Chapter Three. Friends

              Days wore on into weeks and the chill dampness of April faded into the agreeable warmth of May. Signs that the world was coming to life sprang pale green from the budding trees and young grass, and in the birdsong that mingled with the morning mist. The very air itself came alive with insects, and in the fields and meadows all manner of beast, large and small, shook off the heavy mantle of winter under a warming sun.

         It was this same enchantment of springtime that brought the world to life again that now burned inside young Brenan. But his days of turning sod and mending winter-worn fences kept him so busy that time eluded him, and he scarcely acknowledged his own restlessness. There was planting, repairs to the house and barn, sheep errant from the flock; all these tasks occupied every waking hour. At times, there seemed no end to them.

         He would make the hard work pay. This year would be different for the first time since Brenan’s father died. He and his family were breaking new ground, and planting a cash crop to sell or trade at market. There was a pleasing demand for their wool, mutton and lamb. It brought the Draszmans welcome money that they spent on the extra seed needed for a new plot of oats, rye and barley. Day upon day Brenan and his family tilled and sowed, and toiled from sunrise to sunset to get the extra work done. And always Thar was at their side.

         Brenan's trust of Thar moved slowly at first. He was wary of the stranger, and Gareth’s cautionary words often crept to his mind. When ths subject of the weapon was raised Thar said little, except that the sword was his own and it had been passed to him from a benefactor. He explained that he had been traveling with a small party through Roaming Wood, heading for Shalendon, when they were ambushed by robbers. Overwhelmed by the numbers, he and his companions were separated, and Thar said he’d tried to flee but was hunted by the bandits. They’d shot him and left him for dead when he fell into the eerie swamp.

         At first Brenan was wary but the story was a plausible, and Thar had proven eager to win over the young man and his family. He leant his strength and body to the work of the farm as payment to Shalla and her children for their kindness. He showed them new ways of doing things and slowly Brenan came to realize that all of the work they had accomplished in those days would have been impossible without the extra pair of hands, and Thar’s knowledge of farming.

         It was not long before all the Draszmans grew to value Thar and welcome him as one of the family but Brenan became especially fond. They enjoyed each other’s company during the long, laborious days and in the quiet hours after sunset, Thar often told stories of adventure and found an eager audience in young Brenan. By times they would ride out into the plains together on short excursions, and Thar would offer Brenan riding tips. On rainy days, when work outdoors was impossible, Thar taught him sword handling inside the barn while the rest of the family watched to great amusement.

         Thar tutored him in more than merely the intricate feints, footwork and swordplay. He talked always to Brenan of the importance of honour and mercy, and about the need for inner strength and calm of mind. The weapon, he’d say, was the extension of the swordsman. It was harmless metal until taken up and wielded with strength and precision.

         “It is not enough to view the relationship between sword and swordsman as one of man and object. The weapon must become a part of the sword arm. The best fighters can reach out with their minds and know the limits of their blade in all situations. His physical and mental power he must channel into the blade, as if the blade were flesh and bone,” Thar would lecture, usually after giving Brenan a sound trouncing in mock dual. “Such is the skill that sets a true warrior apart from any man who merely carries a sword in combat. Anyone can blunder about, blindly slashing and swinging at all in his path until he drops from exhaustion or is cut down by a more skilled opponent. The mark of true skill is found in the swordsman who economizes his strength. He who uses a patient hand and a keen eye will vanquish his foe; the one who uses brute force alone will eventually meet his match.”

         “But surely even the most patient and observant fighter can be bested by a more experienced and skilled opponent,” reasoned Brenan, eager to find a flaw in Thar’s wisdom.

         “Only if he fails to learn from his opponent.”

         The concept had seemed simple enough but Brenan found putting it into practice far more challenging. Thar would blindfold him, and then ambush him. He made Brenan practice at night after a full day’s work in the field and with no lamplight. He pelted the boy with sticks and hard, green crabapples to distract him as Brenan worked through the routine. In the end Brenan began to understand. He could close his eyes and visualize the dimensions of the weapon in his hand, plot its trajectory and arc of its swing. In time Brenan's confidence and ability grew strong.

