Dark Mission (Chapter 2)
Astor—accompanied by Rennick and his two men, Galleren and Lott, rode the ferry across the Great River. They drew nearer to the Citadel of Batana with both reserve and relief. After a month following up Astor’s sage contacts closer to the City of Lak, they had journeyed down the Royal Road. Traveling as civilians meant facing all manner of petty inquiry and common swindles. Different cover would have helped. The journey would have been swifter riding war horses and wearing the insignia of the Empress's Guard. Even traveling under the colors of the Golden Conclave of would have reduced interference greatly. But this was a dark reconnaissance mission--dark both in the sense that they went incognito and in the sense they had no specific target. The men needed to mix well with all walks of life because any information on the Crystal King might prove helpful.
As water lapped against the hull of the ferry, they waited beside their horses watching the further shore.
The ferry was wide and could carry eight horses abreast. Two river men guided the ferry with poles from behind as horses drew it across the river by rope. Haven's two smallest moons were visible tonight in the clear evening sky: one was reddish and dull, and the other was twice as bright as the sky's brightest star.
Rennick had pushed them fairly hard for such an open-ended mission, not that they expected to pick up much intelligence along the Royal Road. From the first day, he seemed even more driven than usual. One evening he expressed his bitterness as they rested at a caravansary, where the horses fed at stalls around the open courtyard. He explained that the high priest Nardak had somehow initiated new imperial directives, of which this mission was a part.
"I don't trust that charlatan," Rennick had said. "The lives of two Dancers were lost for one of his pipe dreams. At his word, we sailed to Lyndarr to secure what turned out to be nothing more than a map we have several copies of already."
"He should send his own followers on his useless missions." Galleren's face turned almost the color of his fiery red hair. Galleren was perhaps the best strategist and tactician among them, almost always captain of the winning team during his days of training. Like Rennick, he had been recruited by the Shadows as an orphan, trained during his days in public school, and chosen to join the Raptor clan rather than the Dancer clan. Unlike Astor of the Sage Guild, he had earned the title Lord through service in the Empress’s Guard. Galleren had a quick temper that always just as quickly returned to its genial and thoughtful base line.
During the ferry ride as during the trip, the men mingled among the travelers, bringing up the Crystal Kingdom in small talk and innocuous questions. So far they had had no luck stirring up any new stories or rumors. Finally, the ferry reached the shore and the men disembarked and mounted their horses for the short ride to the citadel visible about a kilometer north of them. To the east, difficult to see with Luna in her dark first phase, the Great River entered the Haunted Forest
Batana was alive at night, torches burning outside and inside the city. The citadel consisted of seven interlocking walls of stone with staggered gates. Generally, horses and livestock were quartered in the outer rings, servants and soldiers in the inner rings. The protective barriers were a sign of the care and defense King Kataba provided his people, who along with more ordinary city dwellers, consisted of mystics and outcasts of every kind. Taxes were high for the many guilds of artists and performers who made a good profit from this refuge, but many others also shared the favor of the king and enjoyed Batana’s peace and protection.
Rennick and his three Shadow Raptors left their horses in the outermost ring, passing easily through the seven gates. Though they wore bows and swords, the men looked very much like tourists or common adventurers, and they walked in pairs to maintain the casual impression. Soldiers on the walls watched for large groups, weapons of war, or the tell-tale long hair and staves of barbarians. Travelers with wagons or obvious products for market were diverted to a special gate in the seventh wall. As they passed through the final gate, the men saw a line of carts and rickshaws that were waiting to take visitors to legitimate accommodations. In front of this line, hustlers prowled in the hopes of leading ignorant newcomers to their substandard and overpriced hovels.
“My friends, allow me to carry you to the Batana’s finest Inn,” said a heavy-set, dusty man in a cloak covered with patches. “I can arrange the best price in the city and free drinks for your first night!”
Rennick stared him down with his piercing blue eyes. “You must mean the Raven’s Nest. We are heading there now.” The hustler bowed several times and did his best to fade into the evening. Galleren rolled his eyes and restrained himself from helping the hustler on his way.
“Listen,” Rennick said, drawing his men in close. “You all know this city stays up all night and sleeps half the day. There’s no need to waste the evening. Galleren and Sturm, check out the night market. Lott, you’re with me. We’ll debrief later at the inn.” He guided Lott by the elbow for the first few steps, and then the pair was moving off quickly to the west.
Galleren and Astor set off at a more leisurely pace, heading north toward the central market district. There were signs with esoteric symbols—stars and moons, strange letters and runes—indicating sanctuaries on almost every corner, the windows alight with lamp stands, but upon looking in, Astor thought that most looked more like eateries, drinkeries, or smoking dens than places of devotion. As the night grew darker, the streets brightened with more torch light. Street performers accepted coins as they juggled, danced, or played flutes.
“I don’t suppose we can interpret Rennick’s orders to mean getting a drink.” Astor said dryly.
Galleren raised a finger with a look of mock joy on his face before feigning disappointment, “We’ll never get away with it if we come back empty handed.”
Before long, they reached the night market. In the center, venders congregated in clusters of similar goods, including cloth, paper, spices, and precious metals. Further out, haphazard pathways meandered among the tables and tents, where vendors displayed wares of all kinds: soaps, perfumes, baskets, toys, and puzzles. Lines were hung with carpets of every color and tapestries of every design. There were wagons offering tea, grilled meat on sticks, fruit, and steamed buns, filling the air with tantalizing smells. Covered booths lined the buildings along the outer perimeter. Astor was drawn to a table of folios with other worldly titles such as Ancient Geology or World Literature. At the academy, Astor had seen folios reputed to be copies of information from the other world. He picked up one or two of these, shaking his head. They were bad productions, all very thin, without scribal seals—and some without even an author’s name.
“Trash?” asked Galleren. Astor nodded in disgust.
