Chapter 5

The lowliest of lands is likely to produce the worst crop, be it of food or people. But within Whisperwinds, where evil grows under the beckoning of fire, winds of change still blow strong and wild.

Chapter 5

            Windhaven would never be called a capitol were one ignorant in the lay of the land and its history. It was little more than a palatial manse behind a temple, surrounded on all sides by clusters of reinforced huts. Other clusters of huts spread out more than a mile in all directions, though it became significantly sparse further out. The entire region was known as the Whisperwinds, and the wind mages who called it home for centuries had more pride in their huts and whistling foliage than others had in their most prized treasure. There was never any lack of breeze, but it was controlled, and comfortable, and never overwhelming or inconvenient.

            The breeze always roamed through the Wind Temple, an open-air tiled octagon with nine pillars, one in each corner and one in the center. A bronze statue of Tempestia, Goddess of Wind, stood near the center of the temple, just before the pillar. It rose nearly eight feet into the air. The temple’s builders recreated the first wind whip, her great ivy vine. They cast it in bronze and extended it up to the vaulted dome ceiling. Images of blue and white wind whipping through high grasses and swaying trees spread with intricate precision outward in every direction from the tip of the whip. Priestess Nassu was the youngest of the Wind Temple’s servants, and found herself again sweeping stray leaves, grass, and dirt back outside the temple and away from Tempestia. She did it after every late-morning prayer ceremony, and then had the next few hours to scrub the columns and tend more gently to Tempestia herself before the evening ceremony.

            There were still a few small groups of stragglers lingering outside the temple, as always, putting off their daily duties while Nassu had no choice lest she wanted to deal with the older sisters. She spotted Ruxson Chadwick. He was standing by himself, just next to a corner pillar, his arms folded over his broad chest, tightly covered by his leather jerkin. His pleated leather skirt blew in the western breezes, and his tree trunk thigh muscles glistened in the afternoon sun. Priestess Nassu suddenly realized she had been sweeping the same spot on the floor for nearly a minute, and that’s just when Ruxson noticed her. He smiled, and Nassu put her gaze back to the debris on the floor immediately, her eyes wide and her body suddenly tense with nerves. She heard his leather boots on the floor before he got to her.

            “Priestess,” he said with a curt nod.

            “Captain Chadwick,” she said, smiling obligatorily.

            “Please, call me Ruxson. My men can call me captain. You are a woman of peace, and innocence, and purity.”

            Her smile stayed in place, no longer forced. “Nature is gracious today.”

            Ruxson looked around at the fields of tall grass, spotted with weeping willows, and then up at the blue sky dotted with puffy white clouds. “Indeed,” he agreed. “I see you here often, Priestess…”

            “Nassu.”

            “A beautiful name. Fitting, really. I see you here often, and I see your dedication, but I’ve never spoken to you.”

            “My duty is caretaker. I’m still the youngest priestess.”

            “And you do a splendid job. The dedication I see, it’s in your eyes, yes, but your eyes often wander outside the temple. The landscape is beautiful, but unvarying. What do you intend to see, Priestess Nassu?”

            Her words were suddenly caught. “Tempestia is everywhere. Not just in this temple, where her idol resides. I prefer to imagine her all over the lands, calming and soothing.”

            Ruxson nodded and grinned. “That is touching. So you want to see the world?”

            Nassu had some reluctance in her. Why was the Captain of Windhaven concerned with her wants and needs? But when she looked at him, she saw true curiosity, honest interest. If Nassu was confident in any of her skills besides sweeping and scrubbing, it was understanding people without them wanting to be understood. “I only wish to ride the winds that Tempestia blows, to the furthest corner, to soothe the loneliest or most heartbroken person.”

            “I admire you. But you are naïve. We have it good here. But Tempestia is not always soothing and calming. She has a dark side, one that can be easily harnessed, and the evil of the world spreads farther and seeps deeper than any wind. Be thankful that you’re stuck here, Nassu, where the wind is soft and the people simple. Be thankful that you’re a prisoner without walls.”

            Ruxson bowed at the priestess, and she smiled back. But it was once again an obligatory smile. The captain had saddened her, but he stopped her foolish dreaming just as quickly as it had begun. What beauty was in the world was tainted, and what attraction she found in Ruxson was likely just as poisonous as said world. She moved to her last corner. She put her head down and fixed her eyes to the tile, sweeping every last speck out of the temple and back onto the filthy ground beyond Tempestia.