         With the passing days, Thar's wound healed and he grew stronger. Brenan knew that his friend and teacher would soon depart. And so it came to pass one mid-May evening. They had been sparring all afternoon far from the farmhouse. Brenan had sensed a change in Thar, a distance in his voice and eyes. When the sun began its descent in the west, they packed up their things and rode for home, and Thar was much quieter than usual.

         “You have learned much.” Thar spoke softly breaking the long silence of their ride. He did not turn and look at the youth but kept his eyes firmly ahead. “You should be proud,” he continued but Brenan did not answer. “I don't know how I'll ever be able to repay the kindness you and your family have afforded me.”

         Brenan knew where the speech was leading and it tugged at his heart. He had been expecting Thar’s departure for some time, and dreading it. He had grown so very fond of Thar. A younger, more childish part of him desperately wanted the man to stay, though he knew that Thar would not. Brenan had rehearsed his reply a thousand times so he could conceal his true emotions but before he could stop himself, he cried out.  “Please don't go, Thar!... Or take me with you!...” Brenan felt suddenly stupid and childish. His face grew hot with embarrassment when Thar reined his horse to a stop and he trained his eyes on the young man. A slow, sad smile spread onto his face and he reached across and grabbed Brenan by the arm.

          “I know that you would have me linger here with you,” he began slowly. “Indeed, my heart desires it, and my aging body would surely welcome the respite. Do you know Brenan in my whole life I have never owned my own home, never settled or raised a family...?” Thar’s voice was distant and sad. Suddenly Brenan understood. He pieced the fragments of Thar's life that he knew together, and it was the solitary and lonely life. A wanderer, a traveler, a hired sword who longed for a more simple and stable life. Brenan wanted to beg him to stay again but he knew the answer would be the same. He raised his eyes to find Thar staring past him, over his shoulder, squinting as if straining to see something far distant. Thar frowned, his face set with deep-lined concern.

         “Do you see that, lad?” he asked, pointing over Brenan's shoulder towards the horizon.

         Brenan turned hesitantly and scanned the far hills. “It’s smoke,” he replied, watching plumes of black and grey smoke billow from behind a line of distant hills several miles to the east.

         “Indeed. A lot of smoke,” Thar replied, as turned his horse in the direction and broke into a canter.

         Brenan followed quickly, calling after him, “How far do you think it is?”

         “Not far,” Thar called out, and absently his hand fell upon the hilt of his sword for reassurance. “Let's have a look, shall we.”

         It was not long before they came to the crest of the final hill that hid the source of the smoke from their sight. Both Thar and Brenan gaped in horror at what lay beyond. A large encampment of tents had been reduced to scattered, smoldering shells. Several still burned, engulfed in the roaring orange and yellow flames. Bodies were strewn across the trampled, blood-soaked ground. Everywhere the insignia of Shalendon was emblazoned on the surcoats of the fallen, on the torn and trampled banners that lay in the mud, and the burning tents. A full squad had been slain. Twenty-five of the King's best fighting men littered the blood soaked grass, cut down suddenly by some overwhelming force.

         “Gods preserve us...” gasped Brenan. Thar said nothing. His grey-green eyes surveyed the battle site, and his heavily lined face was filled with sorrow and dread. They remained atop the hill staring down at the horrific sight for a long time, until the sunlight began to fade to an orange spectre in the west.

         The silence passed between them was minutes but to Brenan it seemed hours. Finally, Thar sighed heavily, and whispered hoarsely, “Follow me.”

