“Aldoms are noble creatures,” He indicated the two legged
creatures standing in a row by the boys, “Some may have its own traits set
apart from others, but on the whole they are proud, but fair, if you treat them
with respect. And if you do, they will honor that respect. But treat them
otherwise and they will not tolerate you. They are quick and agile, able to run
swiftly and leap high and long. They are not ideal for crossing great
distances, requiring frequent rests for lengthy travel, but, and I say again,
if treated right, they can become magnificent steeds, giving you the upper hand
in combat.”
“I have a question Mentor,” Marc gave a short bow as he had
seen Zildjin and Sesuadra do before and had become accustomed to doing so when
asking a question.
“Speak, fledgling,” Topar nodded, his shaggy fur moving with
the motion.
“I don’t understand why such intelligent, noble creatures as
a whole would subject themselves to another race, such as us,”
“Indeed,” Topar nodded, his tiger ears popping up, “not all
the aldoms you see in the city, and across the lands, carrying people and
pulling wagons, are the kind that I speak of, like these three,” he gestured to
the three creatures by the boys.
“Once, long ago, all Aldoms were noble and intelligent. It
is rare to find those special kind in these times. With Eleanor’s approval and
assistance I have spent the past fortnight to find and select three fine aldoms
for you.”
“Tandur, Guardian,” He said, pointing to the first one with
the green hide.
“Syril, Bright eyes,” He said, gesturing to the second one
with the dark blue hide.
“And lastly, Redmor, Undaunted. Now, Fledglings, select your
steed.”
Select our steed,
Marc thought,
how are we
supposed to do that?
No one moved for a few moments, they looked at each other.
Finally, Sesuadra acted first.
He walked slowly toward the three creatures.
He stopped when they made low guttural, almost chittery,
sounds in their throats and shifted defensively. Their large ears flattened and
their tails thumped the ground in warning.
He looked each of the aldoms carefully in the eyes, then he
slowly fell to one knee and bowed himself down, almost to the earth, his arms
open wide and to the sky.
Sesuadra remained like that for several long moments.
Nothing happened for a time.
Then, he felt and heard one of the creatures approach. It
chittered and chirped in a friendly manner and slowly nudged Sesuadra to stand.
He looked up into the eyes of Syril, the blue aldom.
He smiled and stood up with the creatures help.
He then went to Brighteye’s side, grabbed the top of the
saddle, and with one foot in the stirrup jumped up and sat down.
“Very well done,” Topar noted, “Zildjin and Marc, you are
next.”
The two boys exchanged glances that said
you want to go?
Not really, you?
“I’ll go,” Marc said.
“No,” Zildjin said, “I will.”
Zildjin patted the inner pocket by his heart where he kept
the medallion as if to draw courage from it.
And he went.
He followed Sesuadra’s lead and when he was close to the
animals he knelt to the ground.
Tandur, the green aldom, chose Zildjin without too much
hesitation.
Soon Zildjin was aboard his mount next to Sesuadra.
Now they just waited on Marc.
Marc stepped forward and walked towards the last creature.
He felt nervous. They were such different animals from his
world he did not really know how to act.
The creature sensed his anxiety and in turn it made the
creature nervous.
Redmor, the third aldom, acted like the other two, it
chittered a warning and shifted defensively.
It looked so much more real up close, so much more
ferocious. Its taloned feet and curved beak appeared much sharper, the light
glinted in its large eyes. He could see the subtle muscle movements rippling in
its small arms and thick legs. It smelled of musty straw and the pungent spice
that Marc saw Sesuadra use in the balkars feeding area.
Marc felt the fear well up inside him.
He froze.
His fear took over him and he just simply froze.
Undaunted grew angry, it thumped its tail against the ground
and growled louder.
“Show your respect, fledgling!” Topar commanded, “An
insulted aldom will maul you, and if it feels threatened enough it will slay
you where you stand.”
Marc tried to move but he couldn’t seem to make himself.
He mentally shook himself.
Move idiot! Your two new friends just did this, don’t
make yourself look like a fool in front of them!
He touched the hilt of the blade and felt that reassuring
warmth flow from it to him.
The instant he did so the aldom stopped thumping its tail.
Marc looked Redmor in the eyes. The fear Marc saw there in its gaze began to
melt away.
He let go of the sword. He brought his hands up, they felt
warm, they seemed to almost be glowing, he thought. He drew closer. The
creature lowered its head, allowing him to put his hands on each side of its
face. The moment he touched the creature he felt the warmth in his hands spread
through the creature. It stopped thumping its tail and relaxed.
A calm, like a wave, seemed to settle over the yard. The
wind stopped.
Then Redmor pulled away, looking at Marc. It chirped, and
then it bowed low, as low as it could get to the ground.