The Lord’s Manse at Windhaven was a stone structure, much like the temple that sat in front of it. But there were walls, thick ones, and they were smooth and bright white and every door and window was lined with a gold piping that made any onlooker assume that what lay within was much more lavish than what lay without. Such an assumption would be accurate. Lord Evest Enzio kept his palace full. It was full of people, and treasures, and food and spirits. Nearly every room had a large and luxuriously inviting bed. Even the dining hall had plush couches lining the walls. Whenever Evest was sober enough to sit up straight in a wooden chair his female companions lounged on the couches, their chests bare and their bottoms barely covered by linen so soft and thin that you could make out their bushes and cracks. While they weren’t occupied with pleasing the lord, there were two men to each of them. These men were charged with pleasing the women. They fanned them with large tree fronds and fed them fruits, the juices of which they wiped from their chin before it ran any further down their bodies and made them sticky. There were many men whose job it was just to walk around with pitchers of robust firewine or fruity windwhite or heady brown ale.

The guards of Windhaven’s manse were not sentinels. They were not intimidating and they were never sober. They came and went as they pleased. But their numbers were so great, and their appreciation of their lord so strong, that they would jump at even the slightest chance to defend him and the pleasures he provided. Beds were always open, as were legs, and most of the men of Windhaven found themselves waking up on and between both of them most mornings.

Noon was fast approaching when Lord Enzio took a seat for his brunch. It was three hours after his breakfast and two hours before his lunch, a lighter meal he preferred of fine cheeses and choice grapes accompanied by whichever wine his chief caretaker saw fit for the day. The table was full of his advisors, some of whom ate with him. A few had women on their laps or a mug of beer in their hand. The couches also had pairings and groups sprawled across them. Some were just resting, a few were getting intimate, and others were just watching.

“I’ll be visiting the Gardens this afternoon,” Evest announced to his staff when they put his plates down. “I’d like my lunch there, too. Something earthy and warm.”

“Very well, lord,” Steward Danzio said as he poured the wine.

“And make sure only the closest circle is present,” he said in a lower voice only to Danzio. “Keep the others occupied elsewhere. I’d like a peaceful afternoon.”

“Of course,” he said as he walked away with his pitcher, the others right behind him.

“Where is Ruxson?” Evest asked loudly, to anyone who might answer.

“He was at late-morning prayers,” said a man towards the end of the table.

“Of course he was,” Evest said with a roll of his eyes. “But my captain should be by my side unless I lay in my bed or with a woman. Someone fetch him.” A couple of guards got up from the couches and left the dining hall. “Someone else make sure I get more of this watermelon. With dipping cream this time.”

A few minutes passed before Ruxson entered the hall, the two guards trailing. They resumed their lounging. Ruxson removed his feathered bronze helm and held it at his waist. He had his weaponry on now, a windwhip and daggers at his hips and a shortsword strapped on his back. He passed the couches and the chairs, the cheeses and fruits and wines and beers, and he placed himself behind Lord Enzio slightly to the left. Ruxson was strong willed, a captain with little to do but defend the honor of his lord. He knew the lord had little to do as well, less than him, and therefore he lived a life of overindulgence and gluttony. Honor kept Ruxson in place.

Danzio carried over a tray of watermelon with a small bowl of sweet dipping cream on the side. He placed it down on the table over the shoulder Ruxson was not standing behind, then pulled a small scroll from a pocket and put it next to the tray. “A letter, arrived during prayer, from Leonia, by way of blackbird.”

“Very well…” Evest said, disinterested. He ate a few chunks of watermelon and had to dab some of the cream from the corners of his mouth before opening the scroll. He did so casually, the wetness from the cream and watermelon soaking through the parchment where his fingers held it. It only took him a few seconds to read it. He tossed it back onto the table, where it curled back up again, blind to anyone else’s eyes.

“What news, Lord Enzio?” asked a man casually after he took a swig from his beer.

“Guyanno Greatwind has doubted the power and will of the Greatmage,” he answered.

“Sounds foolish.”