         They made their way down to the camp. At the bottom of the hill Brenan hopped off his horse. Thar had already dismounted and was hunched over studying deep tracks cut into the turf. Death was all around them. It’s stench hung in a thick and oppressive in the air above the battle scene. Brenan stared in horror at the grizzly remains of a blood-soaked body impaled by a great steel spear. The soldier was scarcely older than him, his eyes inert and face frozen forever in agony and fear. Brenan was suddenly overwhelmed. His stomach churned and bile rose to his throat as he scrambled a short way up the hill. Thar watched as Brenan wretched and vomited.

         “Steady lad,” Thar called out with mild concern.

         “I'm fine,” Brenan gasped, wiping his mouth on his sleeve and spitting, humiliated by his reaction. When he had recovered the two mounted their horses and returned to the hilltop. Once there, Thar paused and took in once last glimpse of the burning camp. The fires now burned low and the smoke plumes were buffeted and dispersed by the rising wind.

          “What happened here?” Brenan asked, breaking the silence and shaking Thar from his thoughts. “Was it bandits?”

         “No.” Thar responded with certainty, as if he knew what had befallen the fateful camp. “No rag tag band of brigands would have had the discipline or the fortitude to defeat a squad of Shalendon's best soldiers. Even with a two-to-one advantage no bandit would dare to attack the King's soldiers. No; I know what happened here... and I fear I am responsible.”

         The revelation stunned Brenan, as if by mere words he was thrown to the ground and left gasping for air. “Responsible? How? Why?” he blurted out in disbelief.

         Thar did not answer him. Instead the older man reined his horse about and rode away, leaving Brenan to scramble hurriedly after.

         “Thar, wait!”  Brenan shouted as he rode to catch up. “What do you mean you are responsible? Who did this? Thar! Tell me if you know!”

         Thar pulled his horse short to a stop, and turned angrily in his saddle, “Enough! I cannot say who did this!” Brenan recoiled from Thar’s sudden, angry rebuke. Instantly the older man regretted his action. He shook off his anger, and softened his demeanor. “I am sorry lad. I should not have yelled at you. The more I reveal to you the closer to peril I lead you and I will not do that. I am sorry.”

         Brenan sulked childishly. Though Brenan acknowledged that he knew very little about events in the wider world, he felt himself mature enough to understand them at least a little. He was humiliated again, and as they rode swiftly back to the farm, Brenan brooded.

         Thar was the first to break the long, uneasy silence between them. “I am a fool, Brenan.” he shouted suddenly, startling Brenan. “Events are in motion, and I have selfishly lingered here too long.”

         “But your wound...” Brenan began.

         “Wound be damned! I have been in worse condition.” Thar halted in mid sentence, sighed, and smiled sheepishly at Brenan, “Ah, but that was when I was much younger.” His words trailed off into the darkness. Neither of them spoke for several minutes.  “I will be leaving tonight Brenan. I have wasted precious time on this errand and it has cost dearly.”

         “Tell me how you are involved?” Brenan demanded.

         “I have told you...”

         “Yes, I know, I would not understand.” He turned sulkily away from Thar. It was not fair. He and Thar had become friends and he felt now as if Thar did not trust him. Brenan spun suddenly in his saddle, and shouted, “If you tell me then you will have to take me with you! Please, Thar, I beg of you...”

         “Brenan.”

         “Please Thar,” he pleaded in a desperate whisper. “You need me. You said yourself you are getting too old. I can help you.”

         Smiling sadly Thar shook his head, “Where I am headed Brenan, no one can help. It is far too dangerous, and  your dear mother would never forgive me.” Thar watched Brenan's face darken with displeasure. “Your place is here, Brenan, with your family. They need you more than I do. I am sorry.”

         Brenan held Thar in his angry gaze. Though no words passed between them in the exchange, Brenan felt his heart sink deeper at the thought of Thar's rejection. "Be gone then!" he shouted suddenly.

         "Brenan..." Thar stuttered, startled by the lad's sudden vehemence.

         "I want you gone this night!" With that, Brenan dug his heels into his horse and galloped off in the direction of the farm.