Many of the booths claimed to have relics, made from folk practices passed down from the other world or made with instructions from spirit words. There were hoops with webs of colorful cords that a seller claimed would catch nightmares while letting good dreams drop into feathers hanging below. One booth sold stones with spirit letters that could be cast on a cloth to divine the future. There were prayer beads, incense, meditation mats, and every kind of mystical symbol. After his serious studies of folklore and folk practices, Astor was always taken aback by the wanton exploitation in Batana.
Continuing their unhurried walk, passing through a dark corner of the market, the sage signaled the Shadow Raptor at a dim booth with several spirit artifacts, not merely folk craft and lore from the other world: various crystals and metal items of odd shapes. Amidst the small collection was a palm-sized half orb, a type of relic Astor had read about at the academy. He inspected a few other items first. When he finally took the half orb from the shelf, he quickly saw it was made from glass as some of the bottom circumference was chipped. The base was painted black and was completely smooth with no openings for keystones, which were said to empower spirit artifacts.
“These fine relics were recovered from the dark mines of the Crystal Mountains,” said the old peddler, recognizing Astor from where he sat in a chair among the shelves. He had wild white hair that seemed float around his head.
“We are very interested in news from the Crystal Mountains,” said Astor, replacing the half orb.
“Yes,” Galleren added taking out a blue gemstone that could have paid a soldier’s wages for a month. “Real news would be valuable.”
“I no longer travel the dusty roads,” said the old peddler. “My brave associates bring me my treasures.”
Galleren placed the gem back inside his tunic, and the peddler raised one white eyebrow, saying, “However, I see that you richly reward those who bring assistance. Might I trust your pledge of confidence were I to make a fruitful introduction?”
Seeing Galleren was about to respond bruskly, Strumgard said, “Of course, sir. You can trust our good faith.”
“Please follow your humble servant,” said the old peddler standing and leading the way through a curtained doorway at the back of the booth, seeming unconcerned that the valuable relics were left unattended. Astor was quite sure there were cases full of these supposedly rare items stashed someplace close by.
“Tribald,” called the white-haired peddler a few paces inside the hall, “We have illustrious guests!” Galleren and Astor followed him through another curtained doorway into a candlelit room where a figure sat at a crafting table covered with tools, blocks of wood, scraps of gold, silver, and bronze. He appeared to be cutting stones for setting.
“Did my esteemed father claim to sell authentic relics again?” said the son standing up, a younger version of the peddler. “His many years sometimes confuse him. We merely make authentic replicas. I offer deep apologies for any undue anxiety.”
“You have some good looking reproductions,” said Astor, “but we are interested in news from the west lands. We seek to confirm reports and gather facts.”
“They offer handsome payment for interesting news!” said the peddler.
The artisan shrugged, “It’s true I spend my hot summers on the very borders of the distinguished Crystal Kingdom. I have seen the ancient relics whose authentic replicas you now observe. But I don’t know what illumination I can offer such knowledgeable gentlemen.”
“We seek first-hand reports of the recent battles of the Crystal King.”
“Yes, yes. It’s true that many wagging tongues tell that the rich monarch rides to battles and wins great victories by powers of the spirit. More I do not know.”
The raptors turned to go.
“I do know a hidden one who wanders the wild border of the kingdom, who knows the secret ways of the spirit and who uses the awesome relics that my poor craft here replicates,” the artisan spread his hands. “I loath to speak crass words disclosing the hard-earned privacy of such a sacred one.”
Galleren placed the blue gem on the crafting table, alongside a pile of similarly-shaped pieces of colored glass.
“But for discerning gentlemen such as yourselves, I can tell you to search near the bright headwaters of the Great River. One we call the cold man protects the strange grounds where exotic trees grow green. He will help you, but you must take great care, for the bold barbarians have routine patrols and tirelessly seek the cold man.”
Galleren was unsatisfied, reaching to take back the bribe, but the artisan continued quickly, “His honored name is Salem, and few know his name. He is most friendly to those who call him by name.”
The look on Astor’s face assured him that this was indeed a solid lead. As they walked to the Raven’s Nest Inn, Astor grew increasingly excited and his energy was contagious. They reported to Rennick upon his return and were asleep before the midnight bell rang in the citadel.
***
The next morning Rennick was up, washed and outfitted before the men had opened their eyes. His short sword was already on his side, composite bow and quiver on his back. The three Shadow Raptors followed suit and were out before the first morning bell. The streets were empty and most doors closed and windows boarded.
The previous night, Rennick and Lott and had investigated a few of the less commercial sanctuaries and questioned a few esoteric contacts, but the only real lead was the cold man, as the artisan had called him. Rennick had decided to hire a scout familiar with the Haunted Forrest and to follow up the lead immediately. The Explorer’s Guild could probably provide a reliable escort.
As soon as the men were ready, they headed to the Explorer’s Post, a barn-like wooden structure amidst a series of barracks near the inner wall. Entering the swinging double door, the Raptors saw a few scouts comparing maps and drinking tea at the dozen tables spread throughout the cavernous main room. Sawdust covered the floor, and a serving man stood behind the bar along the far right side. Stairways at each corner led to balcony along the back wall, where a sentry sat sleeping, crossbow loaded in his lap.
“Good morning,” Rennick said approaching the closest table. “We seek an escort through the Haunted Forest, one familiar with the ways of the barbarians.” The three scouts studied the Raptors cooly, after which one nodded, exited through a door behind a stairwell, and returned sometime later with a tall, strong man. The scout carried a long staff on his back and had the long hair of a barbarian.
“I think I meet your requirements,” said the scout. His classic, strong features—that could have belonged to a bard or popular storyteller—broke into a friendly smile.
A pretty boy, Rennick thought, but he, too, smiled, saying, “You might be too much the barbarian for us. We may be seeking spirit artifacts or at least knowledge of the spirit.”
