Out of Exile: Teutevar Saga, #1

Prelude

Cursed book, I mutter through gritted teeth.

Lost in my thoughts, I have carelessly allowed my quill to wander across the page. A large blot of ink wanders down the tip and blossoms on the parchment, engulfing a wonderfully poignant sentence in the process.

The problem with writing, I think as I hastily attempt to mop the stain, ruining the entire page in the process, is thinking of something clever to stick in the middle.

Irritated, I crumple the ink-stained page and toss it into the fire. Engrossed in the process of transcribing my thoughts once more, I almost miss a flitting shadow as it darts across the wall.

It seems I have visitors tonight.

For a moment, the pitter-patter of feet ceases, but I am not fooled. I sigh and slide the tome across the table before removing my spectacles to rub my eyes.

My old ears aren’t what they used to be, but I am not yet as deaf as that, I say as I set my quill aside and screw the stopper on the inkwell. A library is no place for child’s play.

Shyly, the twins creep from behind a large column and into the firelight. In the vast expanse of the great library, they appear even smaller as the great shadows of marble busts and columns surround them. I put on a look of false displeasure, but motion to them nonetheless. Without further hesitation they run forward, seating themselves cross-legged on the rug between my chair and the fireplace.

I stifle a yawn. Goodness, is it not past your bedtime?

The girl and boy shake their heads, the girl’s straight blonde hair and the boy’s raven locks whipping with the emphasis of the motion.

We’re not children anymore! the girl says indignantly.

Hmm? I glance up again and see the pair of adolescents before me. My, time does not stop outside of the archives.

What are you writing, Recorder? the boy asks, looking curiously at the manuscript open in my lap. The page’s ink has dried from the warmth of the fire, and I shut the book quickly.

Never you mind, young master, I say, sharper than I intend. It is not yet finished.

Oh, tell us, please! The girl begs.

I pick up my pipe and make a long show of lighting it, testing the bounds of adolescent patience as I do so. To their credit, they wait patiently, with only minor fidgets alluding to their eagerness. After taking a few puffs, I settle back into my seat.

Perhaps, although I must warn you the tale will be long in the telling, I say. We will not finish in a night, or in a week’s worth of nights. But perhaps when we are done I will have taught you something, not only about the past but about the hearts of men as well.

It sounds educational to me… the boy says.

I chuckle at this. Indeed it is. But there are great battles and wars, love and betrayals, journeys, quests, victory and defeat, pain and hope, too. The Teutevar Saga is perhaps one of the most intriguing cycles ever to occur in the history of Peldrin. As such, it was my duty to take up quill and parchment and immortalize the epic into the pages of history.

But what’s it about? the girl asked.

I’m getting to that! I say. It is the story of lands and peoples reborn in the ashes of war and cataclysm. More importantly, it is the story of a man who became more than a man and another who turned into something else entirely, I say. Remember this, if nothing else: None can ever rise so high that they cannot fall. Yet those who have fallen may stand again.

As I begin, the years roll back, and I can see it all in my mind’s eye: the battles and the marches, old friends who have long since moved on and those of us still stubbornly fighting the ages.

I was there from the beginning. I rode at the heads of mighty armies and ragged bands. I sat in council with kings and farmers and soldiers alike. I was cold, hungry and scared, as any man has a right to be. Time may continue, but until I lay in the cold embrace of death, still the memories will live on.

Part I — The Exiles

I know how men in exile feed on dreams

— Aeschylus

Chapter 1

For 350 years, the Grand Council of Pel reigned over the known lands of Peldrin and reached its height during the beginning of the Fifth Era. Under the guidance of the Council, great cities were built and the many nations of the Republic of Pel prospered and flourished. A network of trade routes spread across the continent, bringing goods near and far. Merchants, farmers, weavers, and smiths alike prospered and advanced their trades in ways never before imagined. Many wonders both fine and fair were crafted. In those days, the Republic of Pel was the mightiest assembly of nations ever forged in Peldrin.

But the peace did not come without a cost. Even as the Republic grew in wealth and power, the Council suffered from internal corruption and greed. As if to mirror its government, the Council Lands became blighted from drought and pestilence, yet none knew the cause. Crops failed and livestock perished in hordes while disease and sickness swept through the populace.

