The next morning, after breakfast, the company of Outlanders began their journey on horseback out of Restom. A mist hung over the city, suppressing the sound of the horse's hooves on the cobbled road. Every now and again a merchant, cart, or fellow traveller would appear in the thick mist as they headed towards the eastern gate. They were mostly ignored as everyone began their business for the day. Bells were ringing from many corners of the city signalling the port being opened and they saw the East Gate ahead of them.
Tarkanyon could feel a growing sense of foreboding as they neared it. Outlanders were gifted with a peculiar, almost prophetic, sense. They could sense danger before it occurred, which greatly aided them in battle. But this sense could sometimes be more intense in some of them. In the rare case, it was very prevalent, and those were the kinds of people who wrote the books Luillan liked to read.
Feeling uncomfortable with a growing premonition that was unusual for him, he looked around to see what the others were doing. Turrik was playing with a dagger in his hands, observing it keenly.
“Is that from one of the three from yesterday?” he asked.
“Indeed,” Turrik replied. “From the table where you and Chrisolian were sitting.”
“Can you decipher where it comes from?” Poiternium asked.
“I do not recognise anything of it,” Turrik replied. “It is of a shape and form I believe none of us have seen before.”
Tarkanyon let off a small cry and stopped. The rest of the party quickly formed a circular formation. After a few moments, Chrisolian rubbed his beard and looked at Tarkanyon carefully.
“What is the matter?” he asked.
Tarkanyon sighed. “There are some horsemen on the other side of this wall, waiting for us.”
“Foré horsemen, no doubt,” Chrisolian stated. “But why such a cry, Tarkanyon?”
“Yes. Foré horsemen. It must be this mist, it has me on edge.”
Drius grunted. “I was hoping for some more action,” he said.
But that wasn’t the reason for Tarkanyon’s outburst. Something about Restom’s walls became a foreshadow for something else. There would be a battle here, a battle that would decide many outcomes. He knew that someone of considerable importance would find their end here. When he thought deeper of it, a distant feeling of nausea overcame him for just an instant, and was gone.
He didn’t like this at all. So much so, he was grateful to see twenty men approach them on horseback.
“Twenty,” muttered Drius, pulling his horse next to Tarkanyon. “That’s a fair number.”
“Too much. They will slow us down,” grumbled Tarkanyon, looking toward them.
“Well, I suppose we couldn’t have expected less,” Turrik said with his mouth full of apple, cutting it with the dagger he was playing with. Chrisolian was at the rear, and he let off a loud sniff and sigh. So the king decided to send a dragoon to the villages with them, then? The Foré dragoon formed a V-Formation and the horseman in the front – seemingly their captain - gave a slow nod to Tarkanyon. They were dressed in the familiar black Foré uniform, tight jackets buttoned up all the way to their necks.
“Captain Altana,” said the captain coarsely. He did not reach out his arm to shake hands, nor give a bow of any sort. He merely looked at them. His long, black hair was pasted firmly on his skull, combed back, wet and dirty. His eyes had a hint of green and blue, and a small stripe of a beard shaped as a long upside-down triangle had located itself down his chin.
Tarkanyon kept on riding past them. “Yes, we have met before.”
Altana huffed and signalled to his men to fall in. They came up the rear quietly. Altana pushed his horse forward and rode next to Tarkanyon.
“We can take control of those villages,” he charged. “I do not understand why the king asked for you to come.”
“And why you?” Tarkanyon said. “Surely there are those of his army closer to the villages? From one of the other towns?”
“Perhaps he suspects they will rally to the cause of the villages,” answered Altana, keeping his eyes on the fields before them. Neither of them would look at each other.
“Rebel villages... yes, I've heard there were a few,” replied Tarkanyon.
“A few too many.”
“A few too many lords, as well. My guess is that they are being suppressed by their lord, as usual.”
“The feudal system works,” Altana said. “The lord is there by the authority of the king and he provides protection. Any rebellion against the lord is rebellion against their king.”
