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  Considerably more sore the following morning or what he perceived as morning, his body aching everywhere, Vilmos stirred as his slumber was disturbed. Fortunately, however, he wasn’t the only sluggish one, and the sun was high in the sky before they departed the inn. High in the sky?

  Vilmos double-checked the sun’s position again—low in the sky, he corrected himself; it was late afternoon, yet it never occurred to his weary mind that it was the same day. Quickly they sought out the garrison headquarters, which was located in the northern section of the city—a building that Vilmos immediately recognized. His heart thumped rapidly as they crossed a street, making for the unseen square that Vilmos knew was ahead.

  Vilmos recalled the chance meeting with the remarkable bladesman oddly. The face he pictured as if he had seen it only yesterday, the tall form he had taken in that single panning glance, the sound of the gruff voice seemed a distant recollection, yet it was the voice that he recalled with the greatest fondness. He wondered if the competition were still underway; and in the excitement, his weariness ebbed and he asked a question that in retrospect he knew he shouldn’t have. Xith’s rebuttal, although brief, was particularly stinging; he was not to say another word until they were inside the garrison proper.

  Noman slipped the sentry the customary bribe for admittance, which to his dismay was promptly refused. After that, it took both Xith and Noman nearly a full hour to convince the man that he should let them enter the outer keep and to send for the day captain. The man seemed particularly miffed at the attempted bribe, and it was only through persistent nagging that they were allowed entrance at all.

  “Night cap’n’s watch comin’ on soon, ya’ know,” mumbled the squat man.

  “Yo’all need to stay here,” he added, disappearing into a hallway, an ironbound door clanging closed after him.

  They had made it as far as the inner gatehouse and no farther. A portcullis lay between them and the outer keep and another to the rear insured that they were retained here until someone returned, which they hoped would be soon. Xith grew visibly angry as the day dwindled away and the captain hadn’t come back. Even the steadfast Amir was getting edgy, his hand subconsciously fondling the hilt of his sword.

  Vilmos was the only one who didn’t mind waiting. He thought it was a good opportunity to talk with Noman; unfortunately Noman didn’t think so. Noman was busy trying to confer with the guards, who suspiciously watched them. He repeated the same question concerning the day captain’s whereabouts only to receive no response. The guards would only glare at him with disgust and contempt. He was tempted to use the guiles of the voice, but never quite did. The voice relied on a somewhat receptive audience and the guards neither paid attention to them nor cared if they were made to wait all day.

  The captain finally arrived just after sunset.

  “So, you’re still here?” the captain said, acting surprised, “I do not have time to waste with the likes of you. I am off shift; you should consult the night captain if you still wish to speak with someone. Guards, dismiss them at once. Good Evening.”

  Noman put a quick end to diplomacy; his patience was at an end. “Good evening is all you are going to say after you have made us wait for the better part of the day?”

  Better judgment prevailed and Noman withheld his anger. Time was running short; they should have been on their way already. “You are Captain Nijal, first son of Geoffrey. I would advise you to take me to see your father now or I’ll have your head!”

  The name brought instant remembrance to Vilmos and now he matched the broad shoulders hidden beneath padded armor with a distant visage he had briefly envied, the distant figure that had been one of the few in the respected group that had ascended from the field of combat to the lofty balcony to stand beside their lord. The words of the bladesman rang in his ears: “The test of steel lasted six days for that one.” Vilmos waited to see how he would react to the challenge.

  “You make demands here? I think not!” rebuked the captain.

  Vilmos silently cheered, though not because the man was defying Noman, but because the words fit the image he held in his mind’s eye.

  “I think so,” calmly stated Noman with a scowl. Noman made a reaching motion with his hands, twisting his fingers around an imagined globe and then clenching the fingers tight, destroying the globe. The captain fell to the ground, his face whitening with horror as he realized he was unable to move. “Have you looked to the heavens lately?”

  Vilmos gulped, suddenly sorry for his wishes of defiance.

  The sentries lunged forward and then stopped. Noman waved his hands again, a twinge of malice held in his upturned eyes, and the captain fell to his belly—the sentries made no further advances. To Nijal it seemed as if the earth had suddenly opened up to swallow him and he groveled insanely on the floor for a time before he looked upon the vision only he could see. Noman played with the man, seeming to enjoy the torment he caused. His companions saw nothing, yet they knew that somehow the diviner had caused the man to suffer.

  “I am Noman, guardian of the lost children of the Father, Master of the City of the Sky. Light fire to your feet as you scamper back to your father with my message!”

  To his utter surprise, the man held his ground, and then an odd thing happened. Though the terrified captain was unaware of it, a true smile lit the diviner’s face, yet it was short-lived. “You have two choices, Nijal, son of Geoffrey.” The words were spoken with a wintry tone as if each word cost the speaker pain and toil, “Draw the blade that you are so proud of, or do as I have instructed!”

