Whispers of the Wind, Echos of a Sword

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         Sometimes what is meant to be, does not necessarily come to pass. Sometimes the destiny to which one is born, is not the path that is finally followed.


         The sky was overcast with a broad band of darkness brimming on the horizon. The sun had hidden its face as if ashamed to look upon the goings on below. The looming expanse above, resigned to its somber duty, regarded the steady stream of Kheol warriors with indifference.

         Wind tore at muddied tunics and sent gray and blue war banners flailing. Kheol nobles and high-ranking officers rode atop ornamented warhorses while long-faced soldiers trudged behind them. Helmets gleamed and capes streamed out behind like flags of color against the sullen surroundings. Sweaty horses strained against heavy carts, jerking them over gashing ruts that marred the mucky ground.

         By the gates of a simple, yet elegant country home, a rain-dampened figure sat astride a bay horse. The man was fitted in the standard gray-blue uniform, but wore the silver buttons of a captain. He was surprisingly young for a man of his rank, possessing a mop of curly, brown hair and a clean-shaven face. With grim eyes, he surveyed the parade of troops until allowing his view to drift to the front gates of his home.

         Huddled against each other, two girls met his gaze. It was their brother who was riding off to war; their brother off to conquer nations. The figures were plainly sisters, resembling each other with the same honey-colored hair and high cheekbones. The younger one had a face streaked with tears, and in shame, burrowed it into her sister’s sleeve. The elder girl’s face was tearless, but her eyes possessed a definite mournful quality. The wind played with her hair, tugging at the loose sandy strands and whipping them about her face. She held her sister to her side as if to shield her from the parting now taking place.

         A second rider, a great hulk of a man, swerved his horse out of line and openly surveyed the new recruit. He took in everything from his naive exterior to the silver clasp that marked his rank. For a new recruit to automatically attain position as captain without having to survive four years of combat, meant he was of noble blood.

         The hefty man shot him a friendly smile that revealed yellowing teeth. “Better get yourself in line, me lad, before Shadaran comes this way.” The man scratched the stubble at his chin with fingers broad as tree roots. “The General's a mighty irritable sort.”

         Realizing his cue to depart, the captain turned in his saddle and searched out the faces of his sisters. Would they still love him after all was through? Would they share the same respect? Could they ever forgive him for working against everything they had stood for?

         The soldier followed his gaze and tilted his head thoughtfully. “Now’s not the time to be sluggish, lad. ‘Tis a long way to Aerinar, and that's the truth of it, but you’ll be seeing them ladies of yours soon enough.” The man urged his beast back into line and motioned for the boy to move in beside him.

         The young captain knew much was left unspoken within the man’s words. Countless hardships and bloody battles lay ahead of him before he would set eyes on his sisters again. Resolutely, he squared his jaw and swung his mount about in a single, fluid movement. In taking place beside his new companion, he turned his back upon the home he had known since childhood.

         “Goodbye, Tarem!” A voice called after him. It was Lorelle’s voice; the elder of his sisters. Tarem glanced over his shoulder but had little time to acknowledge her farewell.

         “No shirkers, now!” The stiff voice flew over the marching men. General Shadaran, mounted high on a monstrous warhorse, jabbed a finger in Tarem's direction. Though the General rode several rows behind them, his voice carried clearly. “Get moving!”

         Obediently, Tarem pressed forward and let himself be swept along by the river of warriors, leaving Lorelle to stare after his retreating figure, her hand upraised. Tarem knew she would watch until he was no longer identifiable among the thousands of others.

         “Your name’s Tarem, then?” Tarem’s colossal partner acknowledged, more than questioned.

         Tarem turned down the man‘s attempt at conversation and stared straight ahead. Within him, his mind was roiling. What would his father do when he received the news? Would he rage? Would it crush him? How could he face him when he returned? If he returned…

          The man pressed on. “Ah, don’t take it so hard, me lad. I, meself, had to leave the missus and the little young things behind. Though, I confess, I don’t mind so much as I should. At times, ‘tis a good thing for a man to get away from the family, methinks.”

         Tarem glanced up at him briefly. Then lowered his gaze. He knew little of what it was like to have a wife, much less children. Though if he were placed in a similar situation, he thought his feelings might differ.