“That cousin was always too stubborn for his own good,” Evest said, finishing his wine. He turned back and looked at Ruxson. “This one is just right.”

Ruxson knew Guyanno quite well, but hadn’t seen him in what felt like ages. He was a man of honor, at a rank almost equal to his, but under the Greatmage rather than the Windlord. Guyanno was sent to Leonia as Lord Evest’s Highmage to serve as a general in the Greatmage’s army. Ruxson was left to serve and defend. Windhaven was quiet and dull. Leonia was the opposite, Ruxson knew, and he worried for his other cousin.

“What is Guy’s fate?” he asked.

“His whereabouts are unknown. Likely a deserter, a coward, scared of the true power of the Blazelands and the Whisperwinds.”

“Who sent the letter?” Ruxson pressed.

“Meh,” Evest said, shrugging his shoulder and tossing his hand into the air. “Wine!”

Ruxson leaned over and grabbed the scroll, reading it himself with a face that changed as he read each word. By the end he looked angry, and nervous, and scared. “There is much more to this letter, Evest. And it is not signed. It is from an anonymous source. The Greatmage always marks his messages.”

“Then it just as well may be a ruse,” said the man with the beer.

“It says,” Ruxson said, raising his voice so the entire room could hear him. “Guyanno is to be condemned to the chasm. Greywind, perhaps the best-known and most respected wind mage of our time, has been taken captive. Guyanno’s boys are not allowed to return home. The Antamage is on his way to the Whisperwinds with a small host to bring Guyanno’s wife and daughter back to the Blazelands. That would be quite an intricate ruse.”

“My lord?” the beer man said, and almost everyone looked at Evest as he wiped his mouth again and sipped at the next wine brought to him.

“It is not our business. The Greatmage is our leader, not our enemy. We don’t question his decisions,” he said, taking another sip. “Guyanno must face the consequences of his actions.”

“Which were what?” another man asked from a couch, directed at Ruxson.

“It does not say.”

“Then we do not get involved,” Evest said. “It would be prudent of us to act as if we never even received this letter. Burn it.”

Ruxson stood silent, and the rest of the room remained still. “Very well,” he said reluctantly. “But perhaps we could send men to retrieve Gale and the girl. Guyanno’s actions should not reach so far as to effect them.”

“If a wife does not answer to her husband’s shortcomings, who will?”

“The man himself.”

Lord Enzio pushed his seat back a bit and turned his round body to look up at Ruxson standing behind him. His brows were raised and his eyes wide. “We. Do. Not. Get. Involved.”

“Yes,” Ruxson said, bowing slightly.

“I dismiss you for the day,” Evest said as he returned to his food and drink. “I dismiss you all for the day!”

The room knew that Evest could not be pushed far before snapping. They quickly left their food and drink and women behind and exited. Only lord and ladies remained once the men dispersed, and they drank and laughed and lusted the afternoon away.

“Captain,” a man said behind Ruxson as he left the manse, his helm back on his head. He turned and saw the same man who had questioned him from the couch, three others flanking him. “We think you’re right. And we can’t be the only ones.”

Ruxson looked them over and saw the honesty in their eyes. These four men he recognized. They did what Windhaven beckoned them to do, but they were still skilled and reliable mages. They couldn’t have been much different than he. “We haven’t time to find anymore. If we ride out now we can reach Gale’s village by high moon. Find your armor and weapons, and I’ll gather the steeds. And not a word to anyone.”

They all nodded and fanned out in different directions.

The cooking took long, the dinner was quick, and the cleaning was frustrating. Gale’s day was long, and tired was an understatement. All she wanted was to lay with her baby girl. Zephyra wasn’t a baby anymore, for sure, but a girl of fifteen with enough sense and dexterity to be a young lady. Still, they slept together, if for no reason other than space. Lord Enzio sent Guyanno to Leonia years ago, and Gale had no desire to stay in Evest’s luxuriant manse without her husband. She also refused to take her still infant daughter across such a desolate land to the realm of fire and oppression. So Guyanno set out with the boys to the capitol, and Zephyra went with her mother to the village in which her parents raised her. It was small, and off the beaten path, but it was home, and she comfortable.

