Eyes of Mist

The scream resounded throughout the camp. It lingered within patches of fog, slowly fading to a choked cough. Jorcan gave a start. He'd heard enough death screams to know one. The only question was if it belonged to one of his own or a captive Falamar who carelessly ventured too close to the Shakaree war camp.

Jorcan thought both alternatives to be highly annoying. Their own number was small enough without being decimated by any brawls. Any Falamar stupid enough to come should have been interrogated before his execution.

The young Shakaree prince angrily wandered through the camp where most of his men were sitting alone or training in small groups. He soon reached the scream's origin. A Shakaree fighter was lying in a fast spreading pool of his own blood. Next to him stood another soldier, the bloodstained dagger still in his hand. He showed some cuts and bruises as well, hinting that his victim hadn't died without a fight. Jorcan pushed some of the watching warriors aside and grabbed the offender's shoulder.

Expecting this to be the next challenger, the man spun on him. Recognizing the designs of Jorcan's cowl and his burning dagger amulet around his neck, he halted. The mask covering the fighter's face left only his eyes, but his slumping shoulders showed his fear clearly enough.

Jorcan's features were also hidden behind a mask, as was usual among Shakaree, and his eyes narrowed angrily. On instinct the warrior acquired a defensive stance, yet the prince barely raised his hand, slapping him hard across the face. The man staggered back, managing to hold his balance. He returned the icy gaze of Jorcan's cold gray eyes.

"Your name," Jorcan hissed at him.

"Sooral. Third fighter of the Shadows."

"I can see your rank," Jorcan growled, glancing at the designs of Sooral's amulet and the cut of his cowl. "Do you take me for a blind fool? Only answer to what I ask of you!"

The man lowered his gaze to not further enrage the young prince. "Yes, my lord."

Jorcan glanced at the corpse. "Why?"

"He stole my ration."

"Why didn't you report that?"

"Report? Who would still respect me if I acted that cowardly?"

Jorcan let his eyes rest on the older man for a long time. Then his gaze wandered back to the body behind him that no one seemed to care for and finally settled on the bystanders who looked at him expectantly. "Then tell me one more thing, Sooral. Why are my subordinates that foolish?"

"How dare you say this?" Sooral snapped in an arrogant tone, regaining some courage due to his lack of punishment.

Jorcan's only answer was a stinging slap. But when he prepared for the next punch, Sooral easily stepped aside and attempted to score a hit himself. Jorcan dived under the fist. Grabbing Sooral's shoulders, he rammed his knee into the man's belly. When his adversary doubled over and desperately gasped for breath, a heavy blow at the back of his neck sent him tumbling down. Immediately, Jorcan pulled him around roughly and punched again and again, not realizing when his victim stopped struggling or when his own hands began to take on a crimson color.

How could they be such fools? It was war and more and more children were born dead or died in the first weeks of their lives. The Falamar fought more desperately and brutally the further the Shakaree entered their domain, yet they still diminished their own ranks because of their stupid pride.

Suddenly Jorcan realized he was about to do the same. He paused and stopped breathing for a second. Then his bloodstained hand reached out for Sooral's neck. When he felt his pulse and realized a second later that the man's chest still heaved, he stood up stiffly. The bystanders stared at him with a strange mixture of fear, horror, and relief they weren't in Sooral's place.

"Take care of him. I don't want to lose two soldiers on a day without battle," he hissed softly.

"My lord?" the voice didn't come from the men around him, but rather from a boy who slipped past his presence without him noticing.

"What is it?" Jorcan managed to suppress the anger in his voice enough for just a little tremble to show through.

The boy sank to one knee. "Your father demands to see you, my lord."

Jorcan inhaled slowly, then he gave a short nod towards the boy who raised and disappeared into the fog drifting through the camp.

"My father," Jorcan repeated softly.

Without looking back, Jorcan traveled to the camp's center. He detoured through the area where the women spent their time amidst their equipment, weapons, and other belongings, since a watercourse with deceptively shallow, looking black swamp water blocked his way. They simply hadn't found a dry place big enough to hold all the camp. The female warriors were usually separated more or less strictly from the males during any campaigns to keep the usually arising hostilities and rivalries at a minimum without losing a valuable fighting force. They barely took note of him, something Jorcan was almost grateful for, having his mind set on other affairs. When the time came, he would willingly return to Sarkon castle and start a family as was expected of him. Offspring were always needed to keep their small number from sinking. But for the time being, other duties waited the young prince.

