Chapter Thirteen: The Way of the Wind

“When a sinner dies, he goes to Hellheim where he will be punished by the Warden with eternal damnation.

“When a man dies, he will return to the earth where Mother Anturia will create new life from his bones.

“When a hero dies, he will ascend to the Hall of Heroes to await rebirth.”

—The Doctrine of Wyd

Alend and Talberon rode hard and fast through the night, as fast as they could among the tangle of the undergrowth and the white-tipped trees, staying to the faded trails when they could, always keeping the Brackenburg to their right. It had been a while since Alend had ridden a horse so aggressively. Before long his entire body was aching—not just the muscles he’d neglected over the years but several he hadn’t even been aware of. It was worst in his inner legs and abdomen, though the pain in his abdomen wasn’t so much from the riding as from his stab wound.

“Talberon!” cried Alend. His words drowned in the rushing of wind and the patter of hooves against soil and snow. He ground his teeth and called again, louder. “Talberon!”

The druid heard him this time and pulled on the reins, easing his horse to a halt. Alend exhaled and slowed as well. The trees swayed around them as the Brackenburg trickled quietly to the east, winding its way out of the valley.

“We’ve been riding since dusk,” he panted. His thighs and buttocks burned with each jostle. “Isn’t it about time we stopped for the night?”

“The sooner we get out of here, the better,” Talberon answered. His face was hidden beneath the shadow of his cowl. “We should take advantage of the moonlight while we can.”

He took the reins again, but Alend gripped his arm. “I need to rest,” he said.

Talberon sang and an orb of fire burst to life in the air, casting a red light across Alend’s face. It was drawn and haggard, a bloodless white the colour of bone, beads of cold sweat dotting his forehead. He clutched at his stomach with a pained expression.

“Mother Anturia,” Talberon swore, pulling back his hood. “Show me the wound.”

Alend took his hand away. A dark, ugly patch seeped across the damp white of his bandage. Talberon extinguished the flame and dismounted.

“We’ll stop here, then,” he said. “We won’t be able to ride fast until that wound of yours heals.”

“Isn’t there anything you can do to speed up the recovery?” Alend asked. “Like what you did for Nath and my son?” He eased himself off his steed with the speed of an old man, wincing as his feet dropped onto the ground. Even the slightest of movements sent bolts of pain shooting through his flesh.

“Unfortunately not. I can make something to stop the bleeding again, but it’ll open up if we ride too hard.” The druid walked over to a large spruce tree and placed his palm against the trunk. He closed his eyes and sang again, softly, as if coaxing it from a deep sleep. The tree creaked and groaned and then one of its branches snapped in five separate places, falling to the ground in a bundle of cleanly cut sticks. He sang another word, a harsh one this time, and a small fire sparked to life.

“Stay here,” he directed. “I’ll go and see what I can find. Hopefully there’ll be enough ingredients around to make something for the wound.”

Alend made his way to the fire and sat down with exaggerated care. He folded his legs in front of him and stretched his hands over the flames, relishing the warmth as it washed over him in heavy waves. Talberon led the horses aside and tied them to another tree, where they snorted and flung their tails at the moths.

“I’ll be back shortly,” he said. He drew his cloak around him, wrapping himself in the colours of the trees and the leaves. Alend blinked, and when he opened his eyes again the druid was gone. A sparrow stood in his place, landing lightly on the ground. It kicked off and shot into the sky in a flurry of brown and grey.

Alend exhaled and twisted the ring on this thumb. Too much had happened over the last few days—more than enough to make up for the years of peace he’d been granted. He’d been freed from his duties as a Kingsblade for sixteen years, and now he was going back. He must have known this day was coming even if he hadn’t realized it. After all, he’d made an effort to keep all the skills he’d learned, even passed them down to his son.

He could still remember the look on Ein’s face when he’d learned the truth—the surprise and despair, the uncertainty of a boy, no, a man who had discovered his life to be built on a foundation of lies. He had planned to keep his son’s heritage a secret for a while longer but his hand had been forced. He should have known it would from the moment he’d seen those wolves lying dead in the snow.

