Chapter 20, Undefeated

The tall, scarred man walks silently through the town, seemingly lost in his own thoughts, a troubled look upon his face.  He nods in greeting to those few he knows but does not stop to converse, that has never been his way, as he continues his nocturnal tour of the town of Wehnimer's Landing. 

The town of Wehnimer's Landing is his home, but it is also a place of so much strife and pain over the long years, a place of grievous loss and hideous amounts of death and destruction.  He sees the badly burned girl-child, scrounging for food, and a tear comes to his eye; children have always struck a chord within him, perhaps due to his own traumatic childhood.

Pain and anger seethe within him as he sees the remnants of the destruction wrought upon his home by outside forces, forces both physical and magical, all bent on one thing… the complete and total annihilation of the Free Town of Wehnimer's Landing.  He closes his eyes and he can see, hear, and feel the battles of the past that he has been a small part of; he can feel his blood pouring from his body as it stains the ground red and he can hear the screams and war cries of his friends and comrades as they do the same.  All have bled, in one way or another, to protect his home.

He sees the flames, consuming buildings and people alike, their hunger never-ending, the need to feed upon the defenseless never sated.  He sees the terror in the eyes of the children who have lost their parents, and the forlorn look borne by parents who have lost their children.  The unfairness of it all gives him pause; has it all been worth it?  Did he make any sort of difference, or were his efforts only feeding the greedy maw of death?

Was he doing the right thing when he agreed to so many risky and costly endeavors?  Was it worth the cost, or was it only his ego and vanity that needed to be satisfied?  The Songbird comes to mind, each and every time his mind journeys down this pathway; the assault into enemy territory for the snatch and grab, the death he dealt that night… was the cause just, or was his logic flawed?  It wouldn't be the first time… that is for certain.

His mind wanders back to a time long ago, when he was much different, before the darkness entered his heart… a darkness that he embraced, without hesitation.  He was proud then, almost too proud.  He was one with the Light and walked the lands with confidence and surety; people listened to him and valued his words.

An Imperial town, another war, a far different outcome; his life was forever changed.  Siding with the Light, but using the Darkness as a weapon, as a reason, as an excuse, he shed the blood of his enemies wherever he found them, without mercy or thought; and he reveled in it.  He spent the war fighting shadow with shadow… and he called it just. 

The man, scarred in body, mind, and spirit, never left that war, he remained immersed in the darkness, it ate at his soul until there was little left; there was no return, no penance… no excuse.  He justified his actions as a need, a necessity of the times, and a pathway to victory.

He has done the same thing over and over again throughout the years, fighting savagery with savagery, undertaking a personal war of attrition with whatever enemy was at hand, caring little about causes or freedoms.  He began fighting simply to justify his existence, to give him a reason to be.  The needs of anyone else were rarely considered, unless those needs coincided with his own.  He rarely sought out the counsel of others and they never sought out his; he was an outsider, an undesirable among the ranks of those who were on the side of Light.

He continued in this vein for a very long time, on his own, fighting by his rules, in his own way.  Then came the war with Talador, and along with it came his grand decision, his commitment to the total destruction of every Taldorian knight he could find… and, ultimately, his taking of trophies; his descent into barbarism was now complete.  He had become that which he had hunted so long ago.

The raid on the Taladorian logistics train capped everything off for him.  He slaughtered them by the score, men, and women, most defenseless and weak; but in his mind legitimate targets for his arrows and his spells.  He relished each kill, each time he fired his bow was another step towards victory, in his mind.

Then came Cosima, the Songbird, and the grand betrayal by Drangell.  When he saw her, engulfed in fire, the wedding dress aflame, something within him was awoken.  He tried so very hard to put her out of her misery… one chance, one arrow, one shot.  But, alas, he could not, there was no shot to take, no merciful death for the Jewel of Talador… and so he listened to her screams as they burned themselves into his memory.  He hated them, knowing he had played a part in her death.

He began to change after that, becoming even more withdrawn, more unpredictable, more dangerous.  He had been broken, finally, and he didn't know what to do.  His past had finally caught up with him, and payment was due.

He saw Elithain Cross as a way out, a way to finally end everything, a way to assuage his own guilt.  He was wrong, once again.  He refused the blood oath and was cast out of their ranks… and, though broken, he was still his own man, beholden to none.

Every decision comes with a price, and this time the price was more than he could bear, this time another paid for his actions… and he was shattered because of it.  Never before had he known fear like this, never before had he been unsure of his actions; doubt gnawed at his every decision until he became completely ineffective.  This went on for months, all due to his inability to prevent the love of his life from being taken and used in this fashion… her screams haunted him.

Then, when all seemed lost, and when he needed him most, the Tehir Blood-mage, Teuriz, came to her aid.  He healed her and, in so doing, healed the man as well, brought him back from the depths of despair… he was whole, once again.

The man then began walking the lands once more with a sense of pride and he began to reflect on his life, to look at his past decisions with an honest and impartial eye.  What he saw took him aback, to say the least.  So many times he was wrong, so many bad decisions, all arrived at due to purely selfish reasoning, pride, and vanity.

The road to recovery has been a long, slow, and painful process, riddled with doubt.  As he continues his evening stroll through the town he keeps reminding himself that, though Wehnimer's Landing, her people, and her defenders may have been hurt, bent, and battered, and we have suffered tragic losses, we are unbroken… we are still strong, and we will remain so.

We are Undefeated.

Chapter 19, Hearing the Wind

The fire has burned down to coals, giving off a feeble, blood-colored glow that does little to stave off the encroaching darkness.  There is a chill in the air, which is in glaring contrast to the sweat glistening upon the body of the man, who is kneeling upon a thick morduska hide meditation mat, clothed only in a dark leather loincloth about his waist, a low-slung spray of obsidian shards mingled with feathers hangs from around his neck, and a pair of simple hide-soled sandals adorn his feet.  A lone owl hoots in the distance, startlingly loud in the silence and a chorus of crickets chirp slowly in the chill night air. 

On the ground before the man is a small marble altar with a long fossilized talon and a globular yellow sunstone upon it, while to his right, within easy reach, is a sun streaked braided leather satchel, bulging from the contents inside.  The eyes of the man are closed and his breathing is slow and shallow, his brow furrowed in concentration.

Suddenly, his eyes flutter open and he reaches into the satchel and removes a wide ceremonial copper chalice inlaid with dark bloodjewels and places it upon the alter.  He then removes a kris-bladed ritual dagger set with a misty blue snake-stone from the satchel and sticks in into the coals of the dying fire and then, removing the blade from the coals he intones a few words in a foreign tongue, while proceeding to make a shallow cut in his palm. 

He then once again places the blade of the dagger into the coals of the fire for a few moments, purifying it, and places it upon the altar beside the bowl.  Clenching his fist he holds his hand over the chalice and allows his blood, dripping black in the dim light of the coals, to flow into it. 

Evidently satisfied with the amount of blood in the chalice the man then binds his hand with a clean linen bandage from inside the satchel, staunching the flow if his life's blood.  Removing a pale violet quartz geode scrying bowl encased in a layer of limestone from within the satchel and placing it on the ground between his knees the man fills the bowl with water.

Removing the fossilized talon from the altar the man dips the end of the talon into the chalice and carefully allows one drop of his blood to drip from the tip of the talon and into the scrying bowl.  He then puts the tip of the talon into the coals for but a moment and then places it back onto the altar.

Bowing his head once again and making quiet incantations in a foreign tongue the man grips the scrying bowl with both hands, gazing into the depths of the water, continuing to speak in the same guttural and harsh language as before.  His eyes narrow in concentration and sweat begins to bead upon his forehead, running down his face.  Soon his whole body is bathed in rivulets of sweat, but he maintains his concentration and the chanting.

The man tenses his body, the muscles of his arms and shoulders rippling with the effort, as blood begins to trickle from his nose; he ignores this, concentrating solely upon the bowl and his task.  His eyelids begin to flutter erratically and his teeth clench together with his effort as his chanting becomes louder and more forceful… more desperate.

Suddenly, his chanting stops and his eyes widen and his body begins to sway gently back and forth in a silent rhythm; all the while the man maintains his death-grip upon the bowl.

The mist forms within his mind, images come and go, fleeting and faint… elusive.  A crow, golden eyed and feathered as black as the night; a lone woman standing upon a hill, the valley beneath her consumed in flames; a single white rose, the thorns upon its stem dripping blood. 

The mist parts and soon the visions are more clear and vivid.  A child, dirty and unkempt, rummages through garbage for food while people pass her by, ignoring her plight.  A woman clad in silks laughs as she walks by, glancing at the child in disdain.  Once more the mist closes in.

The body of the man is shaking with the effort of his task as a faint groan escapes his lips.  Once more he begins chanting his foreign mantra, trying desperately to maintain his tenuous contact with the bowl before him.

Just as he is about to lose his link to the bowl a glimmer of crimson light appears through the mists of his mind, growing stronger with each passing second.  He hears a beating heart in the deepest parts of his thoughts, though, strangely enough, it is not his own heart; the blood-colored light pulses in time to the heartbeat, growing stronger with each beat of the heart, until the mists are burned away completely by the light, allowing him to truly see and to experience what appears in his minds eye.

