The Things the Creator Has Made

Prologue: Fear

            “Are your pants soaked yet, boy,” Johor Bayth said mocking the young solider sitting on the sandy field beside him. The boy looked up and saw a fat, ham-fisted man. How Johor became a sergeant was beyond reason.

            “Come now Johor, give the lad a break, it’s his first fight,” Sir Richard Marxim replied. He was the leader of the defensive, a cunning strategist, but even with his great mind there wasn’t a lot of hope to be found.

            “Look at how many there are, boy. We’re outnumbered three to one,” Johor taunted.

            “Who are they?” Lee asked, staring into the mass of men opposite them on the horizon.

            “The Dryades. Rebels. Bastards of the Arklands. They’ll ripe you limb from limb, and cook you up with some spices.”

            “Shut up Johor, you’re scaring me now.” Boyd Dyme watchfully slurred each word, mirroring Lee’s fear.

            Johor smirked. The man lived to prey on the weak. “If you can’t stomach the fight with us Boyd, the women are at the rear caring for the horses.”

            “I said shut up already!” Boyd jumped to his feet, pulled a knife from his side, and pointed it toward Johor. “I’ll cut out your tongue if you don’t quit!” Boyd was a fool, but at least he was too stupid to do anything about it.

            “Don’t listen to them son, you’ll be fine.” Sir Marxim tried his best to comfort Lee, knowing all the while they were in a fight that couldn’t be won.

            “Oh, you’re never fine in the Vanguard.” Johor prodded on.

            “That’s enough from you Johor! Listen son, you see the old man over there already on his mount. You’ll be riding next to him.” Hesitantly, Lee looked over to the timeworn rider at the head of the vanguard.

            “You mean, the Crow?”

            “I, the Crow…”

            Johor interrupted, snarling like a wolfhound, “call him whatever you want. He’s scum, and an oath breaker. Lowest of the low.”

            Sir Marxim countered with all the assurance he could find, “he’s the best hope we have for winning this battle. He’ll…”

            Boyd shot a quick word in, “Fought for four Great Kings he has. Never lost a fight.”

            Sir Marxim slapped Boyd across the cheek, and lowered his brow. “I, indeed he has,” he said grimly. “There are tales to tell of him son, I could go on for days. The Great King before this one. Nasty king he was.” Sir Marxim cleared his throat, spitting on the ground in tribute. “He sent out a legion of men not one thousand strong against five thousand of them Rebel Drakes. What do you suppose happened in that battle, boy?”

            “We were slaughtered.”

            “I, we were indeed. Everyone died. Everyone, but that man, the one over there he killed a thousand of them Drakes, some say half with nothing more than a hewing knife he keeps in his boot.”

            Lee seemed intrigued now; maybe he was safe after all.

            “Whatever he did, he broke his covenant to the Great King. I’ve no respect for that man.” Johor was spiteful, but he was right, the old solider was an oath breaker.

             “Well you best ride on kiddy. ‘Less you want to run. Them hills look mighty tempting from here.” Boyd pointed to the Bale Mountains far to the north, and snickered.

            “I, you could join the Black Crows like the great warrior over there. But better not though, unless you can run. The Knights of the Arcane hunt oath breakers and debtors down like cannibals. And if they catch you they’ll make you live at war until you die…maybe by a Dryade sword, but probably by your own.” Sir Marxim put a strong hand on Lee’s shoulder. “And son, a word of advice. Don’t let the Crow get in your head, he’s as sane as Johor here.” Sir Marxim slapped Bayth on the back of the head, and his voice trailed on barking commands to everyone in sight.

            “Come Blue,” Lee said, tugging at his blue-eyed steed’s reins. He walked over to the frontline, stopping just next to the Crow. Lee mounted his Shire horse, and watched in front the sea of Dryades shriek and howl and smash sword against shield. He felt his knees quiver, even seated on his mount, like at a first kiss with a pretty girl. Only this was a different kind of fear. Then he looked back, and saw a pond of shiningly armored men, mostly hired hands—the front two rows mounted, and the rest holding short swords and wooden shields—standing with backs facing the walled city of Southern Guard. Lee thought the clean, jeweled armor must have meant they had never lost a battle. Or, maybe they had never fought one. The idea made his stomach weak too.

            A sure voice cut through his uncertainty. “Ten thousand I would say. A good lot more than us.” The old Black Crow offered Lee a firm nod of the head. “The name’s Druel. Edwin actually. But I prefer Druel.”

            Lee glanced over the man. He was old, at least fifty, with dark brown hair streaked by sliver like a new mine, and wrinkled skin circling his eyes ever so slightly. Though he wasn’t small and weak like most of the old men Lee knew back home in Godstown, studying their books. Druel appeared stout, resting a leather-gloved hand on his stark steel sword.

            “And do some call you Crow?” Lee asked, still unsure of the oath breaker.

            “Those who do are either dead soon after, or a Great King, whom I cannot seem to kill.” Druel’s steely eyes watched Lee, and Lee regretfully looked at his feet. But Druel smiled, playing with the boy, and said, “a good question is all that makes for wisdom, son. I’ve never been a Black Crow, and I’ll never be one.” Druel rubbed his fingers across a Black Crow mark, branded into the place between his thumb and finger. “The rest of them can say what they like.”

            A rebel war bugle cut out the man and the birds singing melodies in the trees around Southern Guard, and a loud roar of caged anticipation erupted from the enemy lines. The men around Lee fell silent. He turned his head and watched the Bale Mountains far to the north. What if I ran? He thought. Yes. He could run. He was fast and sly and shadowy enough to outpace the Arcane. And he was just a boy. No one knew his name yet. They would never catch me! Lee dreamt. But Druel put a hand on his shoulder and he fell from the fantasy. “It’s good you’re afraid, son. It means you’d rather live than die. But if they back you into a corner, don’t let them see it. Don’t ever let them know you’re afraid.”

            The seasoned man unsheathed a massive sword adorned with silver tree roots coiling around the hilt and halfway up the blade. Druel kissed a ring on his opposite hand and closed his eyes in prayer. Lee wasn’t sure what to do, so he just watched. After a moment, Druel finished with a whisper, “Keis Esså Kesse.” It was Arcanian. An ancient and sacred language of worship Lee had heard the high priest in Godstown use once before. “Justice to the end.” It translated into the common tongue.

            “This is not your end, son. The one God has kept me alive thus far. I have a feeling he’ll do the same for you,” Druel said, loud enough to be heard over the screams of coming war.

            And with that, the Dryade horde advanced on them.