Samual Page 3

  Limping still, probably from an injury he decided, she made good time back to her horse, mounted up and quickly hurried back to her group. The warning given, her duty was done and she appeared anxious to return to her post.

  “I thank you for the warning good soldier,” Sam called out after her. “And please tell any who want it that they can harvest all the fruit and vegetables they need from the gardens.”

  The elf gave no sign that she had heard. Perhaps she hadn't. More likely though given the events of the previous couple of days she had no interest in the thanks or aid of a common citizen. Especially the thanks of a half elf.

  That was the trouble with living in an elven homeland. While he was officially welcome here as were all people of good heart and civil manner, as a half elf he was considered as something less than either human or elf. All other races and those of mixed race for some reason seemed more at home, more accepted in the towns than him. So there were gnomish and pixi traders everywhere, even a few dwarves, and many of them had taken elven partners, something too that seemed to be accepted. But for a human to do so seemed to be something else entirely, and their offspring, more so. He didn't know why. He hadn't worked up the courage to ask anyone lest he make things worse. But he knew it was so.

  Coming to these lands five years ago hadn't been an easy decision. He'd known before he even set foot in them that he would be looked down upon. Those few traders he knew who plied this land had told him that at length the moment they'd seen his ears sticking out of a human looking face. But he also wanted to see the land of his mother, maybe even meet some of her kin, and he knew from his father before he'd passed away that his mother had been well connected in elven circles. At least before she'd run off with a human, and then died in childbirth not too many years after his own birth, without ever being officially wed.

  It had surely been a disgrace for her, and a lifelong regret for his father, especially after her death, but as the king he could never have married an elf. His loyalty to his people would have been placed in question, and that could never have been allowed. It would have placed his rule in jeopardy and his people's well being at risk. It would have set the kingdom up for a coup and given his enemies the very cause they dreamed of to overthrow him.

  Thus far he'd had little luck in finding his mother's family, mainly because the few times he'd made it into Shavarra itself he'd felt as though he was carrying some sort of disfiguring disease, and had limited himself to the trading he had come to do, before fleeing back to his cottage. How could he even approach his mother's family if that was how the normal elf treated him?

  Still, there hadn't been a lot of choice at the time. He'd had to leave Fall Keep in a hurry. It was that or be responsible for the death of his wife at his own half-brother's hands. And none of the other lands had seemed particularly appealing either. Nor safe. He still hoped that one day he might meet his mother's family, and that they might even welcome him. But that wasn't why he stayed here. What kept him here was that while he remained in Shavarra he was at least certain that fewer assassins would find him here than anywhere else he might live. The border patrols would pick up such people very quickly, and their fate would not be a pleasant one. Only the smarter, more cunning ones were getting through, and those few he could deal with.

  Now though it appeared he had to leave regardless, something he was loath to do. He might not be the most welcome person in the realm, but over the years it had become his home. If he wasn't close with any of them, he was at least accepted by the local elves. They didn't bother him much, they traded fairly with him, and sometimes, just sometimes, he could share a conversation or a drink with them; pass a joke and forget his troubles as they forgot his parentage. He had learned not just Elvish but High Elvish, even if his accent was coarse. And he had learned many of the stories and much of the history of the land. It had taken five long, hard years to reach that stage. But now that life was in jeopardy.

  But where should he go? If he went home to the human province of Fair Fields to the west his face would still be known by too many, including all of the royal guards. He could never live there unknown or unnoticed, and the cost to Ryshal of his being seen would be beyond his ability to stand. Heri would have her executed. He dreamed of going home, but that was something forever denied to him.

  Further west again – much further, and across several other realms – lay the elven forest province of Golden River Flats. It was the largest elven province on the continent, with three major cities and dozens of large towns. It was also the nearest elven province to Shavarra and no doubt the destination of the elves.

  The Golden River Flats were very similar to Shavarra in their people and lands, except for their size. The Flats had three major cities, each of fifty or a hundred thousand elves, and scores of large towns. It was also far more welcoming of travellers, and while there he had met with not just humans, elves and dwarves from afar, but also dryads, gnomes, pixies and even halflings. Their market places were simply teeming with strangers. Yet, though it might have been partly his youth at the time, he had never felt welcome there either. Elves everywhere had looked at him twice every time he'd taken his helmet off to reveal his pointed ears sticking out the sides of a human face, and after that they'd tended to give him a wide berth.

  He could live there much as he had lived in Shavarra; as an outsider. But at least he could live there in relative peace. It would however, mean starting over. Here at least, the people had become used to him. They might not be overly friendly, but no more were they openly intolerant. Actually he was probably being too harsh; some of them were his friends, and the children liked him as well.

