Bringers of Doom Read online

  I shake my head, trying to dispel the memory. There is nothing but pain there, I think forcefully. Pain, and idle fancies. She is a mage, and her oath and duty is much different than yours. It's time to come to terms with that.

  Gritting my teeth, I attempt to think of something else, anything at all.

  For a time it works, my mind going over the Ranger's Oath and other, more pressing things. But somehow, I find my mind always going back to Zara, and the strangely powerful things that she makes me feel.

  Around midday, we stop at a town that had been built on the intersection of the southern and eastern roads. There, we graze and water the horses and find some food for ourselves. I’ve spent the last several years in the saddle, but even I get saddle sore, and so we take the opportunity to rest our legs at a local tavern.

  Taking a bite of a leg of chicken, I abruptly break the stale silence between us. “Where did you learn how to fight?”

  She takes a long drink of water before responding. “I’m a ranger, Owyn. It’s what we do.”

  “I’ve met a few rangers in my time,” I press, absently tearing another piece of meat with my fingers. “The only other person I’ve seen fight as well as you is Elias.”

  She considers my observation, popping a piece of fruit into her mouth and chewing. “Elias and I trained together when we were younger,” she says, obviously choosing her words carefully. “That was in the early days of the rebellion. We’ve had a lot of opportunities to fight the Nightingales since then.”

  Frowning, I take another bite of chicken. “The rebels have never resorted to all-out war,” I say as I chew. “Are there really that many opportunities to fight?”

  Tamara nods. “We are the first line of defense for the kingdom. You may not have seen many rebels in the Emberwood, but in the mountains, raids are almost constant. The king’s men are rarely required to pick up the sword because the rangers are tasked with rooting out insurgents. Most of the bloodshed we face, especially in the south, never becomes common knowledge.”

  There are more Nightingales in the Emberwood than you know, I think to myself wryly as I am reminded of Barus and the rebels who helped us fight off the demon attack. They were a secret force, and never resorted to preying on the local population. I say nothing, however, as I continue eating my meal.

  Before long, the time comes for us to once again set out on our journey. After retrieving our horses we begin heading east, toward the direction of the Ashwood and the foothills of the Southwall Mountains. The sun is high overhead, and I pull up the hood of my cloak to prevent my neck from getting burnt. The road is long and sparsely populated, but as the hours pass the landscape starts to become more varied.

  The rolling green hills of the Heartlands give way to pockets of forest, the outside edge of the Ashwood, and the terrain starts to become more rugged.

  Though I have not been to this side of the country myself, I know from others that the Ashwood is different from the Emberwood in many ways. The soil in the Emberwood is rich and fertile, and the land is much easier to navigate. This makes it particularly appealing to farmers and loggers. The Ashwood, however, is rocky and harsh, the land uneven and the quality of the soil poor. Aside from the city of Ashview, the area is sparsely populated. That, I realize, must be why the rangers have made their home here. The isolation and the rugged terrain makes it a perfect place for our organization.

  Dusk comes and we are in the middle of nowhere, not a town or a village in sight.

  Just as the night before, we pull into a small stand of trees and make camp, building a small fire to keep us warm as the chill of the night sets in. This time, Tamara gives me first watch while she goes to bed, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I pass the time my oiling my bow and sharpening my father’s hatchet, doing my best to keep quiet so that I don’t disturb her rest.

  When it comes time for me to rest and her to keep watch, I find little trouble falling asleep.

  The next day goes about the same as the last, the variation of the land around us the only indication that we are making any progress at all. We find ourselves fully in the woods now, traversing down a road with fewer travelers than there were before.

  It is midday again by the time we reach another settlement, the southeastern city of Ashview. It is a fairly large town, a little more populous than Forest Hill, and it is there that we rest our horses and find another hot meal.

  After our brief stop, we turn our horses down a road leading into the heart of the forest, toward an area known as ‘deepwood’ and ultimately our destination, the Grand Lodge.

  I watch as the rocky crags and gnarled ash trees grow more thickly around us, insulating us in a tunnel of sorts made from timber and stone. The sounds that I have associated with the woods are absent here, the air so close that it almost feels suffocating.

  With the sun obscured by the trees above, I have a hard time judging time, but it seems to be about midafternoon when next we stop.

  Tamara pulls her horse to a halt, forcing me to do the same, and she cocks her head to the side, as if listening to something intently.

  Suddenly feeling uneasy, I unsling my bow and pull out an arrow, keeping my eyes on our surroundings for any sight of movement. However, after a few moments I don’t hear or see anything at all.

  “Is everything alright?” I ask, curious as to why we have stopped.

  “Quiet,” she snaps, still listening like a well-trained hound. After a few heartbeats, she calls out to the forest around us. “This is First Warden Moyle, protector of these woods. Reveal yourself, or I will be forced to attack.” She places a hand on her bow threateningly, and seems to be looking everywhere at once.

  Finally, a pair of men emerge from a dense thicket of trees, their grey-green ranger cloaks shrouding their leather armor and the knocked bows in their hands.

  They approach our position on the road, the larger of the two removing his hood and raising his hand in greeting.