Meanwhile the senators and rulers from each country bickered over dwindling resources, boundaries and trade laws. Soon, the petty disputes escalated into heated arguments. Nations lined their borders with soldiers and threatened to secede. The great trade networks that pumped the lifeblood through the Republic were broken and the common man suffered as crops failed and famine became rampant. Slowly, the Council began to crumble and numerous skirmishes broke out across the lands. The Republic was on the brink of civil war.

Revan Teutevar — Eastern Gimbador Mountains

Thick, dense rain clouds splayed over the bitter, early autumn air surrounding the Gimbador Mountains. The crisp smell of rain mixed with the aromas of the pines and the dark loam of deer trails. The newly turned leaves on the oak trees and Quaking Aspens were aged and brittle and their hasty neighbors coated the forest floor like a multi-colored rug. Timid forest animals stored winter caches in their dens and giant flocks of fowls flew south in formation.

Tucked deep in a sheltered side-canyon, two cabins dotted a clearing in the pines. They were made of rough-hewn logs notched together and plastered with mud. Nearby was a smokehouse and storehouse of the same build. A small, albeit neat, garden of potatoes, corn and squash was nestled between the huts and the canyonside.

Just a stone’s throw to the south of the little settlement, a small waterfall rolled off the cliff face and fed a mirrored pond dotted with rainbow trout. Near the waterfall’s rolling mist, two figures sparred with blunted steels. The skittering of metal and shouts of instruction echoed over the cascading water.

Again Revan! commanded a female while her lithe form advanced in a complicated pattern of blurring stabs and cuts. The two blades she wielded with precision snaked out, testing for the smallest breach in the defender’s parries.

Her opponent slowly gave ground, and, although his cream-colored tunic was dark with perspiration, he showed no signs of tiring as they traded blows. The woman waited for an opening, anticipating the winning blow. As her opponent brought both of his blades overhead across her long steel, she parried the attack skillfully and lunged with the shorter of the two swords. For a brief instant her balance was lost as her opponent sidestepped the lunge and tapped his weapon across the middle of her back.

That’s the match Regg, he said with pride and wiped the sweat from his brow. I thought you knew better than to fall for that one.

I’m getting too old to spar with you Revan, Reginleif replied, dropping her steel and regrouping her graying russet hair.

Revan Teutevar’s tall, sinewy form shook with laughter at his mentor’s remark. Oh, come on, Regg. I don’t beat you every match after all. Plus, you’re the only competition I’ve got. It’s not as if mother will practice with me.

Lady Guinevere or I would have been more than a match for you back in our prime, Reginleif said, brow wrinkling in a mock scowl.

Although she would never admit it, Reginleif was proud and even the smallest part jealous of Revan’s natural ability as a swordsmen. It was only her experience that allowed her a rare victory these days. This was true in almost every area she had instructed the boy, from a wide variety of weapons — double for archery — to hunting and tracking as well. Besides his physical ability, he was an exceptional scholar as well, although Revan often complained of the usefulness of such studies.

Breakfast, you two! Another woman’s voice called from the nearest hut.

Finally, Revan sighed, the relief evident in his voice. Reginleif had added an extra hour of training into their usual routine this particular morning and Revan was grateful for the reprieve. Secretly, his teacher was as well.

I’m far from an old crone, but I’ve sure started feeling my age these last few years, Reginleif thought. They gathered the blunted sparring blades and walked to the cottage. Now the spar was over, they both shivered in the virgin autumn air.

Opening the door, Revan found his mother kneading a pile of dough on the far end of their table. Her long ginger hair was pulled back, revealing a beautiful face worn from the hardships of recent years. She was tall and lean and moved with a regal grace that befitted her nobility. This was Guinevere, Mathyew Teutevar’s widow, the exiled Lady of Athel, and Revan’s mother. While his mother and Reginleif talked in low, earnest tones, Revan attacked his breakfast.

Guinevere and Reginleif took turns chastising Revan for his lack of table manners: Revan, chew your food before you swallow, and don’t take such big bites! Honestly, living in the mountains doesn’t give you the free reign to eat like a savage. I’ve plenty of work planned for you today — Revan, wipe your face, it’s covered in honey — you’ll need to go hunting and gathering herbs, my stores are low for the winter.

