The Lost Hero - Chapter 2

Juen watched the boy Ero stalk to the horses. For he was not much more than a boy, much younger than she envisioned the Champion of Athus to be. Ninan fumed silently next to her, scowling when this Ero led her horse close.

“Thank you, Champion,” Ninan said stiffly, closing his hand on the reins. “I will assist her majesty.”

Ero said nothing, merely turned and went to get his master’s mount.

It took a tedious half an hour to get the cavalcade moving. Her own Guard Captain had to be persuaded to leave without her, as if they had not made plans for this very contingency, among others. The soldiers had to be divvied between the two groups, her baggage fetched. Ninan fidgeted impatiently at every delay. He watched the sky, the horizon, eyes moving constantly.

Finally, they rode, she and Athus at the center of a ring of soldiers, Ninan and the Champion tense on either side. Under cover of Athus chatting merrily with his men, Ninan leaned in to protest once more.

“We agreed this would be our last resort,” he hissed. “How can you trust them?”

Juen followed his gaze to where the Champion sat erect in his saddle. He had slung his scabbard across his back. The end of it stuck out from behind his damaged shield.

“He holds the Sword of Tanyr,” she reminded Ninan.

He grunted. “Be that as it may, that does not make him trustworthy.”

So he had felt it, too? There was something in the boy’s face, some coldness she was surprised to find. No matter the legends, seeing the fabled weapon in the hands of one so young, yet so hard…

Juen chanced a look. Closing her eyes, she reached out. Sliding past the warmth of the others, the muted forms of the horses, she found the blade a cool slash in the heat of the day.

She brushed it, probing gently. A sharp flare and she was thrust back.

“Ero? What is it?”

Juen reeled in her saddle. Her horse had come to an abrupt halt, the riders around her shifting and muttering. She blinked, head aching sharply from the force of the rebuff.

The Champion sat tense, his hand gripping the hilt of the Sword. His soldiers followed suit. Arrows nocked with the creak of bowstrings.

“Jhert zen ta…” Ero cast a narrow look over the empty desert. Juen held herself still and small, grateful for the shadows of her hood as his dark eyes paused on her, then moved past to the desert. “Nahn fur, Athus. Nothing.”

But he still increased their speed until they were trotting briskly. He gave sharp hand signals, which his men responded to without speaking. They peeled off in pairs to scout ahead and behind, returning with quiet murmurs. The talk faded as the afternoon stretched. Her soldiers pressed closer, uneasiness rising from them like the heatwaves from the chalky earth.

Athus maintained his air of calm cheer, but she saw him watch his Champion. Warily, but without fear. With trust, she realized, as they put their heads together and conferred about some detail. The king looked to this youth for guidance.

The day wore down hot and dusty until the sun was setting behind the foothills before them. The tired horses slowed as the ground rose up to meet them, following a faint trail that widened into a smooth, well-worn path.

They followed this path as it curved into the hills, walls of rock and scrub rising beside them. The scraggly bushes became leafy trees. The air, instead of stifling, cooled and a whisper of sound reached them on a crisp breeze.

After the sour stink of the Watch, the scent of fresh water was intoxicating. The horses lifted their heads, their necks and flanks streaked with dust and sweat. Not that they could get to the rushing waters.

The Gap of Athus was a narrow bridge, hung from heavy ropes and built of solid hardwood planks. The canyon walls were sheer here, carved deep from ages of thundering water. They crossed in pairs, the bridge barely swaying as hooves clopped.

Athus and the boy waited until the last of them had crossed.

“All clear, Captain,” the final Athusan said, dipping his head respectfully to the youth half his age.

The Champion raised a hand. Juen squinted in the direction he looked, up into the hills. There was a faint glint of light, as if from a mirror or the lens of a telescope.

“Come on, lad, I’m starving!”

The Athusans chuckled as their Champion smiled briefly at their king.

“Lead the way, my lord.”

It was an easy ride from the Gap. The path wound through a dense, rocky forest, but the road had been carefully graded. Despite the long day, Juen felt revived breathing in the clean scent of pine.