In the camp's center, a scanty tent had been built that still offered more comfort than the common soldier's quarters. Jorcan pushed aside one of the heavy drapes blocking the entrance and stepped into the dimly lit interior. In here it was hardly more inviting than it had seemed from outside. Most of the space was occupied by a simple table holding numerable maps of the battlefield. Next to them were sketchy drawings of the land's interior made according to the information taken from unfortunate Falamar captives. Behind that was his father's bed, which occasionally served as a seat.

A movement at his left made him inwardly jump. "Why so tense? Relax," came a low voice next to him. In spite of the words, Jorcan could hardly suppress a shudder when he heard this toneless voice. He turned towards the only being he still feared. Narcal, king of the Shakaree, eyed his son coldly. Jorcan raised his head to meet his gaze. His father was still taller than him, though he was unusually lean and wiry, even for a Shakaree.

Jorcan could see the dagger that Narcal wore as an amulet as he passed. Rather, it wasn't a dagger, but a pointy horn that glowed with an inner fire cool to the touch. The young prince didn't know what kind of artifact it could be. He only knew that his father always kept his eyes on it, that it was incredibly powerful, and that it was the origin of his family's name and sign. Unconsciously he reached for his own amulet with the image of the burning dagger, and it seemed to hearten him.

Narcal sat down across from Jorcan, piercing him with the gaze of his dark blue eyes, eyes that would have appeared inviting and warm on someone else but shone with a remarkable coldness and ruthlessness on the lord of the Shakaree. "You have blood on your hands."

"It isn't my own."

Narcal smiled at this answer, and though Jorcan couldn't see the movement due to the mask, he still felt this was the right answer to satisfy his father. He made a step towards the table and glanced at the map lying on top.

Jorcan lifted an eyebrow and looked at his father, his confusion obvious. "The mountains?"

"Right."

"But why should we go to the west of Falamar? Our last strikes along the great river were quite successful. Shouldn't we send our forces to capture the fortified bridges?"

Narcal glared at him. "You are a good strategist, and luckily you are not quite as stupid as some of the fools who have served me as commanders. But still, you do not understand what it means to be in war."

"Then tell me, Father. Of what use is it to lead our troops into difficult grounds where the Falamar are merely sending their women and children? It is of no strategic value."

He shrank back when his father rammed his battle dagger into the table with sudden fury. "Fear!" he heard Narcal growl. "That's why, boy! We fight not only with weapons made of metal but also with those that are far more dreadful and hurtful. You realized correctly, these villages have no strategic value for us. But tell me, my son, doesn't this make it all the more tempting? No one expects an attack there. The villages are virtually helpless, and our raid would be even more devastating. And when we hit them there, taking their wives and children from them, the ones they love, will they not fear us even more?" A gleam flashed in Narcal's eyes, taking Jorcan's breath. "Always remember, a fearful warrior is a dead warrior."

Jorcan returned his father's gaze. "They will hate us even more if we do this. If we strike them like this, they would rather go to their deaths than fall back from us."

"Blind hatred makes a warrior weak and easy prey for us." Narcal stood directly in front of his son, forcing him to look up to him. "And it has already been decided."

"What?!"

"The troops departed some days ago. You will follow them with a small escort, join them when the first strike begins, and coordinate the rest of the campaign."

A mocking spark appeared in Narcal's eyes. "You've always been like that. You fear to leave the routines you're used to. Very well, I made the first step for you. Now you can do what you do best."

Jorcan bit his lip until he tasted blood. Without a word, he started to leave the tent. His father's hand grabbed his shoulder like cold iron. "You'd better appreciate the pains I'm taking with you. If you weren't my son, you'd have never reached this position and would never be able to keep it. I expect this strike to be a complete success. I won't accept anything less."

Dusk had fallen over the swamp, but the coldness Jorcan felt didn't come from any force of nature. In his heart he felt such an emptiness that he barely noticed how he continued to walk, instinctively finding the right way over the deceptively solid looking ground.

If he didn't deliver any results, his father would no longer accept him as his son; he knew that much to be true. Jorcan held no illusions about the consequences; the Shakaree had no use for those who failed after all. But was he really that surprised about what had happened in the tent? Hadn't it always been like that? Was his situation truly grave at all? He'd proven his worth in past battles, at Narcal's side and all alone.

He didn't care about the Falamar. After all, he'd seen, they were far too weak to keep what they believed to be theirs. They were nothing but vermin that stood in the way of their grandiose plans.

When he fastened his pack some hours later and ordered his two men escort to set out, the prince of the Shakaree smiled behind his mask.