He sees the sands before him, feels the hot breath of the breeze upon his skin, and the searing heat of the sun, merciless in its intensity.  Suddenly, before him is a woman, kneeling in the sand, clad in crimson, veils flowing about her in the breeze, her viridian-swirled twilight grey eyes peering deeply into a scrying bowl… his scrying bowl.

Their eyes, identical in appearance, meet, and she smiles at him.  Her lips move and her words echo faintly in his mind, "My son, you have answered the calling, after so many years and so much pain.  Now all is as it should be, you are ready to be what you were always meant to be, nothing more, nothing less."

"Mother!," the man thinks, the words sounding strangely hollow and distant in his head, "I have accepted my fate, taken on your legacy, and I have been trained by she who once taught you." Sweating profusely, his body shakes and the man grimaces with the effort of maintaining the link created with the bowl as the mists threaten to close in about his mind.

The sound of the beating heart grows louder in his mind and her words come to him, strong and clear, the mist being driven back once again, "You are my son, you are my blood, and you are my spirit.  You will no longer seek vengeance in my name; it is finished.  You will follow your own will and, side-by-side with the raven-haired woman, you will do your own bidding; you are free, my son, to do as you wish, to live your own life; a life you have until now been denied."

He hears her voice one final time, rapidly fading, along with the sound of the beating heart, into the background, as if from a great distance, "You are Radeek Andoran, Black Raider of the Mir'Sheq, bearer of the scars of the Trials numbering twenty and two, he who was twice-born of the sand, you are Tehir… and you See."

The sound of the heartbeat disappears from his mind, as does the voice of his mother, and the mists close in, completely and totally; the mans eyelids fly open as he screams into the chill air of the night, "NO!  Come back!  Don't....leave..." His breathing becomes harsh and ragged; his hands leave the bowl before him and he places them upon the ground to maintain his balance; his body shaking uncontrollably.  The man lies down and rolls over onto his back, his tear-filled eyes staring into the starlit sky, as he struggles to regain control of his body and mind.

A light breeze blows through the surroundings, stirring the newly fallen leaves, and the man hears the wind, the voice upon it soft and eerie, "The greater the gift, the heavier the price.  Nothing more, nothing less."  

Chapter 18, The Why

I seek, but know not what it is that I search for.  I reach, but there is nothing within my grasp.  I strive for perfection, but I have made more than my fair share of mistakes... and my faults?  Well, they are many and varied.  I yearn, but my desires are clouded and confused.  I pray, fervently, to the Lord of Light, but my words go unanswered... or perhaps the answer is unheard by me, or not understood.  I look to the future, but am trapped in the past.  Myself and many others have fought and bled for decades, but was it all for naught, or did we make a difference?

I have fought and lived through battles and wars that are now tales told in whispers to the younger folk around fires on the darkest of nights.  The Vreen, Bregandians, The Banaltra, The Vvrael, Hochstib and Jantalar, The Griffin Sword Wars, Nighthaven, the witch Hagga... and so many more.  I have lost friends, irreplaceable comrades who stood by my side through blood and death, standing firm, fighting and dying for goodness and right.  My path, though once traveled with honor in the brightest of light, without them now seems dim, and shrouded in darkness.

I am no longer the young Tehir raider I once was, naive and untested outside of my own people, who ventured so far from the Sea of Fire, through blood, pain, fire and smoke, ice, flood, shadow and death.  I am older, my face is lined and my hair is graying, but, unlike the popular saying that with age comes wisdom, I feel none the wiser.

I have seen the worst that people can do, and the very best that they can become.  I have fought evil, hatred, and greed, and done so beside heroic adventurers whose names are now legend, those whom I am proud to have known, served with, and learned from, those I name as friend, and enemy, those whom I miss terribly, each and every day.

Through all of this... this painful gaining of knowledge and experience, and the bitter losses, I have come to know one thing, the only thing that, to me, really matters.  No matter how strong we are, no matter how powerful we become, we are only as strong as the man or woman standing beside to us, and the one standing next to them.  We are only as powerful as that bond between us, that can link us in such a way as to become unbreakable, and unbeatable; we are better as one, we are weak when alone.

My friends all know and understand this, I gain strength from them, and, hopefully, they gain as much from me.  I would die for them... I have died for them, as they have for me.  We bleed, not for the cause, however just that cause may be, but for each other.  The bond of friendship defines our actions, our sacrifices, and our very nature.  We become who and what we are because of those around us, our brothers and sisters in arms, our friends.

We sacrifice for each other and we expect no thanks for this, for none is needed.  We do what we do for the respect we have given and earned, from one to another, as equals, through many trials and tribulations, through both the bad and the good.  My friends, both those I've gained and those I've lost over the years, far in the past and in recent times, mean more to me than anything else, for they are who I am... and why I am the person I am today; and it is they who are my sole reason for being.

Chapter 17, The Legacy

PART 1

I traveled for what seemed an eternity, though it was nowhere close to that; I suppose my excitement contributed to the feeling, that and my fear of what was to come.  It was a much more difficult journey this time around, perhaps because I'm older than I was the first time.

I have to admit though, I missed it; the heat, the sun, the Singing Sands… all of it.  To me there will never be anything to compare to The Sea of Fire, and it was worth the trip for that alone.  But I did not go there for only those reasons.  I went there to learn; once again I put my faith in my people, and once again I am indebted to them.

Travelling in the Sea of Fire poses risks to life and limb for even those born to it and trained to survive there.  I am grateful for the training I received as a young man, even though much of it was difficult and sometimes even quite painful; it allows me to call the Sea of Fire home, rather than Hell, as those fearful of it or unfamiliar with it tend to do. 

As I stated, I did not go to see the sights; I went to learn, from the best that I knew of.  I searched for a Mir'Sheq clan for one purpose… I wanted to learn how to see, how to understand what I saw, and to learn to hear the wind, as Teuriz told me to do.

One evening, shortly before sundown, I found what I was looking for, a sizable clan of Mir'Sheq Tehir.  I announced my presence and waited for their Raiders to respond.  My hands were empty, palms facing them so they knew I concealed no weapons.  I was also in my black ridgeweaver silk Raider clothing, knowing full well what Tehir thought of Black Raiders.

The Raiders approached, and they surrounded me, with caution of course; after all, I was a stranger and had been gone for many years.  Their leader, a man of small stature but regal bearing, approached me; I neither spoke nor moved, knowing that my life depended on my actions and his interpretation of them.

The Raider leader spoke to me, in Tehir of course, asking my name and my reason for being there.  I looked straight into his eyes and said "I am Radeek Andoran, chosen as Black Raider, adopted son and only child of the Raider Leader G'Arrone and his wife, the healer and herb mistress K'miza, of the Mir’Sheq of the Scarlet Selshis Clan, and only son of Q'atild Andoran, my birth-mother, she who was Tasig-heqi and First Seer among the Mir’Sheq of the Spirit Qahzumar Clan and who, like the rest of my people, died at the hands of Knights of the Empire many years ago."

"And I am here because of this," I state as I slowly reached up with my right hand and removed my veil, exposing my scars, earned long ago through my Trials of Manhood.  The Raider Leader studies my face and I see the recognition in his eyes, and the look of disbelief at what my scars mean to him.  I am Tehir.

The other Raiders also know what my scars mean, I am one who has completed all twenty-two of the Trials, and I bear the scars to prove it.  I can sense their growing interest in me, as can their leader.  The Raider leader offers me a skin of water, which I accept and drink from, sparingly, in true Tehir fashion, and I return it to him.  The offering of water is a traditional sign of peaceful greeting and, if not acceptance, then at least tolerance.  It appears I will live to see another dawn.

I am escorted into their camp and shown to one of the larger tents.  This is to be expected, unknown visitors are always brought before some sort of council, for formal introductions and questions.  I am offered food and water, which I avail myself of.  It's been a long while since I had good Tehir food.  Pasha's in Solhaven is passable, but not nearly as delectable as what is available among the Tehir.

Soon the leaders enter the tent.  I nod to each in greeting, waiting for them to speak; I do not have long to wait.  I am once again asked my name, which I give along with my ties and titles.  My scars are also once again inspected; this was not unexpected for it is not common for anyone to complete all twenty-two of the trials. 

The Seer of the Clan, an ancient woman clad in crimson named B'vaz, walks up to me and inspects my scars very closely.  She runs her fingers over each, her touch light and gentle, her eyes closed.  When she finishes tracing the line of each scar she opens her eyes and it is then I realize she is quite blind; her eyes are milky white orbs, the pupils nearly invisible.  However, even with her disability this woman exudes power from her very core and she obviously is very well respected.

B'vaz turns her sightless gaze upon me and, in a voice much stronger than one would expect from her advanced years, states to me, "Radeek Andoran, son of the Seer Q'atild Andoran, you are welcome here.  I have been expecting you for many years, Black Raider.  I know what you seek and why you seek it, Child of sand, blood, death, and shadow.  What took you so long?"

Needless to say I was surprised by her words.  I was… expected?  What took me so long?  I had no answer to the Seer's words; she chuckles at my obvious confusion and says,  "Son of Q'atild, you have spent too many years hiding from your calling and denying your birthright.  It is time, now, to set the scales in balance."  With that she beckons to me and, turning, walks from the tent.