The other two aldoms squawked as well, and bowed low.
Sesuadra and Zildjin gripped their reins tightly to stop themselves from
falling off. Even the balkar that Topar rode lowered itself.
The creatures were
actually bowing
to Marc.
Marc was surprised but did not move, his hands still held in
the air.
Topar’s face was one of absolute wonder, his tail stopped
flicking back and forth.
“Never in all my days,” He whispered, “have I seen such a
thing.”
No one noticed that the yard the
boys and their mentor were in was being watched, and had been on a few other
occasions as well.
An upper balcony of a nearby shop did not look down directly
into the training area, but the tall tower-like roof above the balcony gave for
a very good perch and view of the grounds behind the Emporium. Hidden in the
dark shadows there on the roof a figure garbed all in black sat and observed
the mounted combat lesson.
Unlike Topar, the watcher had seen such a thing, and was
familiar with the implications of it. That sword the boy had, it was powerful
indeed, whether the boy was aware of the magic in the weapon, was another
matter entirely.
The moment the boy touched the hilt of the sword the
onlooker felt a strong aura emanating from the weapon. It was faint because of
his distance from the blade, but it was powerful, thick. To his enhanced
magical senses it was absolutely intoxicating, the pure potential, the pure
excitement and wonder, and these were all feelings he felt from a distance.
Even the riding creatures in their simple little minds, could feel the magic
emanating from the sword and revered it. The watcher had a strong desire to
hold the sword in his own hands, to understand its power. It was the single
most powerful magic he had sensed from an inanimate object in all his days. He
must have the thing to himself, he must.
But he could not spend any more time watching. The others
would begin to notice his absences and suspect something, and he did not want
that. He must spend some time planning now and wait, patience would yield its
reward, he had to hope, had to believe it would.
The figure garbed in black deftly slid from the roof,
hanging from the gutter for a moment to flip quietly onto the balcony below. He
peered over the balcony railings to make sure no one was down in the alley
below. He jumped a seemingly impossible distance from this to a long strand of
vines creeping up a stone wall nearby. With uncanny speed and agility he
climbed down the vines, jumped onto some crates below and flipped to land on
the ground with ease.
The man stood, his black hood still up, and began to walk to
the entrance of the alley. As he walked he muttered a few carefully chosen
words and made two gestures with his hands. As he finished the gestures and
uttered a final word the black in his cloak and attire melted away magically,
transforming into a rich deep blue color. In another moment gold embroidery
appeared at the hem and sleeves of his now blue robes.
He exited the alleyway dressed as the people of Kolima knew
him, Safral of the Overseer’s Hands.
The vision of the young man brought
Drake to his senses.
It had happened again, he had blacked out. It had been at
least three cycles since it had occurred last, he had even begun to hope that
it would never happen again, but that hope was now gone, shattered to oblivion.
What had he done this time?
He was covered in blood, his two blades before him on the
floor. That was when he felt a presence and a hand on his shoulder had turned
him around.
At first he did not really comprehend the sudden appearance
and disappearance of the young man, just as he could not understand or explain
his blackouts, but as the shock of awaking from darkness to be covered in blood
that was not his own began to wear off he realized that he recognized the boy’s
face.
It was the boy from his dream.
Drake looked around the room. There was his bed in the
corner, sheets and blanket tossed and rumpled. It was dark, nighttime. A few
candles, burning low, lit the room with their small flickering flames. The
heavy oak dresser had been dragged from its place against the wall and leaned
against the door, barricading entrance to the room. There were long gauge marks
in the hard wood floor, indicating the heavy weight of the dresser.
He could not recall having moved the dresser.
There was also his small desk, the table with ceramic bowls
and cups atop it where he ate, and a chair was along the third wall. There was
the simple canvas painting hung next to the closed door on the fourth wall.
Drake could also not remember having gotten fully suited up
in his old battle gear. He wore his thick dark leather armor, leather boots,
and his dark forest green traveling cloak. The nearby flickering candlelight
made his armor shine with a silver gleam, the breastplate. Though he had once
carefully studied the masterfully carved designs of the dragons on his gear due
to the current situation he barely noticed them. Without looking he could feel
the dark brown leather belt with its full pouches, around his waist.
Before him on the floor were his weapons, two very fine
swords, the candlelight glinted off their sheen surfaces. The two weapons
looked completely identical. Both had slightly curved blades, very long. The
outer curve looked razor sharp and the inner curve of the blade was flat. The
grips were covered with black leather looking material and the Tsubas, or hand
guards, were a shiny gold were decorated in the shape of fiery dragons. The
blades’ were also decorated with a similar silhouette of fantastically designed
dragons etched into the surface on both sides, the tail of the dragon swirling
around the blade all the way to the top. Blood was spattered all over the
blades, dripping off the edges in a harmonious pattern onto the floor.
