykara will find little rest tonight. At some point tomorrow, I will have to ask her about the burial.”

A frown creased Siltas’ face. “That’s going to be hard. Especially if she’s the sort who can’t let go. If it comes to it, I have some herbs that might calm her. I’d rather not have to, though. Grief is something that shouldn’t be numbed. It’s harder to move on if you don’t weather through it.”

“True enough,” Kraey agreed. “But I think that grief is not the only thing with which she must now come to terms. You were there the same as I. Whatever she had locked away in her mind, she opened the book. She’ll remember everything now, in all its grisly detail.”

The huntress turned toward him with a certain amount of caution hidden behind her eyes. “When we were in the dream, did you see anything of me in there? Of my thoughts?”

He met her gaze, his brow slightly furrowed in query. “Tamara Sol-Talon said it would be a quite rare thing. Beside that, I doubt that I would have been able to tell the difference, as all the thoughts and memories would be unfamiliar to me. Why do you ask? Are you worried that you might have inadvertently broken your law by permitting me a chance at your thoughts?”

Siltas sighed inwardly with a measure of relief. Physically, however, she gave him what appeared to be an embarrassed smile. “Sounds silly, I know.” She was glad of him providing her with a plausible out. “We Valkyries take our laws very seriously.”

“I can see why,” he commented, “when the punishments include banishment and/or execution.”
She forced a laugh. “Good memory.”

For a moment, they both fell quiet again, staring west to witness the sky as it slowly shifted its hues. The sun hid its lower edge below the horizon, starting to bury the treasure that was its light. Even the dampness of the ground seemed to glow in the fading rays of the evening. The bird on Siltas’ shoulder twittered softly, as though sad to see the end of the day approaching.

And inside the tent, the woman named Tykara, once called Redhands, lay quietly curled up like a child. She watched her mother’s face, so calm, so serene, and she took comfort in it, for she needed such comfort. Because her mind wrestled with the memories she’d put away so long ago, memories that had begun to ravage her from inside their prison. But now they were free, and though they caused her great pain to recall, in the end, they would do their part in setting her free . . .





Formulating a plan of escape is a thing that should be carefully considered. And, despite his natural ability to remain focused under duress, the mage discovered that he was unable to center his mind on his task. Yes, he had a very basic idea mapped out in his head, but the daemons are in the details, as the saying goes. And it was those little daemons that were eluding him at the moment. Every time he started to grasp onto a viable component for his burgeoning strategy, the unlikely idea of that violent and distasteful woman named Tykara having drawn a man, of any race, into marriage . . . Well, it boggled the mind, a feeling that was quite new to him. And it was not at all a welcome sensation.

The faint hiss of metal against stone drew his attention to the side, though he could hardly see the darkman in the dim light. Tabin blinked and tried to clear his thoughts yet again.

Standing as straight as he could, he drew a slow breath, taking in as much air as his lungs were able to contain. Quite deliberately, he aimed for the iron hinges of the door and released it, trying his best to guide the stream of air to such a long distance. But he felt no energy flow with the breath, no Majik exuding from withing his body. An image darted through his mind, an image of a dark-haired woman in a long white dress, stained with spatters of red, an equally bloody sword clenched in one hand and a sneer on her face.

Blast it all! he thought.

Well, when he had a thing weighed on his mind as a child, the best way to alleviate it was to study it, discover its secrets. Remove the mystery, and the preoccupation would vanish. Perhaps that might aid him now.

With a frustrated sigh, (quite out of character), he looked again to the Shur’ken, who was still busy sharpening the makeshift “knife” against the wall.

“Savvis,” he began, “my curiosity has bested me. I must ask you exactly how -?”

“How a ruthless killer finds herself wed to a man from a foreign and exotic land?” From the way he said it, Tabin had the impression he’d been waiting for that very question.

Tabin raised an eyebrow, causing a drop of sweat to loosen and slide down the side of his face. “In a word, yes.”

The grey-skinned man laughed without mirth. “That’s a question I’ve heard quite a few times, usually from members of our little band of misfits. Uh, that is, the bandit gang that she and I led,” he added, scraping the metal against the stone again. “I never told any of them how she and I got together, though I did toss them hints every now and again. Never anything truthful, just things to keep them wondering. Sure, Tykara and I were in the same business as them, but I never respected any of them enough to let them dig into our history. They were all just a bunch of greedy thugs, where she and I did what we did just to get along in the world. I mean, it’s not like we could have just walked into a city and felt at home. One look at me and we would have been chased out at spear-point, or more likely, tortured and executed and hung from the city walls until only our bones were left, then buried in shallow, unmarked graves. Humans don’t generally take well to me, or to anyone who would keep the company with my kind.”

Tabin cleared his throat. “Then I apologize and I withdraw my question.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t mind telling you about it,” Savvis amended. “You earned my respect from the moment you woke up and started plotting how to get out of here without hesitation. You’ve got a certain sort of steely resolve, and that's something I can admire.”

