Sons of the Oak

Moments later, Fallion was back in the boat, floating downriver as storm clouds drew back over the heavens and finally grew so heavy that they were forced to relinquish their water. A drenching rain drizzled warm and sweet, and Fallion found himself light of heart.

Chancellor Waggit sent some scouts downstream and dispatched others to hold the path behind, so that the boat traveled in safety. Fallion slept part of the morning, and when he woke it was late afternoon.

The Gyell had met the River Dwindell and now flowed broadly through rich farmlands. The sun shone full.

They passed villages where cottages rested along the shore and tame geese honked at the sight of boaters upon the river. The children broke into the copious supplies and had a fine meal of cheese-bread, ham, and cider.

Talon leapt off the back of the boat and splashed about in the river, grinning broadly, swimming like a seal, and invited the rest of the children to join her. None braved it. Fallion dipped his hand in the water; it was not much warmer than it had been last night.

He lay back in the boat, watched the sun setting golden on the horizon. The sky was mottled with flecks of clouds, blue at the heart with golden edges.

So they had a pleasant trip to the Courts of Tide, where the spires of the castles rose up like spears to the sky, and the great crystalline bridges spanned from island to island, held up by ancient statues.

The Royal Palace stood upon the highest hill of the main island, and by all rights, Fallion and his family should have gone there for the night. Fallion had been born there, but had not been to the palace since he was two or three. His memories of the place were dim and wondrous.

But though Chancellor Waggit reported that the city was safe, free of any sign of assassins or marauders, Iome reminded the children that they were in hiding. “We don’t want to attract attention by walking up through the castle gates.”

Thus that evening the elders rowed the boat beneath the shadow of Fallion’s own palace, its dim lights gleaming through windows. On the east, the stately whitewashed towers seemed to rise straight up out of the water, and Fallion could see the sweeping alcoves built in at the waterline, lighted nooks with broad pools where in the past undines had swum like dolphins right up to the grand portico and held counsel with ancient kings.

Right now, there were no undines resting on the porch-only a few seals lying on the rocks while white gulls with gray backs floated upon the water nearby.

Fallion longed to row his boat into that shelter and head up the steps, but instead the boat rounded the ocean side of the island, into the deeper shadows, to the grungy dockside wharf where hundreds of fishing boats were moored. There the reek of fish guts and boiling crab mingled with salt spray.

In pitch-black, they moored up beneath a pier, and the whole family shambled through the night to an anonymous inn that Borenson assured everyone “is not as bad as it looks.”

And he was right. The outside was dingy and dark, but inside the place was more homey. The scent of savory chicken dumplings, buttery rolls, and roast apples soon had the children’s mouths watering. Rather than the nasty fishermen and whores and pirates that Fallion imagined might be in such a place, the common room was clean, and most of the patrons seemed to be decent shopkeepers who had brought their wives or friends out for a good meal.

As Borenson rented a room, Fallion looked around. A trio of minstrels played by the hearth. Beside each door and window an image of the Earth King stood-a man in green traveling robes with a deep hood, with leaves for his hair and beard.

Sage, Borenson’s three-year-old daughter, saw the decorations and shouted, “Look, it’s Hostenfest!”

Hostenfest was a month past, but the little ones had no sense of time and only wanted more presents and games.

“They put up the decorations in honor of the Earth King,” Myrrima said, and Fallion knew that she must be right. The decorations were an invitation for his father’s spirit to be welcome here.

Borenson secured a room, and just as the children were about to be whisked upstairs, the innkeeper, a fat old man, peered down at Fallion and roared, “Hey, what’s that in your pocket?”

Fallion peered up. It seemed that everyone in the room had stopped talking, had turned to stare at him.

“Your pocket, boy? What’s that squirming in your pocket?”

Fallion looked down. Humfrey was in the pocket of his tunic, rolling around. “It’s just my pet ferrin,” Fallion whispered.

“We don’t let the likes of them in here,” the innkeeper shouted, “the thieving vermin.”

“He don’t steal,” Jaz said, offering up a patent lie. All ferrins stole. It was in their nature.