The others in the tent bow deeply and respectfully to me as they motion for me to follow the aged Seer.  I exit the tent and follow B'vaz to a small pool of water that is off to the side, away from the main pool of the oasis, all the Tehir who cross our paths stop and bow respectfully to me.  I am exceedingly uncomfortable with this; I do not like to be bowed to… as I tell others who have bowed to me in the past, I am no knight of the Empire, expecting to be bowed to due to some self-perceived station in life.

Upon reaching the small pool B'vaz instructs me to disrobe and bathe in the pool, cleansing myself.  She gives me directions to her tent and bids me to come there once I finish; she then leaves me to my cleansing ritual.

Darkness falls as I sit in the water, which is still quite warm from the day's sun, and I reflect for a moment on what has just happened to me.  I have been welcomed by a strange clan of Tehir, a welcome that comes from a blind Seer who has evidently been expecting me for quite some time.  So what happens now?  I suppose I'll find out soon enough.

I cleanse my body, using the root of a plant that the Tehir pound between two stones to extract the juices, which makes a light lather and cleanses the skin rather well, leaving one feeling fresh and invigorated.  I un-do my braid and wash my hair along with the rest of my body.  After rinsing myself I exit the pool, drying myself with some buttery soft skins that have evidently been placed close by for just such a purpose.  I also re-braid my hair and bind it with the old bowstring I use for just this purpose.

I dress and make my way to the tent of the old Seer and once again I am the object of much attention and bowing, which only adds to my discomfort and uneasiness.  I try and ignore it as best as I can, but my heart is pounding in my chest and I have a queasy feeling in the depths of my stomach; I believe that very soon I will find out whether or not my quest has been in vain.

B'vaz is sitting cross-legged upon a woven mat on the floor of her tent as I announce myself and peer into the opening.  She bids me to enter and sit across from her on another mat.  As I do she offers me tea, which I accept.  I've never been a real fancier of tea, but I never minded some of the many herbal varieties found in Tehir encampments, but it is their coffee I prefer, as it is second to none.

As we drink our tea in silence for a few minutes I study the inside of her tent.  There are a few low tables, each bearing different items, a bowl of dates and a traditional Tehir tea set on one, a worn old satchel heavily decorated with beads of bone and ivory is upon another.  A third, near where she is seated is empty at the moment.

A sleeping mat is laid out in one corner; numerous censures hang about the tent and the air is heavy with incense.  Many herbs have been placed on drying racks specifically designed for the purpose. 

Various objects, which I assume are used when she practises her art, are here and there; the skull of a rather large selshis, complete with fangs, various teeth and claws, some of which I recognize as belonging to the local fauna, others of which must have been traded for, and various stones and gems.  There are numerous vessels, mostly made of hammered copper, in orderly groups on low shelves along one wall of the tent.

As I sip my tea I find this particular blend has a familiar taste to it, but I can't seem to place it.  I take another sip and contemplate this.  Suddenly, as if a bolt of lightning from the sky, it dawns upon me… this is the same tea my mother used to drink!  How could this be?

B'vaz begins chuckling, "How do you like the tea, Son of Q'atild?" she asks.  I look at her, and her sightless eyes, eyes that are obviously not her only way of seeing, stare back at me.  "How?" is my only reply.  The old Seer places her cup down upon the low table nearest her and folds her hands in her lap, gazing at me with her sightless eyes.  "I am going to tell you a tale Black Raider.  Perhaps it will explain some things to you."

'Your mother," B'vaz begins, "was at one time my acolyte; she wore the azure veils under my tutelage.  She came to me during her seventh summer, the youngest I have ever heard of to answer The Calling.  Never before, and not since, had I accepted a female acolyte who had not yet become a woman, but the power flowing in her veins was evident from the moment I first met her."

I am fascinated and anxious for her to continue but I try hard to remain patient; she will tell me in her own time.  "Q'atild was a remarkable child," B'vaz continues.  "Her sight was already well established within her when she arrived, as is yours, and her blood held power that even I could not begin to appreciate at the time, as I believe yours may.  She was a truly gifted girl; but, as with powerful gifts, there was a heavy price."

"Radeek, I trained your mother for nearly a decade, though in the end I was more student than teacher.  Not long before her departure a caravan arrived, bearing goods from the Empire, the province of Hendor."  B'vaz stops for a moment, retrieves her cup and takes a sip of tea, collecting her thoughts. 

"Among the people of this caravan was an Imperial knight.  A tall, stately man, remarkably well built, strong and powerful, yet his eyes held a gentleness I had never before seen in a knight.  Your mother noticed this as well; behind the azure veils her eyes never left the knight."

B'vaz then closes her blind eyes and takes a deep breath, holding it for a moment before letting it out with an audible sigh.  "Black Raider," she says to me, "you must be willing to accept truth before your journey can continue.  Your days of denial are at an end.  Can you accept this?"

I do not hesitate as I say to her, "Yes, I accept this, the truth is all there is for me.  It is all I have left of my past life, and all I now want for this one."  She chuckles at this and mutters under her breath, "So very much like your mother, stubborn, strong-willed and obstinate.  Her price was also heavy."

"Son of Q'atild," B'vaz says to me, "your mother became enamored with this knight.  Her every waking thought was of him and he haunted her dreams.  I believe she was given a vision of him, or something to do with him, but she would never tell me and by this time in her training she was far too powerful for me to ascertain her visions through any means I possessed of doing so."

"Radeek, this knight of the Empire, this warrior who so consumed your mothers thoughts, this man born of battle, he is your father.  I know this because when your mother left here, her training complete, she was with child.  That child, Radeek Andoran, Black Raider of the Mir'Sheq, bearer of the twenty-two scars, is you."

I am stunned, to say the least.  This cannot be true, it can't!  All these long years I've hated the Empire, with all my heart and soul, all that I am, my entire being.  I relished in killing them, I bathed in their blood, fed on their agony and let their suffering at my hands assuage my anguish.  My mind screams in silent denial.  No!  Not this!  Anything but this!  This… THIS CANNOT BE! 

I can't breath!  There isn't enough air here!  I am suffocating!  My thoughts are confused and incoherent.  I stagger to my feet and stumble from the tent into the cool of the night.  I don't know whether to laugh or to cry, scream my anguish into the night or fall to my knees in silent defeat. 

B'vaz follows me into the night; she has a way of clicking her tongue that allows her to "see" through the sounds she makes.  When the old woman reaches me she puts a hand gnarled with arthritis on my shoulder and gently applies pressure, indicating she wants me to sit in the sand.  My legs betray me and I end up falling to my knees, the old Seer kneels beside me.

"There is always a price Radeek Andoran, son of Q'atild," she says to me.  "Yours has been paid, many times over."  She reaches over, takes my hand in hers and, drawing a dagger, drags the edge over my palm, making a shallow cut; I feel nothing.  She then licks the blade, her eyes closed in concentration, as my blood drips into the sand.

"Black Raider," she says, "Child of the Sands, much has happened to you; cast out from your people, murderer of an alliance bound in darkness, you turned your back to the Light, betrayed by your closest friends, touched by the Maw of the Void, Shadow has burdened and darkened your soul, your mind has been bent, and loss has stained your Honor.  You walked alone for years and your pain runs deep, but I see the touch of a blood mage upon you, a Tehir blood mage, and one who is very powerful.  This blood mage did you a service, for which you paid a price. 

Once more she tastes of the blade, and, after a moment of contemplation, continues, "Your love for the raven-haired woman is exceedingly strong, it consumes you, but I see you have no fear of this, you even welcome it with all your heart.  Very, very good, Black Raider."

A look of surprise momentarily crosses her features and she states, in a voice filled with incredulity, "Well now, this is certainly interesting.  You have shared your blood with this woman, and she with you... that is indeed a surprise. The power of the bond of blood is second only to that of love, and I see you share both with this woman.  You each carry a part of the other everywhere you go and that makes you very strong, son of Q'atild.  Your birth-mother would be proud."

"You have your mothers blood, Desert Strider, you are Tehir, through and through.  Tomorrow you will have answers to your questions.  You will soon hear the wind speak and know and understand what you see, and why.  Your mothers' legacy to you will be revealed, but you must find your own way.  You have been touched by Shadow and a powerful Blood Mage; the power of the Seer was opened to you then… you do not need me to show you the way, only the why."

"Sleep now son of Q'atild," she says to me.  "There is a guest tent for your use.  Tomorrow is another day, and all will be as it should.  You are Tehir."  I proceed to the guest tent but sleep eludes me, too many thoughts are spinning through my head.  This cannot be true, I cannot be the son of an Imperial knight, I can't… not me. 

Finally, through sheer exhaustion, I fall into a restless sleep; my dreams are of that one fateful night.  It is as it was, over thirty years ago; I hear the sounds of warfare, the cries of victory and defeat, the breaking lance, and that weight upon me.  I hear her words whispered in my ear once more, the last living words she ever uttered…

PART 2

Dawn in the Sea of Fire is nearly always a spectacular event, one that I never truly appreciated until I left my home.  My restless sleep last night has left me with many more questions than answers.  I was up early, as has always been my custom, and I climbed the highest dune in the area and sat atop it, watching the sun begin to lighten the eastern sky with hues of scarlet and violet, my thoughts a jumbled mess in my head.