  South and east of Fair Fields, and across a treacherous mountain pass lay the dwarven land of Ore Bender's Mountains. It was a bustling, vibrant land filled with traders and travellers. He had been there once in his youth, and found it fascinating. Especially the ports. Fair Fields being a land locked region, he had never previously seen a port. Ore Bender's Mountains though had three, and he had spent many long hours watching the ships coming and going, the wind filling their great white sails as they sailed sedately out across the endless blue ocean.

  But on the other hand, to live among dwarves for any length of time was to ask for trouble. They were such a naturally garrulous people who took offence over the slightest of things. The chances were that if he lived there and that even if he tried to avoid trouble, that combat would become a way of life. Besides, the city was wide open, the people unfailingly good at giving directions, and any assassins would find him in a heartbeat. It was why he hadn't gone there when he'd first had to flee Fair Fields.

  North and west of Fair Fields lay the gnomish lands of Fedowir Kingdom, a vast expanse of hard scrabble farms, stunted forests and deserts and swamps, where only the toughest survived. Conditions were harsh, and although the people were friendly, they would have little use for a wandering soldier. Raising food was more important than waging war, and if he couldn't plough a field or find another useful trade, he would quickly find himself redundant.

  South and west of Fair Fields lay the Dead Belly Wastes, so named because the few explorers who'd crossed them and survived kept remarking on how many dead creatures they'd found, all with their bellies facing up to the sun. The Wastes were home to many ruined cities and lost temples, but no one had ever bothered to explore more than a few of the closest. The land was simply too tough. There was no water, a vast variety of deadly lizards, snakes and insects, and being so featureless and full of sand dunes, it was far too easy to get lost and die.

  Between the two lay only a narrow strip of no man's land; the Dead Creek Pass. It was a rough trail that led to Golden River Flats. According to legend the pass had once been a vast river which had flowed through the wastes themselves, allowing great cities to flourish. But over many thousands of years it had become little more than a dried up strip of land, with a few wells dotting it while the Wastes had turned into sand.

  Once in his
youth he'd travelled through them as part of a troop of trainee knights, learning their craft and riding to Golden River Flats. It had been a most distressing time as they had constantly had to ration their water, always giving more to the horses than themselves, and living with the aura of death all around them. But after three long hard weeks of riding they'd reached the elven homeland, and perhaps enjoyed it even more for its gloriously abundant life after having passed through such death.

  Further afield still lay the lands he'd only heard of, but of which there were many. In fact there were more human kingdoms, elven provinces, gnomish, dwarven and pixie lands than could be visited by any one man in a lifetime. As a student he'd been taught the names of all twenty seven provinces and realms on the Great Continent of the Dragon's Spine. He knew the dozens of island nations that surrounded it by heart. He even knew their rulers and the main details of their peoples, lands and trade. But he'd never been to them and had met very few representatives from them, other than those closest to Fair Fields. In all truth he had never planned on visiting them.

  Nor did he intend to now. Human, elven, or other; kingdom, province, collection of villages, rich or poor, they simply weren't home. Fair Fields had once been his home. Shavarra was slowly becoming a home. They weren't.

  Which brought him back to only Golden River Flats as being a safe and moderately acceptable alternative place for him to live. His best bet he thought, was to stay with the elves as they made their way slowly there. He had no doubt though that the road ahead would be hard, with unknown threats ahead, and an all too deadly one nipping at their heels.

  It would be a lengthy journey to get to the Flats. One fraught with difficulties for the elves. For a start they were four hundred leagues from their destination at a minimum, and they had to first cross the hundred leagues or so of Shavarra just to reach the border with Fair Fields. For the moment it was safe territory, but the roads and trails through the forests had never been designed for speedy travel, and with thousands of wagons on them, the elves would have their work cut out just trying not to tear them apart even if they weren't being chased by these golems.

  After that it would be a hundred and fifty more leagues to cross Fair Fields. They were good roads to travel, cobbled in parts as the local farmers pooled their efforts together to make their trips to the markets as quick and easy as possible. But the nobles of the various baronies and fiefdoms would no doubt demand a fee for crossing their lands, and the prices for food and goods would undoubtedly be high as the merchants saw an opportunity they could exploit. Worse still, they would have to deal with one noble after another. Fair Fields wasn't a true kingdom, his half-brother the reigning king notwithstanding. It was more properly a collection of misfit lords who came together mainly for defence and trade. But each noble, each house had its own agenda, most of which came down to increasing their wealth and power at the expense of their neighbours.

  After that they would travel a further hundred and fifty leagues along the arduous Dead Creek Pass as they cut their way between the Dead Belly Wastes and the Fedowir Kingdom. A winding and sometimes steep dirt track in place of a road, the Pass had few resources along it other than the odd trading post or well. It was also reputedly littered with bandits. Though he couldn't imagine them attacking a party of this size, any stragglers might not be so fortunate. And the caravan would be slow as it had to carry not just food but also water with them. On horseback a rider could make it through in three weeks. But a caravan with overloaded wagons would be lucky to do it in a month and a half.