“We had one that stole bad,” the innkeeper said. “Customers were losing gold and jewelry by the dozens. I sacked a couple of my girls, thinking it was them, until we caught the rascal.” He nodded to a small crack in the corner where the cobbled floor met the stairs.

They’d killed the ferrin, of course, Fallion realized. Innkeepers were notorious for hating ferrins.

“Humfrey wouldn’t steal,” Fallion offered; on a sudden inspiration he went to the corner, knelt on the ale-stained stones of the floor, and pulled Humfrey from his pocket.

The ferrin looked about, blinking his huge dark eyes. Fallion thought for a moment. Ferrins didn’t have a word for gold or jewels, not that Fallion knew of. Instead, they used a whistle that meant sunlight. So Fallion whistled and snarled, “Sunlight. Hunt sunlight.”

The ferrin stood, looking up at the crowded inn, at the angry humans peering down at him. He became more fearful by the moment, his whiskers trembling, nose twitching as he scented for danger.

Borenson must have realized what Fallion was trying to do. “Here. Show him this.” He held out a silver eagle in his palm, then let the coin glint in the air.

“Hunt sunlight,” Fallion said again, shoving the ferrin toward the crack in the wall.

Humfrey sniffed at the hole, then shrieked in delight as he realized what Fallion wanted.

He lunged into the hole.

Fallion had seen what kind of damage a ferrin could do to a building. They loved to dig their holes under rocks and trees, and thus they were a nuisance to men folk, for they would dig under the foundations of houses and buildings, and at times a ferrin’s tunnel would collapse, and a whole wall might come down.

It had happened at the cobbler’s shop at Castle Coorm just last spring. A wall had collapsed, and Fallion had gone out to see the cobbler and his neighbors digging up the foundation to expose the ferrins’ tunnels. There were a surprising number of small chambers, sometimes lined with stolen cobblestones to bolster them up. And inside them were piles of buttons and scraps of leather, old thimbles, and string and metal tacks. The cobbler was livid to see how much merchandise the ferrins had taken over the years.

“Five hundred shoe tacks!” he’d exclaimed over and over. “What would they do with so many? They don’t make boots.”

Fallion did not have to wait for more than a minute before Humfrey returned to the mouth of the den. In his mouth he carried a gold eagle, a coin that would easily pay for a week’s lodging in the hostel.

Fallion took it from Humfrey and tossed it up to the innkeeper, who bit it to see if it was real, then roared with laughter. He probably wouldn’t see a coin like that more than once a month.

He looked thoughtfully at Fallion, as if trying to decide, and said, “See what else he can find down there.”

Fallion whistled the command, and Humfrey went rushing back into the hole.

Certainly the innkeeper had to know that a few coins were hidden down there, but like the cobbler, he didn’t have any idea what it might amount to. And the cost of tearing out the walls and floors to go looking for them had probably seemed prohibitive. A ferrin might easily tunnel fifty yards in any direction, and an old warren, one that had been built up over years, might have dozens of branches.

It was several long minutes before Humfrey reappeared. This time he held an earring in his mouth, a long thing with several cheap beads dangling from it.

The innkeeper looked disappointed, but said, “Right. He can stay-if you have him do a little more poking around.”

“Okay,” Fallion agreed.

Then the whole “family” hurried upstairs, Borenson and Myrrima acting as the parents of a large brood, while Iome played the part of “grandmother.”

Fallion had never been in such cramped quarters, but soon he found a corner and lay down upon a blanket while his mother lit a fire in the small hearth.

Myrrima put her children down for the night, while Borenson went down to the common room to hear the latest gossip and drink a few mugs of ale.

Humfrey found a hole in the wall, just under the bed, and disappeared. Every few minutes he would bring back a piece of ferrin treasure-a woman’s comb, an ivory button, a tin coin. Each time he did, Fallion would give him a bit of food-a crust of bread or a dried date-as a reward.

Fallion watched the flames dance and wondered if the floor was comfortable enough to sleep on. He heard music rising through the floorboards, the steady beat of a drum, like a beating heart, along with shouts of laughter.

To his surprise, Rhianna, who had been lying next to Talon, picked up her blanket and pillow and came and lay down next to him.

