Prologue
She slapped the armrest of her throne.
“You dare to question your Queen?”
He had questioned the route, saying it would be quicker to go through the Govi forest, past the Edarian River to the Crown City of Lagier. He knelt and bowed his head. Who was he to question her orders?
When his commander had retired and handed him command. Hiram was told that the Queen was a hard person to understand, and it was not his place to question. The Haultiers’ honor revolved around the protection of the Queen. He should have refused to take this route.
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Until now, his honor had been his only reason for living, he who had been First Haulter. Now he wept, as the hilts of his Thornwood swords lay pinned between his hands and the brown sand of this foreign land, the ground wet from where his tears had fallen. Blood from comrades and enemies mixed, flowing through the uneven brown sand. Bodies’ lay all round him, surrounding him to either side, stacked like kindling where they had fallen. The Kadari’s personal guard had attacked them suddenly, a thousand men to thirty. He was the only living thing in the sea of corpses, and he wept, his honor taken away, betrayed.
He raised his eyes to the remains of the battle. They had just crossed the Hadarian Range, which had given the Kingdom its name, shouting the call of the Haultier as was customary when escorting the Queen. Hai katalee tu vati. Hai katalee tu itjada. The protectors of life. The protectors of honor.
The lush grass and green trees gradually gave way to brown sand that glistened in the sun. Sparse patches of grass and brush clung precariously to life as images danced in the heat. Trudging through the sand, the heat seeped into their footwear that sank into the brown sun baked oven. The armor shone brightly as the sun gleamed and sweat streamed down their faces, clinging the leather to their bodies that was to keep the armor from chaffing. He had periodically inspected the Queen’s coach to verify that the Guards did their job during the journey. The Haultiers were to be the first and last line of defense in case of a trap.
The first Haulter halted them in-between two hills studying the dunes of sand. A slight breeze flowed through the valley, ruffling the banner. At first he had thought they were just shimmers of heat, a mirage from the glare, then the shouting started and their swords were pulled to protect the Queen.
The Kadari’s men came over the hills and from the head of the valley, swarming like ants. The line stayed in the wedge as his hand, fist clenched, rose into the air. Thirty yards, twenty, ten and at five the hand came down, screaming, “We fight for honor!” And they engaged. The twin Thornwood swords dancing as the wedge spread into the Kadari’s elite guard. Thornwood sliced through swords and shields surprising the Kadari’s men as they fell, bleeding only to have three to take the place of the fallen.
He yelled to hold the line, but one-by-one the Haulter’s fell as the overwhelming number of the Kadari’s forces found openings in the dizzying whirl of spinning blades. Jut hai itjada! Jut hai atakina! For the honor! For the innocent! Filled the air above the screams and the clash of weapons. Block, thrust and slash as the sun faded into evening, arms slowing as swords cut, leaving wounded men moaning and dying.
The First Haulter had caught a glimpse of the Kadari himself at the top of a hill at one point. The emblem of the Kadari, a white Tiger, floated on a banner against a red background. Then he was gone as their ranks thinned. He heard the gasp to his left as two of the Kadari’s men faced him; they looked around at the destruction, looked at him and fled. He chased them and stopped at the edge of the battlefield and raised his swords. He walked back to the field. His fallen comrades bodies lay mixed with the enemy to find The Queen and her personal guard, gone. The trap was set for them. He fell to his hands and knees.
The blood congealed. His tears lay in pools on the russet sand, frowning, he wondered why? Why wasn’t the sand soaking in the moisture? He laughed at that thought. They were betrayed, why was he worrying about moisture?
Why were they betrayed? He stared out over the barren wasteland without seeing. That one thought resounding in his mind as the heat of the sand went unnoticed into his hands and knees as the sun steadily disappeared into the sand. He did not care he had nothing left, his honor had been stolen away. Why not have them assassinated? At least, he would not have to feel the anguish of betrayal.
He did not know how long he stayed in that wasteland of sand or when he had sat up and sheathed his swords, the multicolor setting of the sun long gone. Only darkness remained, darkness and the bodies of his fallen comrades. The King’s servants had come and taken what was left of the Kadari’s guard, he stared into darkness of the land. They had given him a wide berth, though he had been unaware of their presence. If he were aware, would it have made a difference?
