Gyles

Chapter I - The Day of Steel

The smell of Willowdale had changed. The hearthfires burned bright, and the scent of autumn harvests wafted on the breeze. Still, the air was foul.

Gyles had been a boy when the galleons first glowered on the horizon. Their coming heralded war. He'd prayed for the day when they would sail away, never to return to the shores of his home. In time, the gods had answered. The seasons changed from winter to summer and back again, some thirty times since. It felt now like it did then.

In spring, the willows had begun their bloom. The days grew longer, and with light came darkness. The skiffs of the smallport were swallowed once more by the shadows of vast hulls. He'd watched as a host of soldiers came pouring from the ships, unloading bloodwine and fine brocade from their foreign shores. His people were eager to taste the heartrealm's finery, but Gyles saw the omen for what it was. The eyes of the crown were fixed on the islefolk, and its hands were tightening the noose.

Now, on this autumn morning, the air hung light, like a whisper poised on the edge of silence. He stepped outside and watched as the fog that dewed the grass slithered through the trees. The rising island sun bathed his olive skin, but he felt no warmth. The decaying reds and golds of the willows unnerved him. He exhaled, then started down the road.

His first stop, as always, was at Beckett’s field. The farmstead was far from the village, on the eastern edge of Boot Island. Adjacent to the farmer's dwelling lay a stretch of cultivated earth, a little dock, and a stable fit for no more than two or three horses. “Good morrow, Beck. Time for the harvest?” Gyles asked with an effort.

“Hedger! Time's come at last. A few sheaves of grain today, and on the morrow, bright red bushels of apples,” the farmer replied with a wink.

Gyles took heart from the farmer's cheerfulness, feigned or no. He found he could muster no such courage. His oldest friend was not but a few years older than himself, though he was graced with the temperament of a man well beyond his years. Gyles had grown to tolerate the beard Beck had affected, though the farmer groomed it less than he ought.

"How grows the garden?" Beckett asked.

“Garden's well enough, though the herbs could do with more sun. The clouds linger of late. I'll manage. And you? Are you and the lady still trying for a son?”

“Yes, but the stalks are my children, and I have far too many," said Beckett with a hearty laugh. "It's good to have you, my friend.”

Beck always had a way of easing Gyles out of his darker moods. “Naught like good company to bear the yoke. Remember when we climbed onto the roof of the old godshouse?”

Beckett grinned. “How could I forget? You looked like you'd seen a ghost when old Agnes shouted up at us!”

“That's right," said Gyles as the memories came flooding back. "The old crone was tending to her garden, and she looked up and saw your feet hanging over the thatch. She screamed so loud, I thought the whole village would hear. And there you sat, swinging your legs and grinning like a damned fool while I tried to pull you back up. We must have hidden up there for hours, weathering her storm.”

“Laughed ourselves mad!" Beckett replied, his hands on his knees. "Those were the days." His eyes lingered on the floor a moment, his gaze miles away. "But enough of that!" he said as he rose. "Let’s see to the work. Alyce will have my hide if we delay.”

“Better her than old Agnes."

Rhythmically, Gyles toiled in the field with the farmer. The sun climbed overhead as they worked. After some hours, they completed their task, bundling and weighing the sheaves. At last, they straightened their wiry frames, satisfied.

From the stable came Alyce, striding purposefully as the sun reached its zenith. She removed a pair of worn leather gloves, tucking them into her apron pocket as she approached, revealing calloused hands. Her brow glistened with sweat.

“How fare you both?" she asked with a warm smile. "The horses are fed and watered, Beck. Should you be making for the market, do stop by Gregor’s. We’ll be needing a new set of sickles before winter sets in. And take Gyles to town with you—the islefolk are uneasy of late."

“Well, you heard the lady—seems I'm in want of a knight!" said Beckett with a pound of his chest. "Though I could do with the extra pair of hands. Come,” he clapped Gyles on the shoulder, “and I’ll double your barley for the day.”

