CHAPTER FOURTEEN
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King Te’Korei
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17th of Decepter, 935 PC
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Colin watched the pigeon fly through the crisp morning air like a child staring at the stars for the first time. The bird had but one goal now; find Alaric Sampson. And between King’s magic and the alchemicals on the note, he had no doubt it would.
“It’s like it could understand you,” Colin said, giving King a look he’d seen hundreds of times in his life. Miracles are stunning enough when you don’t know where they’ve come from, watching them be born is something different altogether. “Could it understand you?”
Unfortunately, the allure of his magic had worn off years ago for King. “Come along now. We need to find you a ride.”
The militaristic town of Haldar sat at the intersection of the Dirt Spine coming from the northern realm of Evette and the White Road which started in the Hyin River Basin near Tevron and stretched east across the entire continent. It was common knowledge amongst travelers like King that one could get nearly anywhere in the empire by following one of those two roads. If Haldar was not infamous for being home to the greatest collection of skill with the sword to ever set foot in Thandlecor the town may have grown into a bustling city. But growth requires money and resources and walking into a town full of mercenaries was not an attractive proposal to the wealthy. There was no shortage of stagecoaches and cover wagons coming and going though, any number of which were willing to add some extra time to their trip if paid the right amount.
“I don’t want to go back,” Colin said.
King turned around to see the lad shaking his head. “I made a promise to Rubora, my boy. You must-”
“No.” There was an unusual amount of defiance and strength in Colin’s tone. Still nothing to back down from, but noteworthy. “I want to stay with you.”
Flattered, King took a step toward Colin, put his hand on the lad’s shoulder like a father sending his son off to war. His time with the young apprentice had started off a bit slow, but he’d come to like the look of the blonde’s bushy hair and dopey face. Colin had a good heart, no ill-intent or sinister motives, just raw youth and insatiable curiosity. But a promise was a promise. A sacred thing to some people, King included. “Rubora needs you.”
King winced as a chilled breeze swept across them, coughed too. His sleeve appeared as though it had a patch of darker cloth in the crease of his elbow from all the blood.
Colin pushed his wild bangs out of his face. “I don’t want to help Rubora anymore.”
“Why not? People beg The Creator for an opportunity to study under her.”
A group of children rushed past them, hooting and hollering like animals, waving wooden swords and wearing silly helmets they’d made out of random things. Future Hounds, no doubt. It did not take any degree of exceptional brilliance to realize children of Haldar had little chance of escaping the grip the mercenary group had on the town. Colin watched them go, scratching his cheek. “I know. I’m very lucky. She’s a wonderful teacher, but if I have to work with herbs one more time I might just-” He paused, rethinking his next words so as not to offend King. “They’re just so terribly boring.”
“You didn’t realize that beforehand? They are herbs after all.”
They moved out of the dirt street as two stagecoaches rumbled by. The one in back was made of magnificent walnut wood with golden swirls all about. A handful of boxes tied to the top, a few more on the back. The other passed by unnoticed during King’s awestruck admiration of its counterpart.
“I knew they weren’t exciting, but I didn’t know what else I wanted to be.” Colin’s despair poured from him as he leaned against a wooden lamp post.
King had not yet had his fill of the beautiful stagecoach. He over his shoulder at it as he said, “And you’ve figured that out while wandering through a dark forest?”
“No, but I realized I’d rather see the empire than sit in a dusty shop chasing after herbs.”
“A young Osmadius Holk,” King said, watching the stagecoach come to a stop along the side of the dirt road.
“Who?”
King grinned. “The greatest poet to ever live. He was much more than that though. A thinker.” He tapped his temple. “He would travel the empire in search of answers to the six great mysteries. When he found them, or thought he did, he would put his thoughts into poems and write them down hundreds of times before leaving copies of them in inns or giving them to merchants he encountered on his journeys. An effective way to become a character in campfire stories, I must say. I have seen just as much of this land as he ever did and my name isn’t known in a single pub.”
Colin’s smile stretched ear to ear. “See, that’s the kind of man I want to be.”
