Abigail of Eoquey, daughter of Eric, marched down the dirt highway to Graysky Castle with an unusual clank for a woman—the clank of a sword against its hilt. Her long, brown hair swayed in the northerly breeze despite being bound by a blue ribbon. Black leather boots crunched the dry soil beneath her. The faded dress, a light blue dye having long since yielded to dirt and grime despite frequent washing, tucked close to her slender form beneath a leather vest that laced in the front. Blood, old blood, passed as mud stains among a frayed hem. On her back, a leather sack, usually full of dried meat or other food she had foraged from the wilderness, bounced against her back with each step, the two knives and stone sharpener rattling rhythmically.
Two male farmers wearing standard brown tunics over cotton shirts approached, their crop baskets empty and their pocketbooks full as they journeyed home to their families, scooted off the road to avoid her, knocking over a few of the stalks of corn past harvest that lined both sides of the road. They, along with the other traffic to and from the castle, desired no part of her. Remaining several hundred yards before her, a group of foresters—wives and children included—enjoyed the sunshine that warmed the peasant garbs. Behind, the crowd of poor and working-class pilgrims kept an equal distance. Even the wealthy riding horses or carrying wagons gave way, only daring to glance behind in disgust. Her tender looks—bright green eyes, fair complexion, and slender figure—could not dampen the fear rising in their eyes. She had that effect on others, and she did not care.
Abigail preferred isolation. Her grueling life left no room for friends or acquaintances, and only one reason had drawn her to civilization. She felt it in her bones. A calling, a dark doom, that chilled the hearts of men and caused women to faint. The foul breeds. Dark creatures that fed on men. Drove them to madness. Slaughtered babies for pleasure. Word had reached her in the wilderness. A warlock, Mallock, had gathered an army of them. She had come to slay him and his horde.
The Roggyd Mountains loomed behind, marking the distant edge of the vast plains of the Finglynde Plateau. Far out of sight, once the mountains curved south, the grain fields and stony cattle land succumbed to a dense forest at the ranges’ foothills. At the edge of the plateau, bordering the eastern lowlands, the fair woods turned into the dreaded Creopan Forest, or so a local soldier had informed her. There, Mallock and his horde abode. But no one knew the exact location. Even magic had not unearthed it. And so she strolled the only road that led to Graysky Castle in search of answers.
The golden fields gave way to wooden huts and livestock pins. Pigs wallowed in drying mud. Sheep ignored the patches of grass within their confines to stretch their necks to puny bits past their fences. The bubbling Clar River echoed from the distant left. Hovering above, the glory of Graysky Castle beckoned her. The afternoon sun hung in the south, to her right. Its golden rays lighted the carved stone towers ahead.
Like any castle, a wall thirty or forty feet high deterred armies. Soldiers on the wall walk laughed in summer’s lingering heat while eyeing the crowds below. Thousands had gathered for the annual trials. Pilgrims not wishing to pay for an inn rested in tents along the road. The rest poured through iron gates that arched in defiance of battering rams. Towers rose on either side of the gate and the four corners of the castle. Archers, four a piece, dangled their arms through slots in the gray rock.
Even from hundreds of yards away, she discerned the guards with ease. Silver breastplates etched with magic seals. Silver armored legs. Helmets sitting on the stone or held in their hands. Strong men. Tall men. Well trained by their manner of walking. Of sound disposition by being able to relax on this peaceful afternoon.
The foul breeds, it seemed, had yet to pester this region. The woods to the south, however, teemed with uncanny darkness. The pitiful hunters and their families. Did they fear for their lives? A part of her yearned to march south and confront the darkness, yet experience had taught her patience. She needed more information.
The dirt road widened. The grass clearing before the castle had transformed into a large campsite. The excessive traffic continued to swerve around her, although they no longer had to trample crops to keep their distance.
The castle now overwhelmed the horizon. The walls stretched left and right as far as the eye could see. The river, meandering to the city, provided ample supply for the proper mot swirling about the castle. A drawbridge—at least fifty feet long—provided the only access to the stronghold.
At last, she neared enough to catch the guards’ eyes. They gave her a swift appraisal. Not surprisingly, they liked not what they saw. As soon as the last pilgrim—a boy naught but ten or so—entered the safe haven, a solid dozen men, their helmets now squarely upon their shoulders and their hands clasping their hilt and scabbards, lined the gate, stopping the fair citizens of Graysky from exiting. The heads of farmers, courters, damsels, and boys peeked around the soldiers in curiosity. Then, seeing her, they retreated to safer quarters. Two older mages, brandishing the customary blue robes hemmed with leather, braided vine belts, and cedar staffs, assumed positions behind the blockade.
She stepped onto the drawbridge and waited. The traffic behind her dared not approach.
“State your business,” demanded the center soldier. His voice sounded firm but not harsh. The silver armor hid every inch of him other than a pair of brown eyes.