Revan’s assault on his porridge ended, wooden spoon still poised over the bowl. Hunting? I thought I would be able to go with Regg to get supplies in Laredon?

There was a heavy pause while Guinevere proceeded to work the dough. Regg and I changed our minds. She’ll only need a few things in town and we’re behind on curing meat for the winter.

Nothing has changed with our winter stores since you both agreed I could go with Regg when she came back from town the last time, Revan said. Even so, there is no reason I couldn’t go into town while Regg hunts. I’m not a child.

Then quit acting like one, Guinevere snapped back. My decision is final.

Revan’s scowl faded and he sighed before returning to his porridge. From across the table, Regg’s heart went out to the boy. Life in the mountains was hard, harder still for a spirited young man like Revan. Against her better judgment, Regg decided to tell him the truth.

I was followed the last time I went into Laredon, Revan, the handmaiden said. It was one of the trappers. I believe they think we are stealing from their lines or that we’re hiding something. The last thing we need are those scum knowing where we live, or who we are.

Revan’s anger returned twofold and he slammed a fist on the table. Both Reginleif and his mother gave him sharp looks, but the boy was not deterred.

Why does it matter if they know where we live? I’ve spoken with some of them before. Most of them are decent men.

I will not have this argument with you again Revan, Guinevere said, her voice raised. You’re all I have left. I won’t lose you too. Our past must remain hidden

Revan rolled his eyes and threw his hands in the air. He stood and his chair fell backwards to the floor. No one cares, Mother. We aren’t royalty anymore. We’re paupers, beggars who live on dirt floors and sleep in animal hides.

Guinevere crossed the room in a flash and struck her son with an open hand. Revan took the slap unmoving with his jaw set and eyes focused on his mother. Neither spoke. Guinevere’s chest rose and fell as if she had run for miles. She turned and leaned against the table and Reginleif saw that the lady’s hands were shaking.

I’ll go hunting mother, Revan said.

He walked to the doorway and paused to run a hand along the rough frame of the cabin.

Long live the House of Teutevar.

Chapter 2

A Lorish Patrol — The Great Trade Road

It was the smell that hit them first: a combination of burning wood, spices and probably horses and people too. There weren’t many spots along the Great Trade Road obscured by hills, but the raiders managed to find a perfect spot for an ambush. The road wound through a hollow between two scrubby hills. The bend between the two knolls was curved enough so that any caravan entering from either side would be unable to see what lay ahead.

The clouds and smoke weaved across the horizon with the setting sun in a brilliant display of fiery red. As the company passed into the bend, a wave of scavenger birds erupted into the crimson sky. Their black bodies made an ominous sight as they flew away, cawing in anger at the intruders who had disturbed their evening meal.

But if the crows and ravens were ominous, the scene on the road was downright ghastly. Wagon wheels, crates, barrels, bales and corpses were scattered like kindling across the stone road. Fires smoldered from several wrecked carts, their smoke mingling with the stench of the massacre in the heat of early fall. Fighting watering eyes and the urge to cover his nose from the reek, the company’s captain waved a hand, indicating his men to search for survivors.

Seventh raid this month, said his second-in-command. I’ll wager they’re all dead — horses, oxen and humans. Bet the goods are still here too.

I don’t understand, the captain said, shaking his head. His company had been up and down the Trade Road all summer without a single sight of the attackers. Somehow, the raiders dodged between patrols and slaughtered each caravan they hit, down to the last merchant and mule. The only thing ever missing were food supplies and the occasional pack animal. If they suffered any casualties, it was impossible to know — the raiders never left any dead behind and their tracks melted away like a spring snow.

Whoever is behind the raids isn’t after money or goods, the second said. This is an act of war.

Before the captain could reply, another member of the company returned with his report. Same as the last two, captain, he said, leaning over his saddle. No survivors, none of the dead are attackers and all of the goods seem to be intact. Another League caravan by the looks of it, headed to Emora if I had to guess. Everyone’s thinking it, I’m just saying it — Jotun, maybe Periwaneth, but I doubt we’re that lucky.

Around the patrol, men muttered and looked at one another with wide eyes. The captain stepped in, quick to maintain order. We don’t know if that’s the case. No reason to worry yet, boys.