The encampment below me is beginning to come to life; I smell the fires and the morning meals being prepared.  People are moving about, mostly younger Tehir doing their morning chores, but there, clad in crimson, is the old Seer, and I can see her looking in my direction, somehow she knows where I am and probably knows what I am thinking.

As the sun rises higher the sky takes on tinges of orange and yellow, and the winds begin.  I rise to my feet and make the trek back down to the encampment.  The young Tehir stop what they are doing and watch as I pass, a stranger in a familiar land, and I head to the Seers tent.  She is waiting for me with a cup of hot coffee and a light meal of porridge and some sweet cakes; we eat in silence. 

After we have finished breaking our fast an acolyte, clad in azure veils, removes the remains of the food and brings in more coffee; it is a dark, rich brew, strong and bitter.  It is only then that the Seer speaks to me.

"Son of Q'atild," she says, "you slept little last night, and what sleep you did get was plagued with visions and dreams.  Tell me of them, tell me of your mothers death, and tell me of her legacy to you."

This I do, telling her all I know about that night; she listens in silence, nodding occasionally.  I tell her of the morning after, of the death of Vamek, the burned girl that I released from her agony, of being found by G'Arrone and his raiders and my subsequent adoption, and of my fear and pain.  It all comes pouring out of me; there is no stopping it.

The tears begin as I tell her of my birth-mothers last words to me, whispered into the ear of a seven year old man-child, as her life's blood poured into the sand, a life given to save another… her life, sacrificed, so that a young boy, me, might live.  I cannot describe the agony I was feeling at that moment; it was as if my entire life was spread out before me, all the details, all the faults, all the mistakes, and it was found to be lacking, wanting, and needless.  The killing, the hate, the sacrifice, the loneliness… was for nought.

She watches me, her face showing no emotion, no feeling, giving no hint to what she is thinking.  Then, a smile spreads across her face, and suddenly she begins to laugh, an uproarious, cackling laugh.  At that moment all I want to do is to take her scrawny neck into my hands and squeeze with all my might.

In the midst of her laughter she says to me, "Son of the most powerful Seer I have ever known, child born to the sands, forged in war, haunted by Shadow… surely you are no fool; your scars bear solemn testament to that fact, Black Raider.  You, whose path is so narrow that you walk upon the edge of a blade, yet you allow yourself to be swayed by my words, you have doubts about who and what you are… yet again."

"Nothing I have told you changes anything," she says.  "You are who you were, who you are, and you will be who you will be.  The knowledge you have gained changes NOTHING, except to you, and that, Radeek, is the mark of a fool."

The old Seer chuckles once again.  "You think that you are different now because you now know that you are the son of a knight of the Empire; you fear that all you did was wrong, a mistake.  Or perhaps you believe that what she did was a mistake…"

The old woman reaches out and takes my shaking hand into hers, her grip like iron.  "The blood in your veins is Tehir, Black Raider," she says.  "The Calling you have answered makes you nothing else."  B'vaz releases my hand and lies back on the cushions surrounding her.  "You blame her, don't you?" she asks.

I close my eyes and take a shuddering breath, the anguish within me trying to get out.  "Yes," I reply, in a voice barely above a whisper.  The Seer pours herself another cup of coffee and turns her gaze to me, the vehemence evident in her voice.  "Then you truly are a fool, Desert Strider.  You cloud what you know to be the truth with prejudice, avarice, and ignorance.  Surely you are not so stupid as that, are you?"

Her voice and her countenance soften and she says to me, "You are a child of love, Radeek; your mother loved the knight, and he loved her, if only for a brief time.  You have that same love in your own life, son of Q'atild, surely you know from your own experiences with the raven-haired lass that love takes on a life of its own and the power of it cannot be denied nor overcome.  Your mother knew what she was doing, and I think I know why."

This piques my interest even more; even a hint of what my mother may have been thinking when she chose a knight, some reason for what she did, and why.  But then I think to myself, does any of this really matter?  The old woman says I can change nothing, and nothing has changed for me; I suppose that means it is for purely selfish reasons that I need to know why.

B'vaz sips her coffee as she considers her next words, words that are so very important to me.  "Radeek," she says, "your mother was a very powerful woman, especially so for one so young.  She knew she would never be welcome in the land of the knight and that he would never be accepted among our people.  So she chose instead to have a child by him, one who would be raised and trained as Tehir, but could walk in both worlds, if he so chose, as you now do."

"I also believe," she continues, "that she knew of everything that would happen on that fateful night from your childhood; as I said, she was very powerful, her blood magic was strong as was her gift of foresight.  I am convinced she knew all and was ready for it; and all that happened since, she was prepared for, including all things pertaining to you."

I begin to see the reasoning behind my mother's choices; it begins to dawn on me just how powerful and wise she must have been, to see so much, to have understood what she saw, and to be able to react and plan accordingly. 

B'vaz says to me, "Enough of this talk of the past, it cannot be changed, only learned from.  Besides, you are here about your future and what is to become of you, are you not?  Since we cannot change the past it would seem wise to dwell on the present and the future, wouldn't you agree?"  I nod in assent; anticipation and a sense of lingering dread are in my mind.  The questions I've had for years are about to be addressed… I wonder if I'll like those answers.

PART 3

I hold the blade of the dagger in the flame, allowing the heat to purify the instrument of my self-inflicted pain and suffering; just one of the tools I use to enhance my own ability to see and to understand.  The methods used by the Tehir for blood magic and scrying are ancient beyond belief, passed down from generation to generation by the elders, those with the knowledge and the power to control it, to bend it to their will.

I gain in knowledge and power each day, the sight comes easier and lasts longer each time, more vivid and easier to understand and interpret.  My mentor seems pleased with my progress; lately she seems to be gently reminding me of things rather than screaming at me when I do something that is not quite right.  Her knowledge is profound, in the extreme.

I've been away from home for nearly two months now.  I miss Phever so much I can't even begin to put it into words; once again she sacrifices for me.  Thoughts of her are a distraction at times, and B'vaz constantly berates me, reminding me to concentrate, allowing nothing to keep me from my goal, but I don't care.  She tells me "the raven-haired one will still be there when I go back."

She has been teaching me the history of the Tehir as well, passing down the knowledge accumulated over centuries of life in the Sea of Fire.  She tells me that to have a partial understanding of anything is more dangerous than having no knowledge at all and is determined that I will be well rounded in the lore's and histories of my people.  B'vaz has told me that it is my duty to pass this gift on to those Tehir who would listen and she is bound and determined that I know the histories forward, backward and inside out. 

B'vaz takes great pains to remind me that, even blind, she sees things more clearly than I.  She says that to see one must close their eyes and look only deep into themselves.  When you get deep enough to see your own baser emotions like pain, anger, hatred, and sorrow, and you can lay them aside, only then are you ready to see the beyond.  Needless to say, I have a lot to lay aside.

I have been using my mothers scrying bowl more than any other item, which pleases B'vaz immensely, she had it made for my mother when she showed an affinity for scrying in that fashion.  My teacher has taught me how to use my own blood to achieve a focus that is not normally achieved when scrying with water alone and it has made it much easier for me to be successful in my attempts to see.

B'vaz introduced me to blood magic, the Tehir style of it anyway, on the third day I was here.  She says there is limitless power in blood; the limits are placed on it by our own will, or lack of it.  I can understand now why the Empire and the Hall of Mages fear it so very much, anyone can have this power at their disposal and the potential for great evil cannot be over-stated.

My dabbling into the realm of Blood Magic is not something I am proud of; I remember all too well the way Elithain Cross and the Maw of the Void used the power of blood against us.  I do not know if I possess the strength of will to keep from using the blood magic for ill gains and this troubles me greatly; hence I have been using it only sparingly and for the purposes of protection and focus only.

B'vaz has taken a keen interest in the visions that were given to me by the Shadows; she says they are what released the Seer in me, what brought forth the Tehir blood and the desire to seek out and learn from one who knows.  Or perhaps Teuriz had something to do with it, by performing the blood ritual that restored Phever's physical scarring and my mental and emotional scars.  I don't know; I only know my need and desire began at that time.

Today I joined the Raiders of this encampment on a hunt; B'vaz said I needed a break and to make myself useful.  Eclipse joined us and I believe the other Tehir were very impressed with her intelligence and her abilities.  Wolves are uncommon to the Tehir, even in the borderlands.  Tales and stories are told of them from long ago, quite possibly from a time before the Tehir inhabited the Sea of Fire. 

Fresh Morduska meat, I have not had that in a very long time, and it was delicious, though the hunt was tainted due to a death.  Sometimes a large Morduska lays claim to a raider before it gives up and this happened today.  A young Raider, barely sixteen summers, was killed by the Morduska.  Impatience and inexperience contributed to the death I am sure and the desert is a cruel mistress at the best of times.

My training at the hand of B'vaz is nearly complete; she says time and experience are now my best teachers.  I have grown fond of the old Seer in my time here and I believe that, through her association with my mother all those years ago, she has taken me as a sort of surrogate grandson.  I remember the first time I used my mothers scrying bowl in her presence, I heard her sharp intake of breath, how she knew I had it I still don't know, but upon witnessing her reaction I handed it to her.  She ran her gnarled fingers over the outer layer of limestone; next she gently touched the inner violet geode that was it's core, caressing it, finally cradling the bowl to her breast and bowing her head; I believe I heard her softly say my mothers name and I swear I saw a tear on her cheek.  She loved my mother, of that I have no doubt.