“Well, I’m not convinced of that,” said Tarkanyon firmly.
“You can be convinced then,” Altana replied. “The lords are fair. Even those up north.”
Tarkanyon was familiar with Altana and his political leanings. Altana was part of a fanatical group that wanted the monarchy disbanded. But why would he have an issue with villagers that rebel against a king he doesn't even want in power? He must be playing games, thought Tarkanyon.
The road passed by a forest, wet with rain and dew. New spring leaves were coming quickly. Birds chirped in the air and the morning mist was beginning to disappear. Once they were a considerable distance away from the city it was time to ride.
“We will gallop from here until evening,” said Tarkanyon. “Depending on how your horses can keep up.”
“Our horses? Our land is a spacious land of fields; endless roads of freedom! This is where the best horses in Lexedore are bred!”
“I know,” said Tarkanyon. “Still, let us see if they can keep up.”
Altana grimaced as Tarkanyon signalled and the Outlanders charged forward. In response he signalled his own men and they were soon on their journey.
The road winded and meandered into the forest. Trees crowded around the cobbled road grew thicker and at one stage they had to make a small detour around a rotting trunk in the road. Tarkanyon was surprised at it, for the road was highly travelled, and he was curious as to why the Foré soldiers or citizens, at least, had not moved it yet.
Half-way through the forest the paved road became a dust path. The new spring leaves in the air swayed as the wind blew through the trees, blossoms filtering and colouring the smell of the air. Rays of sunshine coming through the branches were a welcome relief from the past few days of rain. The animals didn’t seem to mind the contingent of Outlanders and soldiers coming through, deers and squirrels watching them as they passed by.
The forest grew ever thicker as night approached. They eventually came to the forest's end where the path winded up a small lonely hill. They decided to camp at the base of the hill near a small group of bushes that could provide some shelter. The first day of their journey on horseback was over.
Night came quickly and preparations for the next day were made. There wasn’t much talk amongst the two groups. As they ate dinner – separately – with the Foré soldiers making jokes amongst themselves and sipping a bottle of red sherry between them, Tarkanyon noticed that they had split into three groups. He wondered about this.
He drew away from the fire and lay down, staring at the clear sky, clouds drifting now and again between the wide covering of lights above. He started planning and thinking, wondering about what course of action Altana and his men were going to take with the villages, and wishing they didn’t have to worry about this. Had news reached King Walise yet? Was his decision worth it? Would the king give Dernium permission to take the safe road?
Eventually he drifted off to sleep with his mind still working. The camp fell silent with Merexia and one of the Foré soldiers on the watch.
Hours passed. Tarkanyon woke up abruptly. The air was cooler and there was a peace about the camp; a startling peace. He sensed something; felt something; a change in the air. He couldn't quite place if something was amiss or not, so he got up and decided to take a walk around the camp.
Merexia was watching closely at the end of the bushes surrounding them, warming himself by the fire. He noticed Tarkanyon get up and frowned
at him. It seemed obvious he wasn’t sensing anything. Tarkanyon remembered his foreboding earlier and the day. He didn’t like this at all. He motioned to Merexia that all was well and looked towards the end of the forest. Being awake now, and having a sense to walk to the edge of the forest, he set out; Merexia watching him briefly and then realising that everything was indeed all right.
He walked off and stood at the edge of the forest gazing into it. The usual night noises were croaking and creaking, an owl observing Tarkanyon closely with a beady eye.
Suddenly everything fell quiet. The owl fluttered off and the melody of a night lark stopped half-way in its tune. Everything stopped; an awkward, almost unnatural silence. Tarkanyon could sense something, something changing in the air, even in the earth.
A familiar feeling of the deepest longing overcame him. A feeling of infinitude, mixed with hope and wonder all at the same time. The feeling of eternity almost in reach, having come to visit but impossible to fully grasp. The same feeling a man has when he stares at the stars and wonders about the depth of existence and mortality.
