"The Axes of Evil "

SPOILER ALERT: Contains information that gives away plot points from "Arch Enemies."

One: Whispers in the Dark

The shock of hearing one’s own name conspiratorially whispered is a great awakener. 

I paused in mid-step.  The whisper had come from the tent beside me, one of the large, ornate pavilions used by Duke Aramis of Ashbury and his knights.  A lantern inside the tent threw two hugely disfigured shadows against the linen wall.

“Yes, Terin, the squire; that’s the one.  I’ll make Terin do it.”

A chill traversed my spine as I realized that I had not misheard my name seconds earlier.  Had I taken another route back from the latrine, I would have missed this conversation completely.  Instead, and against my better judgment, I inched closer.

“But the Vansir Reclaim belongs to the barbarians by treaty,” said a voice I did not recognize.  “You can’t just take it away.”

“I don’t plan on taking it away.  I plan on … encouraging them to leave.”  I recognized the voice of Frost Vardik, the newly appointed Baron of Blythedale.  His voice invariably held undertones of menace and threat—even when he ordered scrambled eggs for breakfast.  Now it also dripped with a wicked smugness.

“How?”

“This new prophecy nonsense is exactly what I need,” Frost continued.  “The barbarians foolishly think that Squire Terin is their leader.  They have some silly prophecy about him and call him ‘Bishortu.’  I’ll order Terin to make them leave our lands.”

“I’m not sure that will work, Your Excellency,” the timid voice said.  “They have lived there for many years.  It’s the only land they know.”

“That’s not my problem!” Frost said loudly.  His shadow pulled back as the snoring that surrounded us dropped off a bit.

Apparently catching himself, he continued in a quieter tone, forcing me to move closer to hear.

“The superstitious barbarians won’t leave because of the treasure buried beneath their lands—treasure they haven’t been able to find in a hundred years!  That treasure belongs to the barony of Blythedale, not to some ignorant savages.  Terin will make them move or he’ll die trying.”

I gasped.  Frost jerked his head around.  His shadow danced wildly against the tent as he grabbed the lantern and headed for the opening. 

Backing up, I tripped over a stone hidden in the darkness and stumbled wildly.  I quickly whispered a Silence spell around myself and ran from the scene.

Dodging tent ropes, I panted through the maze that was our camp, frantically searching for my own tent.  Listening for the sounds of pursuit produced nothing—and then I mentally slapped my head.  Of course!  The spell that surrounded me removed all noise.

Sheer luck finally brought me to my small tent, and I dived in, breathing heavily.  Pulling up my blankets, I pretended to be asleep, keeping my eyes open slightly.  Someone with a lantern approached.

Reminding myself to continue breathing, I gulped and tried to think of excuses.  I can’t lie, I reminded myself.  I’m a squire now.  I made an oath!

The light passed by.  I sweated in my cot, despite the chill night air.  It seemed hours before the chirping of crickets announced the end of the spell, but I remained awake, pondering the conversation I had not been meant to hear.

Two: Bishortu

“Bishortu!” sneezed Rendal.

I ignored him. He had been doing this for days now, and the humor of it had worn off. I suspected that my dislike of it was the reason he continued, for he seemed immensely pleased with himself each time.

Hlafweard also did not seem amused by the constant insulting use of the great barbarian hero’s name. The fact that I, and everyone with me, insisted that I was no great barbarian hero made little difference.

The barbarian chieftain observed my sigh. He adjusted the large axe strapped to his back and moved his horse closer, crowding my own steed who kicked her disapproval.

“You may think that it was just a coincidence that you appeared to teach our ancestors about the power of magic,” Hlafweard said, “but these things do not happen by chance. You are Bishortu, and the prophecy said that you would return, and here you are. See?”

His backwards logic frustrated me. “I met your ancestors after being mistakenly sent back in time,” I once more explained, trying to hide my impatience at repeating myself. “I used the Disarming spell against your ancestors to protect myself, not because I was trying to teach anyone anything. And as I left, I jokingly said ‘Be sure to tip your waitress.’ Trust me, I wasn’t introducing myself as ‘Bishortu T’Porway Triz.’”

“That’s true,” Rendal added. “Terin says that all the time. I guess he thought some day he would be a bard and use it when he performs.”

“I am a bard!” I countered sulkily. “You don’t have to actually perform anywhere to be a bard.”

“Ah, my mistake.” Ren smiled. He turned to Hlafweard, placing the palm of his hand against his chest. “I myself am a tightrope walker.”

Rendal was, of course, not a tightrope walker of any type, but instead the bravest person I had ever met. But I said nothing and Hlafweard nodded, accepting Rendal at his word.

