Chapter Four: Journey

         Shalla secured her cloak tightly about her as she pushed against the force of the fierce driving wind that had risen suddenly. It took all of her strength to close and bolt the heavy shutters over the kitchen windows to protect them from the raging gale that threatened to buckle the fragile window panes.  As she turned headlong into the wind she fought to hold the scarf in place over her nose and mouth, and she cursed the dust and grit that obscured her sight and made it hard to breath. She struggled towards the farmhouse door, and safety, now that the final set of shutters were secure. 
         Once inside, Jerem slammed the door and dropped the bolt in place shutting out the storm. She stripped off the heavy cloak and scarf and wiped the dust from her face with a damp cloth supplied by her daughter.  Shalla studied herself in the mirror a moment and tried to fix her hair back into its usual tidy bun atop her head.  Frustrated, she pulled it free of the knot and let it fall about her shoulders.  Leshia, smiling at her mother’s obvious distress, silently offered a brush.  Shalla thanked her daughter, and commenced combing the tangles out of her hair.  Direck entered from the barn.
         “The barn is secure and all of the stock seen to,” he reported.  Leshia handed him a steaming mug of spiced wine as he slumped down at the long bench table. Outside the wind buffeted the tiny farm with vengeful howls, and the house shuddered and groaned with each renewed blast.
         Shalla joined him at the table, still combing the snarls from her hair. “Thank the gods for this sturdy house.”  She winced as the tines of the brush caught on a stubborn knot. “I just hope Thar and Brenan had the good sense to seek shelter in this.”

         “Brenan has seen worse.  I’m sure he’s safe,” Direck reassured her.
         “I just hope this wind isn’t blowing a twister in our direction.” As if punctuating her sentence, another gust shook the house. “Gods, I hate the unpredictable weather this time of year!” She gave up on her tangled hair, laid the brush aside and stole a drink from Direck’s cup.
         Jerem laughed, “You say that every year.”
         “I just hope the rain we had early this morning will be enough to keep the soil on the ground otherwise we’ll loose our crop and have to start over,” Direck sighed heavily, not looking forward to the prospect of replanting their fields.
         Shalla smiled and patted his arm, “We’ll be fine; this happens every ...” A faint sound of a horse’s whiney from their yard rose above the wind.  Shalla turned with a start.  Jerem jumped up and dashed towards the door that lead to the barn. “Make certain it’s Brenan before you open that door!” She called after him. 
         Direck and Shalla exchanged quick, knowing glances. Direck retrieved the sword that hung above the hearth, he hurried after Jerem.
         Shalla listened anxiously until familiar laughter from barn set her at ease. Moments later, Direck reappeared with Gareth in tow. The big barkeep unravelled cloth from around his face and head as he entered. Dust billowed from his thick riding cloak as he shrugged it from his shoulders and let it fall to the floor. Shalla jumped up from the table and greeted him warmly with a hug.
         “There’s my favorite lass,” growled Gareth as he met her embrace with bear hug and a broad smile.
         Still gripping his thick arms, Shalla pushed herself away from him and smiled, “If I’d thought to expect company on such a night I’d have prepared a proper meal. Leshia, be a dear and put a tray together for Gareth, he’s probably hungry.”  She gave Gareth another smile, that melted into a strange quizzical look. Reaching up she pulled a twig from his beard and held it up.  The two took to laughing before she pulled him to the long bench table and forced him to sit.
         “By the look of you,” Direck grinned, “the horse must have ridden you!”  The others laughed at joke.
         “I bloody near had to carry the poor beast the rest of the way when this gale blew up so suddenly,” remarked Gareth. Jerem entered from the barn and reported that the horse was stabled. Gareth searched the room, then Shalla’s face, his smile falling. “Shalla, where is Brenan?”
         She sighed, her eyes absently falling on the shuttered window, “He left hours ago. He’s taking Thar to the old caravan trails.” She frowned. “It was very strange. Thar departed suddenly earlier this evening. I think he and Brenan had an argument but neither was talking about it.  I hope they’re alright.”
         Gareth blanched on hearing the news, and rose abruptly from his seat motioning to Direck, “Let’s saddle up two horses, lad, we’re off to find that brother of yours.”
         Shalla grabbed his arm, “Gareth, what is it...?”
         Gareth looked pained.  He took Shalla’s hand and sat down beside her. “Lass, Brenan paid me a visit many weeks back to talk about this stranger - this Thar fellow.  I bade to be cautious. Oh, Shalla forgive me for not coming sooner but last night there were some shady characters asking about the tavern for this Thar fellow, said they were friends of his.  I said nothing of course but I really should have ridden out last night then none of this would’ve happened. That stranger is dangerous, Shalla, if the company he keeps is any indication.”
         Shalla sat back obviously stunned by the information. “I can scarcely believe it, Gareth,” she gasped, confused, “Thar was a tremendous help here... He and Brenan were friends.  Oh Gareth, do you think he would hurt Brenan?”
         Gareth offered her a grim smile, “I don’t know lass.”  He put his arm around Shalla in comfort.  He had an ill sense of things since young Brenan had come to him with the tale of the wounded stranger. With this new information, Gareth truly feared for safety of the young man while in Thar’s company. He held back his true feelings for the sake of Brenan’s family. Gareth was about to signal to Direck that they should leave to look for Brenan, when a strange sense came over him. He puzzled over it and searched the faces of the others in the room before he spoke. “Do any of you hear that?”
         The others looked up, poised as if straining to listen for something inaudible. “Hear what?” Jerem asked, once the suspense had gotten the better of his short attention.
         “The gale has stopped.,” replied Gareth smiling broadly, tension melting from his brow. As he and Direck turned toward the barn, a new sound broke the silence that now surrounded the farmhouse.  Horses; many horses drawing nearer to the Draszman farm.
         Shalla and her children fell silent. Gareth moved quickly to the window and peered through the gap between the shutters. He stood motionless for a moment, his eyes adjusting to the darkness beyond the window. From far across the fields four darkly cloaked figures on horse back, heavily armed and bearing strange green-fired torches, approached from the south. He pulled back from the window quickly, unable to hide his fear.