Back then, he’d thought nothing of it. In his mind, he’d pushed all responsibility onto his brother Edric, and now it had come flooding back, crashing into him like white waters of the rivers that ran through the valley. He and Cinnamin were the only Thorens left, right when Faengard needed them most.

But he would never let her find out. No—she would become a fine young woman and fall for some handsome farmer, marry him and bear him a few sons, then settle down as a housewife for the rest of her days in Felhaven. Hopefully the Thoren name would fade into legend, never to be called to serve the High King again. All he needed to do was perform one last duty as a Kingsblade, for the world itself, and then it would be over. Or so he hoped, but he had a feeling things would not progress so smoothly.

Alend drew his brother’s blade from its sheath and brought it to the fire, tracing a horizontal slash through the air. Pain flared through his stomach and he dropped the sword.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” He heard a swooping noise and then Talberon was beside him, his cloak unfurled. The druid plucked a grey feather from his beard and then sat down. “I couldn’t find anything useful,” he said, looking slightly irritated. “The valley’s been picked clean. Looks like you’ll have to deal with the pain, Deserter.”

“If you want me to reach Aldoran alive, you’ll ride slower,” Alend muttered.

Talberon shrugged. “We can do that. Just remember, there are still relicts roaming about. I saw a group of them near the mountains to the north, though they don’t appear to have caught our scent yet. I imagine we’ll cross paths with them sooner or later. When we do, you want them to be far away from your village, don’t you?”

Alend didn’t reply. Talberon brought out the book with the sparrow-shaped lock from his robes and began to write.

“What does that book of yours say about the Sleeping Twins?” Alend asked.

Talberon looked up from his scribblings. “Nothing to note,” he said. “The last entry made was during the Age of Heroes. The druid who wrote it barely recorded anything. It wasn’t important enough, apparently.” He scratched at his beard with the back of the pen. “You picked a good settlement to hide, Deserter. How’d you come across it in the first place?”

Alend stared at the Rhinegold blade. “Rhea told me about it,” he said. “She didn’t even know who I was, just that I needed a place to disappear.” He smiled fondly. He’d barely spent any time with his wife since his return. He would have liked to stay a bit longer, just the two of them in the forge, enjoying each other’s company while the children did their own thing. He wondered what Rhea was doing at the moment; probably tucking Cinnamin into bed or tidying up the house. His smile soured as he remembered the argument they’d had in the early hours of the morning after the attack.

This will be the last time, he promised himself. Faengard be damned.

“So she knows who you are?” Talberon questioned.

“She knows.” Alend sheathed the Rhinegold blade and looked at the druid. “Tell me the truth, Druid. When all this is over and done, will Aedon really let me leave, just like that?”

Talberon stopped writing and stared at his page. Then, he put down his pen and sighed.

“He’s not going to execute you, that’s for sure,” he said. “It wouldn’t sit well with the public, executing a Hero of Faengard. He might let you return to Felhaven—but that would put the village and your family under his radar. They don’t know it exists at the moment. Well, they do, but it’s so insignificant it may as well not exist. If they know you live there, it might give them a reason to start monitoring it, and that would mean taxes and regular visits. On one hand, you’d get more business and tourism. On the other hand, it’ll no longer be the ‘safe haven’ that it is at the moment.”

“And what of my daughter?”

Talberon closed his book and clicked the lock shut. He placed it inside one of the pockets in his robe and leaned back, staring at the fire.

“I won’t lie. He would probably draft her as a Kingsblade.”

Alend closed his eyes. “I thought as much.” She’ll have to go through the same things Edric and I went through. “It’s a hard choice to make, between that and letting the world burn.”

Talberon nodded. “That’s just the way things are. Though, the world might just burn either way.”