         “Me name’s Elladan but most call me Bear. ‘Tis the name I‘ve earned.” His companion flashed him the same corn-kernelled smile he’d used earlier as he patted the roll of flab around his middle. “Though not of any certain gallantry…” When Tarem neither laughed nor smiled, the man sobered. “Look here, Tarem, me boy.” Bear spoke, lowering his voice to a hefty whisper. “Perhaps I don’t know the half of your troubles, but I do know this. You’re a captain now, whether you like it or not, so straighten up in that saddle of yours or you’ll paint yourself up a weakling before you have the chance to prove yourself.”

         Tarem looked the man in the eyes. They were a gray, gravelly color but seemed to know the nature of these things. If he was to get home to his family at all, he realized, perhaps he should listen to what this man had to say. Tarem nodded in agreement and raised his eyes to a more confident level. As he squared his shoulders, Tarem knew he was being called to fulfill the duty expected of every Kheol citizen; to assist in the vanquishing of the surrounding lands and subjugate them each beneath the iron fist of Kheol rule.

         And to survive, he would do whatever he had to do…

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         Emra gazed out her bedroom window upon the Kheol streets below. The marketplace was a chaotic scene, rainbowed by gaudily-colored canopies overhanging sellers’ booths and glittered by cheap jewelry hanging from hawkers’ stalls like common tinsel. Discarded litter crammed gutters and triggered the foul stench that stealthily overcame the city. Wandering individuals were swallowed up by the bartering throng and painstakingly attempted to plow their way through the churning mass toward their destination.

         Any passersby who happened to glance up at the solemn, stone building above them would have little reason to note the golden-haired figure looking out from the uppermost window. She had a very plain face, such as you might see on a child’s doll and had a pair of unusually large eyes, the darkest shade of green. Though none would think her a generous beauty, her sea-shaded eyes possessed an advanced intelligence, as if she were already informed of the world’s ways and was watching for any sign of treachery or deceit.

         Emra did not stare out over the marketplace for mere entertainment. In truth, she hated the city and all its goings-on; every stone and stinking gutter of it. Instead, she was on the lookout for a certain individual whose promised appointment had not yet been fulfilled.

         Resting her chin on the back of her hands, Emra scanned the crowd once more. She hoped for a glimpse of the rust-colored cloak she knew so well, but it was not to be found. Normally, her father would have been easy to spot, for he stood a full head-and-shoulders taller than everyone else. However, amidst the bustle of morning marketing, locating a single figure was as challenging as recovering a solitary raindrop once it joined with the mighty sea.

         Emra closed her eyes, slowly letting the insanity merge together until they were mere blurs and smudges within her mind. Her thoughts drifted to the night before…

         Since Lorelle and Tarem had left, the house had always been quiet. Yet last night, it had been appallingly so. Sometimes, Emra would drift from room to room, glancing at the stone walls and trying to repaint the memory of how they had once been. She tried to recall the way embroidered hangings had been positioned, how the thick rugs had given way beneath her feet, or how the rich, creamy scent of freshly-cut blossoms had perfumed the air. She evoked the summer months when her father, after harnessing their finest horses himself, would take them all to the country estate where the bees hummed and lilies grew and the city drone did not overshadow them. But those days had come and gone and now they were all that was left to her.

         The night before was no different in its monotony than any of the past four seasons. Emra had prepared the meal as best she could and set out the twin, steaming plates upon the table. In the past, scores of maids had prepared each meal, but now the task rested on her shoulders.

         Lorelle had not minded. She told Emra once that it made her feel helpful. But to Emra, it only seemed to enlarge the emptiness felt within her. Lorelle would hum as she set out the china dishes on the mahogany table or as she scrubbed the scalded remains of Emra‘s cooking from the bottom of the cauldron. But humming was something Emra would never do.

         Instead, Emra went about her chores mutely. She had poured wine into her father’s goblet and dispensed a watered-down version into her own. Then she sat herself at the foot of the table to await the leaden thumping of her father’s footsteps as they circled down the stairs and neared the shadowed dining room. Finally, his lofty figure appeared beneath the arched doorway.