          “Shalla, quickly - the lights!  Extinguish the lights!” Gareth turned for the barn, drawing his broad sword as he went. “Everyone into the root cellar. Hurry!”  Direck stepped forward holding up his father’s sword.  “No Direck, you must protect the others if I fail, now hurry.”  The Draszmans disappeared one at a time into a trap door beneath the kitchen table.  Satisfied that they were safe, Gareth headed into the barn as the riders pulled their horses into the yard outside.

*  *  *

         The first pale rays of dawn had only begun to slip over the eastern horizon when Brenan stopped his horse to rest. He’d ridden hard through the night, stopping only for a few hours to wait out the bizarre wind storm that had risen suddenly. Though he had stopped and taken shelter from the sudden, violent windstorm, he’d not rested. Both he and his horse were exhausted.  Brenan found a sheltered spot, dismounted and fell to the cool, damp grass. He had little time to contemplate the night’s events before sleep overtook him.
         When he woke suddenly later, the full brightness of daylight beaming on his face from the sun’s ascension towards noon. Brenan rubbed his eyes trying to clear them of sleep and dust.  He whistled for Banda who was several yards away munching on new spring growth. His mother would be worried and angry, and Brenan fearer a strong rebuke even though she would be glad of his safe return.
         As he mounted his waiting horse, he wondered how he would explain Thar’s sword.  Brenan was still upset by Thar’s sudden parting. And what was he to do with the sword? He asked himself, when he remembered the promised note that awaited him. The note would surely explain it all. Thar had cautioned him to wait several weeks before seeking it out, Brenan knew he would be unable to resist his curiosity.