Tarkanyon began to instinctively know that their mission was incredibly important. He had already known that, but now it felt different, as if it had been revealed to him, as if his heart now understood it. It felt to him as if something was about to shift or was already in the motion of shifting.
What was it? Why was he feeling this way? Immediately he sensed it was important for him to listen. The silence of the forest confirmed his impression. Quietly, softly, a poem came to him, as if someone was speaking it to him, or if someone just reminded him of it.
Those times when the fire speaks, listen. Those times when the peace speaks, hear. My love is moving, and all loves shall quarrel.
Tarkanyon recognised it. It was written by Anglus Corteria, an Outlander that lived six or more centuries back. Immediately after this thought the crickets and noises of the forest began again to quirk and croak.
He stood there, looking into the forest, bewildered. The words of the poem echoed in his head, but as soon as he started to analyse and scrutinise everything that just happened the feeling he had felt left him.
“Perplexing,” he said out loud to himself. “First that vision at the Restom walls and now this.”
He stayed for a while and enjoyed the cool air, finally returning to the camp under the closer scrutiny of Merexia. From just above the nearby hill the light of the day was beginning to arrive.
“Watch is over,” Merexia said. “You spent a long time out there.”
“Getting my thoughts together,” Tarkanyon replied. He nodded and returned to the camp.
An hour passed. Everyone rose and they prepared themselves for the day's journey. After breakfast they set out for the next stop, a small village known as Buit. Tarkanyon had always wondered at the name. It was a name written in a very old Foré tongue; apparently no one really knew what it meant anymore. He found his mind wandering to thoughts of the early morning and he had to shrug it off, forcing himself to rather think of their mission.
The road began to flatten with farm lands unrolling for miles on either side. A tranquil breeze visited them – a reminder of the Great Mountains much further north. On a very clear day the mountains could be seen in the far away distance; a towering chain of massive rock, stretching its unyielding face across Lexedore from east to west. It continued even into the sea, so that the waters within a fair distance from the shores were very treacherous and, in fact, impossible to sail through; rocks and coral reef spread out for miles upon miles from the shore.
Many tales were told about people that lived in the Great Mountains. Some said that in the northern villages, on clear nights, distant flashing lights of many colours emanated from far in the peaks. Blue, red, any colour that could be imagined. Tarkanyon had never seen these lights, or heard any report that validated them as true. Luillan, who knew history well, had never heard anything about these lights in all of history either, so it was dismissed by the Outlanders as simply a myth.
The day was spent galloping and trotting through a winding dirt road next to farms, barking dogs, bellowing sheep and small woods. It was cooler than the previous day, with a steady westerly wind moving in. Some of the farms were flourishing, the land ready to receive more rain and begin the secret process of growth. By early evening they crossed over a small stream in an open valley and saw the small village of Buit, surrounded by farm lands. The Foré horseman had pre-arranged rooms for them at the Inn Buita, which was one of the very few buildings in the village, which was nothing more than a supply or trading spot for the nearby farms. It seemed almost lonely, sticking out of the surrounding flat and irrigated lands.
The Inn Buita looked welcoming enough, with stained white-washed walls, a thatched roof and some roses and hedges surrounding it. A wooden sign outside suspended on a tall pole, covered by a flowering creeper-plant, flapped gently in the wind. The company ambled past the front entrance and were guided to a barn by a very young lad about fifteen years old, wearing a white shirt and breeches. He didn’t speak much.
“Busy evening,” the innkeeper said to Altana as he came to welcome the Foré Horsemen. “Many traders about.” He looked over and flinched when he saw the Outlanders. “Um… greetings, sirs,” he said awkwardly.
Tarkanyon gave him a nod. After giving some instructions to the boy tending the barn, the innkeeper set off to get things prepared. It would be a night of some drinking, Tarkanyon realised. The Foré men would certainly not pass that opportunity up. And neither would he, but for different reasons. Because when drunk men talk you hear the truth.
CHAPTER EIGHT