“I think you’d be making a horrible mistake. Rubora makes very good money and so does everyone who studies under her. You may never get another opportunity like that for the rest of your life. Osmadius met a brutal death, mind you. When he stumbled upon a primitive tribe in the Pettermine Mountains. Not impressed by his poetry is my guess. How ironic that a poem was written about his death. Blah, blah, blah, like Os-mad-ius,” –he bounced his finger along in harmony with the words– “met the wrong tribe and was laid-to-rest.” He threw his hands up. “Something like that. A shame he couldn’t write it himself. It’d be loads better.”
The first snowflakes of a chilly day started to fall. Colin closed an eye to have a better look at one on his nose, giving King an even better view of his youth. “I don’t care about Leos and being rich. I just want to see, not sit.”
“See what?”
The driver of the stagecoach dropped from his bench and straightened his fine cloak.
Colin walked around King, not interested in speaking to his back any longer. “Everything. I want to see everything.” He bit his lip and tilted his head enough to let his long hair sway to the side. “Please don’t make me go back.” The words tied a knot around King’s heart and tugged on it hard.
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“I made a promise, my boy. A promise. What good would I be if I didn’t keep my word?” He looked over Colin’s shoulder to see who was climbing out of the stagecoach.
Colin put his pitiful eyes and a pitiful frown back in front of King’s line of sight. “You’re not breaking your word, King. I am. You don’t have to tell Rubora anything. I will write to her and tell her I’ve chosen not to come back. I’ll even tell her you thought I was heading back to her.”
A man with long brown hair that had clearly been brushed for hours stepped out of the stagecoach. He wore his arrogance both in his black robe and on his face. A Purist if King had ever seen one. A sellsword whose familiarity with blood and death was all but written on his face walked around the back of the vehicle.
“Please, King. You’ve traveled the empire. It’s my turn.”
“I have my magic, my boy. Gives me a knack for not being in the wrong place at the wrong time. And let’s not ignore the fact that I used to be quite capable of protecting myself before this horrid disease took over my body. You… well… you’re just a… You don’t have magic, that’s all.”
“Fine, send me on my way but I’m not going back. I’ll explore on my own.” The way Colin’s face got sassy as he spoke reminded King of how his old friend, Iggy, would put his hands on his hips and act like he couldn’t be told the sky was blue.
As King opened his mouth to respond, the gritty-looking sellsword raised his fist and struck the arrogant Purist in the back of his head, sending him to his knees. Before King had even seen it drawn, a sword plunged through the driver’s stomach. The poor sap just held the blade with both hands and stared at his gruff travel companion in disbelief, blood trickling down both sides of his mouth. When the blade finally slid out of him, he fell to his knees then hit the ground with his face.
One man lying on the ground dead, another face down with a boot on his back, and yet the hardened villagers of Haldar showed little reaction to the entire scene. Their hearts were surely filled with self-preservation from years of witnessing similar behavior from the mercenaries that plagued their town. No remorse. No sympathy. Not The Creator’s finest creations.
All the traits the villagers were missing were roaring inside King’s chest, like they used to. Before this damn disease put his mind into a downward spiral. King shoved past the still pleading Colin straight toward the armor-wearing scoundrel. “You there!” How long had it been since he’d heard that ferocity in his voice?
“What are you doing?!” Colin said, chasing after him. He grabbed King’s wrist. “Leave it be, King. He has a sword.”
He ripped his arm free. “A sword can’t rewrite fate, my boy, only abide by it.” Oh, that sweet confidence he’d been missing.
The man with the sword glared at them. He kept growing as King walked toward him, bigger and bigger until he looked like a tree with very deadly branches. Up close, a scar across his throat became an intimidating message.
“Who the fuck are you?” the sellsword asked. His voice was so deep and hoarse the words sounded jumbled.
“I might ask you the same question,” King said firmly. A familiar urge to fight tingled in his fists. “Have these men done you such harm that you feel it right to kill them in the streets? In front of women and children, no less.”