         "Wait Brenan... " Thar called after as Brenan and his horse disappeared over the hills and into the failing daylight. Thar cursed and spurred his own horse after the youth. There was no sign of Brenan as Thar rode into the farm yard. Only Shalla Draszman and a flock of chickens were about to greet him as he rode up.

         Thar dismounted. "Shalla, has Brenan returned?"

         "A few minutes ago." She studied Thar's face for some clue to the concern she heard in his voice. "I thought there might be something amiss. By the way he rode in here you'd have thought the furies were on his heels. What happened Thar?"

         Thar quickly relayed the story. "I think he feels as if I have betrayed him in some way. Perhaps the time we spent together, the sword lessons and such gave him the mistaken impression that I would ask him to join me when I left. I did not mean to raise his hopes Shalla, you must believe me."

         Shalla smiled and patted his arm gently, "I do believe you, Thar." She sighed heavily, "He is a restless one, that boy. Most of the time his mind is a million miles away, dreaming of some adventure, anything but his responsibilities here on the farm."

         "I was once like that," Thar chuckled.

         "We were all once like that. Still, he belongs here, at least for now. Do not feel bad Thar, even if you had asked him to join you I would  have forbidden it. His leaving will come soon enough. Right now I need him here, the whole family needs him here. If he is angry with you, pay no heed, he will soon understand.” She smiled kindly and patted his arm. “But enough of Brenan, you will be needing help if you plan to leave tonight."

         "Yes, I must get on the road as soon as possible," Thar nodded earnestly, urgently.

         "I will have the other two boys help you prepare."

         "Thank you, lady, I do not know how I will ever repay your kindness." Thar bowed.

         "You already have, Thar,” she smiled kindly. “I'll speak with Brenan. It would be a shame if you two parted this way."

         Thar returned the smile and led his horse into the barn. Shalla went into the farmhouse. Inside she pleaded with her oldest son to make amends with Thar but Brenan would not hear of it. She left him to brood by himself in his room, and went to see to some provisions for their departing guest.

         Later, after he had completed in his preparations, Thar sought out Brenan and found him alone in his room, lying on the bed, staring silently up at the ceiling. He ignored Thar when he entered. The older man pulled a chair to the bedside, sat back with arms folded and waited. Brenan did his best to ignore Thar’s presence until the silence between them became more than his curiosity could withstand.

         "If you're here to apologize..."

         "I am not." Thar replied quickly. Another silence followed

         "Well," Brenan said, finally turning to meet Thar's gaze, "if it is an apology you expect...?"

         Thar coughed out a laugh. "I do not." The older man held Brenan’s gaze, and he smiled congenially. "I need your help, Brenan."

         "You need my help?" Skeptically, Brenan rolled his eyes and turned away again. "What makes you think I will help you?"

         "Because we are friends, Brenan,” Thar sighed. “ I know you are disappointed, and I am sorry if I misled you. It was never my intent. Even if you were able to leave, my road is too dangerous to share. I could not lead a friend into that."

         "Then why are you here?"

         "Because I truly need your help, lad.” Thar’s voice was soft but full of urgency. “Direck says you know well the lands to the north, that you alone can find the old caravan track. I cannot travel by the Highway as it will be watched by my enemies. You must help me find the old road, Brenan. Please, I beg of you."

         Brenan considered Thar's plea. He knew Thar would not let him come but Brenan did not want to lose his friend all the same. More than anything he wanted to keep Thar out of danger. "I will lead you, Thar, and I am sorry if I have acted like a child."

         Thar rose from the chair. "And I am sorry for misleading you."

         "I'll need a few minutes to get ready. I'll meet you in the barn shortly."
Thar left Brenan to his preparations and hurried to the barn. He had preparations of his own left which were better attended to alone.

* * *

         Gareth reined his horse to a stop and uncapped the waterskin that hung at his side and took a long draught to wash the dust from his mouth. He had left Horsham Dwells as soon as he learned of the attack on the Shalendon patrol near the Draszman farm. The three surviving soldiers caused quite a stir when they burst into his busy tavern earlier that afternoon. All three babbled witlessly about the terrible encounter with the evil adversaries, how the whole patrol had been lost, and how they barely escaped with their lives. The town militia was mobilized and messengers sent to Shalendon with the news.