I shifted in my saddle and considered Rendal. He sat tall on his steed, surveying the surrounding land for trouble while fingering his sparse chin hairs. His dark eyes matched his dark skin, and his handsome, sharp features held an air of authority quite unusual for someone of his young age. His red belt, the symbol of the squire, showed the nicks and cuts of his many battles. His twin swords hung from each side.

Darlissa rode behind the three of us. I glanced at her. Her brown hair and feathered eyebrows fluttered in the slight summer breeze. When she noticed me looking at her, she gave a slight smile, which I returned. The sunlight glinting off her hair made her look extremely pretty to me that day. I immediately tried to rid myself of that thought. Darlissa was a biata, the race that had supposedly been created by the gryphons, and she had certain powers that never allowed me to feel completely comfortable around her.

The biata prided themselves on secrecy and strange manners, which proved quite useful when intimidating others. A biata could enter your mind, read your thoughts, and control your actions, enslaving you without your knowledge. On the other hand, they could use that skill for good, by healing those with mental problems and emotional hurdles. The feathers that grew in their eyebrows and hair made them look strange to humans, but then again no more, so than the stocky dwarves with their long beards—male and female—or the elves with their elongated ears.

Darlissa and Rendal, both squires to Duke Aramis, had happily welcomed me into their ranks when the Duke had named me his third squire. They had become my closest companions and protectors over the past few months and were the only ones I really could confide in. I ached to tell both of them what I had overheard the previous night, but the presence of Hlafweard prevented that. Instead, I just kept repeating the conversation in my mind so that I would not forget.

The broad, well-maintained road to Blythedale, one of the three main baronies of the Duchy of Ashbury, easily handled the crowd that now traversed its length. The Duke, his knights, and his closest advisors, including Baron Frost, rode in the lead, followed by their colorful wagons, and then we three squires, accompanied by Hlafweard. More wagons followed, filled with supplies and the cooks and servants necessary for such a parade, and then a company of the Duke’s soldiers. The barbarian chief’s entourage—if that word can be applied to such people—took up the rear. The first few days on the road had passed rather uneventfully, and predictions held that we would be at our destination within another two.

I gave a sideways glance at the barbarian chief. Like most Ashbans, my encounters with barbarians had been few and far between. Growing up in a fairly well-to-do family in a city meant that I had little contact with any as a child. Despite my father’s urging, I had tended to ignore my history and other lessons to practice music, so intent was I on becoming a traveling bard. Almost immediately upon setting off to follow my dream, I found myself involved in an adventure that resulted in a magical ritual that sent me back in time. The barbarians I encountered there mistakenly thought me some great hero, which, upon my return to my own time, led me to my present situation.

What I did know about barbarians was that they once roamed over vast areas of the Duchy of Ashbury but had been pushed back farther and farther as more advanced cultures moved in. They now primarily resided in the Vansir Reclaim (“vansir” being the name they called themselves), a region to the far north between the border of the baronies of Nordenn and Blythedale, yet technically belonging to neither.

When Hlafweard had first proposed that I travel to his lands as the prophesized Bishortu, I had refused. Then His Grace, Duke Aramis Llyrr, took an interest and vowed to travel with me. Relationships between the Duchy and the vansir had never been good, and the Duke had great hopes that this trip would make amends.

Baron Frost Vardik, another biata, did not seem pleased with his liege’s decision. A large and muscular man, Frost held a perpetually annoyed expression, as if merely having to deal with other beings was painful to him. The red and black feathers over his eyes tended to shake slightly when he was angry, and his shaved head only emphasized their presence.

The soft breeze made riding pleasant that morning. Jarille kept a steady pace and I was thrilled that she had been found and returned, healthy as ever. Riding a familiar horse always makes the trip easier. Still, the burdens placed on me weighed me down.

After some time, in an attempt to distract my mind from my worries, I turned to Hlafweard and said, “Let’s discuss exactly what is going to happen.”

He smiled, as if nothing pleased him more than being in the presence of the Great Bishortu. “I do not know,” he replied.

I tried to hide my frustration. Hlafweard had impressed me with his intelligence, something I had not expected to find in a barbarian, and he even seemed cleaner than the others I had met. Perhaps that was why he had been made chieftain. As part of his effort to mend relations with the barbarians, Duke Aramis had recognized Hlafweard’s position by inviting him to ride with us.

“Then tell me why Bishortu is important.”

“It was foretold that Bishortu would be the one to bring together the three tribes. We have been fighting with each other for many generations,” Hlafweard said, somewhat sadly.

“The vansir have been fighting among themselves?” Dar asked.

“Van-seer,” Hlafweard said, smiling as he corrected her mispronunciation. “But yes.”

Glancing over at me with a more serious expression, he continued slowly, as if admitting something embarrassing. “Had we not been fighting for so many years, we would probably not be living in the Reclaim now.”