There was only one bed. It was a decent size, but as Zephyra grew it became more of a hassle. When Gale’s parents and sister were still alive and they all lived together in the hut, it was the parents who slept on the dirt floor with itchy grain sacks as blankets. Gale had more now, thanks to Guyanno’s position. Yet she never grew to enjoy the pleasures she was kept from as a girl. She appreciated them, but they never consumed her. She always reminded herself that one should be able to live without treasures or fancy clothes. Her hut and the surrounding ones were proof of that.

The wind was as persistent as ever. Gale had her cooking pot cleared and put aside. She quickly threw more wood on the fire in the center of the hut. The smoke rose and found the only opening once the door was hooked shut, the faux chimney fashioned into most of the huts. It was in the center of the roof, little more than a hole with a hollowed trunk placed atop it. It ventilated the hut while still keeping much of the heat inside. Gale stayed on her knees by the fire, rubbing her hands together next to the warmth and letting it soak into her skin, leaning her face close enough that her eyes almost watered.

“Mama,” Zephyra said from behind. “My belly hurts.”

She is still a little girl, Gale thought as she stood and turned at the same time, grinning. “You ate too fast, my angel.”

Zephyra just groaned and lay back in the bed. Gale sat on the edge of it and rubbed her daughter’s arm with firmness. “Should I fetch some saltwater? Or the healer? Perhaps he has to fish some of that fish out of your belly?”

Zephyra looked up at her mother and smiled, shaking her head. “Can you tell a story?

Gale pondered if she was feigning illness to get a story, but then she realized she would tell her daughter a story whether she was sick or healthy. Gale and her sister never had to beg for a story growing up, because her parents knew them all, and they loved to tell them to pass the time and keep the girls occupied. It was a great feeling, knowing that Zephyra liked the stories as much as she had.

“What story would make you feel better?”

Zephyra shrugged.

“Tempestia’s First Wind?”

She shook her head.

“Forging of Lightwater?”

She shook her head again.

“The Vast War?”

“No.”

“Don’t you want to hear a happy story?”

“You can never know happiness without first knowing sadness.”

Gale looked down at her daughter, pondering. “Perhaps that should be the other way around. Where did you hear that?”

“Miss Cron.”

“Life can be full of only happiness.”

“Not ours.”

Gale suddenly felt worried. Had she failed as a mother? Did Zephyra not see the good in the world? “We live very happy lives. We live in peace and live minimally, without pressure.”

“Then why haven’t father and Gus and Sam come home yet?”

“Because father is a very big reason why we live in peace. He is very important to the alliance and the cause.”

“Tell me that story.”

“Daddy’s story? How he came to be a general?”

“No. The story of our alliance.”

Gale wanted to settle in, and so she slumped down in the bed and pulled her legs up, cradling her daughter. The fire crackled. They were warm and comfortable. Still, she remembered the colder and wetter nights when she was younger. There was no fire to be had then. The Whisperwinds were wet much too often, and usable firewood was hard to come by, a luxury in those days. But then the winds shifted, and the precipitation ended.

“The Whisperwinds was once a dismal, isolated land that outsiders visited so rarely that it was left off many maps made in other regions. Wind has always been seen as the weakest of the elements. And so it was simple common sense when, nearly two hundred years ago, water and light moved in, trying to pull us in as well. We weren’t oppressed as slaves, but as subjects, expected to provide crops from our outfields and taxes from our coffers, concepts never before known in the region. Adepts from The Tear and Lightning Bay were respected liaisons at first. But it didn’t take long for them to become smug, and to ask for more than we could give. And so one day we started fighting back in the War of Whisperwinds. We lost great numbers of mages and commonfolk, cutting our numbers down significantly. Everyone, even the farthest, loneliest farmer, was in danger. Except beyond the Great Chasm. The Blazelands, remember, was and still is the one land the water adepts could not soak and the light adepts could not shock.”

“And the Great Chasm was built by Erthanall,” Zephyra said in a whisper.

“The Great Chasm was not built. You know that. What was it?”

“It was Erthanall’s Last Laugh.”

“Yes. Ages ago, before our recorded histories, the Earth Elementals tortured the world, enslaving the realms lest they wanted their lives crushed under the weight of wood and stone. No one dared stand up to Erthanall’s armies, masters of quakes and worldly destruction.”

“Until the Grand Alliance.”

