The Beacon: Blayne (2)
Episode 25: "Road Rage"
Two days later, slowed by the wagons’ plodding pace, Adon’s company could finally see Blayne’s walls rising from tall, rocky banks across the river. The first night of their journey, they had camped just beyond Bridgeton, where the captain and Mast, returning to the town in late afternoon, bought additional supplies. Rising early the following morning, they traveled forty miles to a well-used campsite within a dozen miles of the ancient town at the confluence of the White and Highwater Rivers.
Just northwest of Blayne, near the town’s bridge over the White River, a Margonni military outpost oversaw river traffic and the surrounding territory. Eager for news, Adon planned to call at the army garrison to hear the latest intelligence from its commander. As they rode, the fort stood about a mile away, just on the edge of sight.
Over the last day, the captain had realized that only his company traveled the road to Blayne, which made him uneasy. Every time he had visited Blayne and other towns farther along the North Road, wagon trains, riders, and small parties had passed one way or the other along it. But since leaving Bridgeton, they had happened on only a handful of travelers, all hurrying south. Genially, he had asked a few of them what brought them down the road, and each had replied similarly: “Trouble is brewing, and I want to get out before it explodes.”
Their train, comprising Adon’s crew with its two wagons and the First Platoon’s fourteen riders and two wagons of their own, was strung out over about a hundred yards. Bandrick, accompanied by Mat, had assumed his accustomed scouting position at the front, and half of the platoon, including Sir Lyle and Lieutenant dor Finan, rode at his back. The four wagons, accompanied by Ren, Mia, and Gamila, followed, with Adon and the other half of the platoon under Sergeant Stag bringing up the rear.
By chance, Adon saw Bandrick fling his arm up to stop their progress, and at the same time, Mat wheeled Daisy around and galloped back to Adon, flinging dirt and dust high into the air. Hauling the mare in, he turned her about, shouting, “Captain, an emanation is heading right for us! We can’t avoid it! I’ll do what I can! Think good thoughts!” Without waiting for a reply, he kicked his horse and surged back to the front of the line.
With a voice trained by years of yelling commands at sailors, Adon shouted to those around him, “An emanation approaches! They play on your desires! Think nothing negative but only pure and noble thoughts! Sing a hymn or a happy song! Remember the most beautiful sight you ever saw or the best meal you ever ate! Don’t let the emanation turn your mind to evil!”
By the time the captain had finished, Mat had reached Bandrick and galloped ahead. Whereas he had before only felt the evil wave rolling toward him, he could now see it about a furlong away, relentlessly approaching. Dismounting, he dropped the reins and stalked forward toward it, breathing deeply, cocking his head to one side, sensing the sinister presence within the advancing emanation.
Subconsciously, he wanted to raise his hands to ward it off, but the thought made him laugh aloud. That would look so dramatic! he thought. I’m no sorcerer! I can’t stop it, but I’ll do my best to weaken it.
When it was a hundred yards away, he remembered his parents: his mother laughing at something ridiculous little Mia had said, his father grinning with him and slapping him on the back when he had brought down his first deer. Thinking of them triggered a memory of them teaching him and Mia about their ancestry extending back to the ancient Kingdom of Penthor, all the way back to Gilgal and his elvish wife, Abival. That’s my heritage, he thought. It’s not just the Power. It’s also the Gift.
Closing his eyes, the wave flowed over him. Like the last time, he felt nothing against his skin or coursing through his body, but a sense of wrongness immediately filled his mind. It made his skin crawl like thousands of roaches scurrying over his body, and his stomach turned, making him gag. A stench like the miasma of an open grave filled his nostrils, followed by the icy coldness of an arctic wind suffusing his body. Without warning, his mind flamed with the searing pain of red-hot pokers prodding behind his eyes.
It’s all in your mind, Mat, he told himself, struggling to wrest his mind from the emanation’s grip. These sensations are not real. As he regained some control, the illusions receded.
Then he heard it. Laughter. It started as a low chuckle, just a grunt of sadistic humor, but it sped into a wicked, rolling laugh that steadily grew louder until it crescendoed into a roar that filled his mind, echoing around his skull with blows like a hammer against an anvil. He had never experienced a headache so excruciating.
It is the laughter of the entity I sensed last time, he thought between jarring, stabbing strikes of sound. Azuri is full of rage and hate. He is trying to daunt me. Stand! he commanded himself.
The maniacal laughter stopped abruptly, replaced by a low, disdainful voice. “Stupid creature! Do you really think you can resist me? Thwart me? You are an ant! Do you believe an ant can stand before me and live? I shall drive you insane with pain and torment until your body, in desperate weakness, cannot raise itself, and you will beg me for mercy. Then I shall slay you with ten thousand cuts so you know that I, the greatest of all the gods of Osegra, have destroyed you!”
Lies, Mat said. All of this is a delusion. I choose not to be deceived. I choose to resist and shield the company.
The voice cut off. The sensations vanished. His mind cleared, and he could hear his heartbeat. Opening his eyes, he realized he was on his knees, and his limbs shook uncontrollably. Taking a couple of deep breaths, he stood, teetering until he found his balance and braced himself. Shutting his eyes again, he thought pleasant thoughts, considered kind words and deeds, admired the nobility of some he had encountered, and ached for the purity of a mountain sunrise in a peaceful meadow near his home. He smiled, reminding himself, I am not worthy, not pure, not noble. Certainly, I am no hero, but I’m willing to give myself to this task if I can keep my friends from harm.