“I think you will find the Herron people—the barbarians as you call them—have no fondness for my kind. I am of the Derrek. We, too, live natural lives, but we do not object to spirit devices when used for good purposes.”
“I have read some writings of this group,” spoke Astor. “You also reject knowledge from the other world.”
“Haw, not me exactly,” said the scout, still smiling. “I am an outcast among outcasts. But the Derrek do hold to the barbaric ideal of human invention. They believe dependence on the other world is a kind of enslavement. I, on the other hand, am a man of more practical taste and work for practical payment. My name is Arn.” He held out two hands.
“Greetings, Arn.” Rennick said, grasping his hands. “We are ready to set out. Galleren, pay the man. Half.”
***
On their way through the seven staggered gates of the citadel, the men checked their horses and exchanged their bags for trail packs from the saddle bags. Arn did not seem to pay any attention to the mounts or equipment, which by design were civilian and nondescript Leaving the citadel, Arn remained animated, joking about the Batanians who seemed to be on a constant holiday. Seeing the seriousness and intensity of Lott, he said, “I don’t think he likes me, boys.”
“You are smarter than I thought,” responded Lott with his inscrutable smile, making it hard to tell, as always, if he was serious or not. The hard smile and narrowed eyes were known to wilt the false confidence of young recruits. “You are a regular philosopher.”
After the first several kilometers Arn became more professional and presented a plan. He suggested they take the well-traveled footpath far into the forest before diverging to a more secluded way necessary to their search. True to the culture of the citadel, the morning travelers to and from the city were few and the men enjoyed a quiet journey.
Ra was at its zenith when the men reached the shade of the forest. The leaves of most trees had turned the seasonal grey and black, and many had fallen to litter the forest floor. The day was at its warmest when the footpath began to bend north and where a slightly overgrown trail continued along the river. Arn checked the fork carefully but saw no evidence of recent traffic. Some hours later, when only starlight showed through the dark fall leaves of grey and black, Arn carefully observed a patch of woods and suggested they stop for the night: “This is a good place to approach the falls away from Herron trails. If we spend the night close to here, we can be sure no one has seen us leave the common path.” Rennick nodded, and the men bedded down a stone’s throw from the path. The wind through the trees, the chirps of insects, and the occasional hoots of night birds were much more agreeable to the men than the sounds of the city. They breathed in deeply, enjoying the fresh smell of the forest. The Shadow Raptors usually kept informal watches through the night, with Astor and Galleren on late, with Rennick and Lott on early; however, Astor had the feeling Rennick and Arn were both awake through the night.
In the morning as the rays of Ra broke through the branches above, the men lay still taking inventory of the surroundings. Although they were not on high alert, both the artisan and Arn had warned of barbarians in the area. Not carrying spirit artifacts, the men were not concerned for themselves as much as for spoiling an encounter with those who did and who might provide them with desired information. The men quietly ate, packed, and set out single file with Arn in front and Galleren in back.
The way was not rough but it was obscured by bramble and stone, bush and log. Arn was familiar with the irregular terrain and led the Shadow Raptors through a surprisingly fast route as Galleren replaced branches and wiped out evidence of their passage. The elevation sloped ever downward toward the river, and by midmorning they reached a visible fog that must have been rising from the distant water but already beginning to burn off.
They had covered a surprising amount of ground when they met with a fence of thistles that curved south and west as far as they could see. Arn signaled the men to wait and followed the line of brush first southward until he was long out of sight and then westward. Returning, he explained that he had found signs of Herron along the brush line. Arn cast his rope over a tree branch so they could swing over, on by one, and the men moved on at a slower but steady pace.
Continuing their way, they saw the landscape began to change strangely. The light, smooth skin of the forest trees was replaced by a dark, rough exterior. The trunks of the trees became much thicker than usual, the branches growing closer to the ground, and the leaves showing off gold, brown, orange, and red. They heard strange bird calls of several kinds. They passed by trees with drooping branches and thin green leaves and saw a grove of tall, thin trees with sharp green needles. Galleren remembered the words of the artisan, describing a place where “exotic trees grow green,” and began to think maybe the artisan had not cheated them after all. Past this grove was a copse of shorter trees with silver trunks and wide leaves of even more brilliant red, yellow, and orange, the branches full of a startling amount of parrots of many shapes and colors. The copse was covered in a net as fine as webworm thread and hard as chainmail. Beyond the parrots, they passed through more of the thick, dark, rough trees.
Suddenly, Astor saw something drop from a branch in front of him and attach itself to Lott’s thigh. His sword was out of its sheath about the same time that his mind recognized the common reptile: “Fingertail!” he called out. The long articulated appendages grasped Lott tightly as the stinger drilled in, the head biting and the vestigial feet clawing as the snake-like body swung through the air.
Although he would not have judged anyone else falling victim to dumb luck, Lott condemned himself for bringing calamity on the team. Astor quickly severed the head from the reptile, whose tail continued clinging and body flailing. Arn expertly removed the appendages and stinger, but the thigh was already swelling, and Rennick barely caught Lott as he collapsed. Galleren was running through scenarios in his mind: without a healer, they would have to try to cut and drain the wound themselves, and they would have to blaze a trail to the common path. Perhaps they could float the river back to Batana quickly enough. At the same time, Galleren felt that eerie sixth sense of being watched, looking significantly at Astor who felt the hairs raise on the back of his neck, too. As Arn and Rennick bent over their fallen comrade, the other two flanked them, watchfully.
Then several things happened quickly.
An apparition appeared, as though emerging from a nearby tree, the air seeming to shimmer and coalesce into a human shape composed of the rough bark, finally transforming into the more natural colors of clothing, hair, and skin. The figure had strange tools hanging from a belt beneath its open white cloak.
