Dreams of the Quill

Setting Out

“The morning star rests upon the spires of Uyl,” said Commander Tomora Ynthon. “My heart grows restless.”

He glanced over at Jung, who sat on the horse next to his. His aide was looking at him quizzically.

“Poetry, Jung. One art form I always fancied learning, but never had the talent for.”

“If I may speak freely—”

“Always.”

“—the words seemed to echo my own sentiments, sir.”

“Even the meanest, when he tries to sympathize, can understand art.” Tomora lowered his hat brim over his eyes and shuddered briefly with laughter.

“Is something funny, sir?”

“I have a mean sense of humor, Jung,” sighed Ynthon, raising his face to the stars once more. The sky was a dark blue with a tinge of pink on the rocky horizon. “And these damn wizards have a mean sense of time. Did they not understand the concept of ‘first light?’ You’d think they were all military amateurs.”

“Indeed,” agreed Jung. “But they’re actually quite experienced, aren’t they?”

“More than you,” snorted the commander. Jung smiled. He enjoyed these moments where the specter of “Psychopath Ynthon’s” mysterious past didn’t hover overhead, when the commander allowed himself a bit of light-hearted banter. It was these moments that led Jung to feel that his commander wasn’t just a military success, but also a human success. Of course, Jung rued as he tenderly caressed his bruised cheek, these moments led to him letting his guard down. He remembered the magical assault that Tomora had unleashed across the room in response to his question of ‘why do we need to beat Byhr?’ and he strengthened his resolve to keep his comments in line.

“More than you,” Tomora repeated, “but many of us have been enlisted for less than a year.”

“Less than a year?!” exclaimed Jung. He recalled the scene in the soldiers’ quarters. “I had the impression that they were all hardened warriors!”

“Hardened, yes, and warriors, mostly. But soldiers?”

“Perhaps disorganized,” answered Jung thoughtfully, recalling the messy games of keys strewn about the decomposing crates which served as tables. “But quite military.”

“The effect that a uniform has upon the recently initiated is marvelous,” commented Tomora. “My unit is a unit of scoundrels, Jung. They’re not regimented, not soldiers. Don’t forget that when dealing with them, lest you rely too heavily upon the doctrines taught you by the Byhryn recruiters. They’re a loose bunch, with little regard for indirect authority, and for the most part they do not have savory backgrounds.”

“Master Huros seemed savory enough, in an uns—”

“Unsettling manner? He’s an odd one, Jung. Few wizards leave their hometowns seeking adventure and find themselves amicably allied with a foreign power. If he can be believed, that’s his story, and it’s a damn strange one.”

“Oh, it’s very true, Commander,” said Gayne Huros, causing both the commander and his aide to jump.

“Oceans above!” exclaimed Tomora, reigning his horse around and facing the Harnecian wizard. “When did you get here? I didn’t at all notice you approach.”

“With all due respect, I wanted to test these creatures of yours out, Commander, so I figured I’d try to sneak up on you. Seems they know the terrain, all right, well enough to move through it silently.” Huros gently patted his horse’s neck. “To answer your question, I’ve been here since you mentioned uniforms.”

“I’ll be,” breathed Tomora. “Maybe this ‘dumbest idea’ of mine will work out after all.”

“It better,” grinned Huros. “I intend to make it back to my hometown safe and sound someday.”

“That’s my goal, too,” said Jung. He was excited; he was included in an unheard of military tactic and, to top it off, both of his companions seemed in good spirits.

“It’s not mine,” smiled Ynthon, returning his gaze to the stars. “I plan to enter my hometown drenched in the blood of others, my hands calling in a symphony of destruction as the once-glorious empire draws its final breath.”

“That’s some subtle imagery, Commander,” whistled Huros.

“With Uyl buried in a tomb of shattered mountains, I will return to Byhr and proclaim my victory over its god.”

“More poetry?” asked Jung, his eyes shining.

Tomora blinked.

“Maybe I have a knack for it after all.”

“H-hey!” shouted Jyunor, riding up noisily behind the three. “We ready to kick some Cresso ass or what?” Jung had forgotten that the large one-eyed Cressoan was accompanying them. He smiled and nodded in Jyunor’s direction, and Jyunor cracked a lopsided grin. “Oh, lookie, it’s the Byhryn brat who lied to us. He’s riding with us?”