The mage paused for a moment, trying to figure out if the darkman was being facetious or sarcastic. The sound of Savvis’ work ceased and the Shur’ken leaned out of the shadows, the faint light glinting from his black eyes.

“Well?” he asked expectantly. “What exactly is it you want to know? Where we met? How we fell in love? How she became the savage warrior she is today?”

Tabin waited for several more seconds, then answered with, “Yes.”

Savvis leaned back into the shadows and sighed. “Hmm . . . Let’s see, then. Where to begin . . ?” The his of the sharpening started up again. “Well, I guess I should start as far back as I can, which is a while before I met her. But keep in mind that some of what I tell you is pieced together from bits I gathered from others. For instance, how she was brought to where I was assigned.”

“That part starts when she was eleven or twelve, I think. My . . . my master, Kardellyus, had secreted his way onto the mainland of Tei’Vaek, searching for one of the Keys. As it turned out, the one he was after just happened to be buried beneath the village where Tykara lived. That was why he attacked it. I myself was in Ahira of Gershon, on Kadman.”

“I am familiar with Gershon’s capitol,” the wizard informed with a nod. “Go on.”

Savvis paused for a second to check the blade’s edge, then set back to work. “As you no doubt gathered, that means I had nothing to do with the attack. But I know that Kardellyus made certain to separate the survivors into three groups; the men, the women, and the children. He had them kept under guard and well away from each other while they were herded south, toward the shores of the Mournsoul Sea. They always kept enough distance between groups so that they could see or speak to each other. A way of breaking their hope, presumably. Each night while when they set up camp, Kardellyus would question several of the prisoners personally. My guess is that he wanted to know if any of them knew anything about the Key that was buried there, maybe even if they knew where to find the others.”

“Whatever his reasons, he had no use for them afterward, so he gave them to his allies, the men he’d commanded during the attack. All part of their payment; whatever spoils they could find in the village along with fresh slaves from whoever was left alive. Of course, that number went down on the trip south. A handful of them couldn’t make the trip. They were just too bad off. By the time they reached the beach, I think there were only about thirty villagers left, though I can’t be sure. Like I said, I wasn’t there, so most of my information is third-hand at best.”

“When they got to the beach, they already had three ships waiting. They split the spoils among them, and each ship took one of the groups. The women were sent further south along the coast until they could be safely taken to Zantuk. From what I’ve been told, there’s an underground trade in slave-women there.”

“As for the men and the children, their ships set sail eastward, toward Kadman, though only one ship survived the voyage. The other was lost at sea. The one that made it spent a month getting tossed about on the sea before it reached the shores of Gershon.”

“Of course, in Gershon, slavery is considered a legitimate trade. So it was a simple thing to find a buyer for the children. Well, for most of them, that is. The Gersh (slang for a native of Gershon) who made the buy only needed a certain number, so the two oldest were left in the slave pens. And, as you might imagine, one of those two was Tykara.

“The keepers of places like that aren’t what you might call the most reputable of people, and most of them you might not even called ‘people’, per se. One of the guards there tried to . . . well, to take advantage of Tykara while she was down in the cells. The other slave, a boy named Larnin, leapt to her defense by jumping the guard from behind. Tykara went into a crazed frenzy. Somehow, she got hold of the guard’s club and beat him to death before anyone could come to his aid. Served him right, if you ask me.”

“That part I know to be fact, because I was working there at the time, bringing food to the slaves. My . . . my master wanted me to see the harder side of life, or something along those lines. I was fifteen then.”

“Less than a week after that incident, the other guards were pitting her in fights against child slaves from other pens. She didn’t want to fight, of course, but she could only take so many lashings before her resolve started to break down. In the end, she fought to survive. And the more she fought, the more vicious she became. I can still remember the first time I saw her fight. In hindsight, I now know that her technique was raw and undisciplined, but she had a natural talent and I could see she’d received some basic instruction. Before long, I found myself talking to her whenever I brought her meals. I think what amazed me most about her was that she didn’t seem to care about the color of my skin like most humans do. That was probably one of the things that kept me coming back to spend time with her. Over the next two years, we actually got to be good friends, and I think I even earned a little trust from the boy Larnin.”

“Then she was sold, and I was summoned back to my master. I didn’t see her again until three years later. And when I finally did return, I almost didn’t recognize her.”

“If she was vicious before, then animalistic is the only way to describe what she became. Physically, nothing had changed, other than what changes age normally brings, and maybe a few scars from close calls. But there was a pained anger in her eyes that . . . I don’t know . . . It was just so very deep. Then I found out that while I was away, her new owner had pitted her against the boy from her village in what was meant to be a match to the death. Less than a minute into the fight, the boy intentionally opened his guard and threw himself onto Tykara’s sword. I know he meant to save her life, but I think he nearly destroyed her soul that day.”