But the second wasn’t so sure. He spat a stream of tobacco onto the bloodstained road and frowned. Stands to reason though, don’t it? If’n it were men, they’d haul off the goods and pack animals. A band that size wouldn’t be able to hide neither. Mark my words cap’n, it’s Jotun, sure as I’m standing here.

The captain opened his mouth but was at a loss of words in the face of his second’s logic. Instead, he changed the subject. See if you can find any identification on the bodies and then burn them, the captain ordered. Salvage what goods you can and then burn the remains of the wagons with the animals. Turning to his second, he added, Get a rider to deliver a message to one of the League outposts. The quicker they’re notified, the less bull we’ll have to deal with.

Too late, the second muttered.

The captain cursed. Around the western bend came a patrol of men, marked by their uniforms as Imperium League soldiers. There were close to a score in all, heavily armed and ready to attack in a moment’s notice, judging by the arrows nocked to their bows. The captain’s men stopped what they were doing as the League patrol rode through the destruction of the caravan and approached the captain.

Identify yourselves, their leader said in a brisk tone, Don’t draw your weapons or run, we have you surrounded. As he said this, he waved to the hilltops on either side of the road. Each bore the silhouetted line of riders in single file.

We aren’t bandits if that’s what you’re getting at, the captain said. We are soldiers of Loriad, patrolling the Trade Road.

The League’s commander sniffed, and stared at the man down his long hooked nose. Perhaps. He gestured to a group of men sorting through the caravan’s goods. It would appear that whoever you owe allegiance to, we have caught you in the act of looting an Imperium League caravan.

The Lorish captain fought to control his anger. We saw the smoke about two hours ago and found your caravan like this just minutes ago. We are taking care of your dead and salvaging what goods we can, but it would seem our goodwill must go unappreciated.

So you say, the League commander said. Perhaps I should have you detained for questioning nonetheless. This is the fifth League caravan that has been attacked this month alone. Yet somehow the caravans bearing the colors of Loriad are untouched.

We’ve had our share of raids, the Lorish captain said. So have the Simarron. As for your threat of arresting us, I must remind you that you are within the borders of Loriad, under King Aedd’s law, and have no jurisdiction over us.

The men of the Lorish company, sensing the mounting tension, drew closer, hands on their weapons. The League’s patrol responded by circling the captain and his second while their officer continued to speak.

And need I remind you that we are on the Great Trade Road? This is neutral ground. My authority is the same as yours. Since this attack was on an Imperium League caravan, mine is in fact the greater.

For a moment, neither man spoke as they stared down one another with stiff jaws and steeled glares. Finally, the captain of the Lorish patrol shrugged, breaking the tension.

Have it your way then, he whistled to his men who mounted and fell in line behind him. If this is your caravan and your stretch of road, you clean up this mess. We will be back in the morning to see that there are no bodies or debris along the highway. Regardless of whose land it passes through, the Trade Road law allows me to fine the League if they obstruct the route in any way.

Are you threatening me? the League officer asked.

Without another word, the Lorish captain snapped his reins and circled around, his company following close behind. They trotted down the road and out of the hollow and he centered his gaze forward, half-expecting an arrow to pierce his back at any moment.

Chapter 3

Guinevere and Reginleif — Gimbador Mountains, the Teutevar cabins

Long after Revan was gone, Guinevere and Reginleif remained at the rough-hewn table with only the sound of the distant waterfall between them. Several times, Guinevere opened her mouth to speak, only to change her mind and continue scowling out the doorway. Reginleif glanced outside as well. The sun was now high in the sky and the handmaiden knew already she would be making a late start for Laredon.

Well… Regg said and stood from the table.

Now you’re leaving as well? Guinevere snapped.

She looked up at her handmaiden and Regg saw that a green fire continued to blaze in her eyes. Reginleif returned the look until the Lady of Athel scoffed and waved her hand to dismiss her friend.

Ha! Reginleif snorted and broke into a grin. Don’t try to throw your regal airs at me, Gwen. We’ve know each other far too long for that.

Guinevere felt the tiniest of smiles cross her face. Thinking of her son, however, it did not linger. Oh Regg, he’s as headstrong as his father. Revan was right. We have nothing, we are nothing. Beggars? No. We’re forgotten ghosts, fading in the mountains.