His expression prevented me from inquiring more about the Reclaim. I knew from the overheard conversation of the previous night that the area was once a part of the Barony of Blythedale and that Baron Frost wanted it back, but I was not about to mention this to Hlafweard. I hastily tried to revive the subject of Bishortu.

“So what happened?” I prodded. “Who foretold this reuniting?”

“Well, that is the problem,” Hlafweard said. “Many years after Bishortu taught our people magic, our seers had three visions of Bishortu. One prophecy said Bishortu would bring peace to the warring vansir tribes, which didn’t make sense because there were no warring tribes at that time; the vansir were one tribe. My ancestors who believed in that prophecy began to fight with those who believed one of the others. Soon, all were fighting, and that prophecy was true. We split into three tribes.”

“Ah, Prophecy Boy.” Ren laughed. “Life is never boring around you.”

“And one prophecy is very bad I think,” Hlafweard continued. “One tribe wants to kill you.”

“What?” I screamed. Jarille sidestepped into Hlafweard’s mount, and I fought to get her and my emotions under control. “Again? I thought that was behind me! Why is there always some stupid prophecy that involves me dying?”

“I do not believe the prophecy says you must die,” Hlafweard said. “I think that the Hawk tribe does not want their prophecy to come true.”

Glancing at Ren, I was pleased to see that he took this piece of information very seriously.

“There is something else you should know,” Hlafweard said. “It has to do with the Wretched Axes…”

A loud crash from behind caused all to spin around. The dwarf Barinor had fallen off his wagon.

“I’m fine!” he bellowed. “Don’t ye worry about me!” After pulling himself up, he leaned over for his jug, which he had apparently dropped and then followed in due course. Muted chuckling erupted from those riding nearby, but Barinor gave it no mind.

Barinor’s decision to come with us pleased me. His good humor and down-to-earth nature had often provided just the right counter to the pessimism I had felt while trying to avoid the biata assassins hunting me the last time I had been named in a prophecy. Although his mercenary nature sometimes impeded his morals, he had been there to fight with us when needed, and his bravery was unquestioned.

Barinor had shown great interest when the magical axes were first mentioned a few days earlier and was determined to come along to see them for himself. “Ye may need me expertise,” he had explained. “Besides, I got nowhere else to go.”

After Barinor settled himself back on his wagon and the procession continued, I turned to Hlafweard to resume our conversation, but the number of guards who had come forward when Barinor fell made me wary. “I want to know more about this dying prophecy, but…” I whispered.

“We probably should wait until later to discuss this,” Dar interrupted.

I nodded my agreement, although terrible visions of my death beneath the swords of nameless barbarians flashed through my mind.

Uneasiness rode with me the rest of that day so that I hardly noticed when the caravan stopped. The sun loomed low in the sky, obscured by darkening clouds that made nightfall appear nigh. A clearing along the road provided just enough space for the entourage, and scattered prickly brush provided a bit of privacy in places. Tall trees swayed in the growing wind as His Grace and Baron Frost pointed to the best spot for their tents.

The horses were gathered and fed as cooks prepared a meal of chicken stew with potatoes. With so many people nearby, we didn’t dare speak of the things on our minds as we set up our own tents. By the time we finished, the meal was ready.

I motioned Ren and Dar to follow me to a secluded area under a trio of shady trees where we could not be overheard. Ren’s bowl was half empty by the time we settled in.

“Baron Frost has ulterior motives for going on this trip,” I started, but Darlissa rolled her eyes. “No, it’s true!” I protested. “Listen!”

I summarized the conversation I had heard the previous night. For once, neither interrupted. Both looked concerned.

“What is this treasure he is talking about?” Ren asked Darlissa.

She shook her head, feathers swaying in the breeze. “I don’t know,” she replied, and then took a slow bite from a piece of salty cheese. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“I thought you knew everything …” I started, and then realized how ridiculous that sounded. “About … other races…”

“In the past, you asked me about biata history.” She grinned. “I am no expert in the ways of the vansir. Let’s begin by summarizing what we know.”

“Very well,” I said, brushing hair out of my face. The slight breeze calmed my worried mood, but the seriousness of the situation kept me firmly planted in reality. “The barbarians are split into three different tribes...”

“Vansir,” Darlissa corrected. “If you want them to respect you, you should call them by the name they prefer. ‘Barbarian’ is seen as an insult.”

I nodded my understanding. “‘Vansir’ it is, then. One of the vansir tribes is called the Hawk tribe, and they’re the ones who want to kill me.”

“A popular activity in Ashbury,” grinned Rendal.

I grimaced. “What’s the name of Hlafweard’s tribe?”

“Badger,” said Dar.

“Badger?” I laughed. “What kind of tribal name is that? Ooh, I’m so scared! Save me, save me, it’s the Badger tribe!”

