Breaking the Sword

Twilight's Boy (I)

Merrick Olnair, mysterious stranger from the north and erstwhile buyer of drinks in bars, waited in a copse of trees at a crossroads a few miles out from Darev. He stood there in the shadow of a thick elm, frowning at the roadside shrine at the corner across from him. In the dimness of the post dusk, pre-moonrise evening, he could just make out shrine's desecration. Candles across the front had toppled, wax hardened in drips over the stone edge, and creeping vines were already sneaking up the sides of the dome that was meant to protect the effigies and offerings inside. The small statue of the shrine's goddess had been broken off at the ankles –probably by some Imperial soldier seeking relics to bring home. Still, the emblem of the setting sun affixed to the top of the dome made it clear that this had been a shrine to Meratila.

Meratila. Goddess of the dusk and dawn, and Merrick's namesake. She was a protector in times of change, the smiling sun goddess who drove her flocks of divine cattle and sheep out in the morning, and home again in the evening. Patron of horses and their riders, and so too, of travelers. She was also supposed to be the one who sent mortals good fortune.

Merrick did not feel as though his life had been particularly blessed with good fortune. He had been two and a half years old when the Larentine Empire invaded Adal: not old enough to understand it, but just old enough to be forever marked by it. He'd grown up fast in the nearly eight years his homeland had struggled for her independence. His mother had died in childbirth even as the Old Capital burnt around her. 

His brother, just seventeen, died that same night defending the king and the princes of the blood in the final stand against the Larentine forces, when, it was sung by bards celebrating the glory of Larentia, the floor of the throne room ran red with royal blood. Well he remembered the ghosts haunting Queen Jiraella's blood-streaked face as she pushed her three-year-old daughter into his arms and told him to run, and never stop running.

Merrick had been running for fifteen years, living hand to mouth and avoiding the attention of the occupying forces. At least the war had left an overwhelming number of orphans for him and the young princess to disappear into, as well as enough kindhearted folk willing to feed and clothe such children, particularly if one of them was eager to work to pay the keep of two.

Merrick had been too young to save his country. But he had grown and trained, listened and learned, and now he intended to restore her.

The clopping sound of approaching hooves pulled Merrick out of his painful memories. Cupping his hands to his mouth, he made a call like a barn owl. It was only a moment before the rider gave the answering call. Merrick stepped out into the center of the crossroads, leading his own gray mare by the reins, and raised a hand over his head to greet the other man. The hooded figure on the horse raised his own hand in a similar greeting, and cleared the remaining distance at a trot. He had arrived, not from the south as Merrick had expected, but from the east.

The rider dismounted and clasped arms with the other man without lowering his hood. Merrick knew him, regardless: Loral Amstin, farmer and father of two.

"I was expecting you father," the younger man said as they broke apart.

Loral twitched his horse's reins so that their conversation was shielded by the animals on two sides. "He sends his regrets– or rather my mam sends them for him. She's taken the healer's prescription of bed rest to heart."

"An accident at the forge?" Merrick guessed, concerned.

The farmer pursed his lips. "You could say that."

"Loral, what's happened? Your father's message was vague."

"You'll want to see young Sari of course," the other replied, sidestepping the question.