“Salem,” said Astor putting his hand on Galleren’s sword arm. “Friend.” The figure applied one of the tools to Lott’s wound, numbers and symbols scrolling across a small window. The Shadow Raptors and scout restrained themselves, though they surged with adrenaline, for they saw the wound close and the swelling subside under the humming tool. Astor noticed a vibrant tattoo on the neck of the stranger, a symbol of a white bird with a green branch in its beak, as clear and colorful as an oil painting. He recognized the ancient image. “Dove,” he found himself saying aloud.
Suddenly, Galleren, too, spoke a single word: “Hostiles.” As though in ambush, probably watching for Salem, two groups of Herron barbarians rushed at the men from two directions. Instinctually, Galleren noted enough open space and distance for bow shots. In one fluid motion, he drew an arrow, notched it, and lifted the bow from his side. Something from his training caused him to step back scanning the distance. His muscles rather than his mind recalled the barbarian tactic of staggering a rush attack. Because the primary barbarian objective was not warfare, they often attacked in two waves, one to distract and one to secure spirit artifacts. But this time the two groups came simultaneously. True to their culture, the ten barbarians were armed with every kind of staff imaginable. They had long staves and short staves as well as double- and triple-chained staves. Galleren first sent an arrow through the Herron with a poised throwing staff. Three more had fallen to the sound of wood whistling through the air before the rest had closed in.
Arn fought off two of the Herron, parrying and thrusting with his own long staff. Lott had recovered enough to sit up and send a throwing ax into the neck of a Herron sneaking up behind Arn. Rennick had somehow knocked two of the long-haired heads together and delivered a spinning kick to a third as he drew his sword. Astor engaged two others with his short sword, which was already wet from the blood of the fingertail, the clash of metal and wood lasting for only a minute before eight Herron lay bleeding and everything went dark.
***
Astor regained consciousness and saw the bodies of the contenders laying where they had fallen all around. The stranger sat close by on a log with another strange tool in his hands, motioning for him to come closed, patting the log beside him. Astor’s limbs were tingling as he picked up his sword and sat down.
“I was hunting that reptile when it dropped on your friend, for I oversee this land. Do not worry about these living ones. I have merely given them a short sleep,” Salem spoke evenly, coolly, with no word emphasized. “How is it you know my name and my emblem?”
“An artisan directed us and gave us your name,” said Astor. “But I have seen this picture in my studies, a drawing said to belong to the first children or perhaps the other world. It is an ancient symbol of peace.”
“Yes, the dove is the emblem of my purpose. Although the screen has been down for many years now, I continue to protect the life of Galapagos,” said Salem.
“The artisan called you the cold man.” said Astor. Salem placed Astor’s hand upon his forearm. The skin felt as cold as a rock from the river.
“My friend the artist often visits and helps me preserve the life here,” said Salem. “Have you come to help me, too?”
“We are sworn to preserve life just as you do,” said Astor thinking quickly and speaking truthfully. “We have come for news of such spirit artifacts as I see you carry, for we hear the Crystal King wields some new power.”
“Yes, I have seen that the king has an artifact, as you call it. It is a large wave lantern that he must have found near Stoke. I have a small one here and can show you what it does.” The cold man took a strange tool from his belt, touching and tapping on a small window. Darkness covered them for a radius of 10 meters, which expanded and contracted as he twisted something. “The lantern also makes light, and it controls sound to produce callings and warnings. The Crystal King uses this lantern for destruction. But you also carry weapons. How is it you claim to preserve life?”
“We are of an order that fights for no single throne or ruler,” the Shadow Raptor said. “But just as light casts shadows, we are necessary to protect knowledge, wisdom, and ethics that belong to all people.”
“I, too, I must sometimes do the work of the hawk to preserve the dove,” said Salem.
“Can you tell me more about the plans of the Crystal King or what has happened at Stoke?”
“Someone has accessed an inactive transport of my people near Stoke. Your people would probably know it as a sacred space. If the king has not found them all, there will be near stoke such items as you see me carry. There was once a cold man there. I only patrol the mountains on the borders of Galapagos where have seen him use the wave lantern. I disconnected from my people during the great mutiny years ago, but I continue to fulfill my purpose here. Will you pursue what this king has acquired or seek the lost transport?”
“We will report to our order for further instruction,” said Astor. “But I am certain we will follow up on all you can tell me.”
“If you follow the way of the dove, my friend, I will give you something to aid your work.” Salem took a small item from within his garment. It was black as obsidian, smooth as glass, hard as rock. Astor recognized it as a keystone. “This powers what you call artifacts—just as you see those fallen here, I hold active and secure. Promise me you will use it only to further our good purposes.”
“Yes, I promise.”
“Now please help me remove these two living ones, and the dead can stay to nurture life in Galapagos. I will awaken the living ones that belong to you.”
It took some time to drag the two living Herron to the hedge and cast them out. By the time the men awoke, Salem was once again camouflaged and long gone. Astor assured Rennick that the cold man had told him all he knew, that they should hasten back by the common path, and the leader sensed the gravitas behind the words. They left the motionless bodies of the Herron behind. The Shadow Raptors could tell, though Arn could not, that their comrade had achieved more than he said.
The men headed south, passing a few of Salem’s odd habitats—one of rocks and water, another of tall grasses—and many more of the strange trees, until they reached the perimeter hedgerow. Crossing over and leaving Galapagos, they soon they reached the river trail and saw to the west the spectacular cascades of the Great Falls crashing down the mountainsides from icy heights and filling the air with mist far below at the headwaters of the Great River.
During the journey back to the citadel, Rennick suggested Arn apply as scout for a further mission in the spring, and for much of the trip along the common path back the two conferred, walking behind the group as Galleren took the lead. After leaving Arn behind, during the long ride back to Lak along the Royal Road, Astor had plenty of time to brief his fellow Shadow Raptors, although he waited for an opportune time with Rennick alone to discuss the keystone and Salem’s claims of relics at Stoke.
