Knights of Aralia Book I: Remnants of Light

Chapter II-Destiny's Call

Ethereal visions and sounds flitted through Fordain’s mind. There were voices shouting punctuated by women screaming, and the echo of battle in the air. He caught a glimpse of Solus, the hated Primus Emprius eagle, and flames. Everywhere tendrils of fire dancing about madly and reaching ever upward. Then out of the fire emerged a single figure, followed by two more. He could not see their faces, and their forms were unfamiliar to him.

The fiery forms twisted violently about, finally coalescing into a single all-encompassing shape. It was the shape of a very large tree with a twisted tangle of branches. It was an awe-inspiring sight: a golden tree glowing brighter and brighter against the black miasma of his subconsciousness until Fordain sought to shut his already closed eyes against its burning intensity. Then a voice spoke from the darkness:

“Waken, warrior! Arise and seek thy destiny.”

At once the vision faded, then all was calm once more.

When he awoke, Fordain’s world was still dark, though not quite so much. As he opened his eyes and sat up, he quickly remembered everything that had happened and felt the bump on the back of his head. It was sore, but thankfully he came from hard-headed stock. He could barely see the earthen walls surrounding him, but felt them well enough with his hands. There was that accursed root! But it was also a decent hand hold to help him stand up.

He looked up and saw leaves rustling gently in the breeze above through the wide pit mouth. It must be near dawn, he sensed from the moisture in the air and the faint purple glow in the sky. The pit was not that deep, and thanks to the many roots enmeshed in the walls, climbing out would be relatively easy. So, after investigating every side for the best hand and footholds, the youth hauled himself out onto the forest floor. The warm, gentle breeze aboveground was refreshing compared to the cool, stale air in the pit, and helped him recover much faster.

He sat on the edge of the pit for a moment as he tried to get his bearings. This place looked very different in the pre-dawn dark, but his general sense of direction remained intact, whack to the head or no. And so, heaving a sigh and touching his amulet, which was thankfully still there, he rose and made for the forest’s edge. It didn’t take but a couple minutes to emerge into the open, where his last hopes that perhaps the nightmare from the day before had been only that were dashed for good.

The inferno had by now died down to nil, and the village of Rodinia was reduced to smoking heaps of blackened timber on the valley floor. The inhabitants and soldiers alike were long gone, of course. But then he heard a grunting noise from behind and froze. Had they come back for him as well?

He gathered his courage to turn around, and gasped with surprise.

“Solus!” he cried, patting the familiar beast’s nose with more joy than such a reunion would have ever brought most. But the thought that he still had at least one friend in the world was a massive comfort given the circumstances, even if that friend could not respond to his uncontained sobs.

“Oh, Solus! They’re gone, my friend. We’re all that’s left. What are we to do now, eh?”

He knew he would look a complete fool to any casual observer, had there been any about, but he didn’t care. Somehow, burying his tears in the familiar white coat assuaged his troubles more than anything else could. Only after a moment of this bittersweet reunion did it occur to him how miraculous the stallion’s return was. He had always been very attached to the horse, and Solus had always returned his affection in kind. Perhaps the good horse had actually sought him out?

Either way it made no difference, he supposed. At least he was no longer alone. So, wiping the last of his tears away on his dirt-encrusted wrist, he decided to go down and investigate the ruins of his former home. He led Solus down the gentle slope and across the lane as the first rays of sun crept over the treetops to the east, then stopped in the centre of the still smoldering rubbish heaps. He could hardly believe that this had been the place where he had grown up. Where the blacksmith’s had once stood—and the miller’s, and the carter’s, and the baker’s—everything was naught more than piles of hot, smoking ash. He paused momentarily and again wondered why.

As he walked past the fire pit at the village centre, Fordain thought back to the countless celebrations he had seen there over the course of his nearly sixteen years. Weddings, harvests, and more had been joyous occasions for the entire community. Had the mid-spring festival really been just a couple weeks ago? What a nice time everyone had had, though he had objected strongly to the dancing bit as usual. Had he only known then...

He shook his head to clear it of such wistful musings, but was once more tormented by the question of what to do now. He was free of any obligations he had once had to friends or family, for what it was worth. And with his horse, he could finally explore the world beyond the peaks of the fabled Bluefall Mountains to the north. At last it was within his grasp to see with his own eyes those miles and miles of rolling grasslands known as the Great Plains, home to the finest riders and most exquisite horses in the world—Solus’s kin. Perhaps he could even make it all the way to the High North, the ancestral home of Humans and Reptilians alike!

