Pillars of Hope: Chapter 2

Chapter 2



The two rode side by side, at an easy pace. Conversation had been kept to a minimum since they had felt the strange yearning. He sat tall astride the large black stallion, his armor shining in the morning sun. He was the picture of Knighthood, tall, muscular frame, seemingly held in by form fitting plates of steel. A great sword hung from the saddle, while his waist was adorned with a shorter sword, a mace, and an axe. He sat stiffly in the saddle, black hair cascading about his shoulders, his pale blue eyes, set in a stoic mask-like face, stared straight ahead.
She was truly a study in dissimilarity. She sat gracefully astride a beautiful gray mare. Her white robes flowed gently and comfortably around her supple form. Around her waist was a conglomeration of pouches and sacks. Her flame red hair flowed gently down her back, nearly touching the saddle. The contrast caused by her brilliant green eyes, as well as her fair skin, only enhanced her beauty. She glanced from side to side as she rode; her gentle features giving an air of confidence to any whom might observe them.
It was he who finally broke the awkward silence. “I really don’t like this Tara. You get a funny feeling in your stomach, and suddenly we take off across the country to Galmoss knows where!”
“You felt it too, Aaron!” Her voice was stern and soothing at the same time. “I am not certain as to why, but we must go to this North Winds Tavern. You know that as well as do I!”
After another brief silence, he responded. “I still don’t like it.”
* * * * *


The rain continued to pour down, drenching the lone figure. He walked deliberately; eyes fixed on the road ahead. His feet sank slightly, the mud sucking at his sandals. Gray robes hung dark and heavy on his shoulders. The leather bags around his waist, though darkened by the moisture, protected their precious cargo. Water matted his dark hair to his head, and streaked down his weather-aged face. His eyes continued ahead, gentle yet determined, transfixed on some unseen goal.
An almost silent sob cut through his resoluteness. Diverting his eyes, they came to rest upon a small farmhouse. Its thatched roof kept most of the water out, and the wooden wall seemed good insulation from the cold. A small child stood near a wooden animal pen. He watched with open curiosity as she played absently with a cow’s tail. The rain mixed with tears as together they streaked down her visage.
“What is the matter my child?” he asked, approaching the young girl.
“Sorry suh, I did na see ye.” Her face flushed bright red. “I did na mean ta disturb ye.”
“What is it that makes you cry, dear child?”
“I do na wanna talk, please suh.”
“Joy should be your companion child, not tears. What pains take your heart this even?”
“‘Tis me mum, suh. She is na well. Me da says she’ll na make it thru the night.”
“Could I perchance see her? I am a priest and a healer, mayhaps I can be of assistance. Or at least make your mother a bit more comfortable.”
“Ye would do that suh? Oh, suh. Thank ye suh.” She grabbed the stranger by the hand, and led him to the door.
“Da,” she said excitedly, “da, this is. A thousand pardons suh, what were yer name?”
“I am Pastlon sir,” the stranger said, resting his walking stick against the wall and extending his hand in greeting. Water dripped from his robes onto the hard dirt floor. “I do apologize for my appearance,” he continued. “ I am a healer, and a priest. Could my services be of any use to you?”
“The local healer were here already. Her plants did na help me wife. You kin leave now, I’d like to watch me wife die in peace.”
“Might I at least look at her, and see if there is anything I can do? Pastlon took a few steps into the room. Looking around for the first time, he eyed a small, rickety table off to his right. Two stools sat beside the table, and a third sat near a pile of straw. The straw was covered with blankets, apparently used for a bed. It was upon the third stool that the man sat, staring down at the makeshift bed. To Pastlon’s left stood five barrels, probably containing foodstuffs and drink. A fire was flickering brightly in a small fireplace between the barrels and the bed, providing a comfortable warmth to the farmhouse.
Pastlon approached the man’s side. His eyes came to rest upon the woman lying on the bed. Her face was flushed, and spots of deep red covered her face. “She has the Pox,” Pastlon said, to no one in particular. “I can be of assistance my friend. I can ease her discomfort, and perhaps heal your wife.”
The man looked up, and his anger quickly turned to surprise. He stared long and hard at Pastlon. Suddenly his face softened, tears were fighting their way to the front of his eyes. “If there be anything ye kin do, I would have it done. Please suh, help me wife!”
Pastlon knelt beside the bed, and pulled away the covering of blankets. The woman made quiet protestations, but did not open her eyes. Pastlon gently laid one hand on her belly, and one hand on her forehead. He began to mumble, not quite loud enough to be heard. He remained in this state for quite some time, when slowly a faint blue light began to gather around his chest. It was barely perceptible, just a pale blue aura. It traveled up his torso to his shoulders. From there it began to travel down both arms. It was not long before the light rested on his hands.
The man and his daughter watched in wonderment, involuntarily stepping back. The light slowly became brighter and brighter around his hands, until it was comparable to the light of a distant star. Pastlon continued to mumble, now almost urgently. The light soon consumed the woman’s body, with the intensity of ten burning torches. Suddenly the light was gone. The woman lay comfortably, the pox gone, and her regular fair skin tone returned. Amazed, the man turned his attention on Pastlon. He was slumped over, his head resting on the floor. Pastlon looked up with some effort. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his face was drawn, and looked much leaner than it had before. His eyes were emotionless, his face expressionless.
“Are ye well, friend?” the man asked, genuine concern flowing over his face.
“I am well. Healing one so far gone is very taxing. She rests comfortably now.” He got to his feet, and took a little time to steady himself. “I must be leaving now. She will be returned to full strength in a day or two. Be well my friend.” With that, he turned and started for the door.
“”How can we eveh repay you, kine suh?”
“Remuneration is not necessary my friend.”
“Will ye na stay and sup with us, suh?” The child requested, running to Pastlon and grabbing his hand.
Kneeling down to look the innocent child in the face, he replied. “I cannot my child. I must be on my way.” He grabbed his walking stick and stepped out the door.
He took two steps when the man’s voice stopped him. “Begging yer pardon, suh, but how… what did ye do fer me wife?”
“As I said dear friend, I am a priest. What I cannot heal with herbs, I am granted power from on high to deal with. Perhaps if I pass this way again we shall discuss it in more detail. Fare thee well my friend.”
Pastlon returned to his journey, eyes fixed on the road ahead. A smile now graced his face.