Astor—accompanied by Rennick and his two men, Galleren and Lott, rode the ferry across the Great River. They drew nearer to the Citadel of Batana with both reserve and relief. After a month following up Astor’s sage contacts closer to the City of Lak, they had journeyed down the Royal Road. Traveling as civilians meant facing all manner of petty inquiry and common swindles. Different cover would have helped. The journey would have been swifter riding war horses and wearing the insignia of the Empress's Guard. Even traveling under the colors of the Golden Conclave of would have reduced interference greatly. But this was a dark reconnaissance mission--dark both in the sense that they went incognito and in the sense they had no specific target. The men needed to mix well with all walks of life because any information on the Crystal King might prove helpful.
As water lapped against the hull of the ferry, they waited beside their horses watching the further shore.
The ferry was wide and could carry eight horses abreast. Two river men guided the ferry with poles from behind as horses drew it across the river by rope. Haven's two smallest moons were visible tonight in the clear evening sky: one was reddish and dull, and the other was twice as bright as the sky's brightest star.
Rennick had pushed them fairly hard for such an open-ended mission, not that they expected to pick up much intelligence along the Royal Road. From the first day, he seemed even more driven than usual. One evening he expressed his bitterness as they rested at a caravansary, where the horses fed at stalls around the open courtyard. He explained that the high priest Nardak had somehow initiated new imperial directives, of which this mission was a part.
"I don't trust that charlatan," Rennick had said. "The lives of two Dancers were lost for one of his pipe dreams. At his word, we sailed to Lyndarr to secure what turned out to be nothing more than a map we have several copies of already."
"He should send his own followers on his useless missions." Galleren's face turned almost the color of his fiery red hair. Galleren was perhaps the best strategist and tactician among them, almost always captain of the winning team during his days of training. Like Rennick, he had been recruited by the Shadows as an orphan, trained during his days in public school, and chosen to join the Raptor clan rather than the Dancer clan. Unlike Astor of the Sage Guild, he had earned the title Lord through service in the Empress’s Guard. Galleren had a quick temper that always just as quickly returned to its genial and thoughtful base line.
During the ferry ride as during the trip, the men mingled among the travelers, bringing up the Crystal Kingdom in small talk and innocuous questions. So far they had had no luck stirring up any new stories or rumors. Finally, the ferry reached the shore and the men disembarked and mounted their horses for the short ride to the citadel visible about a kilometer north of them. To the east, difficult to see with Luna in her dark first phase, the Great River entered the Haunted Forest
Batana was alive at night, torches burning outside and inside the city. The citadel consisted of seven interlocking walls of stone with staggered gates. Generally, horses and livestock were quartered in the outer rings, servants and soldiers in the inner rings. The protective barriers were a sign of the care and defense King Kataba provided his people, who along with more ordinary city dwellers, consisted of mystics and outcasts of every kind. Taxes were high for the many guilds of artists and performers who made a good profit from this refuge, but many others also shared the favor of the king and enjoyed Batana’s peace and protection.
Rennick and his three Shadow Raptors left their horses in the outermost ring, passing easily through the seven gates. Though they wore bows and swords, the men looked very much like tourists or common adventurers, and they walked in pairs to maintain the casual impression. Soldiers on the walls watched for large groups, weapons of war, or the tell-tale long hair and staves of barbarians. Travelers with wagons or obvious products for market were diverted to a special gate in the seventh wall. As they passed through the final gate, the men saw a line of carts and rickshaws that were waiting to take visitors to legitimate accommodations. In front of this line, hustlers prowled in the hopes of leading ignorant newcomers to their substandard and overpriced hovels.
“My friends, allow me to carry you to the Batana’s finest Inn,” said a heavy-set, dusty man in a cloak covered with patches. “I can arrange the best price in the city and free drinks for your first night!”
Rennick stared him down with his piercing blue eyes. “You must mean the Raven’s Nest. We are heading there now.” The hustler bowed several times and did his best to fade into the evening. Galleren rolled his eyes and restrained himself from helping the hustler on his way.
“Listen,” Rennick said, drawing his men in close. “You all know this city stays up all night and sleeps half the day. There’s no need to waste the evening. Galleren and Sturm, check out the night market. Lott, you’re with me. We’ll debrief later at the inn.” He guided Lott by the elbow for the first few steps, and then the pair was moving off quickly to the west.
Galleren and Astor set off at a more leisurely pace, heading north toward the central market district. There were signs with esoteric symbols—stars and moons, strange letters and runes—indicating sanctuaries on almost every corner, the windows alight with lamp stands, but upon looking in, Astor thought that most looked more like eateries, drinkeries, or smoking dens than places of devotion. As the night grew darker, the streets brightened with more torch light. Street performers accepted coins as they juggled, danced, or played flutes.
“I don’t suppose we can interpret Rennick’s orders to mean getting a drink.” Astor said dryly.
Galleren raised a finger with a look of mock joy on his face before feigning disappointment, “We’ll never get away with it if we come back empty handed.”
Before long, they reached the night market. In the center, venders congregated in clusters of similar goods, including cloth, paper, spices, and precious metals. Further out, haphazard pathways meandered among the tables and tents, where vendors displayed wares of all kinds: soaps, perfumes, baskets, toys, and puzzles. Lines were hung with carpets of every color and tapestries of every design. There were wagons offering tea, grilled meat on sticks, fruit, and steamed buns, filling the air with tantalizing smells. Covered booths lined the buildings along the outer perimeter. Astor was drawn to a table of folios with other worldly titles such as Ancient Geology or World Literature. At the academy, Astor had seen folios reputed to be copies of information from the other world. He picked up one or two of these, shaking his head. They were bad productions, all very thin, without scribal seals—and some without even an author’s name.
“Trash?” asked Galleren. Astor nodded in disgust.