“Can I sleep here next to the fire?” she asked. “I’m feeling cold right down to the bone.”

“Okay,” Fallion said, scooting back, so that she could catch the heat of the flames.

She settled in, leaning against him lightly, and Fallion studied her cheek, her chin. Her fierce blue eyes stared into the flames, lost in memory. Her right hand was under her pillow, and Fallion could see that her fingers clasped her dirk.

Of course, he realized. She’ll probably never sleep well again. He couldn’t quite imagine what she had been through, getting attacked by strengi-saats, lying half naked in the trees for days while the monsters waited for their babies to hatch and eat their way out.

We each have our own monsters to fight, Fallion thought, his mind going back to Asgaroth. He put his arm around Rhianna and scooted in closer, then whispered in her ear, “It’s okay. I’ve got your back.”

He wrapped his larger fist around hers, so that they held the dirk together.

Rhianna stifled a sob, nodded her thanks, and after a long while, when Rhianna was deep in slumber, somehow Fallion fell asleep.

It seemed like hours later when he woke to the creak of floorboards. It was Borenson, back from the common room. Fallion had thought that he had just stayed for the ale, but he now had a whispered conversation with Iome.

“We’re in luck,” Borenson said. “I found an outbound ship that is leaving in two days: the Leviathan. They’re taking the southern route. I managed to book us passage.”

Fallion was all ears. He had too much common sense to ask Borenson where they were going. It was a secret, and soldiers such as Borenson never revealed a secret. But that didn’t mean that Fallion couldn’t eavesdrop for clues.

“The southern route?” Iome asked. “Won’t that take longer?”

“It will add a month or so to the voyage,” Borenson said. “But we can’t go by the northern route this time of year-ice storms.”

Add a month or two to the voyage? Fallion wondered. They were sailing far away, leaving behind everything that he had ever known.

Iome nodded reluctantly. “You didn’t pay too much, did you? We can’t arouse suspicion.”

“Just about the only people who take this voyage are outlaws,” Borenson said. “The price is always high. But I managed to keep it down. I told him that I’d made too many enemies here in Mystarria, aroused too much jealousy. I have too many kids and too much to lose. And I told him that I’d grown tired of the constant fighting. He seemed fine with the story.”

“And it’s not far from the truth,” Iome said. “I’ve seen it in you. You don’t love battle the way that you used to. So, we take the southern route, trading ice storms for pirates. Well, I’ll bet he’s glad of the bargain. He’ll want another sword if we’re attacked.”

Fallion lay quietly as Borenson grunted agreement, whispered good night, and slipped back out the door.

Rolling over as if in sleep, Fallion peered up at his mother. She sat in a rocking chair, slowly rocking, her silver hair falling loosely over her shoulders, a naked sword across her lap, its blade a brighter silver than her hair.

She’s keeping watch, Fallion realized. His mother had so many endowments of stamina that she almost never slept. Instead, she sometimes just paced late at night, letting herself relive a memory or fall into a waking dream, in the way of powerful Runelords.

Iome saw him looking up; she laid the sword aside and smiled, motioning him to her with the wave of a hand.

Fallion picked up his blanket, then climbed into her lap and curled up as she pulled the blanket over him.

“Mother, you said that a locus could be anywhere, in anyone. Right?” Iome hesitated, and then nodded. “That means that it could be in the innkeeper downstairs, the one that doesn’t like ferrins. Or it could be in one of the minstrels. Even in you, or me, and no one would know?”

Iome thought a moment before answering. “It isn’t good for a child to ask such questions so late at night. Asgaroth’s power is too frightening. But it is important that you know the truth…”

She hesitated, and Fallion felt as if he were trying to pry some secret from her. She didn’t want to tell him what he needed to know. He decided that he would find out, even if he had to discover the truth himself.

“And you said that it feeds on evil?”

“It seems that they make their homes in evil people,” Iome said. “I’m not sure what it feeds on.”

“And there is more than just one locus,” Fallion asked. “Lots of them?”

Iome began to recognize a pattern. Fallion was asking questions as if he were a captain debriefing a scout. Where is the enemy? That was always the first question to ask. How great are their numbers? What arms do they bear?