* * * * *

Their Journey north, which started in Varis Areth, now led them to Varis Larmansk, the capital of the Northern Alliance. Aaron had visited the capital often on tasks that the Brotherhood had required of him. The city had never impressed him. Although set on a lake, it was not well defended. He was certain that even a small force could overthrow the city. His opinion of the city defenses was favorable when compared to his thoughts of the city proper. It seemed to be run by beggars and thieves. Filth lined the streets, and most of the buildings looked as though they would crumble in on themselves.
Now escorting his beautiful and delicate companion through such a filthy, disgusting environment, he was on edge. He scanned the alleys and side streets, staring down any who dared look at them. He smiled to himself as he watched the rabble scattered. He enjoyed intimidating peasants and thieves. Demanding respect was one of the things he did well. So what if they do not like me, they must respect me. A quick glance at the rider next to him put him back on his guard.
They rounded another corner, and Aaron breathed a sigh of relief. They were almost out of the city walls. His relief, however, was slightly premature. No sooner had he begun to relax, than a band of eight thugs leapt from an alley, and barred their passage. “This be a toll road, knight.” The last word was spoken with unveiled contempt.
Aaron examined the threat. Eight well built men, dressed in leathers and armed with short swords and bows. Two of them had arrows nocked and aimed at him. “Step aside wretch. You are impeding our progress.”
“That do be the idea. We’re givin’ ya two choices. Throw down your gold and that nice sword, and we let you go safely.”
“Or,” dared Aaron.
“Or, we fill you with cuts and arrows, and fill your ward with whatever we have left.” The comment elicited laughter from the vagabonds. Aaron flushed with anger. Suprisingly, Tara seemed unaffected by the comment.
Aaron immediately reached for his sword, and spurred his stallion forward. The arrows were released, flying straight for Aaron’s chest. Tara quickly waved her hand, and a gust of wind rose between the arrows and Aaron, blowing the missiles off course. In the next motion, she pointed at the two archers. The wind’s intensity increased, bombarding the two unsuspecting bandits with debris and rubble. It continued to increase until it forced them first backwards and finally to the ground.
Amidst the confusion, Aaron was doing what he truly did best. His sword, swinging in a wide arc, was tearing through armor like water through a net. Two of the brigands lay upon the ground before they had any idea what had happened. The stallion reared up in front of a third would-be thief, his sharp hooves meeting with the unfortunate man’s skull with a sickening thud.
Two of the three remaining bolted from the scene, leaving the leader alone to face his fate. Aaron was off his horse and advancing menacingly. Fear flashed in the eyes of the thief, but he made no effort to run.
“Aaron wait! He will not be troubling anyone for a while,” Tara smiled and looked at the man’s feet. Aaron’s eyes followed her gaze. The stones of the road somehow encased the thief’s feet.
“Getting a bit more creative, are we?” Aaron allowed a smile to cross his face, if only briefly. He mounted his stallion, saying, “Not feeling so confident now, are we friend? Next time you are told to move, perhaps you will.”
“Please mistress,” the thief was staring at Tara in amazement, “are you Mystweave, mistress of the winds?”
Tara laughed aloud, unable to hold it in. “No. Nothing like that. I am a simple magus of air and earth. I do thank you for the compliment.”
Aaron sheathed his sword, examining the scene once more. Three fresh bodies littered the streets, as once again, he proved himself against superior numbers. He sat up tall in his saddle, a smug smile on his face. He had yet to be wounded in battle, and had not lost a tournament. He was certain to be heralded by the bards soon.
Together Aaron and Tara rode on. Aaron continued to smile to himself, and Tara marveled at the diverse terrain. She had never seen such sights. Much of her time was spent on studies with her mother and teacher. She enjoyed the prospect of travel and adventure.