#

Ein was back in the burning village, breathing the foul smell of blood and smoke. It streamed into his lungs, thick and choking, stinging his eyes, robbing him of his senses. He fumbled around blindly on the ground, searching for his sword but finding nothing. The smoke cleared and he found the bone blade of the Bloodmane along with its severed lion-head. Falling back with a cry of distress, he turned only to see Master Damuth’s dead body, the single flap of skin joining his head to the remains of his neck. The Mistress’ corpse was next to his, and the corpses of so many others—Maisie and Caurin, Koth and the Mayor and his wife, Alend and Rhea… Bran, Evaine, Cinnamin…

Blood, blood, so much blood his vision turned red. Blood of wolves, blood of sheep, blood of Worgals, blood of kings… a flash of Rhinegold and golden rings… Einar’s guts in the snow, a giant wolf and a three-winged crow… flashes of lightning in the distance, clouds rumbling...

And then there was the quiet patter of rain, clean and sharp, a comforting darkness, and a voice. The voice sang to him, words he couldn’t understand or remember, but they calmed him and soothed him. His breathing slowed and the thunderclaps in his ears died. As the song drew to a close, he thought he heard something.

“...sings to none other.”

He opened his eyes to the grey sky and the gentle rocking of the caravan. It was morning and they were moving. Ein sat up and looked at the trees rolling by, the thin pines and crisp spruces swaying like tall reeds in a river of snow. Evaine sat at the front next to Aren, her shortened hair hanging loosely above her shoulders. He hardly recognized her from behind.

“The Wind is all around us,” Aren was saying, making grand, sweeping gestures with his hands. “The Wind is fate. It cannot be seen, but we feel its touch upon us. We feel it when it blows in our faces, when it gives us a nudge behind our backs. When we are lost, we listen to the Wind. Sometimes it whispers back. Sometimes it roars. Other times it is silent, and we interpret it however we will.”

“Is that why you call Master Herod the Listener?” Evaine asked, hanging on to his every word. “Because he listens to the wind?”

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Aren nodded. “Sometimes, Father hears things that others do not. Sometimes, these things come to pass. That is the mark of a Listener, the mark of a leader. I don’t doubt that it was the wind that brought us to your village.”

“What about the Aimless? What does that mean?”

“Exactly what it sounds like,” Aren said. “Those who are blind and deaf to the wind fumble for their path. Sometimes they find their way, sometimes they don’t. They are the Aimless. The Wind can only do so much to guide them.”

Ein heard a low chuckle beside him. Garax was sitting nearby, his arm casually resting over the side of the wagon. He looked no worse for wear, as fresh as if he’d just woken from his bed at home rather than from the cold, hard boards of a cart and a scratchy woollen blanket.

“Morning,” he said, flashing a toothy grin at Ein. “You look like you slept well.”

“Oh, I slept well alright,” Ein muttered. He had the vague feeling that he was the only one who hadn’t.

“Don’t worry about it too much,” Garax told him. “It’s normal to get bad dreams after a night like that. It should get better in the next few days.”

Ein stifled a yawn and looked around. “Do you know where we are?”

The landscape hadn’t changed for a while now, ever since they’d left Felhaven and the twin peaks far behind the treeline. Garax shrugged.

“Still in the Sleeping Twins,” he said. “Herod says we should be out in three more days.”

“Three?” Ein exclaimed. “We’ll never catch up to Father by then.” Do I call him Father or Alend?

“I’m not sure about that,” the storyteller rubbed the stump of his hand against his beard. “We might be travelling in a larger and slower group, but your father is injured. I doubt he could ride hard even if he wanted to. I don’t think we’ll lose ground on him by any means.” He took a swig from a flask around his neck and offered it to Ein. “Want some?”

“What is it?”

“Wine.” Garax winked. “I stole it from Koth.”

Ein sighed. “It’s too early in the morning to drink,” he said, but took it anyway.