He cannot stay here forever, Reginleif said. The time is fast approaching when you will no longer hold him here. With or without us, Revan will leave to make his own mark on the world.

Guinevere pretended she hadn’t heard her handmaiden and busied herself picking up the remains of breakfast. How far do you think you were followed? she asked in an attempt to change the subject.

Almost a full day’s journey outside out of Laredon, Reginleif said as she pulled cheese, biscuits and other food from a cupboard and placed them into her knapsack. It was that greasy Jeddediah Peats again, I’m sure of it. He tried to speak with me in the marketplace and was at the gates the next morning when I left town.

Why can’t they leave us be? Guinevere asked, although she already knew the answer.

Reginleif gave her a long look. Not all of them are bad men, but there are plenty like Peats with less than noble intentions. The way he stared at me in Laredon made my blood run cold. Still, the handmaiden added as she buckled on a long hunting knife and pulled a bow and quiver from the wall. I almost wish he would test his luck.

Guinevere shook her head at her handmaiden’s devilish smirk. Fully equipped, Reginleif stood in the doorway and Guinevere was reminded of her son. A pang of guilt washed over the lady and she was left with an overwhelming sense of aloneness when Reginleif said her goodbyes.

Don’t be so hard on Revan, the handmaiden said. He is a good son, Gwen.

Guinevere nodded and swallowed a sob. Moments later, Reginleif faded into the trees. Guinevere hugged herself tight. She tried to imagine the sounds of the waterfall outside were waves on Athelon’s Lake of Mirrors and the forlorn calls of the geese overhead were the cries of fishing eagles

Revan — The Gimbador Mountains, northeast of the Teutevar cabins

Miles from home, Revan’s frustrations were eased by the soothing balm the ancient pines and deep meadows offered. By late afternoon, a whistled tune slipped from his lips and he soaked in the cascade of colors that were the Gimbador Mountains in the height of autumn. He traveled at a leisurely pace, stopping on occasion to examine game sign or gather mountain berries ripe on the bush. For the time being, the exile was at peace — his dreams of exodus shushed by the solace of the wild.

Evening found Revan tending to a small fire, roasting a hare he had caught in a snare placed along a run. To complete his meal, Revan dug through his pack to find a small loaf of nutbread and an apple that had ripened early. He bolted down the food, hungry from a day of mountain travel. Finished, Revan leaned back against the trunk of a tree. He was well fed, warm,comfortable and prepared to begin his hunt at dawn.

Finding game would be easy. Even with the recent wave of trappers, lumbermen and miners, the Gimbadors were ripe with deer, elk mountain sheep and goats and moose — although Revan was wise enough to avoid the latter. Revan’s stalking skills and the aid of the bow and quiver of arrows at his side would make short work of any creature that crossed the hunter’s path. The hard work came after, when the kill was made. After it was cleaned, the carcass would have to hang overnight before Revan quartered the meat and began the first trip home.

What the boy couldn’t carry would be cached high in a pine, out of reach for all but the most determined predator. It was more likely that a bear, wolf or cougar would come after Revan and the meat he carried. Coupled with the likelihood of a sporadic fall storm, Revan was prepared to travel through the night with all haste on his return journey.

But those were tomorrow’s problems and Revan had dealt with the wild beasts of the Gimbadors more than once. He wagered with any luck that he would be home long before any stray autumn storm arrived as well. He pulled the cowl of his cloak over his head and curled into a ball, relaxed but alert. Within a few moments Revan drifted off to sleep, unaware of the impending danger looming ever closer to Reginleif and Guinevere.

The Zurel — Gimbador Mountains, east of the Teutevar cabins

There were thirteen of the creatures in all. Each one was armored in a breastplate the color of mint with an insignia of a snarling lynx head across the chest. Over their armor, wintergreen capes danced in the evening breeze. Their faces were obscured by ornate feline masks of green jade with howling faces revealing protruding silver fangs. No man knew from where they came — the last survivors of an ancient, forgotten race better left in history — but most knew the tales that surrounded the breed. The Zurel, as they were called, were not to be crossed lightly.

