Chương 22: The Price

By the light of three moons, Swyllev the Singer threw his knucklebones into the mandala. Three Hawkmoon sentries circled him with their blades bared. If a demon found its way into the Singer, they would not hesitate. Prophecy always cost and they had no choice but to pay. Their present course was certain doom. Swyllev drank deep of the chalice, and gave himself wholly to the Wine of Changes. He looked to the sky. The stars cried out to be heard. Between them, the Void waited, ever-patient.

The mandala's lines writhed. Between the dancing shadows, the Moonsinger scried for a future where they might survive. The omens were grim. The lay of fate was yoked to the Viridian River and the Valley of Six Mists. Their goal was at the north, where the mighty waterfalls roared. On each side of the river, a mighty horde had gathered. When the swift-running river ran low, a terrible battle would follow. Swyllev looked for any way their brigade could slip through. No matter where he looked, all were devoured.

Total eclipse. Vexed, Swyllev swept the bones aside and raked the precious moon dust into a new pattern. There was always a path, but many were never grasped. He did not have long. Soon, the Bad Moon would rise and Chaos would loom over his divination. He tried another cast. The knucklebones tumbled from his hand and pattered across the mandala. Each roll was the first drop of a great wave that might change the course of history. Swyllev felt his fingers thrum with potential. His heart soared, higher and higher.

Here was the way. The true road, the shining path that climbed to glorious victory! The Hawkmoon watchers tensed, ready to strike. There was no need. Swyllev swept the bones aside once more. The Moonsinger had spent centuries in ascetic meditation. He would not succumb so easily to the tawdry promises of Chaos. Still, the attempt troubled him. The Bad Moon was yet to come. How powerful the Devourer had become! Soon, not even the holy light of the moons would be able to hold back the Void.

He breathed deeply and sought composure. There was time for one more throw. Swyllev raked the dust and focused. A different approach. A change in leadership. He let the bones drop. The shadows fell into focus. As the false vision was too good to be true, this one was too dire to be a lie. For the men, Swyllev saw green death, broken by the golden flash of a yellow moon. There was a promising flicker there, but it was too soon to unravel. He needed to experience the entirety of the vision.

Swyllev forgot himself and let the light pour in. He learned nothing of the Dwarves and did not expect to. Their hearts were buried too deep for the moonlight to reach. For his own kind, the knucklebone was face down, a single edge lined with violet. A dark portent. Was it death, or destruction? Was it failure, or a change so severe it made failure seem tame? For a fleeting moment, he recognized the audacity of the design. There was a single shining thread of potential, beset on all sides by mountains of darkness.

How could they ask so much? Swyllev collected the bones. There was a way, always a way, but it required terrible sacrifice. Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

"We must send no more than forty," Swyllev announced. Cerulean light flashed as Cinnabinathi sheathed her Skymetal Scimitar. Her officers, Maro and Saranine followed suit.

"Strategy and prophecy are in agreement then. Sparfydl is overrun by Goblins. Stealth and speed are our only hope," Maro reasoned.

"There is more. Cinnabinathi must lead. Bring the old Dwarf and his son. Take the simpleton and his pikemen. An old foe will throw himself at your feet. Bring him, he is needed. When the moment comes, you will be tested. Act with your heart alone. If you hesitate, you will be weighed in the balance and found wanting."

"Outsiders will slow us down. It would be better if we went alone," Saranine argued. It was no secret that she abhorred Dwarves and hated men. Cinnabinathi and Maro glared at her. They were shocked she would speak back to a Moonsinger.

"You are not a part of the prophecy. Leave us," the Moonsinger commanded. Saranine faded away in shame.

"Follow her," the Moonsinger ordered Maro. He left as well, with a look of deep relief. Above, the moons wandered their separate ways and the shadows diverged. There was a moment where the silver trees seemed outlined by tricolored fire. Outside the ring of aspen, Cinnabinathi sensed a great shadow, hungry to get in. The Moonsinger met Cinnabinathi's eyes. She knew he felt it too.

"The mantle of command. Can you take it?" The Moonsinger asked. Cinnabinathi was not sure. In all the time she'd been at war, she'd never led more than her handful of Hawkmoon. The rangers were outsiders in Elven society. If Cinnabinathi was honest with herself, she was closer to an outcast. She nodded yes anyway.

"Saranine is our only sorceress," Cinnabinathi led. The Goblin magic was strong. How did the moons expect them to reach the bore without her?

"Bring the barber boy. Guard him at all costs. If his thread is cut, all is lost."

"The Apprentice? He's no magus. He's a healer, they need him here," Cinnabinathi argued. It was true, but there was a selfish reason too. Burbak was under Bobbert's care. A flicker of pique crossed Swyllev's face. He looked right through her.

"I can only sing what the Moons whisper. I cannot make you listen," Swyllev reproached. Cinnabinathi scowled but kept her mouth closed.

"There is more you must know. What I say next, you must not repeat. You must carry this weight. No one can save the ones the moon has marked. You can only complicate the way they go. If you try, you only drag others into the gyre."

"I don't want to know their fates," Cinnabinathi said. The Moonsinger did not listen. He heaped prophecy upon her until she felt buried to the neck.

"I don't want to know my fate!" Cinnabinathi pled. The Moonsinger insisted. Prophecy had a price. The burden was hers alone. *"Oooh!" Vlad blew out the candles and the war room went dark. The hair on the back of Robin's neck stood. Vlad was good! His deep voice and accent really sold the scene. He'd even brought props. The "three moons" were red, white, and blue seven-day candles with the saint decals peeled off. Swyllev's 'moondust mandala' was a desktop Zen Garden.

Robin really felt like he was in a hidden glade, searching for a way to save the Heartbroken Brigade. He'd assumed the other guys would crack jokes and clown around all night. Once Vlad got rolling, everyone was sucked in. Even Sandy eased off once he saw everyone else was taking the story seriously. Duncan brought up the war room lights. They all looked around the table in agreement. This was better than a movie. Robin's cheeks hurt from smiling. It was perfect.

They were locked in the store with the wind howling outside. There were enough snacks to last a week. It was Friday night with the whole summer ahead. No one had anywhere better to be. The adventure had just begun.