         Senator Emiligan was a broad man with graying hair and a scar that traversed across his left cheek. It had been earned many years ago, from an Easterner's blade, but she knew little else about it. The Senator never spoke of his time as a soldier.

         Many who did not know the Senator well, considered him a cold and unfeeling sort. He did have a certain manner about him that some found unnerving. But the Senator was neither cold nor unfeeling. He loved Emra well and worked for what he believed with a passion. He was merely a man of few words. He said what needed to be said. Anything else he felt unnecessary.

         Emra knew this and so she did not mind that they lived in the same house together, yet words were rarely exchanged between them. In the past, many had considered them like-minded in their stubborn, yet subtle manner.

         There were things Emra wished he would talk more of. Lately, he had taken to strange outings, always alone and always in the darkest of night. The Senator was unaware of the slight figure, clad in bedclothes, that observed his nightly departure from the shadows of the stairway.

         After a while, Emra learned how to tell of his leave-taking without ever leaving her bed. She could envision him in her mind, fetching his coppered cloak and attaching his sword to his belt before opening the heavy door. He would disappear into the night like a phantom, returning as the slightest rays of dawn trickled over the horizon. Then he would make his way directly to his room where he had begun to spend most of his days.

         The night before, Emra had stared down at her plate and picked lifelessly at the food. She could feel her father’s dark eyes upon her, but could not read the expression they carried. With one hand encircling a wine glass, the Senator surprised his daughter by engaging in conversation. “Would you rather us take on a maid, Emra? Perhaps we might find someone to assist you with the chores and… Perhaps keep you company.”

         Emra looked up at her father in astonishment. He knew hiring someone was an impracticality. After Tarem left, they had agreed it would be too much of a hazard. Secrecy was no minor factor in the Emiligan household and a violation of it could cost them their lives. Emra felt that her father was offering a compromise so she might have a chance at companionship. But Emra was no child. She saw the reality of things. “Thank you, Father, but I can handle the chores on my own.”

         The Senator frowned and fiddled with his fork. He had not touched his dinner yet and his mind seemed to be wandering. “It seems you have cut yourself off from the world. A girl your age should be frolicking with her friends and consuming her mind with lighthearted matters. It seems unnatural to have you wandering this house like a person five times your age. Why don‘t you read like you used to, Emra?”

         Emra fixed her eyes on her plate and shrugged. “Stories don’t interest me anymore.” Before Lorelle had gone, she and Emra had spent hours curled up beside the furnace, lost within the pages of another world. Now she could not walk into the musty library without hearing Lorelle’s voice; Her gentle laughter and correction when Emra pronounced an extensively named character completely wrong.

         The Senator surveyed his daughter helplessly. Emra was coping the only way she knew how, by withdrawing within herself. He wished he could reach out to her and cradle her as he had done when she was a child, but he didn’t know how. How could he expect to make things right when he was fighting the same battles himself?

         An urgent knocking sounded at the door, ceasing their waning conversation. The Senator sighed and let his fork drop with a clatter. Excusing himself, he exited the dining room and headed toward the doorway.

         Opening the door, Senator Emiligan peered out at a curly-headed lad with only a cloak about him against the night‘s chill. His cheeks were flushed from running and his eyes possessed an excited look.

         “You’re needed right away,” the boy panted. “We’ve found one.”

         The Senator glanced toward the dining room and then again to the messenger boy. “Thank you, Palon.” He spoke with an eager edge to his voice. “Run back and tell them I’ll be along immediately.” Vigorously, Palon nodded and took off down the night streets.

         Closing the door, the Senator donned his own cloak and retrieved the blade from his cabinet. He sensed someone‘s presence and turned. Emra was watching him, but not with curiosity. She acted as though she had expected some stranger to knock on their door and whisk her father away. “I’ll be back before morning.” He excused himself apologetically. Then opened the door and vanished into the darkness.

         Emra did not appear staggered at all. Instead, she returned to the dining room and snuffed the candles out one by one, leaving the cold, uneaten food upon the table.

Don't forget to read chapter TWO!

Whispers of the Wind, Echos of a Sword  (ASR) The Second Chapter: DECISION AT TELMROY'S PUB #981506 by ≈ Frost Cry ≈