A quiet voice in Heror’s head told him he’d been played for a fool, but he pushed it away. His eagerness to find his family had taken over in that moment. It was a reckless decision; this he knew. But if it helped him find what he was looking for, any price was worth it.

He left the village of Bern with lighter pockets and a heavier pack. After leaving the inn, he fetched Shaadur, and they carried on to the west, along the cobble road. As soon as they passed the village walls, the forest closed in again. Tall and thin conifer trees stood innumerable, crowding either side of the cobbles as the midday sun hovered in the cool cyan sea above.

As Heror grew farther from the town, mosses and lichens crept over the stones on the road, and roots slithered from the trees, across the cracks. The slope lessened, but by now, the air was thin and light, and a frosted wind flowed through from the north and the west, clashing with the sun’s direct heat.

Heror rode. He rode until midday became afternoon, and afternoon poured into evening – to the sounds of the breeze and the trot of hooves. And all the way, the road carried straight to the west, more or less. As he went, the sun overtook him. And soon, the blue sky skewed to rust, and the scarlet sun sank – a luminous orb nestled within the peaks and the mountains that scaled the narrow horizon – as if to halt Heror’s advance.

He kept riding. A lonesome western wanderer.

It was at sunset that Heror decided to stop – only for a moment. He took in the sounds of the wind rustling through the pine needles, and the cries of a hawk somewhere above the forest’s reaches. He let the cold air wash over his skin. And then he tugged the reins and turned Shaadur around. Facing east, he saw an orange glow far in the distance, mirroring that of the one setting sun. In the direction of Bern.

Heror’s calm left him. For a moment, his muscles told him to snap the reins and bolt to the east.

And then with an abrupt sigh, he shook his head and whisked the thoughts away. Perhaps this glow was only the torchlight. And even so, he didn’t have time to investigate. He was here to find his family, and he finally had a lead. Now wasn’t the time to stop. Now wasn’t the time to put himself in danger.

And so he tugged the reins again and turned back to the west, and he rode to catch the sun.

Around dusk, Heror saw a sign for a roadside inn ten miles ahead. And it was at this point that exhaustion began to take hold, after countless nights of poor sleep. He’d prioritized distance over all else, and now that priority was beginning to take its toll. Shaadur too slowed; the incline and the thin air had been no easier on him.

True to its word, the inn stood miles down the road – a torchlit two-story ranch with perhaps a dozen rooms in its western wing, and a small stable on the eastern side of the building.

Heror forced himself to interact less at this stop. He gave Shaadur to the stable hand and paid the hand with a collection of coins, then retired inside and bought a room. This inn was louder and busier, but any potential solicitations, Heror shrugged off with a quick step and the aversion of eyes. He went upstairs, found his room, and slumped onto the bed. His eyes closed. And night became morning.

At dawn, just before the sun’s rise, Heror descended to a quiet foyer. He slinked silently past unconscious revelers and drunkards and creaked the door open, and snuck back out into the cold. He went to the stables and woke Shaadur. He fed his horse an apple and gave him water, then re-equipped the horse’s hackamore and led him back onto the road.

Situated in the center of the tree-lined street, Heror glanced east again. Below a starry sky, the amber glow still lingered on the Aelyum’s edge. He knew not whether it was the fire of the sun, or the fire of man. He turned west before he could know for certain.

Eventually, the sun did rise, casting long shadows of the horse and its rider. The blue sky reliably returned above – icy wisps clouding its great expanse in streaks and ribbons. The road rose and sank with the roots of the rock orogeny. Periodically, Heror passed inns and shop clusters and small fishing villages huddled by glacial lakes. A tired trot grew to become a healthy gallop. Deer and elk watched him pass.

In the late morning, Heror came to a Y-shaped fork in the road. The main path suddenly faded southwest, away from the mountains – while another path went northwest and rose into the scalded, snowy heights. At this fork, there were two carved wooden signs shaped loosely like arrow points, with text chiseled into the wood. The text for the northward path was worn and almost illegible, but for the southward path, Heror could read clearly:

Eonos – 75 miles

And with a bit more vigor, he fastened the reins and squeezed his shins, and Shaadur sped to the southwest.