He looked at the blood and thought
Not again, not now!
What have I done this time?
And why had that boy appeared to him, and how?
Pound. Pound. Pound. Pound. Pound.
An angry fist
pounded on the door behind the large dresser five times in quick succession,
shattering the silence of the room.
His heart leapt to his throat in surprise.
Pound. Pound. Pound.
The fist banged against the
wood.
“Drake!?” A muffled voice on the other side of the door called
out, “I know you’re in there! I don’t care if you’re asleep or not! There’s
been another disturbance, this time
Bad!
”
Pound. Pound. Pound.
He knew the voice. It was Ormton, the innkeeper, a friend.
He didn’t want this, not again, not now. Things had been
going so well
.
What could he do? He didn’t even know what he did, but
judging by the blood all over him he figured it was bad.
He would have to leave again, go far away, find a new home.
He was stupid to have settled down. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
He should have stayed away. But he couldn’t have, he had fallen for
her.
“Drake!” The voice called out again, “I will be honest, I
have the guards here with me, but we just want to talk!”
The pounding of the fist suddenly stopped and instead turned
into someone throwing their weight against the door, the heavy dresser held.
His thoughts became more frantic and he began to revert to
his instincts, closing in on himself, shielding himself, eventually his
thoughts became only the basics, only survival.
“Drake! The town guard is here to take you in!”
Thump.
“I
know not whether you fall to be guilty but you must let us in! Be reasonable
Drake!” The pushing stopped for a moment, “What have you got blocking this
cursed door!?”
Guilty, for what?
Drake shook his head, the blood on
him left more than enough to the imagination. He had to escape!
But I didn’t DO anything!
Drake screamed in his mind.
He used the nearest, cleanest portion of the white bed sheets to wipe as much
blood off his hands as he could. He finished a quick sweeping clean of his
armor and then threw the dirty sheets to the ground. He jumped out of bed,
running towards the table and in one swift motion he grabbed the two blades,
wiping the wet blood off of his weapons onto the right knee of his leather breeches.
“I hear him!” The innkeeper cried, “Push harder!”
Pound.
Thump.
The door groaned but the impossibly heavy dresser barely moved.
His heart pumping fast, the young man picked up the
connected sheaths from under the table, sheathed the blades, and expertly
strapped the whole small contraption on his back. Next he ran to the dresser,
deftly shoved the clothes on top of the dresser into the bag and slung it over
his shoulder.
Lastly, he turned, and ran for the window.
“Wait!” The innkeeper cried, “I hear him heading for the
window! Two of you go around! Go around!”
Drake put one foot on the ledge and quickly peered out, he
had forgotten the room he had rented was three stories up, almost thirty feet
to the ground. The starry night sky and two moons were blocked by dark clouds
and the few burning lamps around the town did little in the way of
illumination. But the blackness did not hinder Drake’s vision. A magic within
him changed things, at night everything he saw was highlighted in a bright
green and was otherwise dull and faded, not even half its original color. Using
his special sight Drake made his plan of escape. There were a couple of trees
below him and some bushes below that, but not much else besides hard packed
dirt. He estimated the distance and figured he could land without breaking
anything. There was no town wall in the direction he was aiming for so he
figured he could run, follow the road for a bit, and make it to the forest in
the distance. He remembered he had a map and whipped it out of one of the
pouches in his belt. He scanned it quickly, the pounding on the door making his
eyes move hastily. If he could get far enough west there was a river, there he
would make sure anybody who followed him, and this time he was sure many would,
lost his trail. And then after that he would be safe, for the most part.
“C’mon! Heave! Heave!”
Thump. Thump!
Time was running short, he would either have to jump or face
whoever was going to burst through the door, and though he knew he could
confront them and probably win, he did not want to kill anybody.
Anybody else…
he added bitterly. He stuffed the map
back into his belt just as the dresser finally gave and the door flew inwards.
The Innkeeper and four men suited in armor with swords drawn, burst into the
room.
“Drake!” The innkeeper yelled, “
DRAKE!
”
But his cry was too late for Drake turned and deftly
launched himself from the window.
With unprecedented accuracy and skill, especially for such a
young man, Drake aimed for a tree below and made his mark. His arms
outstretched, Drake grabbed the intended branch and felt his body straighten
out and all the force from the fall pull at his arms. He let out a grunt of
pain, but ignored it, continuing with the momentum, swinging, completing a back
flip, and landing on the ground underneath the tree.
He turned to see the innkeeper and armored men with oil
lamps in their hands looking out the window.
“He is there!” They cried.