I will miss the old woman who taught me so much in such a short time; I owe her more than I can ever re-pay, though she says she did it for the memory of Q'atild, my birth mother.  Her last words to me upon our parting were, "Walk with the sun, Black Raider and son of Q'atild.  She would be so proud of you."

I left B'vaz and the rest of the Tehir clan and made my way home; it was good to see the Sea of Fire again and to be with my own people, but I wanted to go home, to Phever, the Landing, and our friends.  I had what I had come for: knowledge and a sense of peace and accomplishment.  Though I am still troubled over the matter of my parentage there is little I can do about it, you can always pick your friends, but you have no choice in who your relatives are. 

EPILOGUE

There are times when the wind whispers to me; the voice is there, always, waiting to be heard.  I see more than I did before, with clarity and understanding.  The bowl, and all that goes with it, is no longer my mothers; it is mine, by rites of blood and strength of will.  I now hold my head high with dignity, Honor, and determination, as I once did many years ago, before the fall into darkness.

I am Radeek Andoran, General of the Drakes Vanguard, Citizen and Defender of Wehnimer's Landing, son of Q'atild Andoran, she who was First Seer and Tasig-heqi of the Spirit Qahzumar Clan.  I am the Black Raider of the Mir'Sheq, bearer of the scars of the Tehir numbering twenty and two, I have answered the Calling and claimed my legacy.  I walk with the sun.  I am Tehir.

Chapter 16, Nearly There

The deeply tanned man, taller than average, wearing only a loincloth, stands silently on the bank of the lake, a fishing rod in his hand. His viridian-swirled twilight grey eyes, windows into his once deeply troubled soul, appear far older than his actual age of forty-two. His long midnight black hair, braided and bound with an old bowstring, trails down past his chest and is streaked with silver, a bit more silver than a year ago. His well muscled shoulders and arms glisten in the early morning sun. He bears a faint, curved scar just below his right eye, which he occasionally reaches up to touch, perhaps to reassure himself that it is still there, and a smile touches the corners of his mouth. The left side of his face is nearly covered, from forehead to jawline, with a multitude of ritualistic scars, all appearing to be quite old. A huge black-tipped twilight grey wolf sits at his side, her golden eyes watching the man closely.

The line twitches as a fish takes the bait. The tall man jerks the rod to set the hook and the fight is on...




It doesn't matter to me one bit who wins this battle; it's just me and the fish and even if I win this one I'll let him go. I find it strangely peaceful to be locked in a struggle that isn't life or death and to never worry about the outcome. I am finally free.

It was a long, hard road... fighting the Shadows, Althedeus, Elithain Cross, Talador, the witch, Raznel, with her hordes of minions, watching Walkar fall into darkness; as well as issues much closer to home, the maiming of Phever, her healing and recovery, my own failures to both protect her and to keep my own mind free from shadow, and the loss of very dear friends. I needed this rest and the peace it offered me. I was physically and emotionally spent, I had nothing left to offer anyone and, in the shape I was in, my decision making was poor and I was more hindrance than help to my fellow defenders.

I feel stronger now, more like the "me" of old, the fire has returned... and something else. I have never had such clarity of thought nor such a burning desire to see my home, the Sea of Fire. Never before, since leaving the sands, have I wanted to return to the place of my birth and training so badly; now it is consuming my thoughts, I dream of it almost nightly, and thankfully they are dreams, not the nightmares of before, when Shadow invaded in my mind, gnawed at my spirit, broke my heart, and darkened my soul.

The path to recovery has been long and at times very difficult. I have stood aside and let recent events run their course, something completely foreign to me but I really had no choice. To fight in the condition I was in would have done more harm than good; the last year and a half has taken a horrible toll. My return to active participation will be slow, I will ease into things, take my time.

I have chosen a different course this time. My destiny has led me to a fork in the road and a choice had to be made. I have chosen the path of my birth mother, I will embrace her legacy, which I have spent years avoiding. I will see rather than seek, I will listen to the wind rather than the multitudes, I will be that which I would have become had my life not changed so quickly and radically all those years ago.

The fish continues to fight, but it is tiring; I will win this round. I feel a strange sense of sadness as it comes to the surface, a nice fish, not a trophy, but a good catch nonetheless and I bring it in close. The battle over, I reach down and grab the fish, quickly removing the hook from its lip and gently return it to the water, lightly stroking its belly until it swims off slowly; perhaps we will battle again another day... it seems there is always another battle to fight.

Chapter 15, Sight

"Where is it?!" the thought screams in his head.  He is in a state of near panic as he rummages through the locker in Solhaven; he hates being here, he despises this place, this Empire town, with it's knights, magisters, and royalty; to think he fought and bled for this town many times over the years; the thought repulses him.

Curses, in a mixture of fractured and heavily accented common and Tehir, flow from his lips like water as his fervent and desperate search continues, the contents of the locker scattered upon the floor about him.  "It's not here" he mutters to himself as he angrily stuffs his possessions back into the locker, "only one place left to check."

He makes the trip to the town of ice and snow and stands before his locker, the one he so rarely visits.  He remembers now, how and why it came to be here, so long ago, his fear, his shame, his secret, his denial.

Denial, he has spent a lifetime hiding behind it, using it as a shield to deflect the choices, the deeds, the pain and the memories... and the dreams.  Her words come back to him, clearly, as if she were standing right beside him in the small annex, "You will become that which you were always meant to be, nothing more, nothing less, it is the way of it."

He opens the door, feelings of sorrow and regret course through him as he digs through the contents of the locker.  Finally, he spots it beneath an old cloak, right where he left it, looking just as it did all those years ago.

He picks it up and brings it close to his face, inhaling deeply, hoping her scent may still linger upon it.  It doesn't though; time and miles have erased that from everything except his memory.  He hangs his head, clutching the item to his chest and thinks to himself, "Not this, please, anything but this."

His hand, seemingly of it's own volition, opens the flap and he closes his eyes, afraid to look at the contents.  The voice reverberates once more in his mind, "You will become that which you were always meant to be."  Slowly, regretfully, he opens his eyes; eyes that have seen so much pain and death, eyes that are so very much like hers.

His gaze is drawn to one item among the many that are inside.  The way it is positioned makes it appear as a rounded chunk of stone, limestone, but he knows it is so much more; a small part of the violet geode at its center catches the light and sparkles, as if to confirm this.  His fingers touch it, knowing hers once did as well, and this thought brings with it a flood of memories and waves of remorse and anger, seething anger.

"I can't do this!" his soul and voice desperately cry, in unison.  "Nothing more, nothing less", her voice in his mind echoes in reply, "It is the way of it".  He slams the locker closed and begins his journey southward, the subject of his search tucked safely away in his ridgeweaver silk cloak.

One thought occupies his mind the entire way home... How will he ever explain this to Phever?  







 

Chapter 14, Trouble With the Learning Curve

The library, once a place that was almost taboo for me, has become a sort of haven, a refuge from my past as well as an avenue for my future.  You see, I am doing something that I was once told that, because I'm Tehir, was a waste of time; I am learning to read, properly.  If is wasn't for Phever and Bekke I wouldn't be learning to read at all.  Both of these ladies have encouraged me and offered their assistance, but this is something I need to do on my own... it's personal I guess.

I can't begin to tell you how embarrassing it is to stand before the message tree struggling to decypher what has always appeared as chicken-scratch to me, and have people see you do it.  I feel my cheeks darken even thinking about it.  My illiteracy has always been a problem; people tend to equate intelligence with learnedness, and though my friends consistently tell me they know I am a smart man I do not feel that way.  I am ashamed of myself and I feel my shortcomings bring pity from those who associate with me, whether they admit it or not.

I'm learning more about numbers as well, it's not exactly fun to have to call anything more than four, "many", or "a bunch", or to have to ask someone how many that means, and to please explain it in very basic terms, and then hear the snickers.  

I never had a "formal" education, no classrooms, no books, no quills and inkpots; my education was much more practical, and quite often, painful.  I was taught how to kill efficiently and how to survive, and even thrive, in one of the most inhospitable places in the lands... The Sea of Fire.  I'm good at both, but people who wish to have their opinions respected need to be more; they need to be seen as well rounded; and so my quest for self-improvement has begun.  Though I knew going into this that it would be difficult, I had no idea just how hard it would end up being.

My first venture into the house of books was, well, to put it mildly, a dismal failure.  The librarian took one look at me and I could see the corners of his mouth turn down in distaste and scorn; I could almost read his mind, "What is this...thing...doing in my library?"  Maybe he thought I was lost, or drunk, I don't know, but I was obviously out of my element.  I looked at my surroundings, feeling both lost and intimidated, and I almost turned around and walked right back out.

The librarian, still seeming uneasy at my presence, approached me and asked if there was anything he could do to help me, perhaps show me the way out, since I seemed to be lost.  I took no offense at this, it happens to me from time to time, I am Tehir and there are still some who see us as little more than animals.  I smiled back and asked him to please explain the process for borrowing books.  I could have shot him in the eye and not gotten the same response; he seemed very offended that I would even consider touching one of his books, let alone ask to borrow one.