Clouds covered the moon and stars, a fitting end for a dark day. He stood and took a swig from his water skin; his lips briefly stinging from the salt his sweat had left behind. He had no food; they were not expected to need any. Hunger was a necessity he did not care about right now, anyways.
He stumbled in the darkness, looking down to notice the leg of a fallen comrade, the body already swollen from the heat. He stepped over the body, brushing flies away, and wandered as exhaustion soaked in. He would walk up one hill and roll or slid down the other side, only to rise spitting out the gritty sand. The hours blended into one another, as did the hills with his legs finally succumbing to exhaustion. He stared at the brown, uneven ground.
The last soldier moaned at the sunlight that glared off crystalline sand and shielded his eyes from the light. Standing, he took another sip as hunger gripped him. He took one step and stumbled as his feet dragged through the sand. He took off his helm and threw it away, his hair a black wet mop. Pieces of his armor were stripped away as he trudged the sand until there was nothing left but the leather that kept the armor from chaffing, but even the upper half of that was gone by mid morning.
Sweat dampened the leather leggings and clung the sword sheathes to his back as he wiped the sweat from his face, tongue constantly working to moisten cracking lips. He would take a sip of water, only to cough half of it onto the brown sand and watched as it evaporated in the heat.
Once the last Haulter found himself standing on a brown hill, arms outstretched, laughing at nothing. Another time he found himself chasing a mirage that he had thought was a comrade, yelling out his name.
He had swung his swords at images of the Kadari’s army to fall exhausted to the ground, awaking in the night shivering from the cold. The only thing he did notice was the absence of life in this wasteland, only a few feeble patches of brown grass and dead bushes littered the barren graveyard.
This night came as all the others and he sat shivering in the cold, a sag in his shoulders. He gingerly touched cracked lips and winced at the pain. Blood came away with his finger. He took the water skin and let the last of it drip onto his fingers and put them on his lips, which did help to ease the burning. He rubbed his arms against the cold, his stomach knotting from hunger.
His mind a torment from the voice constantly screaming for vengeance as it slowly drowned the voice of reason, a voice that reminded him of who he was. He was a Haulter, a man of honor! This one would remind him of what that had meant. Betrayal. The other would say, it was the Queens’ betrayal not his. His other voice replied with laughter.
His eyes snapped open, a thought becoming clearer. It was the Queen’s betrayal. He struggled to his feet with the moon at its crest, crawling to the top of a brown hill surprised that even in his stupor he had walked along the Hadarian range. Half falling, half rolling he came to be laying at the bottom of the hill, the sand sliding next to him, cracked lips burning as he struggled for air. A deep boom of thunder echoed in the clear night sky, the man without honor smiled knowing from the sound that someone had died trying to pick up a Thornwood sword.
He rolled; ignoring the brown sand that dug into his chest, he dragged himself to the greenness of the foothills. He crawled to the edge of the woods that lined the foothills. Clinging to a tree, he pulled himself up, and looked into the vanishing darkness through the underbrush around the tree. He fell, and lay slumped against the tree, the sun breaking the horizon. Gasping air, he pulled the twin swords and planted them in the ground. Pulling himself with the swords, his muscles burned and his skin screamed from the sand that had embedded into his chest. Slowly, he dragged himself forward.
He blinked at the swaying mixture of light, and shadows that played in the canopy. He had fallen asleep and rolled over somehow. Sitting up, he grasped the stalk of the Bellflower and sipped the honey-sweet water that gathered there from the dew. Taking petals from the inside, he chewed them and blanched at the tartness knowing they would help his healing. He chewed. He opened his mouth and let the mess fall onto the ground, his mouth numb. He lay down and dozed.
Two days the man lay there, the only time the Haulter rose was to drink and chew the petals until his mouth went numb, going back to sleep for his body to heal.
The third day, he sat up, and felt the smoothness of his lips; he listened for the first time to the noise around him. Several birds chattered as squirrels eyed him from the sides of trees and somewhere a frog croaked. Butterflies flitted through the patchy light.
He smiled, stood and stretched. He glanced at his chest, the gritty sand gone with no scars. His sun baked body now faded back to its natural olive color.
He bent and picked up the twin swords, as his stomach screamed for food, sheathing one he walked to a sapling whose bark was still green. Using the sword he stripped small long strips, once he had three the small length the olive skinned man stretched and twisted them one at a time to long thin strings of bark. Tying one into a loop to create a snare. The others he tied to each other and to the end of the snare.
He followed the rabbit trail to the burrow, using the sticks he formed the snare half way up the entrance, where the head would go through but not the feet and tied the other end to a small bush. He walked back to the Bellflower, picking red berries along the way. As he sat, he eyed a partially hidden form in the brush and wished he had his bow, he wondered if he even had the strength to pull it. Soon, I shall know the reason of the betrayal. He lay, after eating the berries, staring up into the canopy as a breeze brushed the tops, causing them to sway. The healing power of the Bellflower did little to extinguish his hunger; at least he was able to walk.
He stood and walked back to the snare as twilight deepened in the trees to see the rabbit in its last vestige of life. Undoing the snare from around its neck, he carried the rabbit back to the flower. After clearing a space for a fire, he pulled apart the dried moss he had gathered early and laid it in the center of the cleared area. Taking some small broken sticks for kindling and then placed slightly larger sticks on top of the stack. He pulled his flint and steel from the small pouch, amazed that he had managed to hang onto it, and built a small fire. He skinned the rabbit and threw the remains to the yellow eyes that watched hungrily.
The fire hissed and spit from the grease that flowed from the rabbit. He would idly place a berry in his mouth as he turned the rabbit. The man would grin with the rustling behind, sensing the wolves as they watched. They knew what he was, the animals always knew. When he first became a Haulter he had wondered, but no one could give him an answer. Only that he was apart of nature now and that was reason enough. He wiped his mouth, after finishing what he wanted, throwing the remains of the rabbit to the wolves and he heard them fighting for the scraps. Taking a drink from the Bellflower he lay down knowing where he was going the next morning. With his belly satisfied, he slept.
He woke and sat up. Sliding his arms into the sheathe holders, he adjusted them until they felt comfortable and started west. He avoided the road, instead keeping to the woods, and hiding in barns. He ate berries and meat that he found in smoke rooms as the Haultier slowly made his way to the city Hadarian.
The people whispered as he walked shirtless through the cobbled stone street. Blacksmiths stopped with their hammers hanging in the air. Merchants grew silent; women would pull their children into shops. Horse drawn carts would veer onto different streets to avoid him; even the guards patrolling the streets would not make eye contact with this man, the last Haulter. The whispering continued even when he could no longer hear.
He walked purposely through the portcullis ignoring the guards. These men averted their eyes from the one; they had once called brother. Passing through the tunnel, past the stairs that lead to the rampart, he walked through the inner gate onto the wide boulevard lined with trees of varying shapes. People walked along the road admiring the beauty of the grounds. Men perched on the large fountain centered on the grounds with canvases on tripods. Bushes and flowers stood in the center of the road that curved in front of the Palace.
None of that matter, he could not hear or see anything other than the double doors that lead into the Palace. If he had noticed, he would have paused at the carriage bearing the White Tiger on a red backdrop, standard of the Kadari.
He could hear the whispers from the people that came here. The women in their elegant ruffled gowns and men wearing velvet jackets. Fools! He thought to himself as he pushed through the throng of people waiting for an audience with the Queen.
The ladies in waiting fanned themselves on cushioned benches that sat between the columns as their escorts tripped over themselves trying to please them. The Ladies would eye him and whispered among themselves, giggling. The men in puffy thick maroon velvet jackets, the status of their stations sewn on each sleeve, and pleated white shirts. Black pants tied at mid calf over white socks and velvet shoes with tassels. They sniffed at the shirtless man with the twin swords with fear or was it envy? Plush chairs lined the east wall between the shelves of books. Glass cabinets filled with objects of beauty from other countries and as gifts lined the west wall. A cold fireplace sat in the corner of the east and south walls. Columns of marble sat in polished wood floors.
He pushed open the Throne room doors and pushed through the Lords in their black jackets with tails and ladies in dresses, usually reserved for the Queen’s ball and stopped as he looked at the throne.
The nobles gave way.
The last Haulter’s laughter echoed through the silent room. He watched as the Kadari bent and whispered to the Queen.
Smirking she rose, speaking in a voice filled with half honor, half disgust. “Hail, Haulter! Hail Hiram Cognir!” She paused, “Hail last Haulter!”
Her face reddened as his laughter deepened. She walked to him as her guards, hands on hilts, flanked her. She slapped him. ”How dare you laugh at your Queen?”
Hiram fell to his knees, stretched out his arms and laughed at the irony of it all.
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