The request was harmless enough, but Gyles found himself clenching his jaw. It had been some time since he visited the islefolk. The rattle of sabatons rendered him a boy once more, helpless and afraid. Yet, in his heart he knew that Gregor's friendly face would do him good. "My beds can last a few hours. To the market, then," he said with resolve.

Beck bade farewell to his wife with a kiss upon her cheek, and the two men followed the little river downstream. The gentle flow of water guided them through the heart of the isle. Here, freshwater springs and streams crisscrossed the land, nurturing fertile valleys and wetlands where the willows thrived.

Crossing the river and its banks, the travelers reached a bustling marketplace. Modest dwellings and thatched-roof huts lined the streets. At the center of Willowdale was a well; the freshwater of the island slaked the thirst of both the islefolk and the willows, in a sort of harmony. Villagers went about their daily labors, transporting shipments of ore and lumber from the wharf to their workshops.

Missing from the usual throng were the soldiers. Gone, too, were the statesmen with their scrutinous looks, peering from the tops of their rolls of parchment.

Gyles turned his head towards the dock. "Beck, look. The crownships," he said, gesturing toward the horizon.

Beckett narrowed his eyes. "I see none."

"Because there are none. Is it not the day of steel?" Indeed, the now-familiar sight of sails cresting above the treetops was nowhere to be seen. "Surely, the shipments should have arrived."

Against the pit growing in his stomach, Gyles carried on to the smith, Beck behind. They soon arrived at Gregor's modest dwelling. Adjacent to the home stood a workshop, marked by a towering chimney. Gregor was fond of the chimney—it was the only such spire in the village. The aging man was set upon a grindstone, and greeted them with a distracted nod as he focused on the axe atop his wheel, sending sparks to the floor.

“Grain's here at last, old man!” Beckett said with a smile, raising his voice above the piercing sound. “Three bundles at the usual trade?”

With a final pass over his work, Gregor wiped his brow and set the axe aside. “Good morrow, young masters," he said. "Aye Beckett, three bundles for a sum of horseshoes and nails. The lady will be well pleased to have boiled grains again.”

The smith moved towards his dwelling and beckoned the two men to follow. Once inside, he reached for a purse on a nearby shelf. Nail and sheaf exchanged hands, and they spoke of days past. Gregor seemed eager to return to his labors, but Beck lingered in the doorway. "What else then?" the old man inquired.

"I've come to ask a favor of you. I'll be needing two hooks—one for me, and one for Alyce."

"Well I'm sorry, young master, but I'm afraid there's been no fresh steel in weeks."

"But how can that be, with those wretched ships upon our shores day and night?"

The smith shrugged. "I work only with what I'm given. Of late, the soldiers keep to themselves, and the trading days grow fewer. It seems the winds are changing. To what end, I could not say."

Gregor's words were heavy. Gyles tried his best not to dwell on the day's portents, but his imagination betrayed him. Missing ships, missing soldiers. No steel. It was unusual, and unusual meant uncertain. "Come now, Beck. We've troubled the man enough for one day," he said, shuffling his friend out the door.

"You two take care," said Gregor. "You'd do best not to speak too loudly of this."

Clouds had begun to gather overhead when they at last left the home. As Gyles stepped outside, a sharp scent met his nose—fire! He looked to Gregor's furnace, but it lay dormant. Turning his head westward, his eyes met a pillar of black smoke, ominously billowing from beyond the wood.

"Beck, look!" He pointed toward the horizon, his voice tinged with alarm.

Beckett, squinting against the light, shook his head slowly. "The Willowfort... what madness now?"

The plume rose steadily from the quarter of Dun Moeras. The abandoned fortress had long loomed on the island’s edge—a silent sentinel until now. Time and mind had forgotten its purpose, some military outpost turned the dwelling of miscreants and vagabonds. It was not a place for honest folk.