I assured him that I had no intent of using the book as squatting paper or tinder.  I explained, as best as I could, that my intent was to learn to read, for my reading was so bad that it may as well be non-existent.  He seemed to deem this as being funny, since he certainly laughed, and laughed loudly, at which point he covered his mouth in embarrassment; we were, after all, in a library.

He asked me why I wished to learn to read, being that I was already on in my years, and that I seemed to be doing all right without it, so why bother?  He said people of my ethnicity seemed to be able to handle illiteracy better than most, so why should I wish to change?  I was beginning to lose patience with this man of books and it was becoming very difficult to maintain the illusion of a pleasant demeanor.

I pull the knife from my boots and casually cleaned my fingernails as I glanced at him, the green in my eyes became a little more pronounced and my features were just a wee bit more feral, and I told him, "Bookmasta, I'se gonna learns how ta read, come hell er high wat'r, an' we can does dis easy er we can does it hard.  Ya can tells me how ta go 'bouts gittin' books outta here ta reads, er I can guts ya right here on da spot an' reads yer entrails, dem's sumt'in I knows how ta reads a'ready.  Choice be yers."

There are times when having a bit of a reputation as a quick to anger, blood-thirsty animal can come in handy.  I thought he would faint, right there in that library, I've never seen someone go so pale so quickly; but, as the sweat beaded on his upper lip, he explained the process to me, probably more to get me to leave than anything else.  I'm sure he believed he would never see that book again.

My first book... The Official History of Elanthia.  Definitely not what I should have chosen, but I was in as much of a hurry to leave that library as the librarian was to get me out of there; the poor fellow, probably had to go clean out his pants after I left.  Come to think of it, there was a bit of an odd smell emanating from him.

It was fifteen days and three different checkouts of the Official History of Elanthia later, but I finally completed it.  My head was swimming and I still see that damned book in my sleep, but I finished it.  I felt... I don't know... somehow more... satisfied?  I'm not sure that's the right word for it, but it works for now.

The librarian and I have come to an understanding.  He says nothing to me, I pay my dues, get my book and I leave; no sitting in the library reading.  That works for me anyway, I prefer having a coffee and maybe a pipe full of tobacco while I read, or rather, while I stumble through the endless, mind-numbing pages of text, but it's getting easier.

I no longer have the splitting headaches after four hours of fighting my way through two pages; as a matter of fact, I finished a book in one sitting today.  It wasn't a huge book, but it felt good to open it and not close it until it was finished, and without losing a day or two of sleep doing it either.

I suppose that, in a way, reading is like archery; though it might not be for everyone, with enough practice and dedication anyone can do it.  It's the practice and dedication part that's a real pain in the backside.  I'm not going to stop though; I will become literate, even if it kills me... I just hope the librarian makes it through this.  

Chapter 13, From Out of the Mouths of Wolves

A while after the Griffin Sword Wars I found myself back in the familiar town of Wehnimer's Landing.  I would love to be able to say that it was good to be home, but it wasn't.  Life for me had changed, drastically; friends were few and very far between.  I had a well deserved reputation as a killer, well, murderer actually, and almost everyone I had named as a friend was no longer.  I don't blame them for this, I would probably have done the same given that the roles were reversed.  So when I returned after the war it was Eclipse and I, and not much else.

Life was different back then, for one thing there were more of us in that part of the world, which didn't really help my situation... word tends to spread about such things.  But I endured it, after all, it's not like I was forced to do as I did, it was a choice.  If I wasn't ignored I was ridiculed, but I had, and still do have, a rather thick skin when it comes to matters that pertain to myself, and life goes on.

It was around that time when people gathered less in town center for spells and were more apt to congregate in the small park, town center was mostly for the empaths to practice their trade.  I too began hanging around the park, but always on the fringes, trying to be as unnoticed as possible.  I rarely spoke and only cast my spells when specifically asked to, which wasn't very often.  Once in a while someone would ask me to fetch some skins for them, but that was about the limit of my interraction with people back then.

While in the park I took notice of a lass, why I don't know.  She was quite a bit less trained than I, and she was beautiful, far above my station in life.  She was a bardess, and when she sang it took my breath away.  I'd never approach her, she was eloquent and intelligent, very, very pretty, and well mannered... not the girl for me.  But I'd watch her from time to time, without her notice of course, and marvel at her voice.  Under different circumstances, in a different life and time, maybe I would have approached her, but not now.  The Radeek of old might have had a chance, the one who tried to be honorable and chivalrous, but not this one, not the one fallen into darkness.

There came a day when the park was mostly empty for some reason, and in she came.  I had been playing with Eclipse, she has a tooth marked kitten toy that she used to love to tussle against me with.  For some reason I decided to talk to the Bardess; foolish, I know, but it seemed like the thing to do at the time.  I began to approach her and I lost all my nerve.  I stopped, embarrassed at my own indecision, turned and began to walk away.  I heard her call to me, asking my name.  "Hell," I thought to myself, "what can that hurt?"  "Radeek," was the reply I tossed over my shoulder as I continued walking, just wanting to get as far away from this area as I could to avoid further embarrassing myself.

I heard Eclipse growl, a deep powerful growl, and I looked around for enemies, since this is her normal warning of danger.  I saw none in evidence and looked for my companion to see what was troubling her.  She was sitting at the side of the Bardess, nuzzling her hand, licking her fingers and staring at me with those golden eyes.  I don't know why, but this sparked a moment of puzzlement, indecision, and no small amount of embarrassment within me.  I suppose maybe I had been alone too long with only Eclipse as my companion and what I was really feeling was jealousy at the fact that my wolf was showing affection to another.

In Tehir I said to Eclipse, "Let's go, leave the lass alone."  Eclipse promptly laid down at the feet of the Bardess and whined at me.  Eclipse had never disobeyed me before, ever, and this surprised me, a great deal.  All I can do is look between the woman and the wolf.  I can only imagine the expression on my face.  I think if I had to put a word to it "Befuddled" would be my choice, I've always liked that word.  The bardess is also obviously uncomfortable to be placed in the middle of this and that only adds to my embarrassment.  The last thing I want to do is enter into a lengthy conversation and apology to this woman of beauty, especially with the way I talk.  "This has not been a good day, and it's probably about to get a lot worse" is all that goes through my mind.

The bardess tries to shoo Eclipse to me, telling her to "go on".  I can tell the poor woman is becoming embarrassed as well.  Eclipse solves everything for us though, in true wolf fashion.  She stands up and takes the Bardess's hand into her mouth and begins to pull her to me.  I can see the look in the lass's eyes, her hand in that maw full of gigantic, razor-sharp teeth that have ripped limbs from both people and creatures many times in the past.  She's afraid of what's happening, but more afraid to protest to the wolf.  Me?  I just want to crawl into the ground and disappear.

As Eclipse drags her close to me I see the Bardess looking at my face... her eyes go directly to my scars, and linger there, and I become even more self-conscious.  I normally tried to keep my scars as covered as I could, to avoid just this kind of encounter, but during my play with Eclipse I had removed my veil.  I can feel myself blushing, I can't help it.  At that point in my life I thought of my scars as a mark against me, denoting me as something less than human in the eyes of others and I had been told as much many times after the Griffin Sword War, so many times that I believed it myself.  And then, as if to add insult to injury, the Bardess chuckled.  Damn, now she laughs at me, perfect, just perfect.  I think to myself, "Thanks Eclipse, I thought you were on my side."

I turn to leave, I just want to get out of here, with or without Eclipse.  I can't deal with this, not today.  And then I hear it, that voice, that lovely voice coming out of that beautiful woman.  "Radeek," she says, "please... please stay.  My name is Phever, Phever Ta'rsakh."  I stop and turn to face her, although every fiber in my being is screaming for me to turn and run.  "What's your wolf's name?" she asks as she gently scratches Eclipse between the ears, right where she likes to be scratched the most.

"Eclipse," I answer, so softly I'm surprised she heard it.  "She's very beautiful", Phever says.  "She be a'likin' ya I reckons," I say to Phever and immediately regret it.  Dammit, I wish I could speak common like everyone else, I've tried, Gods know I've tried.  I can feel myself blushing again, my entire face is hot with embarrassment.  She sees my discomfort and asks me what's wrong.  "M'common be wretch'd", I answer, as I drop my eyes.  "I don' talks ta folks much on accoun'a it.  I opens m'mouth an' right off dey reckons I ain' none too smart.  Bes' not ta speaks mos' times, so's I don'."

All I can do is look at the ground and pray a hole opens up beneath my feet and swallows me; maybe there's a hungry Morduska down there... I certainly hope so.  I hear her voice again and my heart skips a beat.  "Radeek," she says, "look at me, please."  I look up from the ground that refuses to give me a merciful escape and our eyes meet.  Hers are the most gorgeous blue I have ever seen, turquoise blue.  "I don't believe that," she says to me, "I don't believe that at all."  She continues, "As a matter of fact, I doubt anyone who wasn't smart could have such loyalty from a creature such as Eclipse.  She loves you, you know.  And you love her.  It's plain to see."