“At least the kid knows when to shut up,” sighed Tomora. “He also knows how to wake up in the morning.”

“Ah, good morning, Cap’n, Gayne.” Jyunor was still smiling. “How are the both of you on this fine morning?”

“Master Jyunor Pollet, you might wish to watch your words.” Huros raised his eyebrows as he said this and shrugged one shoulder toward the commander.

Jyunor blinked blankly.

“Why?”

Jung winced as Huros palmed his face.

“Good morning, Jyunor,” said Tomora, beaming murderously at the larger Cressoan. “I’ll have you silent for this expedition.” Jyunor blinked again.

“Yessi—”

“Not. One. Word.” Jyunor gulped. “Do you understand?” Jyunor nodded.

“Master Pollet, the first bit of this mission involves stealth,” explained Huros. “We are going to be riding for a few days, as quickly as we can and as quietly as we can, through enemy territory. Thankfully, we have spectacular horses, but all will be lost if you call out to us as you just did.”

“Thank you, Master Huros,” said Tomora. “Jyunor, I’ll tell you the rest of the plan once we reach our destination. Suffice it to say that your role is an important one, and that our victory depends upon you.”

Jyunor nodded again, his eye shining. Jung, observing the large Cressoan’s reaction to the commander’s words and combining that observation with his observation of the man’s behavior two nights earlier in the soldiers’ quarters, came to the conclusion that Jyunor Pollet was an idiot.

“Well, let’s dally no longer.” The commander turned to face north again and took off, his three men following close behind.

The going was not nearly as rough as Jung had expected, given the rocky and uneven nature of the terrain. He wondered if riding a flying horse would feel like this. Cold wind rushed past him and pushed his hair back. Occasional cracks in the ground and the jagged chunks of rock littered about the narrow path presented no trouble for his mount, an intelligent beast that calculated its steps flitted over any such obstacle without so much as slowing down. Before long, Jung had lost sight of the camp, the old Cressoan mining outpost left in the hands of Ynthon’s wizards as their commander and his three companions pressed forward into the northern empire’s lands.

Jung had studied the maps carefully before setting out, even plotting the best course for the horseback expedition to follow, but it was useless. The terrain was too stark, too confusingly similar to itself at every turn along the mountain paths, for Jung to keep track of where he was. He resigned himself to simply following the fluttering cloak and wobbling top hat of his commander, hoping that between the maps and his knowledge of Cresso, Tomora Ynthon would find the way. As he watched the commander ride, his eyes fell to the hooves of the mount in front of him and he marveled at how the beast could gallop silently.

“Jung, think I could get past you?” asked Gayne Huros quietly after they had been riding for a good hour. “I’d like to talk to the commander.”

Jung nodded and reined his horse to the side of the narrow path they were speeding along. Huros rode past him, quickly catching up to Ynthon and leaning forward in his saddle. Jung wondered what they were talking about but stayed back. Jyunor rode silently behind him. Seeking something to occupy himself as he grew accustomed to the magnificent beast he rode, Jung turned his thoughts to the task at hand. He still didn’t know how he would be useful on this expedition, but he was determined to do whatever he could to help his commander succeed. Cresso would fall.

In this manner, single-file, silent, determined, the two members of the Byhrate military’s northern division wizard unit, their commander, and his aide rushed toward the center of the Cresso Empire.

Intra Noi awoke to the smell of chicken soup.

“Del, is that you?” he asked, rubbing his eyes on his sleeve. He sat at his crate, manuscript before him, three empty bottles of ink lying on the ground by his chair. A motherly figure stood at his side, bent forward slightly, having just placed a bowl on the desk and a hand on his shoulder.

As if in a dream, the woman by his side tenderly dipped a spoon into the bowl, brought it to her lips, blew on it, and then held it before him. He looked up at his caretaker and saw his wife in her late twenties, young, beautiful, loving. Then he blinked and the fantasy was dispelled.

“Sorry to disappoint,” laughed Jeld, standing straight and taking a step back. The bowl of chicken soup sat steaming between Intra and his manuscript, wooden spoon lying untouched next to it.