“Yes. Leone, First Greatmage, secretly proposed to the lords of what are now Lightning Bay, Windhaven, and The Tear. Leone and his fire army attacked Erthanall’s great castle on the banks of Shadowsea, the greatest fortress ever constructed. He brought Erthanall’s first army to its knees and, in a grand sacrifice, unleashed upon the castle a fiery might that took with it his very soul. Leone destroyed much of the castle, and lay dead upon the field as a result. His son, Antaleone the first, retreated with his father’s corpse and army in tow, back to Leonia.

“Antaleone, now Greatmage, sealed himself and all of his people in the walls of Leonia. It was his father’s last command. Antaleone knew the plan, but his fear was palpable. As the predictable Erthanall, a man with a wrathful mind and short fuse, marched on Leonia, the armies closed in around him on the scorched field of the Blazelands. Wind from the west, water from the south, and light from the east, all clamped down on Erthanall’s largest, grandest army. They choked the very life from the Earth Elementals. With Erthanall’s walls closing in around him, he let out a devilish cry. The land shook violently for minutes until suddenly it caved in, and all the armies and all their lives fell into a chasm darker and deeper than even the most evil nightmare. The pit spread, as Erthanall’s rage was so great and deep. It encircled the Blazelands, and sucked down the outer edges of Leonia, trapping them all in Erthanall’s prison, a Great Chasm that cut them off from the rest of the world.”

“And then the two alliances were forged?” Zephyra asked innocently.

“No, no, dear,” Gale said, shaking her head. “What is our Greatmage’s number?”

“Greatmage Antrum the forty-ninth,” she recited robotically.

“Yes, and father’s Antamage will be the fiftieth. Remember, Leone sacrificed himself to draw Erthanall into his trap, and then Antaleone I fell into the Great Chasm. Antaleone II, a boy of your age at the time, was left in charge of the alienated Blazelands. He grew up too fast, but his leadership pulled the Blazelands together. They managed to survive without any outside resources. Fire had always been their weapon, but it soon became their sustenance. They prospered in some ways, but not as the rest of the lands did. They came to trust only in themselves, and they were forced to rely so much on their element that it is said to now be the most potent of them all. They were the strongest, the most self-reliant. But they were prisoners.”

“Until a Greatmage built the first Burning Bridge.”

“It wasn’t just any Greatmage. Antaleone the thirty-third.”

“Antaleone the Fireless.”

“So it was thought. For since his first training at Mageship, he did not produce a single flame. Instead, he spent most of his life surveying the Great Chasm, traveling around and around it, comparing certain gaps here and there until he found what he believed was the point where the chasm was narrowest. And then, on his seventieth nameday, he led a small mage troop to that point. He prepared himself by the edge, and unleashed a fiery passage that reached the land across the chasm. Antaleone the Fireless was quite the opposite. He did as his ancestor, the Great Leone, and saved his people from their prison with a fire that still burns to this day. Because even as he fell to his knees, and then collapsed, taking his last journey to the afterlife, his fiery passage remained. His son, Antaleone the thirty-forth, mourned his father for only a moment before seeing that he had built a bridge, a bridge of fire, a Burning Bridge.”

“He was the first to cross.”

“And his mages were not far behind. There was no true footing. Only if you were one with fire, a true mage of the flames, could you cross the Burning Bridge. Antaleone XXXIV didn’t even turn back to Leonia, but rather led his mages all the way to Windstream. So enthralled were they by the sloshing of water under their feet and the feeling of wind on their face that they crossed Windstream and wandered into the territory of Whisperwinds, eventually finding a settlement and announcing themselves to a group of curious folk. They were led to Windhaven, and introduced to Lord Brodley, and thus the first new alliance was made.”

“But it was a secret.”

“It was a secret to most of the Whisperwinds, and a secret to most of the Blazelands. It was a secret to all the rest of the realm and the outer reaches of the world, still under the impression that the line of Leone was lost, and the last fire was quelled. The Tear and Lightning Bay and the hillfolk and foresters of the day never caught wind of our alliance with the Antrums.

“Until the Whisperwinds were taken.”

“They weren’t taken. They weren’t even wanted, except by us. It wasn’t until years ago that any inhabitant of the Whisperwinds was able to enter the Blazelands. No one had done so since Erthanall’s Last Laugh, and even today it’s only thanks to the Greatmage and his phoenixes.”