“When I heard stories of the fight, I just . . . something happened to me. I couldn’t leave her to that life. So I placed a few bribes, slit a throat or two, and sneaked her out of there. I know I make it sound simple, but the details of it aren’t important. It was the only time that I ever stole a person. I’d spent every coin I had on the bribes, but it was worth it to me.”

“After that, we spent half a year on the run, hiding in caves, taking what we needed from travelers, earning a few enemies. During the first couple of months, Tykara started waking up from terrible nightmares, screaming and crying and asking, ‘Where am I? Where am I?’ I finally figured out that she couldn’t remember anything of her captivity, though I somehow stayed in her memories. I would hold her close and whisper to her, try to calm her. For the longest time, I couldn’t tell if I was helping her at all. Every time I tried to get her to talk about the slave pits, she would get these awful, debilitating headaches. Then I decided that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t such a bad thing that she couldn’t remember any of it. If I were her, I know I wouldn’t want to.”

“Anyway, after six or seven months, the region became just too dangerous for us to stay. So, with the money we’d taken in from our ‘work’, I was able to buy discreet passage on a ship that was bound for Tei’Vaek.”

At that point, Tabin interrupted the darkman’s tale. “Why in the world would you go back to Tei’Vaek? Didn’t you stop to think that Kardellyus would track you there?”

Savvis shook his head. “I didn’t know his plan then. I never would have guessed that he would return there. And I didn’t know anything about the Visionary. I don’t think he even had it at the time. And beside that, he’d only barely started learning the arts of Majik back then.”

That explanation seemed to suffice for the wizard, who apologized for the interruption and prompted him to continue.

The Shur’ken paused, asking, “Where was I?”

“You purchased passage on a ship,” the mage provided.

“Ah, yes, thank you,” Savvis nodded. “Well, a trip that should have taken a month took just over six weeks, thanks to a heavy storm that drove us off-course. When we finally made landfall for repairs, it was on the shores of the island of the Yych’ni people. (*) In the short time it took to get the ship seaworthy again, Tykara actually made a few friends among the Yych’ni. I guess since they’re so small, they reminded her of being a kid. Not that they were very child-like; what I saw of them was a lot of braggadocio and brash thefts from the crew of the ship.”

“Agh,” he growled at himself, “I’m getting off-topic. Sorry about that.”

“Anyway, when we got to the mainland, Tykara and I went our own way and, before long, we were running out of food and money. Falling back to robbery seemed like the natural course of action to us. So I taught her how to hide our trail, how to make easily-concealed camps, then I helped her refine her fighting style, though I could never seem to teach her true discipline. She became tempered with time, but she always had that impulsive anger when she fought.”

“I guess we made quite a name for ourselves among travelers in those first couple of years, because a few people started seeking us out. Most were trying to collect a bounty, but a few wanted to join up with the woman people were calling ‘Redhands’. At first, Tykara didn’t seem to care one way or the other about the name, but she started acting as though she liked it the more she heard it. I still hate the name. But they never knew the side of her that I did. At any rate, the next thing I knew, we had a band of eight or ten men, cutthroats all.”

Savvis leaned into the dim light again, a faint and half-hearted smile on his features. “And there you are; the story of how we came to together. Well, except for the part where we were separated. But I already told you about that.”

The wizard frowned. “Wait a moment; you said that Tykara was your wife, did you not? Where does that fit into your tale?”

“Ah, yes, yes,” the darkman amended, “the purpose of your question. My apologies. I’ve never had the opportunity to relate our history to anyone unfamiliar with it. Let me think,” he said, tapping a finger on his chin. “Well, I suppose I should mention that in those early weeks after we reached Tei’Vaek, we became, er . . . I guess ‘lovers’ is what you’d call it. Not a very romantic way to describe our relationship, I know, but there it is. As for how we were wedded, that was actually a strange spur-of-the-moment thing that happened in our second year on the mainland. One of the marks we’d accosted turned out to be a priest of Kami on his way north. When we realized what he was, I jokingly made the remark that we should have him marry us before we sent him on his way.”

“I can tell you for true, I was surprised, excited and a little nervous when Tykara said she wanted to do it. So,” he shrugged in nostalgic amusement, “we were married there, on the side of the road, by a man we had just robbed.”

Tabin raised an eyebrow. “That was it? Just like that?”

The darkman laughed softly as his head bobbed in acknowledgment. “Yes, actually. Just like that. I know it sounds ridiculous, but -”

“It sounds impulsive and brash,” the mage put in. “And, with what little time I spent in her company, I must say that it sounds very much like what I’ve observed of her. So, I suppose, it really seems to make perfect sense.” And having said that, he put his attention on the hinge of the door once again. This time, he was easily able to push any wondering thoughts of the bandit woman from his mind, and he could feel the Majikal energies begin to stir within himself.

“Was that all you wanted to know?” Savvis asked of him.