         Brenan closed his eyes and let his head fall back so the bright, hot sun could warm his face.  He leaned forward again, ready to ride for home when a sight on the horizon made his heart leap into his throat. A thick, greasy black pillar of smoke rose from the distance in the direction of the Draszman farm. With no hesitation, he urged his horse to a full gallop towards the rising smoke.
         His worst fears were confirmed as he rode towards the smoldering remains of the Draszman house and barn. Debris lay strewn about the yard along with dead livestock, horribly burned in their attempt to escape the fire. Most of the chickens had survived and they scattered from his path as he reined Banda to an abrupt halt amidst the chaos and destruction. Brenan jumped down and strode towards the collapsed shell of the house, shouting out the names of his family members one by one. None answered.
         He fell to his knees on the hard ground, sobbing, where he remained for a long while.  Suddenly alone and destitute, he screamed with rage and anguish into the silence of spring morning. How could this have happened?
         Emotionally exhausted, Brenan rose from the ground and wandered slowly to the smoking frame of the farmhouse. He felt as empty as the charred and smoldering shell of the house. Nothing mattered anymore. All he’d cherished in his life was gone, his family, his home; taken by the fire that had ravaged the farm. In that instant he wished his own death would come swiftly. Broken by sorrow, Brenan stood before the crumbled ruins. New tears came as he surveyed the devastation of what had once been a lively, thriving homestead - his lively, thriving homestead.