“I did not do it!” He tried to explain, he shook his head,
his face was filled with sadness. He didn’t know what to say. He wished he
could just tell someone, let them know the truth, hear his side of the story,
tell them about his blackouts. But he knew it would not work, he had tried it
before.
“I did not do it. I am sorry!”
He took off, running towards the dirt road leading away from
the Inn, and the town, and everything.
Drake was different, he knew that.
He could see much better than other people. He could run faster and farther
than anyone he had ever met. He had lightning like reflexes. He was smart, and
could think remarkably quickly. He had a superb sense of smell and could hear
astoundingly well, and most of all he was extraordinarily strong for his size.
He had trained for many cycles under the
two-sword style
and had the
technique almost mastered. He was an expert tracker, and knew how to survive in
the wild.
But the strangest thing about him, besides the
things
that happened to him when he had weird unexplained blackouts, was that he never
aged.
He did not know how old he truly was because he had been
young now, for more than twenty cycles. He could not remember how this thing
had happened to him, but he knew that he did not age as other humans.
He had been searching for help, an explanation, anything,
for a long time.
He ran and ran and ran as long and as fast as he could, and
when he could not run he jogged until he could run again. He had quickly
entered into the forest just outside of the small town he had been staying in
and he had continued on, not looking behind, never looking behind. Through the
forest he went, deeper and deeper. Vines and leaves whipped at his face and he
dodged and ducked and jumped over fallen trees, stumps, and boulders.
After what felt like a long time, he knew that it was likely
his pursuers were already lost in the dark and he could afford to take a
moment’s break. He rested against a tree, panting hard, his lungs seared like
fire and his breath came in short intervals. He plopped to the ground and
leaned his head backwards closing his eyes, laying his back against the smooth
bark of the tree.
I should keep on going,
he thought. But after he sat
for a moment, his eyes still closed, he could not hear any sounds of pursuit,
and even if there were, he knew they were far behind him. Besides it was too dangerous
to use his night-vision at high speeds.
I should at least reach the river
first though…
Eventually a number of factors made up his mind and he stood
up, after all he was thirsty, and hungry too, he noticed. He searched the small
pack he had taken with him and pulled out a small handful of purple fruit. He
smelled them and, satisfied, popped them in his mouth. After swallowing the
quick meal, and with a deep breath, he continued on at a walking pace.
Walking also gave him a chance to enjoy the beauty of the
nature surrounding him. With his superb hearing he could easily identify what,
usually, other humans would think of as just creeks and groans of the forest.
The insects of the night chirped and twittered a soft musical hum that to
Drake, seemed to fill the very trees themselves. An owl hooted in the distance
and took off from a branch, making leaves rustle.
The smells of everything around him were positively
overwhelming, in a good way. The most overpowering was pine, for there were
many of that variety of trees in this particular forest. But he could smell
birch and oraku and something else he could not identify. A number of flowers
and plant smells came to his nose as well, sweet lilac, a hint of goldenlurch,
the long afreeTea plant, and the strong scent of the shrub scufflesnout. He
could not remember where he had learned all of these things he just knew that
he knew them. He knew many of the names of plants and berries and other fruit
that could be found in the wild that were safe to eat, or could be used as
herbs, or for healing.
After a short time the sound of rushing water came to his
well trained ears and Drake knew that he had come to the river. With his
eyesight and his hearing he made his way towards the sound until the trees
broke and he was at his destination.
Finally,
he thought,
I have a
chance to wash my bloodied hands.
He carefully walked down a muddy bank and
knelt down right in front of the moving water. He unbuckled his gauntlets and
placed them at his side. Next he took off his breastplate and swords strapped
around him, also placing them next to him, and he took off his shirt as well,
revealing his lean but muscular build. For someone so young and skinny he was
buff. Slowly, he lowered his hands into the water. It was cold, not as cold as
he thought it was going to be, but it
was
the warm season and the snows
from the mountains had long melted. Scrubbing with both hands he scrapped his
skin until every last bit of dried blood was gone. Next, he splashed cold water
over his chest, he sucked in a quick breath as the cold water touched his bare
skin but he quickly got over it and continued washing. Lastly, he knelt
forward, resting his arms in the water and dunked his face, hair and all, into
the river. Cold rushed over him, smooth, flowing cold, and he took a few gulps
of the refreshing water. Finally his breath ran out and he popped his head back
out, flinging droplets everywhere. He knew that normally drinking from a river
was very unwise, all sorts of sickness came from water that was so muddied down
by other things, and it was a much better decision to drink from a clear,
clean, stream nearer to the source. But this fact did not bother him at all
because he had found that he had a rock hard gut and he could not ever remember
getting sick from any sort of food, he had even had to resort to rancid meat
one time when he was traveling across the plains. It had tasted horrible, but
he had not gotten sick.