The southwest road descended back down the slopes, peeling away from the peaks. The narrow pines scattered, and jutting rocks outcropped along the road, blocking the view beyond. But soon, these rocks receded too, and Heror was met with an incredible sight.

At the turning of a corner to the west-southwest, Heror exited a small pass and rode past a cluster of rich, sappy maple trees. And as he rode into the clear air, his eyes fell upon a brilliantly-colored river valley. Standing atop its ridge, he looked down and out beyond, at horizons upon horizons of lively greens and emeralds – somehow brighter and more fantastic than the greens he remembered in Ardys.

North of the valley, the great mountains of Pylantheum still loomed, their glacial caps catching the blinding light of the midday sun. But at the bottom of the rocky slopes and cascading waterfalls, trees and healthy grasses clumped and layered and dominated the landscape, beneath nomadic streams of mist and vapor.

Heror rode down the ridge and descended into the valley, and the greens enveloped him. And yet the cobble road maintained its authority. Past the fork in the road, the stones were better kept. At the bottom of the valley, the road leveled out, and it nestled against the southern bank of a crystal clear glacial waterway. This river – presumably the River Rheaum that the oracle had mentioned – stretched almost a half-mile wide at this point.

It wasn’t long after reaching the bottom of the valley that Heror came across other travelers heading east. They numbered a half-dozen, all of them on horseback – Pylanthean soldiers of a noble retinue, wearing steel plate armor that stretched from head to toe. Over their cuirasses, the Pylantheans wore long, light linen tabards of a dark blue, bearing what Heror assumed to be the Kingdom’s seal – a dark oaken canoe hull, centered with the stoic face profile of a wolf, and lined by golden embroidery.

Where the Ardysi siephalls had worn gilded armets, the Pylanthean warriors capped their outfits with grated bascinets that obscured their faces. But the lead soldier had his helmet off and at his side, and he eyed Heror with a look of suspicion as they passed. Heror offered only a glance, tugging his hood forward just a bit. But despite his anxiety, they did not stop him. They passed – swords and shields clacking with each step – and Heror carried on.

The valley road went on, following the bends of the mountain stream. The lush forests slowly faded and gave way to fertile farmland, chopped and tilled. Heror saw farmhouses and gated estates and small villages branching off as he went. He ventured past roaming merchants accompanied by hired swords and more soldiers on patrol. The road grew busier. And as sunset came again, the city of Eonos finally entered his sight.

It sat at the very edge of the clear river, in the shadow of the northern mountains, bathing in the amber light that reflected off the ripples – a magnificent walled city that stretched into the sky from a flat sward of green grassland, as if a mountain itself. Layers of stone boundaries, arched aqueducts, and man-made escarpments twisted and twirled up the city’s inclines as if ridges, converging into a grand star-towered castle at the summit. At this hour, the city’s peak tower caught and pierced the sun, rendering it a flaming crescent.

Heror was still a ways away – but above the low-sloping landscape of the valley, the city of Eonos demanded its presence be known. And as he ventured closer along the main road, it began to rise from the Aelyum – towering over the many farmsteads and plantations, aglow with the red light of the day long passed.

It was at least another hour before Heror reached the gates, and evening became night. By now, his backside ached and his shoulders slumped. Shaadur’s canter had long lost its enthusiasm; Heror could tell the horse longed for rest just as he did. As he grew closer, he heard the faint, low drawl of a water wheel churning on the riverside – wood creaking and groveling.

Combined with the sound of the wheel, the sight of the city entrance – a resolute pair of thick oaken doors nestled within a rise in the protective stone walls – almost gave him respite – until an armored guard standing by the gate stepped forward at Heror’s approach.

“Halt!”

Heror’s hands tightened on the reins. Shaadur stopped and grumbled at the sudden move. Heror’s paranoia urged him to be ready, but the guard drew no weapon. Instead, he pointed with a gloved finger back down the road.