They were sighted long before they saw the city, nestled down in a valley. A crowd had gathered in a plaza to welcome their king home. Their calls quickly fell to shocked silence as Juen was handed down from her mount.

Athus pretended nothing was amiss. “Firn, prepare a room for her majesty.”

An aged woman bowed, her hands tucked into her sleeves. “At once, my lord.”

Weary and glad to escape the whispers, Juen followed the crone up a sweeping outdoor stair and into a small house set beside a swift stream. Her meager baggage was quickly unpacked and set out to air.

Ninan prowled around the small rooms, a bedroom and a sitting room, opening every drawer, testing every beam and lock. Juen left him to it and stood at the open window. The thick shutters opened inward, revealing a view of the valley in twilight.

This was a guest house, she guessed, one of a cluster on the slope below the larger King’s House, snuggled against the bluff behind her. The stream fell from above in a narrow waterfall and wound past and down into the valley, where it joined a larger river from the south.

The buildings around her were all of timber and steeply pitched to shed winter snow. They connected with covered walkways and shallow stairs, forming one large complex.

The city itself followed the twists and turns of the valley floor, opening into the forest they had passed through. Fields spread away to the west. She knew the hills behind her held copper and iron, as well as precious gems.

This country was small, but mighty, both in spirit and goods. And Athus spoke the truth: they would fight until they were overrun, fierce and valiant to the last man.

Speaking of whom… The Champion, distinctive in his brilliant tunic, walked up the wide stairs leading from the plaza. Juen used the opportunity to study him without fear of drawing his attention.

“Make no mistake,” Ninan said next to her. “He would not hesitate an instant.”

Juen smiled without humor. “Then we must give him no reason to fear us.”

The woman Firn cleared her throat from the doorway. “Your majesty, a meal awaits.”

Up in the main house, Athus stood from his chair and saluted her. “Welcome and well met, Vabia. Please, sit.”

The man fussed over her as she settled in the proffered chair, lower and wider than the Vabian style. Juen perched on the edge, finding the dimensions of it awkward.

“I hope your rooms are satisfactory, my lady?”

“Lovely,” Juen assured him. And they were. A bit cramped, but every detail finely worked, almost cozy. Easy to heat during a harsh winter, she supposed.

The woman Firn and others served a small meal, just Athus, Juen, and the Champion or Captain, or whatever it was they called him. Firn passed him and reached to pat his cheek. A quick smile warmed his eyes for an instant.

They ate in subdued silence. Athus made small talk, but fatigue and wariness stilted the conversation. Ninan loomed protectively and the Champion responded by glowering all the more.

Juen was glad to retire to bed.

            The next morning dawned cool and misty. Juen lay in her bed and listened to the house workers go about their tasks. A chorus of bleats signaled the passing of a herd of sheep into their daily grazing grounds.

She sat up and leaned to open the shutter. Already the town below bustled. Much like her own city, shopkeepers hawked wares, carts ferried goods along cobbled streets. She could see farmers in the fields, soldiers in a training yard.

But over it all hung the Shadow. A reverse sunrise, a diminishing of light rather than a promising glow. It tainted the cheerful activity below, made it strained.

Breakfast was served in that same room. The atmosphere had eased. The Champion became slightly more human, sitting cross-legged at his king’s feet and eating the savory rice pudding and eggs Firn brought him with good appetite.

The Sword of Tanyr lay at his side, sheathed in its magnificent scabbard. Juen would have given much to have it in her hands for an hour. The power she felt yesterday was ancient and foreign. But she dared not attempt to touch it again, not in such close quarters. The boy would know it was her for certain. She did not want to die before breakfast.

After the meal, Athus led her on a tour of his tiny mountain city. Juen looked with real interest. No Vabian royalty had been allowed on Athusan soil in three generations. She was curious to see what rumors of this ‘savage’ nation were true.

The streets were clean and in good order. Goods from all over the subcontinent were being hawked in the markets. Soldiers mingled, standing guard and helping the citizenry with their work. The people appeared well fed and happy; they greeted their king with unaffected pleasure.