I smile at Phever then, and 'lo and behold, she smiles back.  My heart melts.  We spent the rest of that afternoon just talking.  We spent many, many more days together after that, telling each other the stories of our lives.  She told me of her past, her youth, and her loss.  I tell her of my life among the Tehir, the loss of my mother and my subsequent adoption, my Trials of Manhood and my scars; my role in the Griffin Sword War, what I did, and why.  Much to my relief she did not judge me as so many others had.  As a matter of fact, she never has judged me, nor has she pitied me.

As time went on we grew closer, Phever and I, well, we fell in love.  There have been many times over the years that we had plans to get married, but something always came along that put those plans on hold... invasions, incursions, wars, some sort of disaster, one of my many walkabouts, it always seemed to be something.  But not this time.  Now that we've beaten Althedeus, this time it's going to happen.  I'm going to marry her and we're going to be happy.          

 

Chapter 12, Wolves and Longbows

I stalk him, my viridian-swirled twilight grey eyes never leaving him, as I ever so gently place the outside edge of my foot upon the ground, slowly, cautiously, feeling everything beneath it before I ease the rest of my foot down and apply my full weight, insuring silent movement. I approach, downwind, from deep within Walkar's Woods, holding in place as my prey glances suspiciously about the area. Does he suspect I am close?

I freeze, not a single muscle am I moving. I do not breath, I do not blink. Haszour, my Tehir clans Master of Stealth, instructed me in this art long ago and also taught me a mantra, when I was first learning to stalk with cunning and efficiency, which I now recite in my mind.

I am one with the shade, dappled beneath the trees
I am as unmoving as the stone upon the ground
My prey only hears the wind among the leaves
Silence is my shield and I have made no sound
I am not here, it is not me that my prey sees.

Once again I have not been detected, so when the time and conditions are right, I move, one slow and deliberate step at a time, silent as a shadow among shadows on my padded footwraps. I am in my element, doing what I do best, doing what I was trained to do, what I now know I was born to do. I have done this so many times that I allow my mind to wander into the past while maintaining my stealthy approach to my target.

My one and only prized material possession, Eyesore, a marbled grey woodsman's longbow, is in my left hand. She was painstakingly crafted from richly grained ruic and has been stained in a random pattern of colors ranging from twilight grey to the deepest black. The grip, tightly wrapped with black leather that's been bound in an intricate open weave of dark grey spidersilk, fits my hand perfectly, she is part of me, an extension of my left arm and of my spirit. Her release is silent and the spring of her limbs is equal and powerful, any arrow that leaves her flies straight and true. A miss of any kind is not the fault of Eyesore, it is mine and mine alone. A Longbow of power, precision, and accuracy, she was made for this, it is her purpose, and she has been my weapon of choice for many, many years.

Eyesore made the trip with me from the Sea of Fire when I was a young man, where she was made by and belonged to my second-father, G'Aronne, a raider of the Mir'sheq and one hell of an archer, fletcher, and bowyer. He taught me everything I know of bows, and so much more. When I was forced to leave the Tehir after completing my final trial and receiving my last scar, G'Aronne insisted my second-mother, K'Miza, include that particular longbow and a good supply of arrows with the gear and supplies she left for my use. The arrows K'Miza included have long since been used, but Eyesore is still with me, and every bit as powerful and deadly as the first time I drew her, so many years ago and so very far away from here. Thank you, G'Arrone and K'Miza, for everything. I learned so much from the two of you. May you both walk with the sun.

Eclipse, the black-tipped twilight grey wolf that has been my companion for what seems like forever, is, at my silent command, holding back, covering my flanks. I know she is there, even though I cannot see her. She is always there. Eclipse knows and understands more than I do, or so I believe at times. She understands both common, even my fractured version of it, and Tehir and my hand signals to her can be quite complex and she does exactly as requested.

She and I have walked side by side and fought together for almost as long as I can remember, through the bad times and the good, and she has never failed me. I owe her many debts that I can never begin to repay, but she doesn't seem to mind. She is more than a friend and companion, much more. She is a large part of my soul, she is my spirit totem. She is second only to Phever when it comes to things I hold most dear, and I would willingly give my life for either of them, at any time, for any reason. Eclipse is also why Phever and I are together, but that is another story, for another time, perhaps.

Eclipse came to me when I was a much younger and far less experienced Ranger. I had fought in most of the campaigns west of the Dragonspine in my younger days, but one conflict in particular shaped my life more than any other. Due to events during the Griffin Sword War in Solhaven I walked the lands alone, completely and totally. Before that bloody and brutal war I was young and confident, and for my age I was considered the best at what I did, assured of my place in the scheme of things. I was even a banner-man for the side of good and right, a real flag-waver for the goody-two-shoe crowd. I wasn't always as cynical and dark as I am now.

But afterward, I was broken, I was beaten, I was bitter, I was scorned and ridiculed, and I had no one. It wasn't anyone's fault except my own. I didn't take care of myself after that, I rarely bathed, once a season, if that, and I ate pretty much whatever I foraged or killed in the wilds. My visits into town became fewer and further between, and when I did come to town I avoided others as much as I could. I withdrew into myself, nothing seemed to matter any more.

There were very few people who would speak to me, let alone befriend me. Turinrond, The Coyote, was one, Calean, a very powerful sorcerer, another, and I miss them both. Now don't get me wrong, I still consider myself pretty much a loner and to this very day I like my alone time, in moderation, but to have to endure it for weeks, months, or even years at a time is very difficult and it weighs heavily upon you, it's something you never get used to.

I was hunting around Solhaven, one of my many chosen hunting grounds back then. I had seen wolf sign about the area, the tracks were very large and deeply imprinted into the ground, and they were fresh. I had always had an affinity for wolves, I suppose it came from my birth mothers final prophesy to me. I can hear her urgent and pain-laden words to me clearly, as if it were but moments ago when I first heard them. Part of this prophesy that she whispered to me, her voice so close to death, was this, "Find the wild dog of the moon, and relish in her power and loyalty".

I was having a particularly bad day and my loneliness had become extremely hard to bear, I longed to share my thoughts. I could stand it no longer, I was so tired of being alone. I broke down and I prayed to Phoen to make this loneliness pass, or to let me die. By Phoen's grace I had been granted a new spell not long before, so not knowing what else to do, and in desperation, I cast it. Now, I have never been a very good follower of Phoen, back then I wasn't quite as bad as I am now, but still I didn't expect any sort of divine help, but desperation does funny things to a man.

A few moments after I cast my spell there was a rustle in the underbrush, and out stepped the biggest damned wolf I had ever seen. She had golden eyes, eyes that shone with intelligence and cunning, and she was using them to look right through me. I was both terrified and elated. Immediately, I went to my knees and I spoke to the wolf, nothing much really, just nervous words spoken from a broken and battered ranger to a grand and perfect animal that I knew, deep down in my heart, I didn't deserve.

She cocked her head to one side as if she were taking my measure, judging me, deeming me either worthy or unworthy. Then she walked over and sat at my side, turning her head to look into my eyes as if to say "Now what, Ranger?". Now what, indeed. I swear I could feel the spirit of this great beast, and my own spirit felt so pitifully small and insignificant beside hers, and sometimes it still does.

I had witnessed wolves in the environment and I knew some of their habits, but how does one go about befriending one? It occurred to me that wolves, especially lone wolves, weren't really that different from me, back then I always appreciated a good meal, when I could afford one, and it didn't matter much where it came from. I happened to have quite a bit of rolton jerky on me so I gave her some, which she ate with great enthusiasm.

Tentatively, I reached out and stroked her fur. So soft and thick, with a muscular frame beneath. This was a truly magnificent creature beside me. She licked my hand as I stroked her under her massive chin and that's when I saw it. Her nearly black muzzle had a small, pale, sunburst-shaped mark upon it, just above her right nostril. This had to be a sign, a sign that my prayer to Phoen had been answered. This was the reply to my desperate plea to the Lord of Light. But I knew it would be up to her, would she stay with me, or would she find me lacking and leave?

Evening came and darkness was descending upon us. The wolf was still with me. I looked up into the rapidly dimming sky and that's when it came to me. The wolf, or as my birth-mother Q'atild, First Among the Mir'Sheq Seers, had labeled her in her vision, "the wild dog of the Moon", needed a name. There was the answer, the Moon. I would name her, not after a moon, but for an event caused by a moon. Eclipse.

Eclipse. That was her name, it was almost as if the wolf had told me herself, and maybe she had. It felt right the first time I said it aloud to her and her ears perked up and I swear she smiled. You know that look canines get, the one that you just know equates to laughter or happiness. Well, she had it, and that in turn made me smile, the first smile to cross my features since I couldn't remember when. I was no longer alone, it wasn't just "me" anymore, it was "We", it was "Us", her and I. It seems I had found one of the pieces that was missing from my shattered life. All was now just a little more right with my world.

The years came and went and many battles were fought, both personal and physical, large and small. Some won, others lost. Eclipse has remained by my side the entire time and is better known to some people than I am. Due to my habit of walking in silence she is sometimes the first indication to others that I am even in the area. People see Eclipse and know I am about and I'm sure some of them think I belong to the wolf, rather than her to me, though in truth it is neither, and it is also both. We are companions who each chose to walk with the other, together, along our chosen paths. We are friends, we are inseparable, but most importantly, we are family. We are One.