Tabin had no trouble answering without the loss of his focus. “Indeed. Your tale has quelled the persistent quandary with which I wrestled. I find that learning about a thing helps me to remove it from the fore of my mind, allowing me to concentrate on other, more pressing, matters. Such as this.” As before, he took in a breath and gave careful aim, exhaling at the lower hinge. He could feel the power exude from his lungs, carried along on the wind. And when the breath lightly caressed the metal at the opposite side of the cell, there was a faint crackle. Then a single flake of rust, the size of a thumbnail and half as thick, broke loose and drifted to the floor. Almost instantly, Tabin felt his head spin from the exertion.

The Shur’ken half-rose from his seat in the dark corner, amazed. “Daemon’s blood!” he swore. “That’s . . . that’s quite an improvement over changing a pinch of iron dust! At that rate, we could be out of here by tomorrow night, before Kardellyus even returns!” Despite his excitement, he kept his voice low. No need to give themselves away to any eavesdropping jailors.

But the wizard shook his head, regretting it even as he did so. “No. I have . . . I have to be able to breathe without getting fatigued. And I need to regain some . . . measure of the control I once possessed before I ceased my practice of it.” He closed his eyes against the spinning room and took a slow breath. “That alone could take . . . weeks, if I press too hard.”

“I doubt we have that kind of time. Kardellyus won’t forget us down here forever.”

Tabin was forced to agree. “Precisely why I need to be careful in how I practice. It would not do either of us much good if I try to remove my chains only to take my hands off with them. So, slow and steady is the rule.” He sighed out his air and opened his eyes, pleased to find that the room was fairly stable to his perception. “By the by, how much longer before you have that knife ready?”

In answer, the darkman stood up and moved all the way into the light, holding the edge of one of his shirt sleeves tightly. As he drew the homemade ‘knife’ across the cloth, it left a neat cut in the fabric. “I think it will do. You don’t go through life with a love of blades without learning how to make a proper edge, after all.”

Once corner of the wizard’s mouth curved upward. “Well done. Now could I impose upon you to cut this infernal mess of hair? I’ve been blowing the same lock out of my eyes for quite some time now. Oh,” he added, “ and could you try not to take off my ears? I should like to keep them, if you don’t mind.”

Savvis smiled as he wielded the blade. “No promises, my friend. No promises.”




Footnotes;

(*) Yych'ni = (pronounced EECH-nee). These diminutive folk ( who are rarely any more than three-and-a-half feet in height) hail from an island east of Tei'Vaek, dwelling in a city known to the world as "the City of Lost Name." Though there has been no certain proof, the Yych'ni who have set out to roam the world claim that long ago the name of their home was forgotten, and that they now venture forth into the world to re-learn it. This claim is often ridiculed by other races, stating that the Yych'ni simply never bothered to write down the name. This is compounded by the fact that very few of the Yych'ni ever learn to read or write. In accordance with this, those of their race who have left their homeland are called Seekers (of which they insist quite vehemently). In general, the Yych'ni are not welcomed when spotted, as they have made a grand reputation for themselves as being thieves, liars and tellers of tall tales. In fact, when caught in a theft, they quickly own up to the crime, and sometimes even claim the thefts of others (the more grand, the better) as their own. They are also notorious smokers of the thaltis leaf, which is tantamount to a form of tobacco.

(Author's Note; To those who have been following this story, I give my thanks. Your time and attention has been much appreciated. This, however, will be my last addendum to this thread until the new year and, possibly, the last altogether. It will greatly depend on the amount of feedback [or lack thereof] to this post. If you truly wish to see more of this tale, then I implore you to either leave a reply on this thread, or to send me, Tejas, a private message here on RoleplayGateway.com. Even if I don't continue this tale on here, however, I will continue to work on it until I've finished the story that needs to be told. And I'll probably begin posting other stories as I finished them. To those who have already given feedback in the past [you know who you are], I offer my sincere and heartfelt thanks for encouraging me to push myself in this work, and for offering insight on the many flaws that are currently in the course of being corrected. Also, to all who would like to see the entire modified version of Part I, leave me a message and I'll see about sending you the pdf of it. This will rectify the vast number of inconsistencies that appear throughout this thread and its predecessor, "Paths Of The Chosen". And, as always, happy reading, and may God bless and keep you.)



5:24 High Sun, Quies Domini, 27th of Quintilis, 2134 13B.

Fading stars of the early morning twinkled and winked at the huntress as she watched them. Though her eyes stayed true on the heavens, she did not let her other sense become slack. Other than the sounds of crickets in the grass, there was nothing of any significance to draw her attention. It was quite humid, thanks to the steady rain of the previous day, but she didn’t really mind it. Out here, whether it be forests or open plains, she was at home. If ever she had a temple where she worshiped, this was it.

Of course, it wasn’t really worship that she did, so much as letting her thoughts wander in the manner of a nomad.