Somewhat surprising was the equally enthusiastic welcome the people gave the dour Champion.

  Dressed in a dull, sand colored tunic and breeches, he faded into the buildings around them. He ignored the salutations, which Juen thought unpardonably rude, until she saw Athus’ sly wink and the boy’s unmistakeable flush.

She looked again and noted many of the well-wishers were young women. They waved blue ribbons as the horses passed. The Champion kept his face forward, cheeks dark.

Athus spoke his native tongue with a heavy accent, but Juen thought he said, “You’ve been afield all winter. Give them some hope, son.”

To which the discomforted soldier replied, “Davin, dress your line.”

An officer Juen assumed to be Davin directed his men to tighten their perimeter. The man saw her watching and his grin vanished.

After duly admiring the city and its people, Juen was ready for a meal and more negotiations. She had done her best to hide her worries yesterday, the urgency of her plight. Kept her carefully cool facade which hid her terror. Ninan knew, and her most trusted advisors, but no one else, of the threat she received.

The afternoon wore away as Athus’ councilmen and -women went through the usual political posturing. It was oddly comforting to know bureaucracy plagued every ruler. Juen listened politely, wishing she could rest her cheeks from her bland, diplomatic smile.

As she expected, extensive lists were made, boundaries were debated, and nothing was decided. Bronze bells pealed and echoed off the bluffs. Athus neatly interrupted one of his advisors when the man paused to draw breath.

“We have made progress today,” he said. The advisor deflated and glared. Juen sniffed back a chuckle. Athus went on, “I propose we adjourn for the evening.”

The air outside was already cool, smarting her cheeks after the warmth in the council room. Athus came to her side and smiled ruefully.

“I don’t know about you, my lady, but I am ready for a meal after all that talk.”

“Indeed.”

“Then if you would follow me?”

Juen made suitable responses to Athus’ polite nothings. He led her down past the plaza to a wider area fenced off with wooden rails. An open air theater of some sort, she saw. This had been used as a market only this afternoon. Wilted greens and cast off produce was being swept aside with the straw. Wide wooden steps were being claimed for seating.

A bonfire took shape at one end. Sturdy children ferried wood to the crackling blaze.

“I thought we would have a little celebration,” Athus explained. “A feast to honor your visit, my lady.”

Inevitable, she supposed, but also instructive. A peoples’ amusements could tell much about them, likely more than their diplomats. The few Athusans she had met in her homeland had been quiet, wary, and watchful.

Would they wrestle clothed only in bear skins? Fight gladiatorial style, as many sensational plays claimed back in Vabia?

Given the giggling children waving tiny flags of colored cloth and the lack of naked men, she thought not. There was no sign of reticence here. The noise grew as the makeshift theater filled, the enticing scent of roasting meat wafting with the woodsmoke.

Ninan stood by her chair and watched as the preparations were completed amidst laughter and talk. Townspeople crammed onto the steps all around the plaza, some sitting on the pavers, others perched on the peaks of the buildings around them.

There were varying styles of tunic, different braids and sashes. Social classes? Clans? She regretted she knew little about this small nation; she felt out of her depth.

Dusk fell over the valley. Juen accepted a woolen wrap from a smiling woman and tucked her feet up under her skirts, glad of the blaze warming her side.

A sudden thunder of drums silenced the chatter. A man leapt into the center of the open space. He yodeled something in one of Athus’ many dialects, skipping as he enticed the crowd. They roared approval, some thousand or more faces in the evening light.

Ninan leaned to ask, “A jester?”

“Of a sort,” Juen said under the roll of yet more drums. “A storyteller, I think. My grandmother told of a time she saw an Athusan story-weaver. He had travelled into Vabia before the war. Theater with a touch of simple magic, I believe.”

The story-weaver chanted in time with the drums, making exaggerated motions with his arms. Others joined him, actors in simple costume, pantomiming the man’s narrative. Though she did not know the language, she began to recognize the tale.