  After that they would finally arrive at Golden River Flats, and hopefully find a place to live. Maybe the Shavarran elves would find an area to settle; perhaps they'd be broken up into smaller groups to be spread among the other elves? But even there the elves might not be safe. With an army of golems nipping at their heels – something that until that night he would never have thought possible – and the caravan crawling, their enemy could perhaps chase them all the way to the Flats and beyond. Though it made no sense that they would, neither did anything else the soldier had told him.

  If the golems had already taken the city, why were they chasing the elves? Because he had no doubt from her words that they were. Did that mean that their goal was not the city at all, just the elves themselves as she'd said? Was their goal purely murder? And if so why? What sort of enemy lived only to fight and kill but not to take? But then what sort of army was made of steel rats?

  The soldier in him said that if they were truly golems then they served another. A master wizard who was directing them from somewhere else. But then why would a wizard want a city? Or, if the wizard didn't want the city, why had he even attacked it? And if all he really wanted was the elves' dead as it appeared, then what could drive him to take such action? Was it some sort of vendetta perhaps? Revenge for past deeds?

  Sam couldn't believe such a thing. While there were undoubtedly some nasty wizards around, surely none could hold a grudge against the elves. They were a law abiding people; peaceful almost to a fault. They never turned away those in need and they never attacked without cause. And they hadn't been to war in all the centuries the province had been inhabited. And yet try as he might Sam could think of no other possible reason for what he'd been told.

  It was a riddle and a half to solve, and one that he knew was probably beyond him for the moment. He needed more information. Still, in the morning he decided he would find out more as he followed the caravan of elves west.

  Until then, it was time to pack.

  Chapter Two.

  In the morning, before first light Sam did much as he'd been instructed. He'd already packed up his house the previous night and made it weather tight, making sure it would be there if and when he was able to return to these lands. Assuming the golems didn't destroy it. That only left himself and his horses to worry about.

  Donning his full armour, (which still bore the crest of the House of Hanor on the banded blue chest plate despite his efforts to erase it) Sam gathered his weapons and mounted his war horse Tyla. He tied the reins of his other horse Aegis to the saddle, stuffed Elsbeth the milking goat into one of the oversized saddle bags, something she wasn't particularly happy about, and then left his home for what could be the last time.

  The only thing he did different from what he'd been told to do was that he set off east instead of following the elves west to the village of Torin Vale as he'd originally intended. Straight into the heart of the enemy's advance as they chased the elves.

  It wasn't a casual decision, nor he hoped a mistake. He was after all a warrior and a fire wizard both, and was more than capable of dealing with most threats. Although truthfully, he wouldn't have categorised giant steel rats or golems as most threats. And from what he'd heard from the soldier the previous night he knew he would have to be cautious. Yet even if the danger was greater than he could handle, he had to go. It was his duty.

  Whether or not he was truly welcome among these elves, they were good people and they were innocent. And since he chose to live among them they were also his people. It was his duty as a knight of Hanor to protect them with his dying breath. They were also his mother's family, and his wife's as well. Running from battle was not the way to protect kith and kin. At the very least he had to scout out the enemy. He needed to look for his lairs; his strengths and his weaknesses. That information would be invaluable to the elves. And if he could bloody their noses a little, so much the better.

  There was anger inside him. It had been bubbling close to the surface for five long years but so far he had kept it under control. During that time he had concentrated on his studies and used it as he worked on drawing ever more magical strength. But he had always kept it under tight control. Now though for some reason, it had started breaking loose. It had come boiling up through the night as he packed, and it was all he could do not to scream with rage. He wanted to strike out and destroy the enemy. Such was neither the way of a trained soldier nor an honourable knight, and yet a
very primitive part of him still wanted nothing more than a good fight. A chance to hit back at something. To finally strike out at anything instead of just taking the loss and suffering as he had had to do these past five years. And like it or not, these golems would make perfect targets for his rage.

  All through the night as he'd made ready for the morning, he'd felt that rage growing within him, so much so that it frightened him a little. And right behind it was his fire magic, whispering its sweet song of destruction. Even if the golems ran away he might well roast them, right or wrong. After all, they had committed a terrible crime and they had no souls. They were fair game.

  Yet there was still more than just honour, rage and a need to find out what had harmed his kin that set his path that morning. There was also a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach that as bad as this attack was, there was more to it than just a battle or a war.

  It was the reference to golems that had triggered something deep within him, and he simply had to see them with his own eyes. It was a memory, or a fragment of one that had been dancing in the back of his mind for hours as he'd watched the last of the elves pass by his home. He still couldn't quite place it even now, though he knew it had something to do with his training in the arcane arts. And with all the readings of the various prophecies. A line from one of them kept echoing in his thoughts: