The Circle: The Uniting

  At the first break of night, Windsor and Navi rode behind the building of the apothecary shop toting the necessary supplies they had gathered. They could handle this without her but they wanted to see what sort of scheming this woman was up to. Pantika was already there. She seemed excited about her plot.

  “So, how do you plan on gettin’ us ovah this wall?” Navi asked, looking up to the heights of it.

  “Not ovah, but undah,” she said. “Follow me.”

  Curious, they followed her, now being confident that she could be trusted.

  “In times past two tunnels were built: one that led from the king’s palace out of the city and anothah for less impressive individuals. I don’t know if they know about the one in the palace, but I have been watching and none of the guards have even been near the one in the woods. It is on the outskirts of the city; therefore, no one much even knows it exists.”

  “How is it that you, of all people, know about it?” Windsor asked, not meaning to insult her.

  “Like I said, I know many things.”

  They traveled by foot, Windsor and Navi leading their mounts inconspicuously towards the outskirts of city life. Their mounts were stacked high with supplies and so were their hands. They didn’t get nearly what they needed but they got all they could carry. The darkness gave them the secrecy they needed. Finally, they came upon a patch of ground at a hillside that looked like any others parcel. She felt around the hill trying to discern the edges of the metal hatch.

  “The only thing is that it is heavy and might make a lot of noise tryin’ to get it up. Probably rusted togethah too.”

  “Move back.” Navi now saw an opportunity to impress her.

  Letting the younger wizard take the lead, Windsor smiled, knowing exactly what Navi was going to do.

  Navi pulled out his staff he had stowed away under his jacket and stretched it out over the tightly shut up hatchet. Straight way, he murmured a couple of words and the hatch broke loose from its rusty hold and lifted off the ground. The old door came to rest on the ground.

  “You’re a wizahd,” Pantika proclaimed with surprise. “You didn’t even need my help did you?”

  “Not really, but this kind of information is always handy.”

  Navi could tell with the light of his orb that the tunnel was broad, big enough for mounts. Navi stepped inside the tunnel and reached out his hand for Pantika to come along. When Windsor noticed what he was doing his face turned stone cold. No one else can ride with us!

  But before he had a chance to vocalize his discrepancies, Pantika declined.

  “No, I can’t leave. My sistah is still in the city. I will leave when the time is right and now is not that time.”

  Feeling relieved that he wasn’t going to have to contend with Windsor over this, he nodded.

  “Be safe.”

  “You too.”

  Navi and Windsor stepped inside the tunnel leading the horses. Navi stretched out his staff and lifted the rusty old door off the ground and placed it back in place. Then, he made the grass and weeds around the seams grow so it would blend in with the rest of the landscape, making it impossible to see.

  “We can’t rescue every damsel, Navi,” Windsor said, rebuking him.

  “I know. I just felt like we owed it to her since she helped us.”

  “I understand. But we can’t have a woman riding with us unless she is a warrior like Nadora; otherwise, it is as the others said: a grave burden.”

  After a short walk through the tunnel, the two came to the end marked also by a large hatch. With his staff, Windsor raised the hatch, the two led their mounts out, and the hatch was lowered back in its place. Again, Windsor made sure to cover their tracks by causing brush and weeds to grow atop it.

  Back at the campsite, concerns had risen about their safety. (There were also concerns over who had painted floral designs on Buldar’s horns. It was of course Monguard but again, no one suspected him). Vandorf had been the first to discover the message in the dirt. They assumed that Navi had joined them, although the note had not mentioned it. Plots were already underway when Windsor and Navi finally strolled into the camp.

  “`Bout time, mate,” Ozni said. “We were already plannin’ on slinging Monguard ovah the wall aftah you.” He was of course only kidding.

  “Like your horns, crony.” Navi was sure glad that all the pink had faded out of his hair before he met the hot girl on the other side of the wall.

  “Shut up.” Buldar found little humor in the prank.

  “Wait till we tell you what we discovahed, crony.”

  With a glimmer of light from Windsor’s orb, the riders listened as Navi and Windsor told them all that they had learned.

  Darfin

  The parched land could not be seen beneath the dense fog that had settled above the ground. Dew draped the ground, moistening the thirsty brown grass. Clouds above cast gray shadows over the land, eerie shadows moved about, as though spying with evil intent. They had been traveling for days seeing nothing but a few angry nomeds.

  In the density of the fog, noises rumbled: the sound of horses, the sound of laborers, the sound of a whip, the sound of a scream. Another village held captive, the Circle of Riders guessed. We’re close to Quadar, so it only makes sense that he would have started here. Those with mail donned it and everyone drew their steel blades quietly. Because of the density of the fog, they had no certainty of the distance between them and the village.

  Riding toward the sound of noise, they suddenly found themselves right upon a troop of Riders of Quadar, almost running into them. With blind faith, they swung their swords, executing with precise skill, fighting fiercely and passionately, with images of countless innocent souls etched into their minds. They had a reason to fight and a vengeance to do so.

  The dragons took to the air, breathing fire at the Riders of Quadar, while the mammoths led the way on the ground, blazing a path and squashing everything in it. Their mighty tusks took on everything that crossed them. Blood splattered onto Zilgar’s cords of hair and long beard, as he swung his sword cutting down a dark rider who had tried to dismount him from his wooly mount. The dim image of Binko on his flying zebras soared just above the fog. They all quickly discovered that the village was crawling with dark riders.

  Running through the obscurity of the smoky atmosphere, Monguard hardly knew which direction to spring in. He listened for the sound of the hunt; then, he ran full speed ahead attacking the enemy by the edge of his blade. Behind him was left a trail of dirty blood.

  Flying low, Nadora couldn’t see a thing. Sinking lower, she finally eyed her enemy. Her arrows darted through the sky, but occasionally she missed, the fog being too much for the mortal eye to see through.

  The fog squeezed in around them, making the battlefield nebulous. Each warrior felt alone on the battlefield, not able to eye one another. They moved by instinct, sensing the presence of evil, the nearness of a blade, the direction of the swing. It felt as though the fog was slowing time down, for the battle seemed as though it were never going to end. There was no end in sight because no one knew how many dark warriors there were.

  Even the mounts had to rely on instinct. The fog and the noise made them a bit jittery too. And when a dark rider slammed into Ozni, his horse fell to the ground. Ozni tumbled over his head but then quickly leapt to his feet where he quickly discovered he was surrounded by six Riders of Quadar. Swinging his blade with the most excellent of skill, he sliced across the abdomen of one. Ducking to miss an oncoming sword, he then thrust his sword into the abdomen of another.

  Now, with only four riders around him, he swung with fluidity, jugating the blow of a sword that just missed his head. The visibility was poor; Ozni was judging predominantly by feel in the dense fog. Parrying a sword to his left, he quickly ducked again, missing the sharp blade. Then, he thrust the sword in his left hand, laying open the thigh of another Quadarist. Parrying with his sword agai
n, he stepped toward another dark rider and swiftly pierced him through. Now sensing the presence of evil behind him, he spun around and cut down the remaining two.

  Each rider fought an army of dark warriors. Outnumbered, they fought with verve in pure strength and skill a blind fight.

  Then a sound blew in. It was the sound of the wind, the sound of arrows, the sound of warhorses, and the sound of war. Then, hoofs beat the ground in retreat and everything fell silent. It was brief but effective. After a puzzling moment of silence, the riders began to call to one another through the haze, finally moving in closer until they could see one another.

  It took them a few minutes to realize that Zorgar was not among them. Zilgar called out his name, speaking into the fog. He felt his chest tighten as fear rose up in his heart. His throat felt like it was closing in on him. He feared the worst.

  Then there was a clatter and the sound of voices. Now, through the obscurity of the haze, they discovered a village, its people more downtrodden than any they had yet encountered. It was the home of the Darfinians, another humble, poor and hard-working people. Many of them carried the burden of shackles, their bodies frail, thin and dirty, their clothing torn and filthy, and their faces ghastly. Some were near death.

  The simple people had been made slaves in the fields harvesting grains, among the mud, making bricks, and among the mines mining for gems. Most of them wore shackles and looked starved half to death. They were caked in mud and smelt to the high heavens. They needed help but they had their priorities: their own first. They couldn’t bear the thought of leaving their friend on the battlefield injured.

  “Spread out and search every parcel of ground for Zorgar,” Gilmanza commanded.

  Starting on one end, the riders walked over every parcel of ground, stepping over the fallen bodies of dark riders. The calling of his name sounded echoic as each rider repetitiously yelled his name. They searched every crack and crevice. Their fears heightened as they searched endlessly but found no trace of Zorgar anywhere. Now Ormandel starred into the fog, its obscurity seemingly transporting him into a darker realm, carrying his thoughts to the nightmare of his own past reality.

  Could they have over looked him injured—or worse dead—on the battlefield?

  Lighting every torch they could find in the village, the riders searched into the night but still Zorgar was nowhere to be found.

  Gathering back at a central location in the village the riders had various ideas and various plans. Ormandel’s eyes spoke volumes, having himself been enlightened through past experiences with Darvan. Windsor could only imagine of what he was thinking as the worried look bore ruts in his forehead. Zilgar was nearly beside himself about his brother’s whereabouts. He was prepared to ride out right away after the dark riders whom they had now assumed had taken Zorgar, and he was expecting everyone else to play along.

  “We can’t ride out right now. We can’t see a thing,” Buldar objected.

  “We can see enough. That’s my brothah,” Zilgar argued, raising his voice.

  “We can’t see anything. Besides, we can’t assume that they’ve taken him. He might very well be on this battlefield and we need to wait till morn and search again,” Buldar tried to explain.

  “He ain’t on the field. I would know if he’s dead.”

  “What, you some kind of wizahd now?”

  Now a shoving match broke out between the two.

  Windsor spoke up. “Stop it you two!” He practically yelled it. “This isn’t helping. Buldar’s right. We can’t assume anything and it’s too dark to ride tonight. We will stay the night here and search the fields again tomorrow. For now, we need to help these people.”

  Without an inkling of sleep, the riders turned their attention to the people, showing themselves to be amicable. They cut away their shackles. Immediately, the people cried out for food and Windsor provided. At the first crack of dawn (which wasn’t much in this region where fog constantly hovered over the ground), the riders searched the ground over again for Zorgar. They walked over every stretch of ground but still, there was no trace of him.

  Zilgar made ready to ride, a bit presumptuous, however, in his assessments.

  When Zilgar got wind that they weren’t preparing to ride out, he exploded.

  “We can’t just ride into Quadar and storm the castle. For that mattah we don’t even know if he is at the main compound,” Windsor tried to reason with Zilgar.

  “I can and I will!”

  “You’ll be burying yourself in a grave then.”

  “So you just plan on doin’ nothin’?”

  “Of course not. But we must use wisdom. Quadar is a most dangerous place.”

  After much arguing, reasoning, and exhorting, Windsor convinced Zilgar to have some patience and to trust him. Reluctantly, he settled down, accepting that there really was nothing that he could do at the moment. The riders settled in to helping the poor peasants. Over the next few days, they fed them, dressed their wounds, and showed them kindness, restoring a small since of dignity back to a broken and degraded people. They searched the village for grains and livestock, anything that they could eat. They found plenty to eat but hardly any had been fed to the enslaved people; instead, it has been stored for the army of dark riders whose bodies demonstrated that they had not deprived themselves a morsel of food.

  Each day Zilgar shuffled around over the fog covered grounds continuing to search for his brother. He feared he would find his mangled body, but he never did. He was not alone, others returned to searching, hoping he would turn up. No matter how much they tried to focus on the people, Zorgar remained in the foremost of their thoughts, especially Zilgar’s. Now he began to fear that he, like Ormandel had experienced so many years ago, had been captured.

  In their probing of the village, the riders stumbled upon a building, tall and slender. It stood on the outskirts of the village. It had a familiar look as the last one that now haunted their minds.

  Approaching the building, the Circle of Riders looked at one another, remembering the last doors they had swung open. These, however, were unlocked, so they gave them a pull. Greeted once again by the smell of decaying flesh, they slowly walked into the bone box, carrying two lit torches.

  On the ground were the remains of tortured victims of a truly perverse cruelty. Their bodies bore the marks of a very sick master, twisted with pleasure over the suffering of others. Strung from the rafters of the ceiling hung people in crypts of chains, their bodies merely skeletons dotted with flesh. The heavy links draped their bodies like a metal cocoon, a morbid contraption of nurturing death instead of life. These chains of torment had become their sepulcher of rest, but rest looked far removed from their faces. The rusty chain-link tombs incarcerated them until death overtook them.

  Against the wall lay the thin shadows of people, their limbs stretched out and strapped by chains to hooks. Nothing remained except carrion wrapped over bones. Shifting shadows moved across the walls, giving the place a haunted feeling. Surely, there were souls still seeking release from this pit of horror.

  Sagran’s thoughts turned again to his deceased wife, as he wondered once more what she must have gone through. Tears welled up in Amase’s gentle but angry eyes.

  “Can anyone hear me?” Gilmanza asked, calling out to any survivors. “Is anyone alive?” As they walked around, they listened for anything that might indicate the sound of survival, any rasp, any rattle.

  “Check each person,” Windsor ordered, holding his staff high for light as he looked back at Sagran and Amase. “Are you two okay?”

  “We can only hope to be,” Sagran admitted.

  “We’re fine; they’re not,” Amase said simply, his voice resounding with compassion. Windsor patted the lad on the shoulder. Nadora ran outside and vomited.

  “Are you all right?” Nuvatian placed a hand of concern around her shoulder.

  “I will be,” she said, wiping the tears
from her eyes. “I just don’t understand how anyone can do such a thing to someone! The smell alone in there makes me nauseated!”

  “I know,” he said, squeezing her shoulder. “It’s hard to believe that anyone could be that cruel.” He was himself finding it hard not to vomit.

  Gilgore, began checked each person suspended from the rafters of the building. He found none alive; all were dead.

  Looking around the one-horse town, Buldar stumbled upon another building not far away. It was a low built building with no windows. He slowly opened the squeaky door, and cautiously walked down into the room that sunk into the ground. Ozni followed on his heels. Buldar bore a torch for light. In the revealing light, the dirty face of a child looked back at him. Taking a closer look in the shifting shadows, Buldar could see chains around the child’s ankles. Looking beyond the child that had captured the first light of the torch, Buldar could see other children in the background. Like the first, their ankles and wrist also bore heavy chains and their faces and hair dirty, grimy with grease and perspiration.

  The other riders slowly began to make their way into the room of children. Oddly though, these children looked well fed—dirty, but well fed. Speechless, the riders beheld the children with gaping mouths. Finally, out of the silence, Buldar whispered, “Cut their chains. Take them out and don’t let them wander into the other building.”

  “God above, strike them dead,” Ozni prayed, feeling a lust for revenge ignite in his heart towards the wicked ones who did this.

  “… and get Nadora,” added Buldar.

  “Heartless Bastards,” murmured Vandorf, having followed Ozni. “I’ll fight them to my bloody grave if I have to.”

  “What can I…” Nadora was saying as she entered the room, and then became utterly speechless as she beheld the sight of the captive children.

  “Come with me,” Buldar said, taking her by the hand. “Your gentle presence will comfort them.” Buldar, Vandorf, Ozni and Nadora now approached the children slowly. Binko, Zilgor, Nimri, Fleece, Skeener, and Monguard followed. “We’re not goin’ to huht you,” Buldar told them quietly. “We’re goin’ to cut your chains off.”

  Looking into a little girl’s eyes as Buldar cut off her chains; Nadora said sweetly, “You have such beautiful brown eyes. You have the eyes of a princess.”

  The little girl just stared at her stoically. Attempting to get some emotion out of her, Nadora tried again. “We’ll get you cleaned up. What is your name?” The dirty little girl said not a word.

  “You have a name, don’t you?” she persisted. “My name is Nadora!” The little girl still sat speechless.

  “Well then, I guess I will just have to give you a name. How about if I call you Princess?” Nadora bent down and picked up the scared little girl, carrying her through the back door out of the hell of bondage and into the foggy haze.

  Binko asked a little boy his name, but the little boy just stared at him too as though he were in a daze. As he cut the chains, Binko comforted the little boy. “We’re going to get you out of this mess.”

  Monguard thought for sure that Buldar’s colorful horns would make the children warm right up to him, but he was wrong.

  Kneeling down beside another timid-looking boy, Buldar said sweetly, “Everything’s gonna be okay. We’re here to help you.”

  Suddenly, the little boy raised his head and raked his nails across the Sorb’s face, almost clawing his eyes out. Taken by surprise, Buldar shrieked as he pressed his hand to his face and felt the marks pooling up with blood. Then, he came face to face with the wild-eyed little boy. The stone-cold glare was frightening, sort of fiendish, and the child was indeed grimy. He hissed at Buldar who now backed away frightened at the child. Now, exercising caution, he stepped forward again and cut the chains away. The child jumped on him, digging his claws into him again, and then leapt up and ran out the door.

  But the scratches on Buldar’s face ran deep.

  Trying to momentarily put his brother out of his mind and focus on the needs at hand, Zilgar picked up a scarred little child and held her in his arms. As he was carrying her through the haze he tripped over something on the ground. Falling to the ground, the child fell out of his arms and toppled onto the ground. Zilgar quickly got up and ran over to the child. “Are you huht?” he asked. The child said not a word but looked at him with no emotion.

  Going back to see what he had tripped over, Zilgar saw a round wooden top. “I think I found their well,” he announced. As he lifted up the top and placed it to one side, an odor arose that took his breath away. Placing the torch down into the pit, he froze. His eyes fell upon a pit filled with twisted corpses.

  “Well, what are you just sittin’ there for?” Buldar interrogated. Zilgar quickly placed the top back over the hole.

  “What is it?” Buldar now demanded to know? He walked over and placed his hand on the top to lift it up.

  “Leave it alone!” Zilgar shouted, pushing Buldar away. “Don’t open that!” He shouted, shoving him again, his eyes lit up with fury. He was angered by what he saw.

  “Don’t tell me what to do,” Buldar shouted, pushing Zilgar back. The stress had gotten to them. It was getting to the whole group for that matter.

  Zilgar shouted, “There’s nothin’ worth seein’ down there, so leave it alone!”

  “I’ll decide that for myself,” Buldar said, raising the roof. Zilgar pushed him back and the two began to fight.

  “Hey!” Gilgore said, stepping between them. “Break it up! If Zilgar said there’s nothin’ worth seein’ down there, then there’s nothin’ worth seeing down there. Understand!” He bent down to look Buldar straight in the face, emphasizing his point. Buldar walked off, mumbling under his breath. He knew he couldn’t take on the giant or he might have tried.

  Recognizing the familiar looking cap opening into the ground, Windsor and Gilmanza stepped into the situation. “Zilgar is right: There’s nothin’ worth seein’.”

  “Where’s you’re optimism now?” Zilgar growled at Ozni.

  “It’s trying to put out your pessimism,” Ozni said sharply; then, he began to hum a tune.

  “What’s down there?” Amase asked Windsor.

  “They think people are disposable.”

  “What? People are down there?”

  “What’s left of them. They throw corpses down there then after a few accumulate, they set fire to them and refill it up in time. I’ve seen this before.”

  Bewildered at such madness, Amase stared at Windsor, then at the large round wood top sticking out of the ground. He couldn’t imagine such barbarity—and he didn’t want to. But he couldn’t help but wonder what their lives must have been like. He couldn’t bring himself to ponder about their deaths.

  As the children began to emerge from the building, mothers ran towards the children, searching for their own. When they found them, they held them and wept. Even the warriors couldn’t hold back the tears; some of them wiped their faces regularly, trying to hide their sensitive side.

  Meanwhile, some of the riders were cleaning up the children by the river, washing their dirty little bodies and their smelly clothing. Others explored the quarters where the children had been held captive, uncovering a truly deranged system of indoctrination.

  “Hey, look at this,” Fleece said, holding up a piece of written material.

  “It l-ooks like they have been t-teaching the ch-ildren that Dahvan is good and we’re b-ad,” Skeener said.

  “You know,” Ozni said, “I think they’re killing off the oldah generation and raisin’ the youngah ones to follow Dahvan. That is definitely one way for him to build a future ahmy.”

  “It is obvious from the lack of young men here that many chose to become dahk ridahs.” Monguard was quick to notice the lack of young men.

  Among the material were scrolls that taught the children to hate, and to live by violence and in loyalty to the king, Darvan. They wer
e being taught that Darvan was the ultimate good and that King Justiz, the Immortals and all who followed them were evil, and should be killed. They were encouraged to disrespect the life of others, to kill and hate those who did not follow Darvan, his prophets and the leader of the riders. The scroll contained words from followers of Darvan who trumped themselves as wizards, prophets, and teachers, the voices with authority and power.

  Strict servitude to Darvan was propagated by a rigid set of rules and regulations. Their innocent minds were being corrupted by lies and violent behavior.

  “L-et’s burn this tr-ash,” Skeener said, cracking a smile.

  The building of the dead was set on fire along with every scroll and vile thing that aimed at twisting the minds of these children. Water quenched their thirsty lips, food satisfied their empty stomachs, and salve was put on their open wounds. The storehouses of grain were opened and bread was baked over open fires. Windsor settled around a fire with some of the people and fished for information. They didn’t seem to know much. But they did confirm that many of their young men had become dark riders.