Many of the booths claimed to have relics, made from folk practices passed down from the other world or made with instructions from spirit words. There were hoops with webs of colorful cords that a seller claimed would catch nightmares while letting good dreams drop into feathers hanging below. One booth sold stones with spirit letters that could be cast on a cloth to divine the future. There were prayer beads, incense, meditation mats, and every kind of mystical symbol. After his serious studies of folklore and folk practices, Astor was always taken aback by the wanton exploitation in Batana.
Continuing their unhurried walk, passing through a dark corner of the market, the sage signaled the Shadow Raptor at a dim booth with several spirit artifacts, not merely folk craft and lore from the other world: various crystals and metal items of odd shapes. Amidst the small collection was a palm-sized half orb, a type of relic Astor had read about at the academy. He inspected a few other items first. When he finally took the half orb from the shelf, he quickly saw it was made from glass as some of the bottom circumference was chipped. The base was painted black and was completely smooth with no openings for keystones, which were said to empower spirit artifacts.
“These fine relics were recovered from the dark mines of the Crystal Mountains,” said the old peddler, recognizing Astor from where he sat in a chair among the shelves. He had wild white hair that seemed float around his head.
“We are very interested in news from the Crystal Mountains,” said Astor, replacing the half orb.
“Yes,” Galleren added taking out a blue gemstone that could have paid a soldier’s wages for a month. “Real news would be valuable.”
“I no longer travel the dusty roads,” said the old peddler. “My brave associates bring me my treasures.”
Galleren placed the gem back inside his tunic, and the peddler raised one white eyebrow, saying, “However, I see that you richly reward those who bring assistance. Might I trust your pledge of confidence were I to make a fruitful introduction?”
Seeing Galleren was about to respond bruskly, Strumgard said, “Of course, sir. You can trust our good faith.”
“Please follow your humble servant,” said the old peddler standing and leading the way through a curtained doorway at the back of the booth, seeming unconcerned that the valuable relics were left unattended. Astor was quite sure there were cases full of these supposedly rare items stashed someplace close by.
“Tribald,” called the white-haired peddler a few paces inside the hall, “We have illustrious guests!” Galleren and Astor followed him through another curtained doorway into a candlelit room where a figure sat at a crafting table covered with tools, blocks of wood, scraps of gold, silver, and bronze. He appeared to be cutting stones for setting.
“Did my esteemed father claim to sell authentic relics again?” said the son standing up, a younger version of the peddler. “His many years sometimes confuse him. We merely make authentic replicas. I offer deep apologies for any undue anxiety.”
“You have some good looking reproductions,” said Astor, “but we are interested in news from the west lands. We seek to confirm reports and gather facts.”
“They offer handsome payment for interesting news!” said the peddler.
The artisan shrugged, “It’s true I spend my hot summers on the very borders of the distinguished Crystal Kingdom. I have seen the ancient relics whose authentic replicas you now observe. But I don’t know what illumination I can offer such knowledgeable gentlemen.”
“We seek first-hand reports of the recent battles of the Crystal King.”
“Yes, yes. It’s true that many wagging tongues tell that the rich monarch rides to battles and wins great victories by powers of the spirit. More I do not know.”
The raptors turned to go.
“I do know a hidden one who wanders the wild border of the kingdom, who knows the secret ways of the spirit and who uses the awesome relics that my poor craft here replicates,” the artisan spread his hands. “I loath to speak crass words disclosing the hard-earned privacy of such a sacred one.”
Galleren placed the blue gem on the crafting table, alongside a pile of similarly-shaped pieces of colored glass.
“But for discerning gentlemen such as yourselves, I can tell you to search near the bright headwaters of the Great River. One we call the cold man protects the strange grounds where exotic trees grow green. He will help you, but you must take great care, for the bold barbarians have routine patrols and tirelessly seek the cold man.”
Galleren was unsatisfied, reaching to take back the bribe, but the artisan continued quickly, “His honored name is Salem, and few know his name. He is most friendly to those who call him by name.”
The look on Astor’s face assured him that this was indeed a solid lead. As they walked to the Raven’s Nest Inn, Astor grew increasingly excited and his energy was contagious. They reported to Rennick upon his return and were asleep before the midnight bell rang in the citadel.
***
The next morning Rennick was up, washed and outfitted before the men had opened their eyes. His short sword was already on his side, composite bow and quiver on his back. The three Shadow Raptors followed suit and were out before the first morning bell. The streets were empty and most doors closed and windows boarded.
The previous night, Rennick and Lott and had investigated a few of the less commercial sanctuaries and questioned a few esoteric contacts, but the only real lead was the cold man, as the artisan had called him. Rennick had decided to hire a scout familiar with the Haunted Forrest and to follow up the lead immediately. The Explorer’s Guild could probably provide a reliable escort.
As soon as the men were ready, they headed to the Explorer’s Post, a barn-like wooden structure amidst a series of barracks near the inner wall. Entering the swinging double door, the Raptors saw a few scouts comparing maps and drinking tea at the dozen tables spread throughout the cavernous main room. Sawdust covered the floor, and a serving man stood behind the bar along the far right side. Stairways at each corner led to balcony along the back wall, where a sentry sat sleeping, crossbow loaded in his lap.
“Good morning,” Rennick said approaching the closest table. “We seek an escort through the Haunted Forest, one familiar with the ways of the barbarians.” The three scouts studied the Raptors cooly, after which one nodded, exited through a door behind a stairwell, and returned sometime later with a tall, strong man. The scout carried a long staff on his back and had the long hair of a barbarian.
“I think I meet your requirements,” said the scout. His classic, strong features—that could have belonged to a bard or popular storyteller—broke into a friendly smile.
A pretty boy, Rennick thought, but he, too, smiled, saying, “You might be too much the barbarian for us. We may be seeking spirit artifacts or at least knowledge of the spirit.”