Colin yanked on his arm. “King. Hounds.” Three men in black chainmail and white cloaks were strutting toward them from a side street. Their leader had a twig in his mouth. One shoved a helmet down over his fat head, his eyes hidden within the shadows of the narrow slits. The others kept their helms tucked beneath their arms, relying on their hoods of chainmail. They certainly would have appeared fierce, if they’d thought King was any threat. As it was, they merely smirked at him arrogantly, not knowing how foolish it was to underestimate a man of his capabilities. Their ignorance would not be forgiven.
King let his magic flow from his soul like a pitcher of wine being poured generously, sending warmth all through his veins. Down his legs, into his arms, up his throat – cleansing it of its scratchy soreness along the way. An all but forgotten bravado filled him. The world was his now, until he chose to give it back.
Colin didn’t share quite the same confidence he was feeling. “Sorry, sir!” the terrified lad said to the murderous brute. “We’ll leave you gentlemen alone.” King no longer felt weak as Colin tried to pull him toward the storefronts, not with his magic coursing through him. He swiped Colin’s hands away and glared at his combatants.
“Listen to your bitch,” Scar said, pointing the tip of his sword at them. The black robed man squirmed beneath the brute’s heavy boot. “You got no business here.”
The streets were anything but empty, but still not a single person came to stand alongside King. The Creator would have words of wisdom for them someday. To protect those who cannot protect themselves is to protect my creations. “Let him up,” King said.
Twig decided it was his turn to speak, putting his hand on the pommel of his greatsword. “That cunt belongs to us now.” The nasally voice made sense given his crooked nose.
“I beg to differ,” King said, feeling more alive than dead for the first time in weeks.
“Is that right?” The Hound and his comrades stepped forward.
Come on then, gather round. Make my job easier. “T’is right indeed.” King tucked his hand inside his cloak and dug into one of the pockets. He left his hand concealed as it rounded up a few tricky little bones he kept on him at all times. “See, it’s only fair that I tell you I do not simply speak the truth, I write it.”
“Remove your hand!” Helmet yelled. King grinned as he cracked one of the bones in half and started counting.
Tired of all the dickering around, Scar lunged at King but had too many muscles to be quick. The pieces of the cracked bone hit the ground at the man’s feet, exploding upon impact. Well timed. The brute lit up like a torch with legs. Well, one leg. The other had been ripped off at the knee. He fell to the ground and rolled around in hopes of putting out the flames, but these flames refused to be extinguished. Intensely hot too, capable of burning through a stone wall once they were ignited. The screams sent Colin stumbling backward in fear.
Too stupid to be deterred, the Hounds drew their swords and came at him. King cracked another bone in his hand and lifted the pieces high, counting as the Hounds pressed forward. He hit one in the chest. Then a second. They flew backward, bursting into flames before they were on the ground. Only one could manage a scream. The other was dead. The Hound in the helmet barely escaped the explosions, tumbling to all fours, losing his head gear in the process.
King was about to crack another bone when a horse surged by, sending a jolt of shock through him. The Hound’s head went rolling through the dirt. The rider pulled on his reins, turning his brown beauty sideways and raising a bloody sword high. It glistened in the sunlight. His gray beard was short but thick, his skin worn and tan.
“Get on!” Gray Beard yelled at Colin. Not a bit of hesitation from the lad. King trusted that a coward like Colin was built with survival instincts in mind. That, and this man had surely been sent by his magic.
A wave of furious commotion in the distance turned him on a heel. More Hounds were flooding into the street, rushing toward them, waving their swords and screaming like wild animals.
Suddenly, there was another horse, ridden by a young man who was all kinds of odd-looking, beside King. He offered his hand but King could only point at the reason he’d gotten into this mess in the first place. The man in black was on his feet, holding the back of his head as he looked around in terror.
“Come on!” King yelled.
By the time all three men were squished atop Strange Face’s white stallion, Colin was clinging to Gray Beard’s waist like he knew the man personally. A click, click of the young rider’s tongue and they were off with time to spare. Every powerful stride of the beast’s haunches sent pain through King’s back as they rode out of Haldar and into the wilderness. Worth it to feel alive again.