She’d already been up and about for more than half an hour, walking wide circles around their camp. It was a little strange to have slept through the night without Tykara’s muffled cries. But the bandit hadn’t made a sound all night. At least, not that the Valkyrie had heard. And she was certain she would have heard it.

Then again, Siltas had been in her own tent. She’d seen dead bodies before, friends and foes alike. But she had felt very uncomfortable with the thought of staying the night in the same tent as Tamara’s lifeless form. She wasn’t certain if the Knight felt the same way, but he, too, had set up his own shelter. Which left the recovering warrior to rest alone next to a corpse.

Or perhaps Tykara hadn’t rested. True, Siltas had heard nothing, but the last she’d seen of her the night before, Tykara had been just sitting there beside the body, staring, holding her mother’s hand. Maybe she was simply too shocked to sleep, maybe she was too grief-stricken to weep. Maybe she’d stayed up all night; Siltas just didn’t know.

“Have you been out here all night?”

Siltas nearly jumped out of her skin at the unexpected sound. She turned her head and spied Tykara just barely leaning out of her mother’s tent, holding the flap aside with the back of her hand.
“You look a little tired,” the warrior continued. “Did you get enough rest?”

The way she said it, with genuine friendly concern, was . . . Well, it was just so very out of character with everything that the huntress had come to expect from her.

“I should be asking you that,” Siltas redirected the query. The warrior actually did look a little tired. “How do you feel? Did you sleep well? Any strange side-effects from the, uh . . ?” She didn’t know what to call whatever the meteal had done.

“From the mind-spell?” Tykara supplied. Her tone had a feel of familiarity on the subject. “No, no. I feel . . . fine.” When she said that last word, she took on a look of puzzlement. “I . . . I feel better that I have in . . . a very, very long time . . .”

Taking measure of the warrior’s demeanor, of how she seemed uncertain of her own thoughts, Siltas pursued, “Are you sure you’re alright? Did you even sleep at all?”

The bandit started to speak, but hesitated. “I . . .” She frowned for an instance, considering the question. “I don’t . . . I don’t know. I don’t remember going to sleep. Or waking up.” She shook her head. “But I don’t feel very tired. I just feel . . . different.”

“Maybe some morning air will set you right,” the huntress suggested. “Or you could just stay where you are, halfway outside,” she added, trying to spark a bit of levity.

While she did not smile, Tykara did move free of the tent, stretching slowly to her full height. Her clothes rippled slightly with a light breeze that drifted by, and her black hair hung loosely around her shoulders. A deep breath filled her lungs with the smell of the morning dew and she closed her eyes for a few brief seconds, taking in the sensation. The breath felt like a new experience to her, or perhaps like an old experience long forgot. She was just a little tired, but she felt . . . ]i]alive.[/i] When she opened her eyes, she looked upward at the uncountable lights that dotted the sky.

She smiled just a bit. “Mistress Kalani loves this time of the morning. She says that the last stars of the morning are prayers of the previous night making their way to Caelestis.”

Still Siltas watched her, though she did smile at the description. “I wouldn’t place too much belief in that, but it’s a poetic way to view it, I guess. Who is Kalani? I’ve never heard you mention her before.”

Tykara’s smile faltered as her brow furrowed in thought, and she had that puzzled look all over again. “I don’t know. I’ve never met anyone named Kalani.”

“Maybe you should go back inside,” the Valkyrie worried, “ and get some sleep before the sun comes up. I could give you a sliver of uulde root to help you rest.”

But the warrior was already shaking her head and back at the tent. “No. No, I can’t sleep right now. I’ve got something I need to do.”

“But you need-”

Tykara wasn’t listening to her. She had turned and pushed aside the tent flap and was ducking back inside.

As the flap fell into place behind the warrior, Siltas lightly bit her lip in thought. While it seemed that Tykara was back with them, there was definitely something strange going on inside her head. Whether it was a need for rest or something more, the Valkyrie couldn’t readily say just yet. But this was not the first time she’d had an uncooperative patient. If it came down to it, she had an herb or two that she could put in Tykara’s food to send her off to a solid night of slumber. She would rather not resort to that, however. As she’d told Kraey, grief was something better faced head-on. And she had yet to see any sort of grieving from Tykara.

From the view of her own experiences, Siltas knew that the longer it was before the warrior’s loss caught up to her, the more harder it was going to hit her. For Tykara’s sake, Siltas sincerely hoped it was going to hit her soon.

She almost took a step to follow, to insist that the warrior rest, but stopped herself. She would have to play this song by ear, since she didn’t know all the notes just yet. Like she’d pointed out before, she knew about physical injuries and how to care for them. While Tykara was up and about where Siltas could keep an eye on her, the Valkyrie had no idea what might be going on in her head or what sort of damage might have already been done. She was just going to have to hope that the meteal's efforts had done its work.