“I come to participate in tomorrow’s trials.” Her feminine, friendly voice did not diminish the tension in the soldiers’ stances. Casually, she unbuckled her belt. Gently, ever so gently, she laid the cherished blade in the dirt. Next slid off her sack. She stepped forward. “I am Abigail daughter of Eric, of a realm far beyond these lands. I have heard of the honor of King Derek and offer my life in his service.”
The soldiers’ hands retained their grip on their hilts.
“Why not serve your own land?” said the mage on the left. Dark hair, almost black, hung loosely to his soldiers. Wrinkles marred a tan face. So, he was the Elder. Graysky, according to the rumors, housed the strongest students of magic under the careful tutelage of the aging Elder. Legend said he was the first mage in the region to master water. She cared not about legends, but she did care about the power dancing behind those black eyes. Not wanting to provoke, she spoke the truth. “It lays in ruins. I have no family or friends left to serve.”
The Elder eyed his companion—a man also showing signs of aging—as if to confirm his decision. Then he returned his gaze to her. “Let her pass.”
Two soldiers jogged forward, their silver armor tinkling, to retrieve her belongings. The rest transitioned to form a line on either side through which she must pass. The mages ended the formation, their cedar staffs held ready. As she graced the first pair of soldiers with her presence, they eyed her carefully, checking her form for hidden items. Seeing none, they stayed in place.
The arch of the gate hid the light of the sun. She glanced up. Well built. Rock secured firmly together with no sign of aging or cracking. Not even a residue of water seeping through invisible flaws in the construction. And her earlier guess had been inadequate—the wall probably stood fifty feet high and was, for sure by her pacing, twenty feet thick.
The mages, accepting the soldiers' inspection, spun to lead into the courtyard. Dirt filled the wide square. An entire town thrived inside the stone walls. The citizens, now resuming their affairs, popped out from behind wooden doors to return to carts of bread, fruits, vegetables, tools, beads, and vibrant textiles. Children dashed around houses and inns, playing chase and tossing balls. Cats snoozed on rooftops while dogs ran amuck. The livestock announced their scattered presence with their stench. Beyond the reach of her nose, hundreds of horses resided on the northern wall. Though hidden behind rows upon rows of structures, she could see them. Not with her natural eye, of course. But she saw them. Proud steeds, all dark brown with black manes. Stable hands groomed and fed them. Young mounted soldiers threw spears at targets under the watchful eye of veterans.
Abigail returned her gaze to her immediate surroundings. Four silver soldiers encompassed her, the mages still leading. So, the rumors were true. King Derek did not rely solely on swords or magic. How intertwined were the forces? A casual glance at the structures revealed nothing. She dared look no deeper, not, at least, with mages present, lest they recognized her glazed stare. Magic, by law, belonged only to males. What she possessed, what she could manifest, was not magic, though she doubted they would understand as much.
Passing through the main courtyard, they encountered a second gate. Impressive. It reached as tall and thick as the outer wall. Iron gates swung in, and fresh soldiers, younger soldiers with blue girdles, relieved the original escort who returned to their post. Ah, there. Ever so slightly visible, magic circles engraved in the breastplates. What marvelous defenses.
And it continued!
The entourage stepped into an inner courtyard. A castle in a castle. Oh, the opportunities to stage battles! A massive army had room enough to gather between the distant rows of stone houses that lined the left and right. Archers could station the inner wall walk or hide behind the houses. Oh, not houses. On the left side, visible only by her spiritual sight, stood a stone courtyard under the shade of a massive oak tree enshrined by water. Aspiring magicians—segregated from the masters by gray robes—studied on benches about the courtyard. Others practiced under tutoring eyes. Water floated. Fire sprung forth. Light bent and conformed to strange patterns to form imperfect barriers. Graysky’s magic school.
To her right, swords clanged in the distance as lads sparred. Young archers checked their bows and balanced arrows. A little soldier, truly a pipsqueak, could barely walk under the weight of his silver armor.
The Elder must have followed her gaze. “Preparations for the trials,” he said. “Should Lord Derek approve your presence, that will be your competition in the morning.”
A cloud momentarily blocked the sun, and a western breeze chilled the air. Before, comprising the majority of the horizon, the main castle reached the sky. The final gate was wrought of impeccable stone. The inner castle was one magnificent structure. Windows revealed the stories, stretching five high. Towers loomed in the four corners and two extra in the rear center. How marvelous to live here! She could see herself marching the walls, barking orders to the soldiers, yet the thought faded as quickly as it arose. Not worthy, she reminded herself.
Her black boots sounded against polished stone slabs, each three by six feet, which shone in candlelight despite the heavy foot traffic. Intriguing. Derek cared not only for defense but also style. Yes, everything she had seen thus far had been well tended. Even the stacked pillars supporting the weight of the upper levels had been scrubbed recently. And he cared for the arts. Music wafted throughout the great hall. Society’s elite—the teachers and aged craftsmen—enjoyed conversations while women chatted in colorful apparel. At first, they eyed the company with curiosity. Yet, upon spying Abigail, their disposition altered. Oh, she could feel the condescension teeming from the women’s eyes. “What was such a filthy woman doing here?” they probably asked themselves. She could care less. While providing room for dances and feasts, the massive space seemed appropriate to stage a final defense.