They rattled through the woods at a steady pace, stopping every few hours to rest the horses and stretch their legs. The Wydlings had a myriad ways of entertaining themselves—they composed songs and plays, practised their acts and instruments, sat in circles of noisy chatter, and of course they played games. Ein recognized some of them—he’d played Three Kings at the Sleeping Twinn before, though never with a pack of cards so beautiful, and Capture could be played with nothing but a handful of stones and a piece of paper. Sometime after a meagre lunch, the trouper named Baird started up a game of Hall of Heroes with three others, dumping a pouchful of coin-sized figures onto a grid of squares drawn into an upturned crate. The figures were carved from wood, so finely detailed that Ein could see the folds in their clothes and the lines in their faces.

“These are amazing,” he said, picking one of them up. It was of a tall, broad man with a bare chest and tangled hair, like seaweed. He recognized Brackenburg, one half of the legendary twins of the valley.

“I made them.” An elderly female trouper sat to the side, a block of wood and a knife in her hands. She carved the wood absentmindedly, flicking shavings off the side of the caravan, her eyes on the game. It took a moment for Ein to recall who she was.

“I used to play this back in the day,” Garax said, peering at the board. The troupers each picked a figure and placed the rest back inside the pouch. “Though there are a lot more heroes now than there were back then.”

“Hall of Heroes is an ever-evolving game,” Mereth replied. “But that’s a good thing for me. It means there’s always business, especially in the cities where the game is popular. You’d be surprised at how much coin one of these sets can fetch at the market.”

“How do you play this?” Ein asked. “It looks fun.”

“Why don’t you join us for a couple of rounds?” one of the troupers said. “We can add a fifth player.”

It turned out Hall of Heroes was yet another exercise the Wydlings used to aid them in learning their stories. There was a cast of over a hundred heroes, each hand-crafted by Mereth herself, with their own capabilities that could swing the tide of the game. It was played with dice, pen and paper, and boiled down to an all-out fight between players to become the last man standing on the board. Ein immersed himself in the game and before he knew it, the sun was low in the sky.

“I’ll have three new characters ready for tomorrow,” Mereth said, as they packed away the game. “The Heroes of Felhaven. I doubt the taverns in the city will let us use them, though. They don’t like country heroes.”

The figure of Ein was taller and more muscular than his real self. It also carried twin flaming swords. The Wydlings shared a laugh before moving on to other things.

As they drew to a halt and set up camp for the night, Ein found himself alone on the wagon. He dangled his legs over the side and brought out the ebony box Rhea had given him, turning it over in his hands. He didn’t know what he expected. The box wasn’t going to magically open simply because he looked at it, yet, he couldn’t stop looking and listening to it, thinking about what it meant.

My real father, he thought. What sort of man was he? What sort of person was my mother?

He shook the box again. It sounded like there was a piece of jewellery inside; a pendant or a ring perhaps, maybe a coin.

What sort of person is Alend?

The thought came to him from nowhere. He knew barely anything about his foster father. Only that he was royalty and had seen his fair share of things in life, and he possessed a very particular set of skills—which, in hindsight, probably came from his days as a Kingsblade. But the Kingsblades served the Uldan family until death… and Alend most certainly wasn’t dead.

Ein shook his head. He raised me, and that’s all that matters. I’ll have time to ask him when I bring him back home, alive and well. He nodded. Yes, he would worry about that later.

Or so he thought, but questions continued to gnaw at his mind. Ein pocketed the box and found something else he’d forgotten about—a ring with a flower carved into it. Evaine’s ring.

“Thinking about me?” Evaine appeared without a word and dropped beside him. There was a flower in her hair—it was frail and withered around the edges, but given the weather it was an incredibly rare find. Ein could sense her excitement and it stirred a range of emotions within him. He hadn’t seen her so happy and alive for a long time.

“As a matter of fact, yes.” Ein brought the ring up to the sky. In the distance, the troupers had lit a campfire and were cooking scraps of fish and pigeon they’d caught. “It’s not too late for you to head back, you know.”