While she allowed her thoughts wandered as they would, she set her body into useful motion by going about the task of dismantling her tent. It was a bit early to start packing, but she had no need to leave it assembled. Of a certainty, she wasn’t going to return to her bedroll, and she saw no harm in putting it away. It would just be something already done and out of the way.

Try as she might, there wasn’t any means by which she could keep rolling up some of the mud along with it. The ground had already been soaked when she set it up. Of course, that was mostly just an inconvenience. Most of it would simply crumble off once it dried.

It took her a little longer than usual to finish, but she wasn’t in any hurry. Even if they’d already known what their day held, she still had plenty of time before either of the others would do the same. A tidy little knot kept the tent compact and secure, and the bedroll quickly followed. Setting them both on the least-damp patch of ground she could find, she stood up, rubbing some of the mud off of her hands.

“A little early for that, isn’t it?”

As before, she jolted with a start, silently cursing herself for allowing herself to be caught off guard so easily. She half-turned and gave the Knight a single raised brow, as if to say, “Your point?” What she actually said was, “Rain’s moved out. Won’t be needing it, not for quite a while if I read the weather right.”

Kraey stretched hard, making a couple of his joints pop audibly, before scratching his beard. In the last couple of days, he’d not taken the time to trim it properly, and it was starting to show. Here and there, a whisker stood out from the rest of the blonde mass. It made him look older. Or maybe it was the worrying.

“Uncomfortable sleep?” she asked him.

“I’ve had better,” he acknowledge through a jaw-wrenching yawn. He went from scratching the beard to rubbing his eyes for several seconds. By the time he’d taken his hand away again, the huntress was facing him fully. Obviously, there was something about her manner that struck him as off. “Is she alright? Have you checked in on her yet?”

“Didn’t have to,” Siltas countered. “She came out while I was stargazing. She’s . . . Well, she seemed fine, physically speaking, but . . .” She had difficulty describing her encounter. “It was like . . . like she wasn’t Tykara, then she was, then she wasn’t. I mean, I know she wasn’t what either of us would’ve called stable before, but she’s just . . .” The Valkyrie shook her head. “Well, I’m sure you’ll see what I mean when she comes out again.”

He didn’t seem to care for the way she described the changes she’d witnessed. “It might be best if I go and -” Whatever else he’d meant to say was lost as a small object zipped by his ear and angled toward the peak of Tamara’s tent. In the blink of an eye, the object ceased to move and perched itself on the apex of the abode.

“Hey, girl!” Siltas exclaimed at the little angel bird. “You’re back! I’ve missed you!” In response, the avian twittered away at her softly.

“While I am not opposed to your little friend’s presence,” Kraey said in a low voice, “I would be most appreciative if you could persuade her not to fly so close to my head at such speeds.”

The bird made a few sharper sounds that did not sound quite so friendly, to which the Valkyrie answered, “Oh, don’t mind him, Halo. He’s had a lot on his mind for the last little while. But he means well.”

The Knight couldn’t help but find the huntress’ antics to be entertaining, despite his concerns of the moment. “Next you will tell me you can actually understand what she’s saying,” he teased.

But Siltas shook her head in negation, tossing her auburn hair about. “No, I’m just a hunter of the clan, not a speaker. But Bentwen can, and she’s very good at it for someone so young.”

Kraey’s expression was caught between amusement and confusion for an instant. Which elicited a grin from the Valkyrie. In turn, her grin seemed to assure the lord that she was merely jesting, and he formed a hesitant grin of his own. He waited several seconds before he grew serious again.

“If I may ask,” he voiced, “what are your plans, now that Tykara seems to be out of physical danger?”

The huntress, in the middle of pursing her lips to call the bird to her, paused and glanced at him. “I don’t know. I haven’t really given it any thought yet. I’ve just been preoccupied with how strange she’s acting this morning.”

“So, do you intend to put off the business with your sisters for a while?”

Her response was non-committal. “Like I said, I don’t know yet. Yes, I want to get back to my clan,” she admitted, “but I’ve kinda got this thing about not leaving people in need. And I’m not sure if Tykara is out of the woods, so to speak.” She started to bite at her lip in thought.

Kraey gave her an understanding nod. “Well, you have at least one day, possibly several, before you will need to decide. We will need to lay Tykara’s mother to rest, and we should permit her a proper mourning period before we move on.” When he spoke, there was a tightness in his voice, borne of shared sadness for the warrior’s loss. Such a thing was a hallmark of a Lord of Unity; they were usually very perceptive of the pain of others, and tended to feel as though it were, to an extent, their own.

The huntress took his emotion in another way. “Kraey,” she started cautiously, “I know it’s not my place, and I know I did tease you a little about it before, but . . . you’re not . . . you know, becoming attached to her, are you? I mean, I doubt I have to tell you that something like that wouldn’t end very well, her being an outlaw and all.”

There was not sign of indignation or anger in his expression when he regarded her. “A Knight gives a little of himself to everyone he encounters. So, yes, in a way, I have become attached to her. But not in the way you mean. I grieve for her loss. I, too, have lost my mother, though it was long ago.”