The wisest course would be to run, thought Gyles. Yet he had never been able to douse the flame of his curiosities, once it was lit. Beck shared the same affliction. Or so Alyce liked to remind them. He exchanged a knowing look with the farmer. In silent agreement, they shouldered their grain and made for the fortress. They took the rumrunner's path through the westwood, a route they had dared not tread before.

The lively sounds of Willowdale grew distant as they made their way through the wood. The smoke guided their steps, its black pillar growing larger as they walked. With the fortress just ahead, Gyles stopped. "We should get off the road," he said, his voice low.

Beckett nodded silently, and the two men disappeared into the brush. Using the dense thicket as cover, they crested a hill overlooking the crescent bay. The sight that unfolded was unlike any Gyles had ever seen, borne of a nightmare. A small fleet of warships lay anchored in the bay, their frames dark against the gray sky. Upon their sails, he could make out a golden trident against an amethyst canvas—the royal crest.

Onshore near the fortress, an encampment thrummed with activity—red and gold tents peppered the landscape, encircled by a wooden palisade. The clash of steel and cries of battle reached his ears as they lay in witness to the unfolding conflict. He recognized the distinct vignette of Azaran soldiers. Each soldier wore a gleaming breastplate of polished steel, enameled with intricate patterns of deep purple, intertwining like the vines of clematis. Beneath the plate, chainmail draped over an aketon. Their helms, crested with purple plumes, shone under the dim light.

Grappling against the terrible military force were naught but a band of ragged fighters garbed in a mix of leather and cloth, though each of the malcontents wore a single garment of crimson. A pitiful assembly, he thought. From their camp, flags whipped in the wind, bearing a gold hand with a red scar.

"Beck, the banners! Does that sigil mean aught to you?"

Beckett’s eyes were wide with a mixture of awe and fear, his mouth silent; he had no answer. Gyles lay atop the hill with his man, their bodies pressed against the earth as if seeking safety in its embrace. Against his better nature, he could not tear his gaze from the dance of life and death below.

The crimson host, bearing no crest he had seen before, fought on the backfoot, slowly losing ground against the enemy marching from the beach. The red of their scarves and cloaks shone bright against the greens of the forest, masking the blood dripping down from their wounds. The Azaran soldiers pressed on, burning crimson tents as they advanced. The pride of the crown made manifest.

Gyles was no military man, though he guessed the fortress granted the insurgents some advantage. Archers rained what little arrows they had from the battlements above, yet few found their mark on the soldiers below, who crashed against the red footmen like the tide breaking upon the shore.

At last, the Azaran force breached the inner walls of the fortress, shattering the red host’s defenses. He turned his gaze to the beach, where a small company of soldiers labored under the weight of their engines of war. Trebuchet and catapult were hauled forward, their monstrous frames creaking under their own weight. They loosed their cargo upon the fortress, stones crashing against the crumbling walls with great force.

It seemed to him that little hope remained for the host, until a single redcloak danced through the frontlines, evading sword and spear. He watched as this lone warrior raised his right hand above his head, fingers pointed towards the sky; he buried his left deep in his pocket, groping for something unseen.

As the soldier raised his head toward the godsrealm, his hood fell, and a cascade of chestnut locks tumbled free. A woman. Gyles could just make out the movement of her lips, though she seemed to speak in a language that he could not understand. Faster than a heartbeat, the cacophony of war was silenced.

A ring of light appeared about the tip of the woman's finger. With the speed and force of lightning, it pulsed, expanding and blanketing the battlefield in a cascade of brilliant color, a wave that bathed the world in shades of violet. The sound was deafening, as though a thunderclap from an angry storm.

Gyles was launched back from his position atop the hill, rolling down and down until at last he came to a halt, badly bruised from the tumble. He heard the thump of Beck hitting a trunk. The grain lay scattered about in the dirt.