And yet, now that he was free to fulfill his lifelong ambitions, he no longer desired to try. He just wanted everything to go back to the way it had been before, and scolded himself for even trying to find hope amidst a sea of despair.

“Probably wouldn’t get far anyway if the Primus Emprius are taking control of the whole region,” he muttered bitterly to himself.

Thus, he considered his other options. He knew how to do a bit of woodworking from his father, and he knew how to raise things. Looking over the fields, which had remained miraculously untouched by the raiders, he supposed he could rebuild a smaller shelter for himself and Solus and carry on farming. After all, the land technically belonged to him now that his parents were dead and his brother gone, although the papers to prove as much were destroyed in the fire. The Primus Emprius would remain a threat as well, but it was all he could think of for now.

Then again, perhaps he should go and seek shelter with another tribe. As the message runner for his village for the past three years, he knew all the Noronir settlements for miles around: which ones were loyalist, which ones in rebellion, and which ones were neutral. The Falonians to the west had always been especially friendly to the Rodinians. Their chieftain, Dagrund, had more than once offered him a warm bed for the night on his overland journeys to deliver messages. And he had a very pretty daughter besides. Yes, perhaps he would go and stay with them while he decided what to do next.

Solus gave him a quick nudge and a soft whinny.

“What is it, boy?” he asked, stroking the creature’s muzzle. “Thirsty, are you? Well, we’ll get you a drink, then.”

He spotted the horse’s water trough, which had been overturned but undamaged, then thought better of it. Why fill up the trough when he could let Solus fill himself?

“Come on, mate,” he said, mounting the horse. He rode a little way into the forest to the north where the stream ran through and stopped. He allowed Solus to drink his fill, then took a drink himself. It was only then that he realized how filthy his hands were—his whole body, in fact. There, at least, was one thing he could fix.

Fordain removed the amulet from around his neck, but hesitated briefly before setting it aside. It was made of pure silver, and its thin chain threaded through a small loop at the top. An intricate design was etched delicately into the slightly convex surface and accented with black. Though faint from head on, when one looked at it from an angle, it appeared to be the image of a rough circle within a triangle with wavelike scrolls on the sides. A light scratch marred its otherwise burnished surface. But most importantly, it was the only link he had left to the family now gone forever, the meaning of which he could only guess.

Finally, he hung it on a tiny tree limb, wrapping the chain around a couple times so no birds drawn to its shiny surface would be able to easily carry it off. He then breathed in sharply and jumped into the slow-moving water. He remained submerged for a few seconds to accustom his body to the cold, then stood up and began to splash about in an effort to rid himself of a couple days’ worth of grime. It had not rained for nigh a week, so the water at its deepest came no higher than his navel, but it was sufficient. All the while he contemplated his situation, trying hard not to remember the times when he and his friends had done this in the past.

Looking at the reflection of his torso against the background of the sky, he felt his confidence begin to seep back. He was still very strong of mind and body thanks to years of physical labour and the tutelage of his uncommonly learned parents. His unfaltering gaze bespoke one who was not easily defeated either. And nor was he!

After a couple minutes, he clambered back onto the bank. He had nothing with which to dry himself, but that was all right. It was a warm, sunny day. So, he shook himself off as best he could, replaced his amulet around his neck, and hurried away from the chilly shade of the trees into the bright grassy fields with Solus close behind. They returned to the burned-out village, where Fordain set about sifting through the mess with a kind of odd obsession. He did not know what he expected to find. There might be something useful to him in the ruins, though most likely not. The fire and raiders had indeed been very thorough. And yet...

There! Beneath the charred rubble of what had once been a house, he saw a glint.

The earth was still warm around its base, and smoke still rose from the sooty heap. Every sign indicated that it would be a bad idea to tread on it for most. But a lifetime of unshod wanderings over rough ground had given his feet soles as tough as any shoe leather. And as his curiosity would not be sated otherwise, he stepped as lightly and sparingly as possible over the rubble toward the glint. He worked as quickly as he could, brushing aside the dust and ash to reveal an Imperial dagger of the sort soldiers carried. It was not his father’s, as it lacked the signature dent in the pommel, but some other ex-soldier’s, or perhaps even a raider’s weapon.