“Horses inside the city are f’moving cargo only. You’ll ‘ave to stable yours out’ere.”

Heror followed the guard’s finger, and on the northern edge of the road, he saw a stable house – its front entrance lit by twin torches – with a fenced-in roaming and grazing area that bordered the river. A tired-eyed stable hand – old and wiry – sat by the entrance, resting his face in his palm as he fended off sleep, but he stood and straightened up as Heror rode near.

With some reluctance, Heror slid down from Shaadur’s saddle, his feet pinging with soreness as he hit the ground. With similar exhaustion, Shaadur blinked at Heror and fluttered his ears. Heror brought his hand onto the horse’s mane.

“I’ll be back, Shaadur. I promise,” Heror said. “You’ll be taken care of here.”

The horse whimpered. It took another anxious breath and a burst of willpower for Heror to let go of Shaadur’s reins. He paid the stable hand the requested amount, and then the elderly hand led Shaadur inside to a stall. Heror watched until the horse was gone, and then he started for the city gate. The doors parted ever so slightly, and Heror ventured in.

It was only when the doors closed behind Heror that he lifted his eyes. When he did, his gaze set upon the main square of Eonos – a massive stone plot at least fifty yards wide in each direction. It extended as if a diamond from the main gate, lined on each side by closely-packed buildings and market stalls, and lit by street lamps ablaze with oil. Paths farther up the city slope extended from the square, while the aqueducts arched over the walkways and dove into the market, converging above a gleaming circular fountain made of marble at the square’s very center.

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

Amazingly, only a trickle came from each aqueduct as the streams from above reached the fountain’s confluence. And as it trickled down from the city heights, it met a gravity-fueled jet of water dancing upward from the fountain’s median. In the warm amber firelight, the flares of water took on an angelic appearance – and the soft bubbling was the only noise Heror heard, save for a few distant voices across the way.

For a moment, Heror lost himself in awe, and he let the sound of the water calm him. But before long, his mind reminded him why he was here. He snapped out of his serenity and surveyed the area. At this hour, the square was almost empty, save for the Pylanthean soldiers who patrolled and guarded the market wares while the city slept.

However, on the far side of the courtyard past the fountain, Heror saw several still-lit buildings. Whatever nightlife still remained was clustered there; inebriated men wandered and waved their arms. Echoing in the night, Heror heard a brazen laugh. His eyes fixed on one bustling building with a swinging wooden sign in front, below an awning. He started toward it.

On approach, Heror felt the suspicious glances of sentinels and carousers, but he weathered them with intentful steps, boots clacking cleanly against the smooth stone. As he neared the building, the noise beckoned. Chatter and laughter filled his ears, and a thick orange glare forced him to squint in the low light. He brushed past one group and squeezed past another, and then with a shoulder leading, he entered through the tavern’s swinging door.

As soon as he stepped inside, his senses overloaded. Hemp smoke mottled the air, and the stench of strong alcohol stung his nostrils. Candled sconces and sprawling metal chandeliers set the room aglow in piercing light, and everywhere – along the bar area to the left, across the rows of seating to the right, and standing in the space between – there were people. Their voices were indistinguishable now – a crowded frenzy of sound that deftly deafened and flushed Heror’s thoughts away.

Heror’s anxiety told him to take a step back toward the entryway. But after a moment of careful breathing, he managed to keep his composure. He took a step forward. Catching a glimpse from a stranger seated nearby, he dropped his eyes under the cover of his hood. He took another step and lifted them again, and his focus went to the bar. At the foot of a vast array of wines and meads and ales, a man with graying-brown hair and an embroidered shirt and vest leaned against the counter, speaking with one of his patrons. Heror assumed him to be the owner.

Navigating through the mob and the noise, Heror made his way to the bar, and unexpectedly, the owner noticed him. The owner gestured to the patron to wait a moment, and then just as Heror reached the counter, the man looked his way and gifted a wide smile.