         It was the description of the attackers by the Shalendon soldiers that caught Gareth's attention, and compelled him to leave his alehouse in the hands of his staff so he could ride out to the Draszman farm. Gareth cursed himself for his foolishness and poor memory, and he vowed never to forgive himself if anything happened to Shalla Draszman and her children. He corked his waterskin and spurred his horse on again, riding as fast as the poor creature would allow.

* * *

         The horizon had long bid adieu to the setting sun. Only a wash of pale vermillion now played upon the rim of the distant western hills as Brenan hurried towards the barn with the small pack of provisions Shalla had packed for Thar. She had also given him one of family’s four horses. Thar had protested but he knew that the gift would speed him on his way. He promised to return with full payment but Shalla adamantly refused. The horse, she said, was his payment for the work he had done during his convalescence. Shalla’s decision angered Brenan. He knew the family could not afford to give away a horse, especially at the beginning of the planting season but he also knew that his mother would not hear his protests.

         Brenan approached the open barn door and paused before entering. His senses prickled. An unnerving silence greeted him when he knew the livestock should be restless before feeding time. He slipped through the door quietly and let his eyes adjust to the dim-lantern light as the faint sound touched his ears. It was low and deep; more of a vibration than a sound; a throbbing noise the likes of which Brenan had never heard from any natural thing.

         His heart was thudding loudly in his chest keeping time with the strange noise. As he turned down the corridor towards the horse stalls he was stopped in his tracks by a strange sight. From the stall at the far end of the hall came a bright blue glow. The mystical light shot rays through the rough-hewn wooden slats of the horse pen, cutting through the darkness. It was from there that the eerie sound issued.

         Choking back his growing anxiety, Brenan inched closer until he found himself pressed against the adjacent stall. Brenan peeked into the stall directly across from him where his own horse, Banda, was stabled. The sleek roan was usually eager to greet Brenan but the horse remained still and silent, asleep it seemed, or enchanted by the strange light and sound. Holding his breath, Brenan turned and peered into the last stable.

         It was a moment before his eyes adjusted to the brightness. The misty blue light filled his vision. Though it resembled the colour of moon-glow it illuminated like stark white light such as Brenan had never before seen except in the instant of a lightning strike. As his eyes grew accustomed to the brilliance, Brenan imagined that he saw shapes moving in the light, tall, broad-shouldered men shifting and dissolving like wisps of steam off the river in winter. At the focal point of the light was the shadowy outline of a figure he recognized.

         Thar!

         Thar knelt in the straw, sword clasped with both hands around the broad blade near the hilt, the tip pointing to the ground. The huge crystal set in the sword’s hilt gave off the radiant light. He looked as if he were mumbling words but Brenan could not hear what he said over the throbbing sound that filled the air. As he shifted to get a better look, he leaned against a weakened slat that splintered apart loudly under his weight. All at once the light and sound stopped, and Thar appeared suddenly standing over Brenan who was struggling to regain his feet. Thar frowned and extended a helping hand to the youth.

         “How long have you been skulking here, spying on me?” Thar demanded gruffly.

         Brenan’s eyes narrowed, “Long enough to see you using your... sorcery.”

         Thar snatched the small pack from Brenan’s hand, sighed and turned away. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

         “I know what I saw!” Brenan barked. “How dare you bring your evil trickery into my family’s home...”

         Thar spun menacingly on his heels. “There is no evil here, Brenan, I assure you. At least, not yet.” He turned away, and knelt to stow the bag of provisions in a saddlebag.

         “Not yet...?”

         “No; not yet but every minute I linger brings the evil closer,” he said, annoyed by Brenan’s tone. “And I am not evil, either, boy. I thought that you’d at least have figured that out by now.”