  “Hail, First Warden,” the man says, his hard expression softening as he looks up at her astride her horse. “Welcome back to the Ashwood.”

  I can see Tamara visibly relax as she recognizes him, removing her hand from her bow. “Well met, Rickard. Out on patrol today?”

  He nods. “Aye. There’ve been increased reports of Nightingale activity in the area. We’ve been making a sweep for the better part of a week.”

  The man is broad shouldered and strong-looking, with a chiseled jaw and hair that has been cropped short. He wears a short sword on his hip, and his features look as weathered as the face of a mountain, with scars and greying stubble.

  The other ranger is shorter than his companion, and when he removes his hood I see that he is about my same age. He has a narrow face and a tousled mop and black hair. Despite his lean figure, he looks quick, and could probably handle himself well in a scrap.

  “Is this your apprentice?” Tamara asks, gesturing to the younger ranger.

  “Yes, indeed,” Rickard replies, clapping a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “This here is Talon. He’s been with me for the past six months.”

  “Well met, Talon,” Tamara says cordially, prompting the apprentice to bow.

  “Likewise, First Warden.”

  Rickard looks up at me, pointing with his chin. “And who is this?”

  Before I can introduce myself, Tamara answers, her voice measured and cool. “This is Owyn Lund, Elias’ apprentice from the Emberwood. I’m escorting him to the Master Warden to share some delicate information.” The way she says delicate makes it sound like I am in some sort of trouble.

  “I know Elias well,” Rickard nods, though I can see the surprise in his eyes. “Is he–”

  “He’s alive,” Tamara interrupts, her tone becoming short. “It is a unique situation, and we really must be on our way.”

  Rickard takes a step back, clearly taking the hint. “Don’t let us keep you. The Grand Lodge is not far ahead. You’ll probably get there before nightfall. We can reconvene late
r.”

  Tamara kicks her horse forward, saluting both of them by placing a closed fist over her heart. “Light be with you.”

  They return the salute, both echoing the phrase as we pass. It isn’t long before they disappear from sight, the twisting trees appearing to swallow them up.

  Looking ahead, I steel myself as I face the prospect of meeting the leader of the rangers, Master Warden Thorne.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Zara

  A Brief Treatise on the Wars of Tarsynium

  By Evoker Roland Mills

  “Since the founding of the realm, some one hundred years before the Doom of Byhalya, Tarsynium has certainly seen its share of bloodshed. While it is true that without a rival nation to make war with, like the disparate nations of old, our isolated kingdom has been rife with rebellions, protestations, and inquisitions. Such is the nature of mankind.

  The city-state of Tarsys, and the surrounding towns and communities that pay homage to it, has long been ruled by the Conclave, the reigning body of mages.

  In the early years after the creation of the Arc of Radiance, the common folk viewed the mages as heroes, larger-than-life men and women who saved the remnants of humanity from the ravages of the R’Laar. However, with time, the frailties and imperfections of the mages began to make themselves manifest to the greater population. Magisters would often abuse their considerable powers at the expense of the common people, eventually raising the ire of the realm against the Conclave.

  This all culminated during the reign of High Magus Rominus Polux. Polux was known for his excesses and his disregard for human life. There are stories about him forcing peasants to slay each other in the public arena for his entertainment, and about him stealing women from outlying villages and taking them as his personal concubines.

  Fed up with the behavior of the Conclave, the common people rose up as one and attacked the capital city, razing much of Tarsys to the ground in a matter of days. Polux and many members of the Circle of Magisters were forcibly taken from the Pillar of Radiance and paraded through the streets, eventually being publicly tortured and executed to appease the mob.

  In order to stop the bloodshed, the Conclave conceded to the populace and offered to accept one of them as the monarch of Tarsynium, to watch and rule over the kingdom while they attended to all things magic. This separation of powers led to a long-lasting peace between mages and common folk, and is the current form of our government today.

  In the years between then and modern day Tarsynium, several notable rebellions have risen up and been destroyed. Ulfgaar’s Uprising in the third century united the northern cities of Omkirk and Acacia against the crown, culminating in the Battle of Bloody Fields in the Heartlands, but was ultimately crushed by a union of knights and battle mages. Avery’s Rebellion was a tactical insurgency that lasted for more than a hundred years in the fourth and fifth centuries, which resulted in the assassination of many noble officials.

  Most recently, the Nightingales have risen to power, citing the tyranny of King Aethelstan and his son, Aethelgar, as the primary reason for their founding. They fancy themselves as warriors for the people and defenders of freedom but stand in open defiance of the laws of the land. Rumor has it that the Nightingales have founded a secret city called Dunmar, but such claims remain nothing more than conjecture...”

  Sighing, I close the dusty tome, leaning back in my chair and rubbing my tired eyes.

  Hours spent in the library have taken a toll on me, my back aching from hunching over books and my eyes feeling like they are on fire.

  Right now, I think as I blink against the low light of the great chandelier, I’m not even sure what time it is.

  Pushing my chair back, I pick up the history book and tuck it under my arm, disappointed that yet another volume has gotten me absolutely nowhere.