I force my mind back into the present as I continue my stalk, slowly, patiently. I freeze, there is movement to my left. Too close! I got careless and missed a second foe approaching. No time to aim and fire Eyesore so I incant my Spikethorn, and it's a good one. The thorns rip into the Mage and tear it to shreds. See ya in Hell you rotting, not undead anymore, stinking Taladorian mage.

There's my original prey, advancing on me with his claidhmore raised high....an undead Taladorian Knight. I liked these guys much better when they were alive, their ears were worth keeping then. He swings the claid and I manage to dodge out of the way, barely. I punch him in the face since he's too close to make good use of Eyesore. A hard spear-hand strike. POP! I just tore his left eye right out of his head, but he's still coming and he's still got that gigantic head lopper with him.

One of the Black Trees lashes out and cuts my arm. It's harmless, but it distracted me enough so I don't move as quickly this time and he hits me in the neck with his claid. Not a mortal strike, my chainmail saves me from death, but close enough. I'm bleeding badly, and worse, I'm stunned. This might be all she wrote, I'm in trouble here, and another knight just walked in. This has now gone from bad to well beyond worse. I'm about to be beaten to death, slowly, and it won't be pleasant.

I see a dark blur streak past me. It's Eclipse! She rushes the undead knight and grabs him by the right arm...and rips it right from it's socket, claidhmore still in his hand! The knight expires and she rushes the newly arrived second knight and begins to tear into it, pieces of rotting flesh flying in all directions. By this time I have regained my wits and I fire Eyesore as rapidly as I can. I rarely kill a Knight in less than three or four shots, sometimes more, but Eclipse has so savaged this beast that two shots is all it takes, one to each eye.

The Wolf, my oldest friend, sniffs at the fallen corpses and then takes up a watchful position in front of me, her teeth bared as she guards me from further attack while I attend to my wound, her golden eyes ever vigilant. No creature in their right mind takes on Eclipse when her dander is up. Once again she has saved my life, and once again she asks for nothing but my friendship in return, and she will have it, tenfold. That is loyalty, and in the long run nothing else really matters, does it?

Chapter 11, Run

The nearly full moon is partially obscured by scattered clouds as the silence of the night is suddenly broken by the mournful howl of a solitary wolf.  The rising cry echoes eerily off the nearby hillsides and soon other wolves join in, creating a chorus of wolf song that echoes through the night air.

The lone she-wolf who began the song lowers her muzzle from the sky and surveys the area with her golden eyes.  She is an exceptional specimen of her species, large and powerful.  Out of the darkness a tall man approaches and stands by her side, his calloused hand resting lightly on her neck, gently scratching her mane as he speaks softly to her in a strange language, guttural and sharp.

She responds to his words by turning her head and looking directly into his eyes, viridian swirled twilight grey eyes.  The man kneels before her and hugs her about the neck, she responds by licking his face.  The man stands once again and utters one word, spoken so softly as to nearly not be heard… Go!

The wolf runs into the black of the night, using the lope that her kind is famous for, steady, strong, and able to cover great distances in a surprisingly short span of time.  She senses that the man is following behind her so she adjusts her pace to match his.  Together, man and beast run through the night, swift and silent, leaving no sign of their passing, two shadows in the darkness.

The dawn is beginning to lighten the eastern sky when she feels the command in her mind… Stop!  She complies immediately, looking back over her shoulder to see the man close behind her.  She pants lightly, her tongue hanging from her mouth.  The man is in nearly the same condition, a light sheen of sweat on his skin and his breathing slightly more rapid than normal; both are tired from the exertion of the run, but neither is exhausted. 

The man comes up to stand beside her and, resting his hand on her head, scratches her between the ears.  She leans into him, each providing a comfort to the other, drawing strength from the others presence.  Both were at one time alone; now neither is.

The man thinks for a moment, weighing options, considering avenues.  He kneels down to check the condition of the wraps about the paws of his companion; wraps made from the hide of the Sea of Fire dwelling creature known as the Morduska.  They are strong and durable, exactly what is needed to protect the paws of his friend and companion.

Satisfied that each of the wraps is in good shape and secure the man stands and opens his satchel, removing two pieces of rolton jerky; giving one to the she-wolf he begins to chew on the other himself.  The wolf devours hers in one large gulp and the man smiles at her, then, after looking down at the half eaten piece in his hand, he gives it to her as well.

He then removes a bowl from the satchel, fills it with water from his water-skin, and places it on the ground before his companion.  She begins noisily lapping at the water, bringing another smile to his lips.  Only when she finishes does he put the bowl back in his satchel and slake his own thirst.

The man decides he knows basically where they are.  He also knows there is a river close by and he should be able to find a decent place to lay up for the day, resting and gathering a few resources; perhaps even a decent meal.  The two of them have been on the move for so long, sometimes it feels like forever. 

Perhaps they have put enough distance between themselves and their pursuers that they have given up, deciding the quarry was not worth the effort; it has happened to the man before.  The trick is not leaving a trail and moving fast, two things that are normally mutually exclusive when moving through the wilderness.

The thought of their pursuers brings the man back to the reality of their situation; there will be no rest, no fire, and no evening meal.  The only real safety is in putting as much distance between themselves and the small town they visited four days ago; the one with the six dead Imperial soldiers in it, the six soldiers who were alive and well until they decided a lone Tehir would be good for a bit of sport.  What they failed to understand was that this particular Tehir, who, due to the presence of his companion was far from alone, thought nearly the same thing; six Imperial soldiers might be good for a bit of sport, until a soldier pulled a dirk and cut the Tehir man.

The chase was on but the man and his companion have the advantage; they can move faster than their pursuers can hunt.  The man, highly trained and skilled in the art of survival, and his companion, whose senses, instincts and cunning are well known, will easily win this race.

The man decides, on a whim, that he has had quite enough of running; it was time that the hunter became the hunted; lessons needed to be taught and learned.  He leans down and whispers something into the she-wolfs ear and she heads off in an easterly direction, the man then proceeds west.  After backtracking their own trail for nearly five miles the man comes upon the tracks of horses.  There appear to be at least a half dozen horses; all heavily burdened… armoured men ride these horses.

A quick plan begins to take form in his mind and he runs back the way he came until he finds the river; he then quickly swims it, leaving ample sign on both banks of his having done so.  He then proceeds a quarter mile or so into the forest on the other side and builds a fire; one much too large for a man alone in the wilderness who does not wish to be found.  He then begins putting green leaves and pine boughs on the flames, creating a lot of smoke, smoke that filters up through the trees and into the sky.

Now, the waiting begins.  He has chosen a well-concealed place near the point where he crossed the river.  After a while he hears the snorting of horses and the clank of metal armor; this is almost too easy.  Soon they are close enough that he can hear their voices.

"Don't you find this strange?  We haven't seen a single track, not one bit of sign, and suddenly we see smoke and come across these tracks," one of the riders says.

"Yeah, we weren't even heading this way, until we saw that smoke," says another.

The others mutter in agreement.

"Shut up, all of you!  We're going to kill this murderer.  He killed my friends," another says.

"Your friends were thugs, and they tried to take the man, six on one, just because he was Tehir.  I'd say they chose poorly this time," the first says again.

"Enough!  Now get across that river so we can end this.  I want his head on a pike!"

The six men on horseback lead their horses down to the bank of the river and begin crossing.  At a point roughly halfway across the river the horses are beginning to founder, the water deep enough that they are not quite able to either walk or swim.

It is at this point that the man steps out of the brush, training his longbow on the men, and says, "A'right der fellers.  I reckons dat's bouts as fer as yer gonna go's.  Ya's gots yerselfs a choice here.  Ya can head on back whar ya cames from, er I can kills ya right here an' now; don' matters much ta me which it be."

The man who told them all to shut up and cross the river states, in a loud voice, "He's only one man.  He can't hit all six of us with that bow; no one is that good or that fast."

It's at this point that the mans companion, the she-wolf, steps from behind the man, baring her teeth and growling menacingly.  The horses, already skittish and nervous from their predicament in the water, become even more agitated.

"Nope, ain' gots ta shoots ya wit' da bow.  All I gots ta does is shoots yer horses.  Reckon wit alla dat armor yer all a'wearin ye'll sinks like a stone.  River'll does m'job fer me.  Er mebbe I'll just turns da wolf loose... lets her spooks yer horses so's dey bucks ya'll off… be da same r'sult.  Alla ya'll be dead no matter which; an me, well I'll jus' keeps on walkin.  Choice be yers, but ye'd bes' be a'makin it quick."

Knowing they are as good as dead if they don't agree the five men force their comrade to agree to the terms.  They turn their skittish horses around and head back the way they came.  The mans voice reaches them from the other side of the river, "Ya'll r'members dis.  I coul'a kill't ya any time; ye'd a ne'er saw'd me, ye'd a ne'er know'd I were der.  Ye'd a ne'er foun' me if'n I hadn't a'wanted ya to, so keeps ridin' back from whar ya come, an' ye'll live.  Foller me, an' I'll kills ya'll… real slow."

The man and the she-wolf then disappear into the forest, continuing in a generally northern direction.