         Brenan knew in his heart what Thar said was true. “I know,” he mumbled apologetically, “and I’m sorry.”

         The older man grumbled, but his frown had broken into a half-smirk, “Yes, well, I suppose I should have been more careful.” As he mounted the waiting horse, he said, “come on then, it is time to ride. I’ll try to explain a little more as we go along.”

         Soon the two were well on their way, riding quickly through the moonless, silent landscape. A warm, moist wind had risen from the south. The sky was heavily overcast and it offered Brenan no stars for guidance. They were forced to slow their pace as Brenan found himself concentrating with every step to ensure that they were headed in the right direction. Thar was no help. He badgered Brenan, urging hast and distracting him. Several times Brenan had to stop, dismount, and survey the surroundings carefully while Thar paced his horse impatiently. They were many hours and miles from the Draszman farm before Brenan found the path that led to the old caravan road. The news caused Thar to relax and slacken their pace.

         Thar broke the silence with a heavy sigh, “You are wondering much about me, Brenan.” The older man did not look at him but kept his eyes firmly planted on the darkness ahead. “I know you are familiar with stories of the wars of old, we have spoken of them often.

         Brenan nodded eagerly, “Yes, my father...”

         “Of course,” Thar cut in abruptly. “During the last war, the most terrible by all accounts, there was unleashed a horrible evil, the likes of which this world has scarcely known except in the fabled days of the Dawn-time. When this last war was over the evil was banished - for what was hoped would be eternity. I cannot explain how but that same evil has returned.”

         Brenan puzzled over Thar’s words, “Just how do you and that sword of yours fit into this?”

         Thar laughed. “Curious lad.” He turned and faced Brenan, “Like your father, I too fought in the war but not as an ordinary man-at-arms. I am a member of an ancient brotherhood sworn to protect all that is true and pure. We are the Guardians of the White Guild. I am in the service of the White Guild Master, Remyk, and do his bidding abroad in the realms of men. It was my master, Remyk, and his fellow Guild members who banished the evil Black Guild and their dark servants. The White Guild put an end to the ancient evil of the Dark Ones and laid them to eternal rest after the last war.”

         Brenan listened eagerly. “But...” he prompted.

         “But the Dark Ones have escaped, and I have again been called upon to fulfill my duty to the White Guild Master,” Thar paused. “There will be war again throughout the lands before my task is complete. This is inevitable.”

         Brenan watched Thar carefully. Though the older man spoke easily of the dreaded  events, Brenan felt a certain heaviness in his words.  “Go on.”

         Thar chuckled. “You are inquisitive, so no doubt you have already learned of the treachery of the Northerns against the alliance of the Southern realm. Until recently there was no formal declaration of war but I expect that has all changed.”

         “Travelers and merchants passing through Horsham Dwell talked of border skirmishes,” Brenan reported.  “But you see, the Khelendhar is so far away from civilization that...”

         “In that you are wrong, lad.” Thar chuckled softly and leaned towards Brenan as he spoke. “I believe that the farms of the Khelendhar may be the only bastion of civility left in this world. Consider yourself lucky, my boy.”

         Thar winked but his tone returned to its usual steady, seriousness and he continued. “Well, no matter, for there is no place far enough to escape the coming storm, Brenan. The Shadow Knights have ventured this far south and have already begun their reign of terror on the land. I knew that there were perhaps one or two here in the southern realms but I figured that their mission was only to spy and hunt me down. It was the Shadow Knights who wounded me. It was Shadow Knights  who destroyed the Shalendon soldiers near your farm. Such open aggression means the Dark Ones no longer hide. The Northerns have been seduced by their black powers and it is this that will make a war among men.”

         Thar pulled a flask from his saddlebag, took a long swallow of the sweet wine Shalla had given him, and then handed it to Brenan.

         “What are the Shadow Knights?” Brenan asked, handing back the bottle.