“Yes, there is more than one. Some are big and powerful,” Iome said, “like Asgaroth. Others are small and weak, little shadows of evil.”

“How many are there?” Fallion asked. “If father could see them, he would have told you how many there are.”

Iome peered at him, her dark eyes sparkling. “You’re so much smarter than the rest of us. It’s a good question, and I don’t think your father even knew. But I don’t think that there are many. Your father told me that not everyone who is cruel or greedy has one.”

“So, in a way,” Fallion said, “the loci are hunting us. Right?”

“I suppose,” Iome said, wondering what he was getting at. It was the next question: what is the enemy target?

“So do they hunt like wolves? Or like hill lions?”

“I’m not even sure what you mean?”

“Wolves hunt in packs,” Fallion explained. “They follow herds of elk or deer or sheep.”

Fallion had seen some wolves once, from a distance. On an early morning ride with Waggit, he’d topped a ridge one morning to see a pack of hollow wolves chasing a stag. The stag was racing across a field, its head held high so that its magnificent antlers could be seen glinting in the sunlight, all golden and amber, for it was late spring and the stag’s antlers were still in velvet.

A trio of wolves ran hot on the stag’s trail, and Fallion’s heart had hammered, hoping for the stag’s escape.

But the stag had bounded down into a draw, through the green grass, past an old fallen log. And suddenly there was a flash of gray as a hollow wolf lurched to its feet, scattering dust as it lunged from the shadows to grab the stag by its haunches.

The huge wolf didn’t just nip. It gripped the stag in its teeth and held on, throwing its weight against the noble stag so that its legs twisted out from under, and it fell in the grass, rolling, rolling, while wolves yipped and growled and clung on, one of them holding the stag’s throat in its teeth, and then they began to feed even as the stag struggled, peering in a daze for some means of escape.

Fallion suppressed the image and tried to explain his question to his mother. He searched for an unfamiliar word but couldn’t find it. “Wolves work together in the hunt, choose an animal and go after it. But a hill lion hunts alone.”

Iome licked her lips; in her mind she had a vision of three knights charging toward her on the road south of Carris. She didn’t want to frighten her son, but she didn’t want to lie to him, either. “They hunt like wolves,” she admitted.

So they’ve chosen me, Fallion realized. They’re trying to cut me out from the herd. But why?

“What can I do about it?”

“Prepare,” Iome said. “Be courageous, seek to do good. That’s how you can fight back, I think,” Iome continued. “We can even beat them, your father believed, if we are firm of purpose.” This last was only her husband’s hope. She had no idea how to beat them.

“You can’t kill evil, can you?” Fallion asked.

“I don’t think so,” Iome said. “You can kill evil men, but I don’t think that that kills evil. But you can fight evil. You can fight evil in yourself. You can drive all evil from you.”

Fallion squeezed her hand, as if she had told him all that he wanted to know, but then he asked another question.

“Father fought a locus, didn’t he? When he went to the Underworld?”

“Who told you that?” Iome asked. Few people had ever heard the full story, and Iome was the only person who had witnessed the battle.

“I thought of it on my own,” Fallion said. “People say that reavers are evil. But Hearthmaster Waggit says that they’re just animals. So there had to be something more, a crazy reaver or something. That’s what I used to think. But then it just came to me: maybe the reaver had a locus.”

“You’re right. Reavers aren’t evil,” Iome said with a shudder. She had seen the monsters in their lairs, five times the weight of an elephant, enormous and cruel. She’d seen how they cut men in half for sport. But she’d also seen how they protected and cared for their own young. “But they aren’t just animals, either. Don’t make the mistake of thinking that they’re as dumb as a dog or a bear. They’re as intelligent as you or I. Some of them are brilliant. But they’re also bloodthirsty, just like some wolves. It’s in their nature.”

“Was Asgaroth the one that Father fought?” Fallion scratched his chin and looked intently at his mother. Perhaps he thought that this was a vendetta.

“No,” Iome said. “It was Asgaroth’s master. She was called the One True Master of Evil.”

Fallion nodded. “Hearthmaster Waggit says that she tried to take over the netherworld a long time ago. She tried to master the Runes of Creation, and the world shattered into a thousand thousand worlds.”