They passed through wooden doors to enter the judgment hall. Soldiers donning the blue girdles lined both the left and right walls. Hundreds of candles made the hall nigh as bright as the outdoors. Banners of blue and gold draped from ceiling to floor. A dozen or so citizens waited in line to plead their cause while an assortment of citizens and courtiers looked on. King Derek resided upon an ornately carved chair decorated with thick posts and blue cushions and resting on a raised platform. He was much younger in appearance than expected: thirty, if that, sporting short, black hair and brown eyes. He wore a loose, linen shirt and black pants. So, he did not need to appear superior to his citizens. His council of seven, however, donned brightly colored tunics and gazed down on the people with lifted chins despite the fact that they, too, stood on ground level.
The four soldiers rejoined their, at a rough count, two hundred companions to line the wall, leaving her in the care of the two mages. Seeing the unusual company, Derek beckoned for the Elder to approach. Abigail and the other mage stayed behind, not wanting to cut line, while the trusted man informed the lord. After a brief minute, the Elder returned. “Wait here, and King Derek will hear your cause.”
She nodded, and the mages retreated to join the ranks of soldiers. Finally given some space, she relaxed a little, studying in detail her would-be-master. Derek could not have ruled by brute force for he boasted no brawn. Indeed, the thought of him wielding a sword seemed contrary to the fair figure. His brown eyes held a brightness that revealed a keen intellect. His hair, short and light brown, fluffed from a side part in a well-groomed yet sporadic pattern—as though he had an excellent hairdresser but refused to follow through with daily styling. His eyebrows were a little thick. However, he maintained an attractive face in that he was blessed with a large gap between the brows that compensated for their bushiness. To finish his appearance, he had a partially formed beard as though he let it grow and trimmed it on a whim, and right now it was in the growing stage.
In height, he appeared average, but his demeanor made him by far the grandest in the room—he was king, and he knew it. Yes, he moved and talked with utter confidence that ensured the entire hall hung on his every word. Most notably, she heard none of the usual positioning or bickering found in other courts—Derek addressed mundane cases with the diligence one would expect from matters of great importance. A widow who had no means to provide for her babies was given shelter within the castle and promised support from the community. Next came a dispute over hunting grounds followed by a request for fair judgment. Quite unexpected business for having a horde of foul breeds beyond the neighboring forest. Indeed, everyone here seemed far too at peace.
Of the seven councilors, only one looked sturdy enough to be a soldier, and his short beard and hair boasted plenty a gray strand. Three appeared retired craftsmen from calloused hands; one possessed a long nose, stout chin, and the keen eyes of a hunter; one with gray hair neatly retired in a ponytail bore the marks of a smithy: burn scars across rugged hands; and the last, the chief if the gold chain about his neck meant anything, had such tender skin he could never have done a day’s work. They stood silently beside their king with casual stances, no fear of war upon their relaxed faces.
Tucked behind the throne platform, in the shadows by the door, sat three young men in modest apparel. One, slender as could be, bore a blue girdle like the soldier’s across his cotton vest. A page, surely, for how swift a foot he appeared. The other two were scribes: one in charge of scrolls for decrees no doubt and the other the bookkeeper, chronicling the affairs of the king and kingdom in a ludicrously thick volume that easily would cover half a man’s torso.
What else could she inspect?
Yes, that light blue. The seven councilors also bore it as a small chord dangling from their belts. So, it was a sign of social status, of relating to the king’s court. Yes, that would explain why only these soldiers bore the blue girdle: they were Derek’s royal guard. Were they better than the others? More experienced, it seemed, for she saw no youths but many with gray in their beads.
At last, she stood about ten paces from the throne, no one stood between her and the lord. Once more, she declared her identity and request. Derek stared at her whimsically. “How old are you?” he asked. “Surely, you have not long left your father’s house.”
He could look past her filthy attire? “Old enough to partake in the trials.”
“And what makes you desire such a path?”
Fabulous. He still did not take her seriously. Judging by their condescending stares, neither did the councilors.
“My lord, I served as an elite soldier in my land. I find no other path worth pursuing.”
The tone in her voice must have touched him for the amusement ceased. His voice clear, but not stern, he asked, “I was told your land was destroyed. If such an elite soldier, how did you survive?”
“I survived because I am an elite soldier.”
Silence. The councilor with the hunter’s eyes whispered something to Derek.
“The battle waxed long and drew far worse than blood from me.” Her words silenced the whispers. “Victory came at great cost, and not before the destruction of our land and all those I held dear. For days I sat in the wasteland, wondering why I had been permitted to endure. As hunger ate at my bones, I conceived only one answer—I survived because my service was not yet complete. And so I stand before you, offering my life to defend your borders.”