Unfortunately, Jedediah Peats wasn’t familiar with the tales. The trapper was learning quickly, however, that his employers were a class apart from even his normal group of shady acquaintances. An employee of the Northern Sevenday Fur, Lumber and Mining Company, Peats was fond of dice and the bottle — an old hand at lying, cheating and swindling his way into a profit.

When word reached Peats there was a group of travelers looking for a guide into the Gimbadors, he was intrigued by the promise of easy money. When the Zurel told Peats what they were searching for, he was sold. But two days out of Laredon, Jedediah Peats was beginning to wonder if any amount of coin was worth keeping such sinister company.

We shall stop here tonight, the female leader, named Zaraliss, hissed. Her voice was nonchalant, hiding the malice she possessed. Of all her brothers and sisters, Jedediah soon found that Zaraliss was the slyest and most dangerous by far — an unsettling fact when one considered the rest of the cursed group.

I say we should carry on. It is still light enough that we could reach the cave before nightfall, an arrogant voice called from behind Zaraliss. This one was Zathar. Jedediah knew he thought himself twice as clever and a better leader of the pack than his elder sister.

Once again, we shall stop here tonight, Zaraliss said without turning. We do not know yet how much of our journey remains. Am I correct, Mr. Peats?

Yes, ma’am, Jedediah said. In truth, he had no idea where the cave his employers sought was. All the trapper was going on was a sneaking suspicion that a certain russet-haired woman who visited Laredon on occasion was hiding something. When Peats took the job, it had seemed like a good way to find out and earn a decent amount of gambling money in the process. Now he was beginning to think he had pulled the wool over the eyes of the wrong people.

Jedediah’s thoughts were interrupted when Zathar spurred his horse to the front of the line and shouted to his sister.

I say we move on!

Zaraliss wheeled her horse around to face her brother. I give the commands, Zathar. If you wish to challenge my authority, then do so now while I face you. Otherwise, we will make camp here. Zathar’s hand left his weapon, a scimitar, but he continued to glare at his sister.

No? She taunted, Then tend to yourself and let your dear sister concern herself with making camp. She leapt to the ground, pulled off her mask and began throwing out orders. It was the first time Jedediah saw his employer’s features: a face similar to a human woman, but angled and feline. In the gloom of the evening, Zaraliss’ flawless skin showed the faintest trace of wintergreen coloring and her yellow eyes glowed. When she spoke to the others, her thin lips pulled back to reveal rows of pointed teeth.

Zarak, you and Zunar take Zaine and find us fresh meat. Zolcan, Zynar, build a fire. We’re still far enough away to risk one. Zillska and Zin will tend to the horses. Zaku, Zadur and Zevan, backtrack our trail and make sure we haven’t been followed through these cursed mountains. Zaraliss paused, looking at Zathar. As for you my most beloved brother, you will accompany Ziona and I to refill our water skins.

Ziona was the smallest of the bunch and, from what Jedediah could tell, Zaraliss’ spy amongst the others. She listened to find which way the winds of favor blew for her big sister among the siblings. Although the trapper didn’t know it, were it not for Ziona, Zaraliss would have found a dagger in her back many times over — a fact both sisters were keen to remember.

While his employers were busy at their own tasks, Jedediah quietly tended to his horse, desperate to pass by Zaraliss’ notice. He hoped his employer didn’t realize they had spent the entire morning traveling in circles. Peats should have known better.

Mr. Peats, what time do you estimate we will arrive at our destination in the morning? Zaraliss asked once the band settled down for a meal. Jedediah picked at his share of grisly meat. He didn’t have the stomach for anything at the moment, let alone the fare before him.

Well…I reckon if we get an early start…mebbee…before noon? the trapper half answered, half asked his employer.

Once again, your knowledge of the Gimbadors astounds me, Mr. Peats, Zaraliss said. If I hadn’t heard the ringing endorsements from your associates in Laredon, I’d say you were leading us on a wild goose chase.

Jedediah swallowed hard and found a renewed interest in the greasy strip of skewered meat in his hand. Zaraliss stood and walked to the trapper’s side. Kneeling beside him, she drew a nasty-looking dagger and tested the edge with a claw-like fingernail.

Nothing to say Mr. Peats? she asked. "Now that is strange, considering how