  Since the discovery of the murdered magister, I have taken it upon myself to search for anything that could give me an indication of who is behind these attacks. What little evidence I have seems to indicate that these assassins are some sort of religious organization, though so far my search has proved fruitless.

  Nothing in these books seems to have any relevant information at all.

  Sighing again, I make my way back to the shelf and replace the book, wondering what section I should go after next. I have already looked at contemporary works, modern archives, and now history, all without success.

  My stomach rumbles angrily, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since breakfast.

  Perhaps I should take a break and continue the search later.

  I walk back to my table and pick up my handbag, looping it over my shoulder and walking through the maze of bookshelves. Reaching inside, I wrap my fingers around the hilt of the assassin’s blade, which I have wrapped in a handkerchief, tracing the strange symbol with my thumb and envisioning it in my mind.

  Whoever these people are, they have to be stopped, I think, shaking away my study fatigue and strengthening my resolve. If I fail, even more people will die by their hands.

  As I turn a corner, I almost collide into a white-robed steward. A squeak escapes my lips and I narrowly avoid knocking a tall stack of books out of his hands.

  “Sorry!” He says, taking a step back and readjusting his grip on the books. “I didn’t see you there!”

  “It's fine,” I breathe, my heart thudding in surprise. My hand is still clutching the dagger in my handbag, the silvery handle sticking out in the open.

  The steward’s eyes open wide as he notices the hilt of the weapon, and I quickly drop it back into my pouch. Feigning a look of innocence, I fold my arms in front of me and regard him silently.

  Shifting uncomfortably, the steward lets out a nervous chuckle. “I should remember to check around corners instead of barreling right through them. This library can be hard to navigate and you never know who might be walking around down here. I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  Unable to stop myself, I begin to glower at him. “You didn’t scare me."

  Taken aback my glare, he swallows. “My mistake, Magus.”

  Magus? I wonder if I’ll ever get used to being called that. Smoothing my expression to a look of neutrality, I nod. “Don’t worry about it. I should have been more careful as well.”

  He relaxes a little bit, again readjusting his grip on the books. “You’re new, aren’t you? I’ve seen you down here recently, but I don’t know your name.”

  “Zara Dennel,” I reply evenly. “Newly raised mage.”

  “Oh, you’re her! The youngest mage to be raised in Conclave history! Forgive me, I’m Richard Dawson, steward-in-training. I’m fairly new around here as well.”

  “Hello, Richard. Steward-in-training? That explains the hair.”

  He reaches up a hand and touches the thick, brown hair atop his head. “They don’t let you shave your head until you become fully initiated,” he explains, slightly abashed. He looks to be about my age, maybe a year or two younger, with an honest face and hazel eyes. His awkward demeanor seems genuine, and I find myself relaxing a bit as well.

  “That’s a lot of books you’re carrying,” I observe, gesturing to the stack in his hands. “Are you studying for an exam?”

  He smiles and shakes his head. “Stewards don’t study much, Magus. I’m returning these books back to their proper shelves.”

  “I see... Please, call me Zara. I’m not used to people calling me Magus.”

  His smile widens, and he gives a single, quick nod. “Zara, then. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you, as well.” I find that I, too, am smiling as we chat in the middle of the Great Library. It feels good to have a pleasant conversation with somebody that isn’t a mage. It reminds me a little of conversations I would have with Owyn. “Do you want help carrying some of those books?”

  “No, that’s alright. They just go in the History section over there.”

  I walk with him as he goes to return the books, happy to have a
break from thinking about assassins and demons.

  “So, stewards are the caretakers of the Conclave?”

  “That’s right,” he says, sliding one of the tomes back onto a shelf. “Caretakers, administrators, servants, you name it. We keep the place running while you mages deal with the more important things.”

  “What made you want to be a steward?”

  He shrugs. “My father is a cobbler, but that life just wasn’t for me - didn't have a sole for it, I guess."

  I grimace at his awful pun, shaking my head and giggling quietly. "Shoe jokes? Really?"

  He grins and continues speaking, a bit more confidently than before. "I grew up here in Tarsys, and I always wanted to go to the Conclave, but since I don’t have the gift, becoming a steward was the next best thing.”

  “Do they treat you well here?” I keep my voice soft even though, as far as I can tell, we are the only people in this section of the library.

  “Well enough,” Richard replies simply, standing on the tips of his toes to reach a particularly high shelf. “Our lodging and food is taken care of, and every so often I am able to go out into the city to visit my family.”

  “That’s all anyone can ask for, I suppose.”

  “I agree.” He takes a step back from the bookshelf and dusts off his hands. Turning to look at me, he grins. “All done.”

  I return the smile. “That wasn’t so bad.”

  “No, but when you do it for several hours, your arms start to get sore. What are you doing down here anyway? If you don’t mind me asking, that is.”

  The question seems innocent enough, so I answer with little hesitation. “Research. Trying to learn about something that might not exist at all, actually.”

  “What is it?” He asks, putting his hands into the pockets of his white robe. “Maybe I can help.”

  Careful now, I think to myself, chewing my lip in uncertainty. The High Magus swore you to secrecy. One misstep and you could find yourself betraying her trust. “I can’t really talk about it,” I say at length, knowing full well that it is a lame excuse.