“Father rode on a phoenix?”

“Yes, and the boys.”

“I’d like to some day.”

“You may, when you’re older and able to visit father,” Gale grinned. “When the adepts caught wind of our alliance they realized how threatening it could be. And so they"”

“They marched on us,” Zephyra said eagerly.

“You seem to know the rest,” Gale said, and she looked passed her daughter and watched the shadows and light moving on the thicket walls. She suddenly felt tired. The length and toil of the day, from the first ray of sunlight to the last scrubbed cloth at Windstream, was taking its toll. Her eyes felt heavy.

“Keep going,” Zephyra requested. “Please.”

She continued, but it felt more like she was telling the story to herself, the softness of her voice enough to pull her closer and closer to sleep. “The mage army stood across the chasm. Only one foolish adept tried to cross the Burning Bridge, and he fell to a dark and deep death, his flaming corpse lighting the walls of the chasm. Every fire mage birthed the biggest fireball they could, and every wind mage whipped all the stagnant Blazelands’ air about to build the strongest cyclones. The winds swept fireballs across the chasm, and over the enemy, and across the region. The fiery wave was so far-reaching and wide that it dried up and scorched the forest there. And so The Retreat was born, that empty land of demise between the Whisperwinds and the Blazelands that still very few men have crossed save on the wings of a phoenix.” Gale’s eyes were closed, and she could tell the story was trailing off into such choppiness and quietness that she was just as near sleep as her daughter.

“That was a glorious story,” a deep, heavy voice said, and Gale shot up with wide eyes, but was grasped immediately by a tall lumbering man. She struggled and kicked, and she watched as another man placed a black hood over Zephyra’s head. Dreamdust, Gale thought as she watched her daughter fall limply into an unavoidable slumber, and she let out a gut-wrenching, blood-curdling scream before the man placed another hood over her head. Sleep took her almost instantly. The large man carried Gale out of the hut. A smaller one had Zephyra over his shoulder.

“Place the girl on mine,” Antaleone said to the men. “Take Gale on yours, Craxell.”

“That was easy enough,” Craxell said, his devilish grin matching his ruby eyes.

“Antamage,” said a nearby fireguard, pointing to a dark space between huts

“Who goes there?” asked an approaching man. “Gale, was that you? Is trouble afoot?”

The man hobbled ever so slowly through the darkness. His cane was a crooked branch with a smoothed top to fit in his skeletal hand. It seemed his vision was failing, too. The mages saw him long before he could see them.

“Halt there, old man,” Antaleone said in a commanding voice.

The old man continued. Perhaps his hearing was just as bad. Yet he heard the scream.

“Who’s there?” he asked, and he stopped when he was about ten feet away. “Mages, are you? Of fire?”

“Indeed, sir,” said another mage. “We meant not to wake you. Return to your hut.”

“I see fire in your eyes,” he said, taking a few more short steps.

“As you should,” Craxell said. He let Gale fall brutally to the ground. He approached the man, leaving Antaleone by himself as his guards created a half-circle in front of him.

“No, no. All fire mages have fire in their eyes. But your fire is laced with malice. What have you done to Gale? And where is Zephyra?”

“Fast asleep,” Craxell said with a grin.

“Then why have you come? Is Guyanno in danger?”

“That is not your concern.”

“It is. I am this village’s Windseer.”

“Return to your hut,” Craxell demanded. His grin was gone.

“Lightning is gone in an instant. Water melts away into the earth or under the sun. Even all fires must die. Wind blows on as ever as time. I see and understand more than you know. ZEPHYRA!” His voice was surprisingly loud out of nowhere.

“Craxell,” Antaleone said, seething. “That will be all.”

In an instant Craxell raised his hand, and the mandarine garnet set into his palm was already aglow. He didn’t create a monstrous fireball, but a fiery projectile with enough power to quickly engulf the old Windseer. He screamed as he burned, and he burned for some time before the flames found his soul and engulfed it, taking him on to the afterlife. Onlookers gathered as the execution went on, and before it ended there were at least twenty people scattered in all directions. Another man picked up Gale and took her away with Zephyra to the phoenixes outside the village.

“Deadflame burns again, old man,” Craxell said to the flaming corpse. “Fire never dies.”