“Welcome t’the Leaping Liver!” the owner exclaimed, his voice carrying well. “And welcome to Eonos. Assuming it’s your first time, ‘cause I’ve never seen ya before. M’name’s Faenor. What can I get you?”

“A-actually…”

A haggard patron shoved past Heror from the right, and Heror glanced nervously before eyeing the owner again.

“Actually… I could use your help.”

“Of course! What do you need?”

The owner’s friendly nature put Heror just a bit at ease. He took a deep breath.

“I need your help finding someone.”

“If they’re in Eonos, I know ‘em!”

“Do you know where I can find Sabretooth Heran?”

“Sabretooth Heran…”

The owner repeated the name. Then he brought a hand to his chin. Heror’s ease suddenly left him.

“You might know him as Berun Heran?” Heror offered.

The owner didn’t answer right away. Heror’s heart started to sink.

“Sorry, lad,” the owner conceded after a short spell. “That’s a name I do not know.”

“Sabretooth Berun Heran?” Heror tried again. “He lives in an estate at the top of the city? He was one of the Caitan’s men? M-maybe…”

With fumbling fingers, Heror drew the kinship cloth from his cloak. He unrolled it and set it on the counter. The owner Faenor studied the cloth for a few seconds, and then he solemnly shook his head.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I’ve never–”

“He fought in Jhor’s Rebellion,” Heror blurted, hoping this would spark a connection.

“If he fought in Jhor’s Rebellion, I would’ve known of’m,” Faenor reasoned. “I was there myself – when I was around your age, in fact.”

Now Heror lost his words. His mouth opened and closed. He stammered.

“But…”

“Lad,” the owner stopped him with a soft smile and a pat on the shoulder. “I’d love t’help, but you’re searching in the wrong place. Maybe your man’s out there somewhere, but he i’nt here.”

Heror’s jaw clenched shut. He forced out a huff. He could feel his face getting warmer.

“D’you want anything while you’re here?” Faenor asked.

Heror cleared his throat. His eyes fluttered up and down. He shook his head. Feynor nodded, then peered past the young man.

“I’m sorry, I’ve got some more cust’mers here,” Faenor said apologetically. “If you’re not getting anything, I gotta ask ya to clear the way. Best’f luck, yeah?”

Heror did as the man asked. He gathered his kinship cloth and stepped away, and the noise engulfed him again. But none of it – the clanking of mugs and plates, the screeching of chair and table legs, or the guffaws of off-duty guardsmen – could drown out the sound of his heart pounding in his ears.

He stepped out into the open night air and went back toward the fountain, where the noise was softer. He took a moment to compose himself, and then he made away to another inn farther down the stone path. He asked the proprietor about Sabretooth Heran. The same conversation unfolded.

He rushed back out and went to another tavern across the square. Again, he asked about Sabretooth Heran. And again, he was told the man did not exist.

Soon enough, he found himself at the fountain again. He sat with his legs crossed, and his head bowed. The night was deeper. The air was quieter. But still, Heror could not calm himself – and the burble of the water no longer helped. It only sped his thoughts.

He had been tricked.

It had been so obvious. And he’d been tricked anyway.

How could you be so naive?

He’d wandered this far for nothing. He wasn’t any closer to finding his family.

Heror, what made you think this would be a good idea?

It was hopeless.

You’re hopeless.

He was stranded. Alone.

This is what you deserve.

Limply, he stood. He turned and made his way back to the tavern.

~:{~}:~

“Ha! This one’s had too much.”

Heror could still hear. That was disappointing.

The young man scraped his face off of the wood and rolled back his shoulders. Then he dragged his fingers around the handle of his empty ceramic tankard and held it out to the owner.

“… more…”

The owner Faenor eyed Heror with a look of concern, but he chose not to defy the weight of the boy’s coin purse. He took Heror’s cup and filled it again. As soon as he set it back on the counter, Heror grabbed it and took a swig. The alcohol simmered in his throat. Maybe this would be the sip that dulled his senses.