“The Birth of Athus’li,” she told Ninan.

A young woman danced before the fire, playing Athus’li Herself, designated by a crown of flowers as She was born of spring and Her people’s hope for peace. An appropriate topic, given the threat looming over them.

Players weaved in and out of the crowd as the story continued, changing costume, singing at times, reciting at others. Athus’li was lifted onto their shoulders and paraded around for Her people to acknowledge.

Juen took a steaming wooden bowl from Firn in the break between scenes.

“Thank you, good lady.”

“My duty, young queen. Ero, for you. And Sorrint, dear.”

Juen had not noticed the Champion’s arrival in the commotion. He sat at Athus’ feet, another soldier about his age lounged next to him.

“Ona bai, ama.”

“My thanks, amona.”

That made no sense. Juen mulled over the little Athusan she knew. Few in Vabia knew more than what was needed for basic trade and there were an unreasonable number of clan dialects besides.

She was certain ‘ama’ was mother and ‘amona’ was grandmother, but there was no possibility the two men were cousins in the same line. They were too dissimilar, different jawlines, different eyes. This Sorrint darker, the Champion clearly lighter skinned beneath his tan.

And Athus had called the boy ‘oston,’ his son. Yet Firn was a servant and much older than Athus, too old to be the boy’s mother. But the Champion had called Athus ‘tama,’ or ‘father.’ But also ‘my king.’

It was more than her tired mind could sort out at the moment.

Laughter louder than the drums followed Lady Athus’li’s ascension into the heavens. A troupe of comedic tumblers cartwheeled across the stones. Children squealed, begging for their turn to toss a fruit or twist of straw in an attempt to hit the performers.

They dodged and flipped, catching the projectiles to juggle, other times launching them back at the audience. If something managed to find its mark, the acrobat would stagger dramatically and collapse to the ground, their death throes as emotive as any tragedy.

Juen was breathless with laughter by the time the last tumbler stood triumphant in the center, a winter apple balanced on his nose. The story-weaver came back and shoed him away.

The man now carried a wooden sword, which he twirled and flourished magnificently. A hush fell over the crowd, grins shining in the firelight.

From out of the shadows came a hideous beast. The flickering light made the wool and straw construction seem almost like real fur and scales. It had too many legs, the masked head snarling. Shouts of frightened hilarity rose as the creature swooped down on the onlookers, shaking its bristling mane, stomping in time to the drums.

The story-weaver brandished his blade. The creature growled and he struck. The faux sword snapped in two. The performer stood gaping past his ruined weapon into the beast’s maw. A shout of laughter chased him from the stage, defeated and scrambling with comic haste.

The drums swelled and another man entered, this one dressed as an Athusan soldier. A Watchman in his leather armor and his hood pulled low over his eyes. The cheers did not cover up a harsh exclamation from the Champion. Juen watched as Athus reached out to ruffle the boy’s hair.

“You know this is my favorite, oston!”

The new actor shouted challenge. The beast roared and battle was joined.

Back and forth they danced, first the hero, then the beast with the upper hand. A gasp rose as the hero fell beneath the monster’s claws, arms straining to hold back gnashing teeth.

The beast reared back to deliver the final blow. The hero rolled free, snatched up his fallen sword, and braced himself as the beast impaled itself on the deadly steel.

A mighty shout rose as the monster twitched its last. It was carted off amid triumphant jeers. The man Sorrint leaned to say something to the Champion.

“Wasn’t how it happened,” the boy snarled.

“You want to go show us how, then?” his friend shot back with a grin.

“One of the boy’s battles?” Ninan murmured to her, eyes on the victory procession moving past them.

“It appears so.”

More of the boys exploits were portrayed. Frightful ogres, giant serpents, a besotted Luksa princess. All fell before his might.

Juen wondered how much of it she should believe. She certainly had not believed when news came of the death of the Ranjik, a terrible creature on her northern border who had slaughtered an entire battalion of her border guards as it stalked the valleys.