Evaine’s smile lessened but she didn’t snap at him. That was when Ein knew there was no point in trying to convince her anymore.

“Aren taught me about the ‘Way of the Wind’ today,” she said. “It’s amazing how it works. They say that our souls speak the same language as the Wind itself, even if we don’t realize it. Whenever you’ve lost your way or you don’t know what to do, if you listen to the Wind it will tell you.”

“That sounds like a bunch of superstitious nonsense,” Ein said.

“The Wind tells me you’re just annoyed because I’m right.”

“How so?”

Evaine folded her arms. “Oh, come on. I saw how much fun you were having with the others. And just look at this!” She waved her arms at the trees around them. “We’re so far out of Felhaven. Isn’t exciting?”

“What’s so exciting about that? It’s just snow and trees, and more snow, and maybe the occasional rock.”

“Whatever you say.” Evaine brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. “Aren is going to teach me the flute tomorrow. I can’t wait—maybe I’ll be as good as he is someday.”

“This isn’t going to last,” Ein said. He closed his fingers around the ring. “Things will change. We haven’t left the Sleeping Twins yet. We haven’t run out of food. Sooner or later they’ll leave us by the roadside. We can’t expect them to feed us for much longer—not for free, at least.”

Evaine shrugged. “I’ll think about that when the time comes. The Wind will guide me.”

She hopped off the wagon and skipped towards the campfire. Ein sighed and stowed the ring back into his pocket. He wondered what his mother and sister were doing back in Felhaven.

#

Garax came to him as he was practicing his sword swings by the river, away from the music and laughter of the troupers. Ein had a stick in his hand, one that weighed about the same as his training sword, and he was working up a sweat beating at a tall bush. It felt good.

“Not bad,” Garax said, as Ein stood at ease and caught his breath. “Who taught you to fight?”

“Alen—my father,” Ein said. He swung at a low-hanging branch, sending a clump of pine cones flying into the Brackenburg. Someone was singing by the campfire and it annoyed him. Felhaven had almost been massacred the night before yesterday and here they were, laughing and jesting as if it were any other day. Evaine was probably with them too, slowly being poisoned by their songs and stories. His urge to attack the bush again rose.

“You should try lowering the head of your sword more,” Garax said. He stopped before Ein and placed his hand on the tip of the stick, bringing it down a few inches. “Then bring it up like this. You’ll get more power out of your swing.”

Ein scrutinized the storyteller. “I didn’t take you for the fencing type.”

“Oh?” Garax raised an eyebrow. “You up for a midnight bout, then?”

“If you want. To make things fair, I won’t use my right hand.”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary. It’s not wise to underestimate an opponent, boy.”

Ein shook his head. “If we fight, I want it to be on even grounds. Besides, I have a preference for one-handed swords myself.”

Garax shrugged and picked up a stick, dusting the snow off it. He hefted it in his hand and nodded. “It’s your loss. Are you ready?”

“When you are.”

The old man struck before Ein had finished speaking, his stick disappearing in a dark blur. Ein brought his training blade up to parry, but before he had time to blink it had changed direction, cutting towards him from the side instead. Ein dodged it and countered, but his stick swept through the empty air. An instant later, Garax rapped him sharply across the knuckles. Ein yelped and dropped his weapon, clutching at his hand.

“What the—” He picked up his stick again, frowning. He’d never seen a move like that before. “Again?” he asked.

Garax raised his weapon. Ein drew a breath and narrowed his focus. This time he attacked first, slashing and thrusting with a vengeance. He watched the old man carefully, eyeing his hands and feet, his gaze as it flitted left and right, up and down in time with his swings. Sweat flew from them both as they scuffled across the ground, boots scraping snow. Garax parried each blow effortlessly, deflected even the most rapid of Ein’s attacks in a string of fluid motions. Ein’s arm burned with exertion; his wrist and shoulder jarred in their sockets with each clash. His frustration began to mount. No matter what he tried, he simply couldn’t touch the old man.