“And what can I get you?” the owner asked someone else.

Heror frowned. It wasn’t.

“I’ll have what he’s having. It seems to be doing the trick.”

Heror clumsily glanced to his right. A bearded man with the appearance of a fighter – perhaps a mercenary – had sat down next to him. The man noticed Heror’s look, and he smirked.

“You still in there, boy?” the man teased, poking his forehead.

Heror didn’t answer, and the man let out a sharp laugh above the chatter. The boy turned his gaze ahead again, and his eyes fell on the wood. He brushed a finger against a knot. He could still feel. Also disappointing.

Now he dropped his right hand down below the counter, and he ran it across the flat of his blade. He brushed a fingertip against the Sword of Sparhh’s handle. Still, he felt nothing but the cold of metal.

Heror let out a huff of a chuckle and shook his head. A bitter smile appeared and then disappeared on his face. His eyes sank, then lifted and drifted. He observed a candled sconce behind the counter. A moth had found its way inside the tavern, and it danced above the feeble flame, beckoned by the light.

“Aye, that’s a fine weapon you have,” Heror heard the mercenary say. “Where’d’ya get it?”

Now Heror leaned forward and tucked his face beneath his hood.

“Leave him be, Tuork,” Faenor advised, his brow creased. “He’s ‘ad a rough go of it.”

“Well, then perhaps my honeyed words can cheer ‘im up,” the mercenary named Tuork chimed.

Heror caught a whiff of the mercenary’s breath. He could still smell, too. This was especially disappointing.

“What’s eatin’ ya, boy? I’m deathly curious.”

Heror’s eyes rose ever so slightly, resting on the moth that lingered on the far wall. He blinked and stared ahead.

“… I am the monster they thought I was…” he mumbled beneath his breath.

“What? Speak up. I didn’t hear none a’that.”

Heror closed his eyes and let out a long, concedent exhale. His muscles sank against the counter and the chair. With a weak hand, he grabbed his tankard and took another drink. Then he set it down and closed his eyes again. He thought. And then he began to count.

“One… two… three… four…”

“What’s ‘e doin’ now?” the talkative mercenary said through a scoff.

“… six… seven… eight… nine…”

“What’re ya doin’, boy? You’re scarin’ me,” the mercenary joked.

Heror lost his place and sighed angrily. He gave the hired sword another glance, this one more pointed.

“I’m just… trying to remember…” Heror slurred.

“Remember what?” the mercenary pried with an amused grin.

Heror’s head swerved forward again. He blinked slowly and curled his fingers.

“The ones I’ve killed…”

Faenor glanced at Heror before leaving to help another customer, while the mercenary unleashed another hearty guffaw.

“How precious!” the mercenary erupted. “So many! The Caitaruu must shudder at your approach!”

The mercenary bellowed another laugh. Heror heard the siephall’s cries for mercy in his mind.

“Dozens have fallen to the edge of my blade,” the mercenary declared proudly. “All across the Pylantheon, they fear my name. When the other haldluun hears my title among the attackers, they throw down their blades and surrender. When they make the fatal mistake of standin’ strong and defendin’ their escarpments, I teach them the err of their ways. When…”

Heror downed his drink and buried his face in his arms. Eventually, the mercenary stopped his ramble and left. The patrons thinned and turned away for the night, and the noise faded and faded, until Heror was left alone at the bar, under the firelight upon which the moths descended.

It was only when the owner Faenor told him the tavern was closing that Heror departed. He thanked the man quietly and wandered out into the empty square, swaying as he walked. He went back to the gate and pushed through the doors, and then he stumbled aimlessly out into the dark, away from the city’s lanterns. His eyes traced the many stars, before they sank and threatened to close.

“This is what I deserve…” he whispered to no one.

His feet trudged along the cobbles. The half-moon hovered above the quiet farmsteads.

“I am what they thought I was…”

He shivered and hugged his arms beneath his cloak. His nose ran.

The wind was cold.