Antaleone hadn’t wanted it to turn to this, but the new light in his eyes told otherwise. He gave one final command before turning to return to the phoenixes. “BURN IT ALL, MEN!”

High moon was over them and the clouds that came in with night had all but dissolved. The night was crisp and they rode with the wind, the very wind they commanded to push them, push them onwards towards Gale’s village. Stars were bright and clustered between the breaking clouds, but the moon was brightest, so high up in the black sky like a spotlight.

“RIDE, MEN!” Ruxson shouted back. They moved swiftly through the tall grass. Their horses felt the urgency of their riders and rushed through the sea of grass, letting out great heaving breaths between long even strides.

“That should be the last ridge!” one of the other riders yelled as they approached it.

They hit the incline, and the steepness of the land increased, and the density of the grass grew, but the horses never slowed. Ruxson made it to the top of the ridge first, and it hit him like a sack of rocks to the chest. He slowed his stride, and the four men behind him followed suit. The pillars of smoke were black and thick and rose eerily under the light of the moon. It wasn’t long until Ruxson stopped his horse completely. Two men sat atop their horses on either side.

“Captain?” the closest one said.

“It appears we are too late,” Ruxson said, defeated. He looked down the hill and towards the burning village. The anger he felt inside, at himself and the attackers, was indescribable.

There was a minute or two of silence. “Up ahead, sir,” said the rider furthest left. “Just at the foot of the hill.”

It was a horse, for sure. But the shadows at the bottom of the hill were too deep to make out much more. The horse was riding right at them. “Whips,” Ruxson said. “And swords.”

They removed their weapons and held them at the ready, the ametrines at the pommels of the whips glowing as the threat approached.

“HALT!” Ruxson yelled. “By word of Evest Enzio, Lord of Whisperwinds!”

It took a while longer than it should have, but the horse stopped halfway up the hill. It let out a neigh and plodded its feet as it stood in place. This was no trained war horse.

“HELP!” a young, female voice shouted.

“Stay here,” Ruxson said, still thinking that it might be some trap. He rode down the hill quickly and met the other horse. On it was a young girl of perhaps seventeen, soot on her face and a small boy in front of her. He looked about thirteen. “What happened?”

The girl spoke, horror in her voice. “Fire mages. They burnt my great grandfather, and then everything. My hut, while mother and the baby were still inside. Father sent us off,” the girl said, now between sobs. “Then father went back to fight, and we fell off the horse because I don’t ride very often, and now… now…”

Ruxson pulled the boy off first. He was quiet, perhaps in shock. Then he pulled the girl down, and hugged her tight, and swayed back and forth, telling her soothing words that he knew were lies at the time but she needed to hear nonetheless. Everything was going to be okay. Everything was safe.

“Did anyone see you ride off?” he said as he pulled himself away from the girl and got down to one knee to meet her eyes.

“No. We live on the edge of the village. As soon as father saw grandpapa burning, he took us to our horse. And then the fire started raining. And then"”

“Hush now,” Ruxson said, putting a finger to the girl’s mouth to silence here. “You need food and rest. You will ride with me, and your brother with one of my men at the hilltop.”

“My horse"”

“Will be led by another man. What is your name? And your brother’s?”

“I’m… Jazella. And this is Tatello.”

“My name is Ruxson Chadwick,” he said in response, looking back and forth between the girl and the boy. “And I’m the Captain of Windhaven. Have you been to Windhaven?”

“No,” the girl answered, and the boy just shook his head.

“You’ll like it there. And you’ll be safe, with all the strongest and bravest wind mages around you. Shall we go?”

“Yes,” Jazella said. The boy nodded.

“Do you trust me, Jazella? Tatello?”

She hesitated a bit this time. “Yes.” The boy nodded again.

“Then lead the way to the top of the hill, and meet my men. And we’ll bring your horse, and we’ll all ride to Windhaven, and we’ll seek and we’ll find justice for the rogue mages who did this. Come on.”

Jazella took Ruxson’s outreached hand, and the boy took his sister’s. Ruxson grabbed the horse’s reign and guided him along. They walked to the top of the hill. The moon, Ruxson noticed, was no longer at its peak. It was falling, falling slowly down the night sky before settling into the north and drowning in fire and blood.