         “Shadow Knights are the remains of warriors who have died in the pursuit of evil deeds. They  have been resurrected by the evil magic of the Black Guild. They are powerful, merciless foes but little more than puppets controlled by the Dark Ones.”

         Silence fell between them once again as Brenan considered all he had heard. The night was black and forbidding and both found their spirits waning in the face of the oppressive darkness, and Thar’s portent of impending war.  Brenan glanced periodically at the sky hoping for a break in the cloud cover but soon gave up his vigil: There would be no stars this night.

         After a protracted silence, Thar spoke again, “I shall not last the night, Brenan.” His words clove the silence like a thunder-clap.

         Brenan reined his horse to a full stop and gaped at Thar dumbfounded. “What are you saying?” Confused and upset, he struggled to keep his tears in check. “Your wound has healed...”

         Thar smiled sadly and shook his head. “It is not old wounds that will take me.” Thar unstrapped his sword from where hung on the saddle and held it out as an offering to Brenan. “I want you to take this from me. I dare keep it no longer, and besides, you will have need of it in coming days. Go on, take it.”

         Brenan recoiled from the weapon as if it had become a thing of revulsion to him. “No, I  will not!”

         “You must!” Thar shouted with sudden anger, and he rose up in his stirrups menacingly. He thrust the hilt of the weapon at Brenan again.

         “Are you mad?” Brenan demanded as he pushed the weapon back towards him. “You are well healed, and the lands around here are quite safe. How can you say you will die before morning?” Brenan felt tears welling in his eyes. No, I mustn’t, he castigated himself, I’m not a mewling child anyone.

         “I have no time for this, lad,” Thar smiled sadly again and though his voice had softened, it had lost none of its seriousness. “It grieves me to do this without more explanation but I there is no time. I have left things too late. You must go now. Take the sword and go.”

         “But...” Brenan was silenced by Thar who pushed the sword toward him once again. This time the youth accepted it reluctantly. But instead for gripping the handle, Brenan cradled the bulky weapon in his arms.

         “Listen to me! I will fall to the Shadow Knights tonight. Even now they hunt me. That is why you must leave with the sword. It was foolish of me to allow you to come even this far. Return home to your family. I have left a letter in the hollow of the old elm near your house. Go now, and in a few days when the danger has passed, seek out this letter. I cannot say anymore now but the letter will help to explain much of this. Please Brenan, do this for me.”

         “This is ridiculous!” the youth protested angrily, hot tears cut the dust on his cheeks..

         Thar lashed out angrily again, “You do not understand the danger you are in, boy!” Thar’s temper flared but when he saw the fear and sadness in his young counterpart his anger subsided with a quiet sigh. “Go now - just go and leave me to my fate. There is nothing you or I can do against the will of destiny.”

         Hot tears of frustration and dismay burned through the layers of trail dust on Brenan’s cheeks. There was no more to be said. Securing the sword belt to his saddle, he turned his horse and rode a few feet before he stopped. Without looking back at Thar, Brenan asked, “Will I ever see you again?”

         Only the sighing breeze intervened in the long pause before Thar’s answer. “No, you will not,” his voice gentle once again. “Take care lad, and may Fortune always be your mistress.”

         The terrible finality of Thar’s words stung Brenan and he choked back anguish thick in his throat.  He spurred his horse and rode as fast as it would carry him. Brenan’s tears fell faster now. He wished not to leave his friend in this way but he knew further argument would be wasted on Thar. Brenan hastened on his way and though he fought desperately against the desire to turn around, he did not look back even once.

         Thar remained motionless watching after him until Brenan was swallowed up by the night. He sat for a long time listening until the hoof beats of Brenan’s horse faded into the silence of the night. Slowly, he turned his own horse around to face the darkness that lay ahead.  For a lightening instant he felt a stab of dread in his heart but soon took hold of his fear and forced it from his mind. For the first time in many long years Thar felt at peace with himself even though he knew death would come soon. He suddenly felt freed of a great burden and he rode forward welcoming, inviting death.