“I think you will find the Herron people—the barbarians as you call them—have no fondness for my kind. I am of the Derrek. We, too, live natural lives, but we do not object to spirit devices when used for good purposes.”
“I have read some writings of this group,” spoke Astor. “You also reject knowledge from the other world.”
“Haw, not me exactly,” said the scout, still smiling. “I am an outcast among outcasts. But the Derrek do hold to the barbaric ideal of human invention. They believe dependence on the other world is a kind of enslavement. I, on the other hand, am a man of more practical taste and work for practical payment. My name is Arn.” He held out two hands.
“Greetings, Arn.” Rennick said, grasping his hands. “We are ready to set out. Galleren, pay the man. Half.”
***
On their way through the seven staggered gates of the citadel, the men checked their horses and exchanged their bags for trail packs from the saddle bags. Arn did not seem to pay any attention to the mounts or equipment, which by design were civilian and nondescript Leaving the citadel, Arn remained animated, joking about the Batanians who seemed to be on a constant holiday. Seeing the seriousness and intensity of Lott, he said, “I don’t think he likes me, boys.”
“You are smarter than I thought,” responded Lott with his inscrutable smile, making it hard to tell, as always, if he was serious or not. The hard smile and narrowed eyes were known to wilt the false confidence of young recruits. “You are a regular philosopher.”
After the first several kilometers Arn became more professional and presented a plan. He suggested they take the well-traveled footpath far into the forest before diverging to a more secluded way necessary to their search. True to the culture of the citadel, the morning travelers to and from the city were few and the men enjoyed a quiet journey.
Ra was at its zenith when the men reached the shade of the forest. The leaves of most trees had turned the seasonal grey and black, and many had fallen to litter the forest floor. The day was at its warmest when the footpath began to bend north and where a slightly overgrown trail continued along the river. Arn checked the fork carefully but saw no evidence of recent traffic. Some hours later, when only starlight showed through the dark fall leaves of grey and black, Arn carefully observed a patch of woods and suggested they stop for the night: “This is a good place to approach the falls away from Herron trails. If we spend the night close to here, we can be sure no one has seen us leave the common path.” Rennick nodded, and the men bedded down a stone’s throw from the path. The wind through the trees, the chirps of insects, and the occasional hoots of night birds were much more agreeable to the men than the sounds of the city. They breathed in deeply, enjoying the fresh smell of the forest. The Shadow Raptors usually kept informal watches through the night, with Astor and Galleren on late, with Rennick and Lott on early; however, Astor had the feeling Rennick and Arn were both awake through the night.
In the morning as the rays of Ra broke through the branches above, the men lay still taking inventory of the surroundings. Although they were not on high alert, both the artisan and Arn had warned of barbarians in the area. Not carrying spirit artifacts, the men were not concerned for themselves as much as for spoiling an encounter with those who did and who might provide them with desired information. The men quietly ate, packed, and set out single file with Arn in front and Galleren in back.
The way was not rough but it was obscured by bramble and stone, bush and log. Arn was familiar with the irregular terrain and led the Shadow Raptors through a surprisingly fast route as Galleren replaced branches and wiped out evidence of their passage. The elevation sloped ever downward toward the river, and by midmorning they reached a visible fog that must have been rising from the distant water but already beginning to burn off.
They had covered a surprising amount of ground when they met with a fence of thistles that curved south and west as far as they could see. Arn signaled the men to wait and followed the line of brush first southward until he was long out of sight and then westward. Returning, he explained that he had found signs of Herron along the brush line. Arn cast his rope over a tree branch so they could swing over, on by one, and the men moved on at a slower but steady pace.
Continuing their way, they saw the landscape began to change strangely. The light, smooth skin of the forest trees was replaced by a dark, rough exterior. The trunks of the trees became much thicker than usual, the branches growing closer to the ground, and the leaves showing off gold, brown, orange, and red. They heard strange bird calls of several kinds. They passed by trees with drooping branches and thin green leaves and saw a grove of tall, thin trees with sharp green needles. Galleren remembered the words of the artisan, describing a place where “exotic trees grow green,” and began to think maybe the artisan had not cheated them after all. Past this grove was a copse of shorter trees with silver trunks and wide leaves of even more brilliant red, yellow, and orange, the branches full of a startling amount of parrots of many shapes and colors. The copse was covered in a net as fine as webworm thread and hard as chainmail. Beyond the parrots, they passed through more of the thick, dark, rough trees.
Suddenly, Astor saw something drop from a branch in front of him and attach itself to Lott’s thigh. His sword was out of its sheath about the same time that his mind recognized the common reptile: “Fingertail!” he called out. The long articulated appendages grasped Lott tightly as the stinger drilled in, the head biting and the vestigial feet clawing as the snake-like body swung through the air.
Although he would not have judged anyone else falling victim to dumb luck, Lott condemned himself for bringing calamity on the team. Astor quickly severed the head from the reptile, whose tail continued clinging and body flailing. Arn expertly removed the appendages and stinger, but the thigh was already swelling, and Rennick barely caught Lott as he collapsed. Galleren was running through scenarios in his mind: without a healer, they would have to try to cut and drain the wound themselves, and they would have to blaze a trail to the common path. Perhaps they could float the river back to Batana quickly enough. At the same time, Galleren felt that eerie sixth sense of being watched, looking significantly at Astor who felt the hairs raise on the back of his neck, too. As Arn and Rennick bent over their fallen comrade, the other two flanked them, watchfully.
Then several things happened quickly.
An apparition appeared, as though emerging from a nearby tree, the air seeming to shimmer and coalesce into a human shape composed of the rough bark, finally transforming into the more natural colors of clothing, hair, and skin. The figure had strange tools hanging from a belt beneath its open white cloak.