“Gods above,” said Gyles. "What was that?" His hand clasped the back of his neck. “That thunderous force—I’ve seen naught like it in all my years." He pressed his hands against his temples, squeezing his eyes shut in pain.

“That was no tempest. No fury of the earth could do that," said Beckett as he rose unsteadily from the ground. "The grain!” he said, motioning to what remained of their labors.

"Leave it, Beck! We've no part to play here—we should never have come!” Gyles pulled Beckett's arm, and the two retreated into the wood.

They kept off the road, close enough to keep from losing their way. The sun was low in the sky now, hidden behind the clouds. Their pace was quick, though they were still reeling from the fall. Grunts and winces were all that broke the silence of the trees while the westwood blackened around them. Dusk hastened its approach.

As they neared the clearing, Gyles could barely make out another pillar of smoke, rising from the market they had left not hours before. The two men exchanged worried glances.

"Could be Gregor," said Gyles, unconvincingly.

"He never works past dusk," said Beckett, the color gone from his face.

The market was close now. Pushing aside the branches blocking his view, Gyles saw at last what had become of their village.

Willowdale was aflame.

The air was thick with smoke and the smell of charred timber. Bodies of islefolk he knew lay strewn about like discarded dolls. His eyes darted from body to body. He noticed a young girl, her auburn hair caked in blood and dirt. She could not have seen but ten winters.

For a moment, he thought nothing at all. He did not shed a tear, for the weight of the world was a dam. Should he crack, the flood would come.

Beckett's head swiveled back and forth, his eyes at last finding Gregor's home. Wordlessly, Gyles followed Beck's dash toward the smith's house, not yet ablaze from the rising inferno. The door was ajar, torn from its hinges.

Inside lay Gregor, motionless. His eyes stared vacantly at the ceiling, his axe just out of reach of his hand.

"He fought, Gyles," said the farmer through clenched teeth. "And where were we? Hiding among the hills, cravens both!"

Smoke crept inside the home, and Gyles' lungs began to itch. "There's nothing we could've done, Beck. We're no soldiers." He placed a hand on his chest, coughing and rasping.

For a brief moment, the two men stood still. Smoke filled the house, yet Gyles found he could not stir his legs to move. Beck broke the silence. “Alyce,” he croaked, the word barely escaping his throat.

He flew from the home, and Gyles followed closely behind. Their hurried pace crescendoed into a frantic sprint as they followed the little river back to the farmer’s house. Alyce is a sharp woman, thought Gyles. She'll be alright.

Night had fallen when they arrived at Beckett's farm. The field, once rich with the promise of the week’s harvest, was now a wasteland of salted earth.

Among the ash, Alyce lay still.

Beck ran to her and dropped to his knees. He cupped Alyce’s face in his hand, gently stroking her hair as if to wake her from a dream. His labored heaving grew louder and louder, until his cries turned great and terrible.

Gyles placed a trembling hand on his friend’s shoulder, his mouth agape as he looked upon the horror before him. “I’m so sorry, my friend. I'm so sorry. I'm...”

His shock turned to fear. "We mustn’t stay here."

Beckett ignored him, his cries echoing through the night, raw and broken. Too loud.

Gyles spoke again, his voice firmer. “Beck! We can’t stay here. Do you still have that dory?” With a wrenching effort, Gyles tore his friend from his wife. With Beckett's arm around his shoulders, they stumbled toward the pier behind the barn.

He set the farmer down, his hands shaking as he untied the boat from the dock. In the black of night, he fumbled with the rope. Finally, he freed the skiff from its moorings. "Come on," he said, lifting Beckett into the boat.

Boarding the vessel, he pushed them off into the abyss. The waves whispered softly, lifting the boat away from shore as he rowed. Beckett hung his head, silent and low. He looked back at the isle, and his eyes met two twin lights, flickering like beacons in the night. One from the crescent bay, the other from his home. At last, he felt the tears fall from his face.

Darkness swallowed them as Willowdale faded from view.