         From the corner of his eye the faintest flutter of movement caught Brenan’s attention. A body lay there,  half propped against the great elm tree. All around were the signs of a struggle.  Brenan bounded to the tree to find Gareth, back against the gnarled bark of trunk, trying to pull himself up. Brenan sank to his knees at the big man’s side. On closer inspection Gareth’s thick, studded leather jerkin had been rent apart in many places by the shafts of feathered arrows that protruded from his torso.
         “Brenan my lad.”  Gareth wheezed and opened his eyes. Dry blood was thickly caked around the corners of barkeep’s mouth and when the old barkeep coughed, his lungs gurgled. Full of blood. Brenan knew his friend would not have much longer. Gareth raised a bloodied hand and weakly grasped Brenan’s shoulder.
         “Gareth, what has happened here?” he asked softly, urgently, choking back more tears. “Where are the others, Gareth?”
         “They were too strong for me, boy. I couldn’t hold them. You would have been proud, mind you,” he coughed more blood, and smiled weakly. “I gave those hell-spawned creatures a thing or two to contend with!”  In his other hand, Gareth held the broken remains of his broadsword.
         Brenan cupped his hands around Gareth’s face. “Where are the others, Gareth?” There was silence. Brenan begged, “Gareth, please, what has become of my family?”
         Gareth’s glassy eyes fought to keep Brenan in focus.  A single tear spilled down his filthy, bruised cheek. “I don’t know, lad. I tried my best to save them but I don’t know.” He coughed again.  Suddenly he grabbed Brenan’s arm with all his remaining strength and pulled the boy close to his lips. “You must go to Shalendon, Brenan. Plead your case before the King.  Claim your right of vengeance.”  Gareth’s voice trailed off into a hiss.  He sat motionless, staring into empty space. Brenan grabbed his friend’s hand and watched in horror as Gareth’s chest heave and his body convulse before his final breath wheezed from his lungs.  He knelt down and pulled Gareth’s beefy hand to his cheek as the tears came again.
         Brenan remained by Gareth’s side crying until no more tears would come. His heart ached and it felt as if it would burst in his chest. The sun had long since passed its zenith when he finally rose to his feet, swaying unsteadily from the weight of his sorrow. He threw back his head and screamed at the sky in anguish. Hatred coursed through his body, extinguishing his exhaustion with pure rage. He tore at his hair and clothes, possessed by sorrow and anger, and driven to a frenzy. He bellowed again, sending the freed chickens scattering in fear.
         After a while, fatigue took him again. His shoulders sagged and he stood, arms limp at his sides, head lolling forward. The tears came again and he wept silently a long time, mourning Gareth and his lost family. It was only after his horse, Banda, approached and nuzzled his ear, did Brenan raise his head. Smiling sadly at his faithful horse, he ran his hand down the bridge of the horse’s soft snout. It would be getting dark soon and he knew he should bury his dead friend to protect his body from coyotes and carrion birds. As he turned towards the tree, he suddenly remembered Thar’s hidden note.
         His anger flared suddenly, sparked by remembrance of Thar, the man who had been so kind, and who had brought death and destruction upon his family and Gareth. Brenan circled the tree, located the hollow in the bole of the tree trunk. Searching inside, his fingers fell upon a small leather pouch. He removed it, untied the leather string, and let it fall open. A rolled parchment fell to the ground at his feet along with a handful of gold coins. Choking back an angry sob, Brenan sat down against the tree and took up the parchment. He broke the wax seal and read:
         Brenan my lad -
                   By now you will have discovered the evil that has befallen your family. I have foreseen this tragedy. Please forgive me but I am unable to reveal future events. The magic will not allow it.  I am sorry.  Please do not be angry with me, for you are now my only hope.  The fate of the world rests on your shoulders.
         Brenan felt the anger rising in him again. Thar had betrayed them all. He knew that his family would be harmed; he knew that Gareth would be slain. The letter continued:
                   You must go north to Shalendon. Seek out a man named Aljerome. He is a palace scribe, a learned man, and he is my friend.  He can help you to find your way to Necrodor, the Wizard’s Vale, and to my master, Remyk the Wise. Remyk will know what to do.
                   You may use the sword if you choose but know this: Once you draw the blade against any servant of the Black Guild, forever will it be bound to you. There can be no release from this oath until death takes you.                    
                   This is a matter of great import. Do not fail me.  Beware of the Shadow Knights, Brenan. They will set upon your trail very soon, and they will stop at nothing to ensure you do not reach Remyk.
                   I am deeply sorry for what you now must face alone with only your sorrow.  Forgive me, lad, and may the speed of the Wind Lord be on your heels.
         Thar.
         Brenan stayed seated against the tree for a long time, steeped in thought. His heart smoldered with anger at the revelations in  Thar’s letter. Thar had betrayed him and Brenan felt he owed nothing to the stranger who had brought him pain and death to those he loved. Filling again with rage, he was about to tear it into pieces when something inside him made him stop.
          ‘No,’ he thought, ‘what would be the use?’ His desperation and bitterness urged him to destroy this last reminder of Thar, and Brenan grew suddenly aware of his anger and hate. He did not like it one bit. The letter might yet serve some purpose. He resolved to keep the letter in tact, and to make for Shalendon. But he would swear no oath to carry out Thar’s last will. He would do as Gareth counselled. He would go before the King and demand his right of vengeance against the ones who took his family. No one could deny him.
         Suddenly a thought entered his mind. This Remyk of whom Thar spoke in the letter may yet be able to help Brenan exact his revenge. He could bargain for the sorcerer’s help with the coveted sword Thar had bestowed on him. For now, at least, there was nothing left for him here except painful remembrances of his lost loved ones, memories he could scarcely bear.  He would leave for Shalendon this very day.
         Before abandoning the sad ruin of the family farm, he attended to Gareth’s remains. He dug a shallow grave in which he laid the body of his friend, and the collected stones for the cairn. It was hot, hard and sad work but there was still daylight remaining by the time he laid the final stone upon the barrow mound. Brenan said a final, tearful good-bye to his lost friend and ruined home, before he mounted up and rode away from the place. 
         After several minutes, he stopped and looked back across the fields towards his home.  Only thin columns of smoke still drifted skyward from the charred skeleton of the house and barn. He lingered a moment, remembering happier times spent with his family. But as suddenly as they rose, they dissipated again and Brenan felt the familiar lump return to his throat and an aching in his heart. He turned from the scene, spurred his horse and resumed riding without looking back again.