Mat imagined the emanation’s wickedness as a gray fog filling the circular emanation. In his mind’s eye, he gathered it in, drawing it to himself, compacting it into an armful of darkening, stormy cloud. Holding the murky mass between his hands, he compressed it, crushed it, and packed it until he grasped a dark ball of roiling, rebellious malevolence, straining to explode and spread. But setting his will, the young Penthori mentally squeezed with all his strength, condensing it further until it appeared like a pitch-black marble, buzzing and jerking in his hand. Knowing he could not release it for fear of it returning to its vile purpose, he popped it into his mouth and swallowed.
As he opened his eyes, the rear wall of the evil wave passed over him. Seeing it recede harmlessly through the company, he felt relief. I did it! He did not remember crumbling to the ground in the next instant, his body spasming for some time.
Walking Renegade forward through the emanation, Adon made a mantra of “Mat needs my help. I’ve got to help him. Mat needs my help. I’ve got to help him.” He felt little pressure to follow a desire besides aiding the young man, just a weak, whining, nagging suggestion that he should save himself, and then only as the emanation began. After a few long moments, even that tiny voice faded away. Suddenly, he could think clearly beyond himself, and in that moment, he saw Mat collapse onto the road’s stones and begin convulsing.
Dismounting, he rushed to the young man and cradled him in his arms. Mat’s face was slack and pale, but his eyes darted back and forth under his lids as if he were dreaming. Shouting to Artema to bring her wagon up, the captain laid a hand on the unconscious youth’s forehead, finding it hot with fever.
“Artema, Gamila, get the cot down and make room for him in the wagon!” he ordered when his daughter reined in next to him. “I need blankets, too! Mia, run to the river for water! He’s burning up! We must bathe his face with cool water! Ren, help me put him on the cot and then into the wagon!”
The Jester is a clean YA fantasy novella about a young man with many interests and skills who yearns to discover what he does best. First, however, he must figure out who stole the king’s dagger, and along the way, he experiences adventure, entertainment, and perhaps a wee bit of romance! Click here for the first episode!
His crew jumped into action, and Mat, covered with blankets, soon lay on the cot in the bed of Artema’s wagon. Lugging a pail, Mia jogged swiftly toward them with the water, and before long, she was tending her brother, stroking his hair and urging him to relax since the danger had passed. Hearing her voice seemed to calm his spasms, and he fell into the profound sleep of the utterly spent.
Leaning against the wagon, Adon fanned himself with his hat. He looked down and saw three buttons fall off his shirt. As he stooped to pick them up, a soldier trotting by squawked in dismay when his saddle girth abruptly ripped in two, ignominiously spilling him on the road, his mount screaming as the reins twisted him awkwardly around. Mia’s bucket sprang a leak.
“What’s happening?” Gamila asked, bewildered. She held what remained of a bead necklace in her hand, its clasp broken. Multicolored beads littered the road at her feet. “My mother gave this to me just before I left.”
Mia transferred what water remained in the leaking pail to a pot. “It’s Mat,” she replied, soaking up the spill with another blanket. “Weird things happened the last time he faced an emanation. Things broke. Some crops died overnight. A new fence toppled, and some of our animals escaped. Now they’re happening again. It must be a reaction to whatever he does.”
Considering her new friend’s answer for a long moment, Gamila nodded. “If he absorbs the emanation’s evil, he must release it without letting it corrupt him. When it leaves him, it does mischief—or worse. That soldier could have been killed.”
“Makes sense,” Adon said, pocketing his buttons to reattach them later. He whistled to Renegade, and the stallion walked over. “Good boy,” the captain muttered as he took a moment to check the horse’s tack. “All right,” he said loudly once he had climbed into the saddle. “We survived the emanation! Let’s get to the garrison! It’s not far!”
The company responded eagerly, trotting up the road with fresh energy under the noonday sun. Adon spurred Renegade to catch Bandrick and enter the fortress at the head of their train. Ahead of them, about a quarter-mile off the road on a slight rise, the thick granite walls of the fortress rose to thirty feet, supporting rounded watchtowers at each corner and a larger, protruding tower and guardhouse over the gate. Usually, guards patrolled the top of the wall or watched the horizon from the towers, but Adon could see no one. No traffic passed in or out of the open gate. The sole movement came from the kingdom’s flag flying high atop the tall central keep. An emptiness formed in the pit of his stomach.
“Captain,” Bandrick said, wary, troubled eyes sweeping the scene. “It just occurred to me that the garrison experienced the emanation before we did.”
Adon swore under his breath. “I don’t like the thought of a wave of evil sliding through a bunch of soldiers.” He turned in his saddle. “Sir Lyle!” he called. “Lead the way into the fort! Who knows what that emanation did in there!”
Sir Lyle and his half-platoon kicked their horses ahead, pounding up the road to the gate. Their eyes sweeping the area for any lingering trouble, Bandrick and Adon followed more slowly. As they entered the gate, the First Platoon’s horses and riders blocked their way forward. Shouting commands to make way, the captain pushed Renegade through the dim, crowded passage, noting the dazed expressions on the troops’ faces. When he finally emerged inside the fortress next to Sir Lyle, he understood why.
The courtyard, littered with dead and dying soldiers, resembled a bloody battlefield.
A note:
Margonne’s flag, mentioned in passing, pictured “an argent stallion’s head guardant [facing toward the viewer] on a royal purple field.” As the heraldry citation read, “The stallion signifies the conquest of Margonne by the mounted knights of its conquerors; the purple field symbolizes regal dignity, honor, and power.” The model for the horse was Margonne’s faithful mount, Tanner (meaning “dragon” in Old Taurani). However, by royal command just that week, the flag flying over the Blayne Garrison’s keep was instead the kingdom’s war flag: “an argent stallion courant [running] on a purple field.”
If you have enjoyed what you read on this Substack, please consider buying me a cup of coffee!
The emanations seem to be getting more intense.