Garax suddenly stepped forward, catching Ein completely by surprise. As Ein cut the air beside the storyteller’s ear, Garax brought his stick back and prodded him once, firmly in the stomach. Ein stumbled backwards, clutching at his belly with a scowl. They were both panting now, sweat dripping down their faces in rivulets.

“You’re pretty good,” Garax remarked, dabbing at his forehead. “And you say you’ve never fought another person before?”

“Only against my father,” Ein said. He swallowed between gulps of dry air. “I’ve never won, not when he was fighting seriously at least.”

“Interesting. Since when did blacksmiths learn to fence?”

Their wooden blades met again, and this time the exchange lasted much longer. When Ein attacked, Garax blocked as if he saw each attack before it hit. When Garax attacked, Ein barely managed to hang on. The old man came at him from every angle imaginable and several more, pressing his attack, sweeping the duel into a blinding tempo, forcing Ein onto the back foot—but as the exchange stretched on he began to slow. Ein skirted out of reach when he could, buying time between strikes, eyeing Garax as his movements grew sluggish, until finally he turned and in one swift strike scored a blow to the ribs. Garax’s stick had been moments away from deflecting. He bent over on his haunches, breathing raggedly.

“Damn,” he chuckled. “Guess I’m not as young as I used to be.”

Ein looked at his stick and tossed it aside in disgust. “You would have won that one easily if you were a few years younger,” he said. “You knew where I was going to strike before I even knew myself.”

Garax leaned on his stick and wiped his face. “It comes with experience,” he shrugged. “You think too much. Don’t overthink what your opponent will do. The options are endless. Sometimes, it’s better just to trust your instincts.”

“That sounds like a recipe for disaster,” Ein said.

Garax shrugged. “It’s hard to explain. Your body—no, your spirit subconsciously listens to the rhythm of your opponent, their footsteps, the whisper of the wind as it breathes around our blades. You need to trust it more.”

Ein groaned. “Don’t tell me they lectured you with the ‘Way of the Wind’ drivel too.”

“The Way of the Wind isn’t as silly as you think it is. Do you believe in the Pantheon, Ein?”

They edged down to the riverbank. Ein dipped his fingers into the rushing water and splashed it over his face, neck and arms, gasping as the cold water cleansed the sweat from his skin. Beside him, Garax did the same. The both rose, faces flushed with the heat of battle.

“Of course I believe,” Ein said. “How else was the world created? Something obviously had to create it, so it had to be the gods. We have records of them walking the earth, anyway.”

“Only of the Pantheon,” Garax said. “Not the Creator. There has never been any evidence that Wyd almighty exists, only hearsay. Some even say that there was a world that existed before Wyd, a world of steel and glass and smog, but that’s the beside the point. Believing in the wind is not so different to believing in Wyd. Some even say they’re the same thing.” The storyteller tapped the side of his nose as they began to head back to the camp. “Wyd and Wind are but a consonant apart. In some legends, when Wyd almighty died, his body became the wind. That’s why the wind is always around us, watching and guiding us in everything we do. The Wind is fate.”

Ein was silent. So was the forest. In fact, the only sounds present were those coming from the troupers in the distance.

“Everyone has their ‘Way of the Wind’,” Garax said, “just like they have their own voice, their own likes and dislikes and habits. You’ve learned your father’s Way. If you’d like, I can teach you mine. The fencing component, at least.” He looked at his hand and added, “The one-handed fencing component.”

The wind started up again, weaving through the trees, winding its way around Ein’s body and limbs. It was ice cold where it touched his exposed skin. He thought, just vaguely, that it smelled of home. But it also blew to the east along the river, in the direction of the world outside. To places like Aldoran and Lauriel’s Spine, Oster and Siraph, the Nullarhar desert far to the east. Places he’d only ever heard stories about.

“Alright,” he sighed. “I guess it couldn’t hurt. Figuratively speaking, of course.”