Whatever the case, it had miraculously survived both recovery by the raiders and destruction by fire, and now lay sheathed and singed before him. He reached down to touch it, but recoiled at the heat still surging through its metallic form. He cast about to find something with which to make lifting it easier. Most everything was burnt up and unusable. Then he spotted a dusty scrap of thick cloth, like that from a torn blanket, waggling a corner in the wind as though beckoning him over. It was trampled and worn, but would suit his purpose well enough.

Taking the woolen scrap in his hand, he reached down and lifted the dagger by the scabbard. He could still feel a good deal of warmth through the cloth after wrapping it about the hilt, but again it was just bearable. He practically hopped his way out of the rubble pile. The touch of cool earth against his lightly seared feet came as a welcome sensation, and he let out his breath with evident relief. But it was of little consequence as he returned his attention to the dagger. It was likewise cooling quickly and growing easier to handle. Taking firm hold of the hilt, he unsheathed the dagger and held it upright with a quick, natural movement.

Its blade, as deadly as the day it had been forged, gave off a marvellous sheen in the sunlight. Across its polished surface he saw his reflection staring back at him. Wielding the dagger made him feel more complete, and a sensation of power coursed through his veins such as he had never known until last night.

He then remembered the other skill his father had taught him. As an ex-soldier and a tribal leader, it was only natural that Ólund should instruct his sons in the ways of the warrior. From their earliest days Fordain and Amon had practised with sticks and rocks in the hope of joining the legions themselves, as they had indeed been days from doing. And then he realized that he had another option after all. There was no guarantee that the Falonians or any other tribe would long remain safe from the spreading influence of the Primus Emprius across this region. Nor could he farm the land that had been in his family for generations beyond count. Thus, there was but one thing left. It was bold—foolhardy, more likely—but it was all he had.

“By the amulet of my forefathers,” he pledged to no one in particular. “I swear that I, Fordain Abendroth, will avenge this if it be the death of me!”

Until that moment, he had disliked the rebels for intangible reasons he did not fully understand. Because his father had disliked them, mostly. Now that it had become personal, he hated them with a passion—especially that traitorous slime he had once called his friends and neighbours. Now he was out for justice if he had to administer it himself. He sheathed the dagger. It would not be enough on its own, but it was a start. He set it aside along with the singed leather belt, and continued his search.

After more rummaging about, he came up with some scraps of material, as well as a couple satchels. He set about gathering nice smooth stones from the streambank and appropriate-sized sticks from around the woods. He placed these things in one satchel and produce from his family’s subsistence garden in the other. By the time the sun had risen to its mid-morning position, Fordain had used his dagger to fashion six medium-sized javelins from the sticks, a leather strap to bind them to his back, and a sling besides. He lit a low fire over which to harden the javelin tips, then tested his new weapons on some charred wood bits. Truly, his father’s lessons had not been in vain.

As he secured the blackened leather strap tightly across his chest, he looked out to the southeast road and sighed. It had never seemed so intimidating before. He wondered briefly if what he was doing was smart. Ferrus had always been so fond of the rebellion, so perhaps he should simply let him enjoy their company. He had practically brought it on himself by tripping like that, after all!

But no, he realized. He was the one who had made it necessary for both of them to run in the first place. It was his fault at the end of the day, and he had to make it right. For the memory of their parents, if not for Ferrus himself. Still, could he really take on the might of this Primus Emprius, which had for years now been a nuisance to the legitimate Imperial government, by himself? Probably not. But he would try. For the sake of justice and for his own honour he would go after them. Whatever it took, he would find that wagon and free his brother from his captors or die trying. He was not fit to call himself Noronir otherwise.

With that simple but heartfelt resolve, he mounted Solus once more. His enemies had half a day’s lead on him, it was true. But they probably didn’t know they were being followed, and that gave him a distinct advantage. They would move slowly and carelessly through the woods with their wagons, likely full of other unfortunate captives and refugees from settlements throughout the region, while he, alone on a single swift horse, could catch up to them in two days at most.

Without further hesitation or another look back, Fordain struck out on a steady course to the south and east in search of his brother and revenge.