  Suddenly, as if he had just found that he had feet, the captain scrambled away, fleeing into the keep. He returned moments later with an older gentleman, nearly dragging the elder behind him. The old man’s form spoke of one who had once been powerfully built but had softened with age. His voice was softened and gently aged.

  “I am Geoffrey; please follow me,” he stated, leading them away.

  The words of the bladesman suddenly rang in his ears again. “He’s been the best for a decade now, and the Father willing, I think he will make a comeback this year.” Vilmos studied father and son, searching for the similarities between them, of which there were many, suddenly noting how young the other looked, and truly was, when compared to the older gentleman. Momentarily, he wondered if any man could match the powerful Amir in a test of steel; somehow, he didn’t think so.

  Two groups of escorts accompanied them on the brief walk through the keep. Captain Nijal directed wary glances solely at Noman, a worried expression forming on his face with each; it was clear that he was terrified of the mystic.

  Vilmos glanced back at the small open yard with its covered overhangs and fountains as they passed into the inner keep. The rear guard lagged behind now as they paused to seal the doors and Vilmos paused likewise, turning to regard them. They were not outfitted like the outer sentries in padded leathers and helmet. They wore a shining chain, which was obviously lightly woven as they moved with ease, and an open-faced helmet with a long plume, a clump of black feathers, on its top. Their weapons were not pike and glaive, but full two-handed swords with fine hilts and ornate scabbards.

  The brief walk ended when they entered what appeared to be a large audience chamber with a large, rectangular table with ten chairs on each long side and two chairs on the short sides filling most of it. Two of the sentries remained outdoors, but the other pair followed Geoffrey to the head of the table. They took up positions on either side of him.

  Vilmos was curious now, for none of them had been searched for weapons. Was this because Noman played out an illusion before their eyes of a harmless band of peddlers, or was it because the lord knew without a doubt that no matter what occurred the two stalwart figures planted behind him would protect him regardless of the cost to themselves? He would have liked to believe the latter, for he took an odd liking to the young captain and his noble father.

  Noman skipped any introductions and cut the conversation sho
rt by dropping an illusion, which he had obviously concocted and fine tuned during the short walk, into the center of the table they were now seated around. Little further explanation was necessary; Geoffrey fully understood the banners he saw raised.

  Geoffrey and Nijal sat with eyes wide in disbelief at what they were witnessing. Yet true wonderment came when Geoffrey of Solntse recognized his own standard among the many raised on the illusionary field, for this small thing defined the intricacies in the precarious detail. Vilmos again noted that emotion did not stir the sentries’ faces. They stared directly ahead without variance.

  Noman did speak now, in kind, cognizant prose, emanating a feeling of peace and truthfulness, which overwhelmed even Vilmos. He continued to speak at length about things Vilmos had never heard him mention to anyone else, things that caused Vilmos to start and tremble. Words like war, death, famine, and suffering, that rang in his ears long after Noman finished.

  Lord Geoffrey spoke for a time in a reasonable fashion that surprised some of the listeners. He seemed to have listened well, and it was clear that he intended to heed the warning. And then a strong silence permeated the room, lasting until the guardian cleared his throat and looked to Xith. The shaman smiled, looked to Geoffrey for a moment and then nodded his head; he was sufficiently satisfied with the other’s intent to hold to his promise. Xith winked at the young captain as they broke from the table, causing the man to fidget.

  They stopped at the open yard where Geoffrey offered them a place to stay for the night, which they declined, declaring that they must depart immediately. Nijal further offered them swift horses from the garrison’s own stock, supplies for their journey, and his deepest apology, which Noman accepted.

  As they reached the outer keep gate, the young captain made one final appeal to them to accept his father’s and his own gracious invitation to stay the night. Guilt rode upon his shoulders for the way he had treated those that had been trying to help him; and this sat very uneasily with him, for he thought of himself as fair and not self-serving. “Is there any way we can further assist you?”

  “No, we must be going. I am truly sorry,” said Noman, patting the captain’s shoulder.

  Nijal looked to his father. He wanted to say something but couldn’t. With Noman in their midst, the ruggedness of the newcomers was strangely appealing, yet he wondered why such a powerful man kept such poor company, or if perhaps there were more than was apparent. He watched the guardian as the outer portcullis was slowly raised and an unanticipated sadness came to him as he began to walk away.

  Noman whispered to Nijal as they exited, “Things are not always as they seem, friend Nijal.”

  A small contingent of garrison soldiers waited with the fresh mounts. The group dismounted at their approach and it became quickly apparent to the onlookers that these where the soldiers’ personal mounts. The animals were large, muscular, and obviously well groomed and maintained. Saddlebags were quickly brought out and distributed. And then since there was nothing more to say, Noman and the others quickly accepted the gift and departed. The two, father and son, watched the departure; again a curious sadness passed between them.