That makes three of us, Siltas thought to herself, though she didn’t say it aloud. Instead, she said, “Alright. I just thought I should point that out.”

He dipped his head in a grateful nod. “And I thank you for your concern, misplaced though it may be.”

She gave him a lopsided grin for a few seconds, then she turned her head away and issued a short whistle, summoning Halo to her shoulder. Quite obviously, she’d grown fond of the minuscule avian.

The flap of Tamara Sol-Talon’s shelter lifted away, startling the bird and causing her to take flight for an instant before re-settling on Siltas’ other shoulder. A very solemn and somber Tykara emerged and stood upright, her blue eyes slightly reddened and damp. She didn’t look at either of the other two, as though she didn’t want them to know she’d been quietly crying.

“I . . . I need help,” she said. “I have to dig a proper grave for her. I can’t leave her like we did those soldiers.”





There was no effort needed on the part of Tykara in securing the aid of her companions. Even putting aside the obvious and sensible reasons for burial, Siltas had developed a strong admiration for the deceased woman in the very short time she’d known her. She hadn’t said as much, but it was true nonetheless. And for Kraey, the same could be said. But even more so, he’d felt a spiritual connection with the woman. From things Tamara had said and the way she’d portrayed herself, the Knight was inwardly convinced that she’d been not only a believer in Kami, but that she was also a true and faithful servant to that very same deity. Kraey would have felt it as a failure on his own part if he’d left her to a shallow grave.

While they did not have quite enough in the way of actual digging tools, (Kraey being the only one with a shovel), that did nothing to stop Tykara from hacking away at the dirt with whatever she had at hand. Yes, there was a part of the warrior that cringed inside when she used her own blade to break loose the soil, but she would not be stopped by something so trivial. Swords could be re-sharpened or replaced. Gods knew she’d gone through enough swords in her life to understand such a simple thing.

Even with the soil being soft and damp from the rain, it was no easy task, and all three soon found themselves constantly cleaning dirt-caked tools quite often. As for a way to scoop out the loose earth, a cooking pot was employed to the job to accompany Kraey’s shovel. And when the grave was deep enough that they could not all work in it at once, they tried taking spells at digging. Tykara, covered in mud and unwilling to take a break, waved away all efforts to trade places with her, so Kraey and Siltas simply took turns with each other. (Though the Valkyrie kept a careful eye on the other woman, not yet convinced that all was well.)

By the time the pit was deep enough to satisfy Tykara’s demands, the three of them had spent most of the day’s light digging. The Knight gave a shoulder to the bandit to help her up out of the hole before accepting a hand from Siltas in order to vacate it himself.

Seeing that Tykara was physically exhausted, (and understanding that her lack of strength was likely due to more than the work or to her recent condition), Kraey took it on himself to enter the still-standing tent and bring out the body of the fallen [meteal[/i]. He was surprised, and yet he was not, to find that Tykara had already taken the time to neatly and carefully wrap the body in a blanket. When he knelt down to lift the woman, he couldn’t help but shed a tear for someone so obviously exceptional. That lonely tear battled its way through the dirt and grime on his cheek while gravity beckoned at it from below.

As he returned to the side of the grave, Tykara made no motion other than to watch his approach, her eyes on the shrouded form which he bore. The huntress met him at the edge of the hole, two lengths of rope in hand. Looping one around Tamara’s shoulders and the other around her knees, she and Kraey lifted the woman and gently lowered her into the ground. Before they began to fill in the grave, the Knight offered a simple prayer, committing the woman into the care of Kami.

Through it all, Tykara stared at the hole with an expression of sad acceptance, but she shed very little in the way of tears. It seemed to the others that, for a brief moment, she was on the verge of falling apart. But that changed in an instant. She closed her eyes, took a breath, and when she opened them again, it was as though she’d become an entirely different person, calm and at peace. Serene.

And, what truly surprised them both, little Halo, who had been hanging about the entire day, lighted on the warrior’s shoulder and twittered softly at her. Instead of shooing the bird away, Tykara turned to look at the creature, smiled, and lifted a singular finger to run along its feathered chest. The bird accepted the attention with a light chirp before going aloft once more.

Kraey and Siltas watched it all in quiet astonishment as the former bandit returned to the tent.





As he stirred the stick in the fire, the Knight could not seem to recall how he’d come to be there. He remembered having taken the time to scrub as much of the dirt from his hands and face as he was able with a dampened cloth. And he remembered building a fire, much smaller than this one, before laying out his bedroll. He’d taken Siltas at her word when she claimed the rain would not return. He had felt it a relief to be able to have the fresh air as he lay down to sleep.