“Salem,” said Astor putting his hand on Galleren’s sword arm. “Friend.” The figure applied one of the tools to Lott’s wound, numbers and symbols scrolling across a small window. The Shadow Raptors and scout restrained themselves, though they surged with adrenaline, for they saw the wound close and the swelling subside under the humming tool. Astor noticed a vibrant tattoo on the neck of the stranger, a symbol of a white bird with a green branch in its beak, as clear and colorful as an oil painting. He recognized the ancient image. “Dove,” he found himself saying aloud.
Suddenly, Galleren, too, spoke a single word: “Hostiles.” As though in ambush, probably watching for Salem, two groups of Herron barbarians rushed at the men from two directions. Instinctually, Galleren noted enough open space and distance for bow shots. In one fluid motion, he drew an arrow, notched it, and lifted the bow from his side. Something from his training caused him to step back scanning the distance. His muscles rather than his mind recalled the barbarian tactic of staggering a rush attack. Because the primary barbarian objective was not warfare, they often attacked in two waves, one to distract and one to secure spirit artifacts. But this time the two groups came simultaneously. True to their culture, the ten barbarians were armed with every kind of staff imaginable. They had long staves and short staves as well as double- and triple-chained staves. Galleren first sent an arrow through the Herron with a poised throwing staff. Three more had fallen to the sound of wood whistling through the air before the rest had closed in.
Arn fought off two of the Herron, parrying and thrusting with his own long staff. Lott had recovered enough to sit up and send a throwing ax into the neck of a Herron sneaking up behind Arn. Rennick had somehow knocked two of the long-haired heads together and delivered a spinning kick to a third as he drew his sword. Astor engaged two others with his short sword, which was already wet from the blood of the fingertail, the clash of metal and wood lasting for only a minute before eight Herron lay bleeding and everything went dark.
***
Astor regained consciousness and saw the bodies of the contenders laying where they had fallen all around. The stranger sat close by on a log with another strange tool in his hands, motioning for him to come closed, patting the log beside him. Astor’s limbs were tingling as he picked up his sword and sat down.
“I was hunting that reptile when it dropped on your friend, for I oversee this land. Do not worry about these living ones. I have merely given them a short sleep,” Salem spoke evenly, coolly, with no word emphasized. “How is it you know my name and my emblem?”
“An artisan directed us and gave us your name,” said Astor. “But I have seen this picture in my studies, a drawing said to belong to the first children or perhaps the other world. It is an ancient symbol of peace.”
“Yes, the dove is the emblem of my purpose. Although the screen has been down for many years now, I continue to protect the life of Galapagos,” said Salem.
“The artisan called you the cold man.” said Astor. Salem placed Astor’s hand upon his forearm. The skin felt as cold as a rock from the river.
“My friend the artist often visits and helps me preserve the life here,” said Salem. “Have you come to help me, too?”
“We are sworn to preserve life just as you do,” said Astor thinking quickly and speaking truthfully. “We have come for news of such spirit artifacts as I see you carry, for we hear the Crystal King wields some new power.”
“Yes, I have seen that the king has an artifact, as you call it. It is a large wave lantern that he must have found near Stoke. I have a small one here and can show you what it does.” The cold man took a strange tool from his belt, touching and tapping on a small window. Darkness covered them for a radius of 10 meters, which expanded and contracted as he twisted something. “The lantern also makes light, and it controls sound to produce callings and warnings. The Crystal King uses this lantern for destruction. But you also carry weapons. How is it you claim to preserve life?”
“We are of an order that fights for no single throne or ruler,” the Shadow Raptor said. “But just as light casts shadows, we are necessary to protect knowledge, wisdom, and ethics that belong to all people.”
“I, too, I must sometimes do the work of the hawk to preserve the dove,” said Salem.
“Can you tell me more about the plans of the Crystal King or what has happened at Stoke?”
“Someone has accessed an inactive transport of my people near Stoke. Your people would probably know it as a sacred space. If the king has not found them all, there will be near stoke such items as you see me carry. There was once a cold man there. I only patrol the mountains on the borders of Galapagos where have seen him use the wave lantern. I disconnected from my people during the great mutiny years ago, but I continue to fulfill my purpose here. Will you pursue what this king has acquired or seek the lost transport?”
“We will report to our order for further instruction,” said Astor. “But I am certain we will follow up on all you can tell me.”
“If you follow the way of the dove, my friend, I will give you something to aid your work.” Salem took a small item from within his garment. It was black as obsidian, smooth as glass, hard as rock. Astor recognized it as a keystone. “This powers what you call artifacts—just as you see those fallen here, I hold active and secure. Promise me you will use it only to further our good purposes.”
“Yes, I promise.”
“Now please help me remove these two living ones, and the dead can stay to nurture life in Galapagos. I will awaken the living ones that belong to you.”
It took some time to drag the two living Herron to the hedge and cast them out. By the time the men awoke, Salem was once again camouflaged and long gone. Astor assured Rennick that the cold man had told him all he knew, that they should hasten back by the common path, and the leader sensed the gravitas behind the words. They left the motionless bodies of the Herron behind. The Shadow Raptors could tell, though Arn could not, that their comrade had achieved more than he said.
The men headed south, passing a few of Salem’s odd habitats—one of rocks and water, another of tall grasses—and many more of the strange trees, until they reached the perimeter hedgerow. Crossing over and leaving Galapagos, they soon they reached the river trail and saw to the west the spectacular cascades of the Great Falls crashing down the mountainsides from icy heights and filling the air with mist far below at the headwaters of the Great River.
During the journey back to the citadel, Rennick suggested Arn apply as scout for a further mission in the spring, and for much of the trip along the common path back the two conferred, walking behind the group as Galleren took the lead. After leaving Arn behind, during the long ride back to Lak along the Royal Road, Astor had plenty of time to brief his fellow Shadow Raptors, although he waited for an opportune time with Rennick alone to discuss the keystone and Salem’s claims of relics at Stoke.