  “Times are changing, my son,” said Geoffrey.

  “Yes, father, to think the guardian has left the fabled city.”

  “Life is breathed into the myth,” added the lord.

  “Indeed! Could you feel the power that emanated from him? He seemed larger than life itself. By my code, our code, one to be reckoned with.”

  “From the group, I would say,” countered the lord.

  “Father? May I—” began Nijal, adding remorsefully, “No, it is only a foolish notion.”

  “What is only a foolish notion?” inquired Geoffrey as he turned to face the young man.

  The others were gone from sight now and the gate was grinding down with an unsettling whine. As the lord sauntered into the courtyard, his bodyguards followed and Nijal walked alongside him.

  “I know they go to meet something important and all I can do is look around and see these dead, gray walls. I need purpose in my life, father. I need to find my freedom.”

  “Yes,” said Geoffrey sighing. The final word had struck a chord and the words of the freeman’s code flooded into his mind; it was all that he stood for, all that he wanted to maintain for his son. “Perhaps I have kept you here for too long. You were never one to stay in one place too long. Yet I thought I finally had satisfied you.”

  The lord sighed again and then continued, “You have a considerable position in the city, yet you are unhappy, you are not free. You are indeed my son.”

  Geoffrey’s grim demeanor lessened.

  “I am a free man.”

  “Yes, you are my son. Who would you have lead the garrison in your stead?”

  “You know the one, Father. He is far better than I.”

  “You have trained him well. He will make a worthy captain.”

  “Shchander is a good man.”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “Then I have your permission?”

  “Yes, go my son. Find what it is you seek so that someday you may return a settled man. May the Father watch over you!”

  “And you as well, Father!”

  Nijal rushed inside to gather a few of his scattered belongings; when he returned, his stallion was saddled and ready for him. The new captain stood next to Geoffrey and the three saluted each other in mutual respect as Nijal departed.

  Hastily, he rode away, heading toward the eastern gates of the city. Still he could not believe his father had allowed him to leave. The life of a captain was definitely not for him. He needed excitement and change, which he hoped to find.

  “What of the watch?” shouted Shchander, chasing after Nijal.

  Nijal grinned and waved, saying nothing.

  Soon the eastern gates lay behind him and the open plains of the border country stretched out before him. He wasn’t sure to where he ran, only that the visitors had said they were headed eastward and so was he. He was a little disconcerted when he found no immediate sign of them or their passage, the dry earth showing no telltale dust plume of the retreating riders. He decided to ride east for a time.

  He hoped his brash nature hadn’t left him without a job for he could not return now, even if he wanted. He had already given his position as day captain of the city garrison away, or at least that was the thought that spurred him on. He cradled the stout leather whip in his hand and hastened his steed onward.

  Dusk besieged the murky land and Nijal found himself squinting in the falling silvered light to find the thin trail that led to the east. Surrounded by a disturbing lull, mentally he keyed his senses, searching for the night sounds he knew should be there—the distant call of nocturnal hunters waking from a day’s sleep, the scurrying of the border hare, a scrawny, thick-skinned rabbit that he found surprisingly tasty, or even the cry of the speckled black bird which abounded in the flat lands, a bird which the nomads called the gray raven.

  Finding a few of those sounds in the distance after a time, Nijal no longer felt lost and alone, yet this was not why he persisted; it was as though an invisible hand were guiding him on, pulling him through the waning day and forcing him to ride on when otherwise he might have turned back.

  He glared across the horizon, spotting the only things that marred the otherwise featureless land around him, small stands of stunted trees, trees that looked as if the sun never found them beneath the perpetual blanket of wind-blown debris tossed up from the rough lands by the coarse, damaging winds.

  His pace slackened now, as he oddly lost the sense of urgency, yet the unseen hand still guided him on—he would never recall that he hadn’t paused to look back at the grand city in the fading light. The night sounds served better than a pacifier in a child’s mouth to soothe his agitated senses, and for a time he came to rely on them; that is, until they abruptly stopped. His first reaction was to rein in his mount, but then, feeling foolish, he urged the animal on.

 
; Passing a small cluster of the sickly wood now, he stopped abruptly; once more, on the far side of the stand, mixing with the overshadowed land, silhouettes were outlined in the falling light as long mishappen shadows. His first thought was of bandits; they often waited in such places for unwary passersby.

  Taking the reins in one hand, he groped for the pommel of his sword and eased it from its scabbard, yet as directly as he drew it, the fears dissolved. The guiding hand led him on, tugging him forward. Warily, he approached and when sufficiently close to make out faces within the gray, he stopped, ignoring the strong beckoning of the hand, lingering shortly, waiting purposefully.

  “Welcome Nijal, first son of Geoffrey of Solntse,” called out a strong voice.

  Nijal recognized the voice as that of Noman, yet he didn’t recognize the face.