“You’re back already?”

“Aye, and with a few of your other men. Ial came back with some sketches of our findings and a wagonload of artifacts; Deyn took the majority of the crew and is still excavating the area.”

“Sketches? Artifacts?” asked Intra, halfway to standing before a firm hand on his shoulder pushed him back into his seat.

“Eat your soup first,” demanded Jeld.

“But the findings—”

“Will still be there in five minutes. Eat your soup.”

“Why are you so insistent?” asked Intra, frowning up at his assistant.

“I heard from Gouff that you haven’t been eating right since—well, that you haven’t been eating right.”

“Since what?”

“Just eat your soup, Grandpa Snow,” said Jeld, stepping back. “I’ll go—”

“Since what?”

“Since your grandson came,” Jeld sighed. “Look, have your soup, then come outside and check out the artifacts. Or, if you’d prefer, I can have Ial bring them in.”

“I don’t want you going near Tyff, Jeld,” said Intra.

“This has nothing to do with him. Just eat your soup, check out the artifacts—”

“I need your word, that you won’t meddle.”

“Grandpa Snow, you know I can’t promise that. Please eat—”

“Jeld!” exclaimed Intra. He trembled with rage and shame. What am I doing? He looked down at the ground. He had nothing to say. Jeld was back; she was going to talk to Tyff, there was no avoiding that. Intra cursed Huun Koul under his breath. All these meddlers. He turned his gaze to his soup. “You can go.”

“Yes, sir,” said Jeld, walking over to the tent flap. She paused, half in the tent and half out. “You know, Grandpa Snow, your newest manuscript is ready for the publishers.”

Intra snorted into his soup and looked at his manuscript. Little scribbles in the margins showed that indeed, Jeld had gone through it.

“While I was sleeping?” he asked.

“I tried waking you a number of times,” Jeld smiled, “but I guess you were too hungry. Enjoy your soup, Grandpa Snow.”

That said, she left. Intra took up the wooden spoon and wordlessly set about the task of enjoying his soup. He couldn’t quite comprehend Jeld’s words: ready for the publishers? He wondered if that meant the book was ready to be put into the hands of the Harnecian people. He had always thought the goal an impossible one. He had planned on passing his writings on to Tyff.

“Del, maybe because our grandson hates me, maybe because of that I finished my book. Del, a book! Just like Talb and the others…”

Intra’s face was damp with steam, and he dried it on his sleeve.

“This soup tastes just like yours, Del.”

He dried his cheeks again.

“And only the people who read it will be at my funeral. And you will never read it.”

This soup is too salty.

And it’s too hot. Why are my cheeks so wet?

“Del, I did it, finally…”

My son, my daughter, their son…

“… Finally, I wrote a book, finally, people can know that the Shaded Orchard is a myth…”

They’ll never read my book.

Jeld will read my book, and she’ll come to my funeral, and she’ll disappoint people just like I did.

Intra licked the spoon, savoring the taste of his own tears, and then laid his arms on the table and buried his head in them. He didn’t have anything else to tell his dead wife and he didn’t have anything else to tell himself, so he was silent.

Half an hour later, Jeld walked into the tent.

“Oh, Grandpa Snow,” she sighed, “if you were done with the soup, you should have come out to look at the artifacts! Or if you wanted to eat more, you could have asked for seconds.”

Intra raised his head lethargically.

“I’ll have more, then,” he murmured.

“Right away,” smiled Jeld, retreating from the tent. She returned minutes later with a fresh bowl, and then disappeared outside again.

Intra tried to register Jeld’s notes on his manuscript as he ate his second bowl of soup, but he found it hard to multitask. The soup grew cold as he read positive note after positive note. Eventually, Jeld returned and chided him for not eating the soup while it was warm. She offered to reheat it for him, but he declined, insisting that she shake his hand.

“What’s the matter now?” she laughed awkwardly.

“Thank you for everything,” he replied, laughing in turn.

Jeld smiled.

“No, no, thank you—” She noticed his lips moving, and leaned in closer. “What is it, Grandpa Snow?”

“Del… I… leave… the… publishers… to… you…” he breathed, and then he slumped forward over his desk, knocking the bowl of cold chicken soup to the floor.