Ren held his hand over his mouth and pretended to be scratching at his beard in order to hide his grin as Dar shushed me. “Not so loud!” she warned. “They’re right behind us. Besides, have you ever fought a badger? They are vicious little things.”

“Still … badger!” I shook my head. “All right, so we have the mighty Hawk tribe and the vicious little Badger tribe. Who’s the third? Goat? Anteater?”

Ren shrugged with a smile while Dar sighed. “I don’t know,” she said.

“Fine, we’ll ask later. I guess the names really don’t matter.” I returned to summarizing what we knew. “Now, at one time they were all one tribe, and they had three different prophecies and split up because of that, right?”

They both nodded.

“The Badger prophecy is that you will reunite the three tribes,” Ren offered.

“And we have no idea what the other two prophecies are, do we?”

Dar shook her head, which made her hair fly fetchingly around her face. “Even Hlafweard doesn’t know.”

“That’s one of the first things we need to find out then,” Ren said. “Especially the Hawk prophecy—the one that makes them want to…”

“…kill me,” I said. “Thanks for the reminder.”

“You really need to start your weapons training soon,” Ren admonished.

I sighed. Glancing down at the puny dagger strapped to my belt, I felt no desire to become a great fighter. I wanted to learn magic and be a wizard.

“So now we have Duke Aramis’ order to travel to the Vansir Reclaim and try to bring peace to the people,” I said. “Baron Frost, on the other hand, wants them off the land so he can get the treasure.”

My fellow squires nodded their agreement.

I glanced around. “I should tell Duke Aramis what I heard last night.”

“Yes,” said Dar. “As much as I think you may have misunderstood or misheard the conversation, His Grace needs to investigate this.”

Pleased that she liked my suggestion, I considered how best to approach the Duke with this news. Would he think me out of line for suggesting that his new baron seemed to be undermining his goal of bringing the barbarian tribes together? Would he be angry at me for eavesdropping? Would he say that as Baron, Frost had the right to decide these things?

A scream interrupted my thoughts. I looked up, confused. An arrow flew overhead and struck a soldier several yards to our right. Cursing with pain, he pulled the shaft from his shoulder and yelled out a Healing spell.

Ren jumped up and, drawing his swords, ran toward the growing sound of battle. Dar sprinted at his side. The sounds of horses galloping toward our encampment echoed around me. I scrambled toward a wagon for cover.

From my hiding place behind the wagon, I peeked out toward the sound—a large group of vansir approached, some bearing crude lances adorned with flags featuring flying hawks. Many were on horseback, which gave them a distinct advantage as our horses had been taken aside and tethered for the night. Some of His Grace’s knights raced toward their mounts while the rest dove into the fray.

The vansir made good use of their favorite Disarming spell, and our soldiers often found themselves weaponless at a critical point. Shields clang from the onslaught. Wizards on our side responded in kind but had a disadvantage given the number of attackers.

Battles are chaotic, no matter how heroic and organized the stories try to make them seem. This was not an organized war where both sides meet on the field of battle, with flags and insignia clearly identifying the participants and with rules of engagement to be followed. This was loud, fast, and confusing. Screams erupted from all around, spells and arrows flew overhead, and distinguishing friend from enemy proved a tricky task.

A nudge at my side made me jump. The servants of His Grace cowered beside me. They stared at me, wide-eyed with fear.

I clenched my teeth, embarrassed. No longer was I Terin the Bard. I was now Terin the Squire. To these people, I was the hero of the Arch Battle. Songs had been written about my adventure. And here I hid, cowering like a lowly cook.

Embarrassment spurred me into action. Springing from behind the wagon, I dashed forward. Reaching to my belt, I pulled out my meager dagger. I had absolutely no plan at all and frantically searched the crowd for a sign of Darlissa or Rendal.

I halted abruptly in confusion when I found vansir fighting vansir, until I realized that the Badger tribe had engaged the Hawks. Uncertain who was who, I steered clear.

To my left, a large vansir with a mighty black beard grinned wildly as he charged a young soldier. His Bishortu medallion bobbed around his neck as he sliced at her. The soldier blocked the blow but lacked the skill to take advantage of the situation. Despite a fierce expression, fear showed in her eyes. Hastily voicing the incantation, I aimed a Disarming spell at the attacker. He gawked in surprise as his weapon slipped from his hand as if coated in butter. His eyes passed by me quickly, then looked back in shock. He had recognized Bishortu. His shock was short-lived, however, as the young soldier took advantage of this lapse to slice through his chest. Without a second thought, she turned to face another attacker.

I dashed on, searching for Ren and Dar. The Hawk tribe had lived peacefully in the Reclaim for years. Why did they want to attack the Duke’s forces now?

I tripped over a stump and sank to the ground as realization hit. They weren’t here to kill the Duke.

They were here to kill me.