Witnesses had described a young man, armed with a divine weapon. A silent warrior who slew the creature with deadly ease and vanished into the night before the grateful villagers could ask his name. A legend come to life.

More stories followed as the fire burned down, the light changing from gold to red. The tales changed as well, less theater and more recitation, falling into a cadence of half chant and song. Darker, older tales of Heroes past. Ynla. The Warrior of Avrelin. Solondar. Until finally the story-weaver stood and spoke as the First Hero.

Tanyr.

The crowd was hushed now. Children slept in their parents’ arms. The fire was allowed to die, until the moon alone lit the plaza with silver light.

It was a tale Juen knew well. It was told and retold all over the subcontinent. How the First Hero had defeated his greatest enemy, once his dearest friend, who had been consumed by the lust for the great power of the Goddesses.

No actor played opposite the story-weaver, but Juen could almost see a shadow challenging. A horrible figure of darkness that was once a man.

Tanyr stood firm, sorrowful, but undeterred from his grim purpose. They clashed, their battle shaking the earth itself. Lightening ripped the heavens, the sky weeping at the betrayal.

Tanyr fell, wounded by Maiek, Lord of Darkness and Demons. The drums were barely audible, felt more than heard as Tanyr groaned, blood streaming from the mortal wound in his flank.

The spell was broken by a sudden motion. Juen tore her eyes from the scene and looked down to where the Champion’s hand clenched his tunic. His fingers tightened, fist pressed against the same place the actor did, where legend told Tanyr had been pierced by the darkness.

She looked to the boy’s profile. The moonlight washed the color from his face and reflected white in his eyes. In the night, she could not tell their shade. The flickering embers made them crimson, then dark, then golden. He hardly seemed to breathe, the lines of his face no longer youthful, but hard and furious.

How many Champions had held Tanyr’s sword? How many warriors had waged this eternal fight, through untold ages until this very moment? Could this boy remember them? Was he reliving this battle once again? Was the face of darkness one he recognized?

Juen shivered inside her borrowed wrappings. Was it the story-weaver’s magic chilling the air with fear? Or was it sorrow? Juen could not place the emotion in her chest, cold and biting, almost loathing.

Yet, Tanyr had not hated his enemy, had in fact loved him as a brother. But the feeling was there, chewing at her. If not the enemy, then who did the First Hero hate so absolutely?

The drums stopped. They waited on a breathless moment, despair as Tanyr faltered before his triumphant foe.

A crash and a flash of light. Juen blinked the glare from her eyes to see Athus’li, now resplendent in robes of white and gold, lend her strength to the Hero. Together they stood firm, Her grace and power channeled through this mightiest of warriors.

Maiek fled, banished by all that was right and good. Tanyr knelt at Athus’li’s feet, devotion deeper than destiny binding him to the Goddess, whose love, too, had grown for this mortal.

Juen cheered with the Athusans, though in the Vabian version, Va’ali was the one to aid and wed Tanyr. She supposed each people claimed their own deity as the savior of the stricken Hero.

It was the last presentation of the night. The actors bowed for the applause and slowly the crowd dispersed back to their homes. Juen yawned with sudden fatigue. It was late; the moon had moved past its zenith and was dipping toward the hills.

Athus offered his arm. Juen accepted his help to stand, legs stiff. She tucked her wrap close, the air cool in the spring night. Snow still dusted the highest hills beyond the city.

“I hope you were entertained, your majesty.”

“Delightful, Athus.”

The Champion was a shadow behind his lord as they walked back to the house. Ninan opened her door and herded her inside. Coals glowed in the brazier, the bed turned back invitingly. She stopped in the doorway, breathing in the peace of this place, all at once glad she had come to this strange, half-savage land.

“Sleep well, Athus, my friend.”

“And you, Vabia.”

She still hesitated, watching the Champion’s back as he followed Athus to the King’s House. If those fireside stories were true, if he truly was the one born to defeat the Shadow…

“Metsa ah, Champion.”

He checked and half-turned. She saw the motion of his head, an acknowledgement, and then he continued on.

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