But when did he arise to tend the fire? He thought he had already put it out. And why had he allowed it to grow so large? Certainly the rain would deter the threat of a wildfire somewhat, but he was still not certain how their attackers had found them before. He had better sense than to light a beacon for them. And yet, here he sat on a rock by this oversized blaze, apparently unconcerned about their assailants’ Majikal comings and goings.

Another movement with the stick sent a spiral of sparks floating upward, one by one fading as they burned out. Kraey took a deep breath, taking in the sweet breeze of the night. Then he noticed that there was no bedroll. Not his own, not Siltas’. Even the tent, where Tykara had sought slumber, was gone, as were all the horses.

It was only himself, the heat of the flames, and a vast open plain that stretched out into the night.

Now he began to wonder why he was so calm about all the strangeness. Where had the two women gone? How had they taken everything without his noticing?

A creak of aged metal made him look to his side, where sat an aged man encased in full armor, a weathered helm resting on his knee. Oddly, Kraey was not surprised to see him. There was something about the old man that was familiar, but the Knight couldn’t place it.

“So much responsibility,” the man said. “You have taken much upon yourself, boy.” When he spoke, his voice was clear and strong, and it seemed to surround the Knight. There was something about the man that made it difficult for Kraey to tell his race. When he first glanced at the greyed hair and thick beard, he thought the man was human. But that answer somehow didn’t feel accurate. “It is good that you seek to help others. But you should take care that you do not commit to more than you can manage.”

“I trust in Kami to grant me the strength for the tasks,” Kraey replied candidly. “If I cannot do a thing with His aid, then it is a thing that cannot be done.”

The old man smiled through his beard. “I thought you would say as much, young lord. But you seem to be at a loss for the moment.”

Kraey nodded to him. “Yes. I am not certain what I need to do. Siltas and Tykara have such disparate needs, and I would see them fulfilled. And then there is the wizard who is lost to us, and us having no way to see how to help him.”

“And your own need,” the man added pointedly. “Your drive to find Menja lies at the base of all you do, Kraey. Yes, you have repeatedly pushed aside your desire, but it is still there. It makes you push all the harder to see the needs of the others resolved. The sooner their quests are finished, the more quickly you can go back to finding your sister. Am I right?”

As the old man voiced the words, the Knight realized the truth they held. Or perhaps he had already known them for truth, and only needed them to be spoken aloud in order to admit it.

“Am I so easily read?” he asked. The question was rhetorical, though it did not matter. The greybeard made no effort to answer, regardless. “Yes, I feel pressed to find her. But I am earnestly trying to not let my own desires interfere with the lives of these people. I’ve grown to think of them as more than simple companions on the road. And certainly more than just pieces of the puzzle to our dreams. I find myself thinking of them as friends. Even Tykara, despite her past deeds.”

“The past makes us what we are,” the old man sagely told him, “but it does not make us what we will be. Her future has yet to be written, boy, the same as everyone else.”

Kraey sat there for some time, considering what was said. The flames danced before him, but he barely saw them, barely felt their warmth. After several minutes he turned toward his guest.

“Can you tell me what should be done? What course I should pursue?”

The old man smiled broadly, showing off a mouthful of teeth untouched by age, and patted a gauntlet-clad hand on the Knight’s knee. “Whatever path you take, the warrior with follow. She needs you to lead her to the end of the dream. She is stirring in her sleep, but she has yet to truly awaken. The huntress has taken you under her wing. Though she has other duties which must be tended, she considers you and Tykara as her wards. She won’t abandon you until she’s certain you’re both safe. Besides, the dream draws her as well.”

The lord listened patiently, then waited for him to continue. When he did not, Kraey asked, “But what of Tabin? Is there no way for us to help him?”

The old man’s smile widened just a bit. “He has all the help he needs for now, boy. But don’t worry. You will meet him again. It will take all four of you to bring the dream to an end. And others may yet join you in your journey. Remember, Kami will provide the tools, but it is up to mortals to ultimately decide what the future holds for yourselves.” Then the man rocked himself forward and stood upright, his armor creaking and groaning in protest. “I would wish you luck, boy, but we both know there is no such thing. Instead, I will just say this; may Kami guide your steps, and may Mirac show you grace.”

Kraey said nothing more as he watched the old man amble off into the dark.





Kraey awoke to a hand shaking him by the shoulder, and he realized he was lying on his bedroll, near the small ashes of the fire he had extinguished before he’d gone to sleep. He squinted his eyes and tried to see who had disturbed him, but there was very little light so early in the morning. It took him several seconds to make out the face of the woman leaning over him. Black hair hung loosely around her shoulders.

“Tykara?” he mumbled. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“It’s time for us to go,” she informed him cryptically. “Start getting your things together and I’ll wake up Siltas.”

“What?” It was an effort to lift himself up on one elbow. “Why? What’s going on?”

“It’s time to [i]go]/i],” she emphasized, tapping a single finger against her chest.

That was when he noticed it. That incessant pull was back, drawing his spirit toward the east and north. Tykara was right. It was time to go.