"Come on, girl!" Jara scolded impatiently. "The way you're holding the knife it's no wonder if you don't finish this before tomorrow morning."

Ayala sighed. "I'm only trying to keep all my fingers. Besides, these roots are tougher than anything I've ever seen in my whole life."

The older Falamar smiled slyly. "You aren't trying to tell me you've seen that much, are you? When you arrived here, you could hardly tell a carrot and a potato apart."

Ayala grinned back. "Well, both are growing in the ground, aren't they? So what's the difference? Besides, this knife isn't sharp enough. It... OWW!" She raised her hand to her mouth and put the battered thumb into it. She looked at Jara with eyes that begged for sympathy, but when she saw her teacher's face shining with a cheerfulness she had never seen before, she couldn't keep up the pained expression on her face. With her thumb still in her mouth, she started giggling and soon joined in with Jara's peals of laughter.

"Girl," the old Falamar laughed, "you should have seen your face when you cut yourself."

Ayala tried to manage a halfway believable pout. "It's so great that you enjoy I'm in pain."

"Oh girl, now that you're here, I only realize how quiet it has become here over the past years. There are still soldiers' families that arrive once in a while, but most of them go farther south. Those who stay have enough work to do with building a new home. No one ever visits old Jara."

"You aren't that old. When someone hears you, he could get the impression you were my older sister."

Jara's dark brown eyes cast a subtle glance her way. "If you're not careful with your flattering, you might end up with no one believing you anymore."

Grinning, Ayala leaned back and continued her work, trying to free the roots Jara had given her from their protective bark without hurting herself. She'd settled into her new home quite well in the course of the last weeks and had finally lost her timidity of Jara. She still thought wistfully of her family and friends from time to time. Yet, when spring passed and the summer's sun found its way into the village, Ayala's spirits rose. Even when the weather turned worse, her mood stayed cheerful. She was a quick learner, and now that she knew how to get along with Jara, she had become quite friendly with the old woman.

Outside the sun had settled, though the storm still howled outside the windows and rain hammered on the worn out roof. Ayala gazed thoughtfully into the warming fire in the hearth and stripped the root from the last bit of bark.

"Are you coming with me to see old Sira tomorrow?" Jara interrupted her thoughts.

"The salve is for her?"

Jara nodded. "You know how picky she is. So make sure to let no pieces of bark end up in the pot."

"But why didn't you tell me earlier on? For old Sira's salve we need maranfas. And if I'm not struck with blindness, we haven't got a single leaf anymore."

Jara looked at her with her eyes wide and ran a hand over her white hair in a gesture of annoyance. "If you knew we had none, why didn't you go to get some earlier?"

"I only saw it yesterday evening."

"Why didn't you go this morning to get new ones?"

"But this morning you made me do--"

"Rubbish! I couldn't have known how careless you are about our provisions. Tomorrow morning you'll start out early and go gather new maranfas."

"But it's past their season. There are hardly any left to be found. Besides, it's been raining for days."

Jara gave her scathing look, ending Ayala's protests and their discussion.

With a resigned sigh, the young Falamar rose and cleared the table. "I'd better go to bed then."

Jara's features softened immediately. "Ayala, I know it's still hard for you to be so far away from home. And maybe sometimes I'm not easy to put up with, but you know how important this work is for the village, especially for the sick and the weak. I'm getting too old for running around in the mountains and gathering medical herbs. That's why I pass my knowledge to you. How could I go in peace if I didn't know someone would take care of everyone here? It's made me very happy that you came, and I want you to know how proud I am of your progress."

Ayala went over to the old woman and silently put a hand on her shoulder. She'd never heard Jara say anything of the sort before, but she felt the words had been sincere. "It's all right. Of course I'm going tomorrow. And if there are still any maranfas around to be found, I'll be sure to get them."

The morning was no less gloomy than the evening before, but at least the rain had lessened somewhat. Ayala left the house shortly before sunrise, huddled in a thick cloak. She hadn't seen Jara this morning, but she knew her teacher was aware of her whereabouts.

The patter of rain had shifted to a warm drizzle making the air uncomfortably sticky. It wrapped itself around Ayala, making her clothes cling to her while she made her way through the deserted, soggy streets. Before entering the small woodlands, which bordered on the little village, she gazed back again. A strange melancholy overcame her that she couldn't understand. From some of the small chimneys, she saw smoke rising into the gray dawn.

She pushed back her hood and let the rain run down her face. Forcing herself to smile, she turned to the wood and left the village.