Iome talked to him then for long minutes, telling him of his father’s battles against the reavers-how their mages created giant runes that poisoned and polluted the land, and how his father had gone to the Underworld and battled the One True Master, and then afterward defeated Raj Ahten, who also was afflicted by a locus.

Fallion thought for a long moment, then asked, “If loci have to live inside people or animals, why do they want to destroy the world? Wouldn’t they die, too?”

“I’m not sure they want to destroy the world,” Iome said. “Some think that they just want to change it, make it warmer so that reavers can take our place. Perhaps the reavers make better hosts for the loci.”

“Hearthmaster Waggit said that their spells would have destroyed the world, killed all of the plants, and then the animals would have died.”

Iome had to admit that that seemed likely.

“And if he’s right,” Fallion said, “then the loci don’t care if they live in us or not. What they really want is to destroy this world. But why?” Fallion asked.

What is the enemy’s objective? Iome thought. It was a vital question that any commander would want answered.

Fallion went on, “If there are a thousand thousand shadow worlds in the heavens, why would they want to destroy this one?”

“I don’t know,” Iome said. “Maybe they want to destroy all of them.”

“But the One True Master didn’t try to destroy the world in the beginning. She just wanted to take over. And Myrrima said that if she could, she would bind the worlds back together under her control…”

Iome had never considered this.

“Why destroy this world?” Fallion said.

“I don’t know,” Iome admitted.

Fallion wondered, “Maybe destroying this world is a key to getting the rest,” he suggested. He peered deep into her eyes. “If we found one, found a locus, do you think we could ask it? Could we torture it and make it talk?”

The notion was so bizarre, Iome was tempted to laugh. But Fallion was in earnest. “Those who are afflicted by a locus,” she explained, “aren’t likely to tell you anything of worth. Most of the time, the host has no idea what he bears inside himself. Even if you could talk to the locus, would it tell you anything? Gaborn told me that one way to discern a locus is this: a person who hosts a locus can tell you a thousand lies much easier than he can utter a single truth.”

Fallion peered up at his mother. “Yet there must be a way to fight them. They’re afraid of me. I think they know that I can beat them. All that I have to do is find the right weapons.”

Iome fell silent. She didn’t want to speak about this anymore. Indeed, she had already said too much. She didn’t want to burden her son with more knowledge, not now, not when he had just faced Asgaroth. He needed his rest, and she needed to give him hope.

“There’s something that my own father told me when I was a child,” Iome said. “It’s important for you to understand. It’s a secret. I never forgot it. In fact, more than anything else, it has helped shape who I’ve become.”

“What?” Fallion asked.

Iome waited for the expectancy inside him to grow, then repeated from memory, “ ‘The great heroes of the next age are already alive-the Fallions, the Erden Geborens. The child that you see suckling in its mother’s arm may someday command an army. The toddler that sits in the street eating dirt may become a counselor to the king. The little girl drawing water from the well may be a powerful sorceress. The only thing that separates what they are from what they shall become is time, time and preparation. You must prepare to meet your destiny, whatever that may be. Study the right books. Practice the right weapons. Make the right friends. Become the right person.’ ”

“So,” Fallion said, “I should begin now to build my army?” He looked across the room to where Jaz lay curled by the fire, and Talon cuddled with her baby sister Erin, and then his eyes settled on Rhianna, wrapped in a black blanket by the fire, her dirk in her hand.

“Yes,” Iome said. “Now is the time to start. And I think that you’ll have need of an army.”

Iome was deeply aware that she would not live long enough to see him raise an army, to see Fallion become the hero that Gaborn had said he could be. She felt old and stretched, ready to break.

Her tone softened, and she tousled his hair. “I’ve done the best that I could for you. You’ve had the best teachers, the best guards to train you. We’ll keep giving you all that we can, but others can’t live your life for you. You must choose to blossom on your own.”

Fallion thought about that. He’d lived in the shadow of the Earth King all of his life, and for as long as he could remember, he’d had dozens of trainers. Borenson had been there to train him in the battle-ax, while Hadissa taught him the arts of stealth and of poison. Waggit had filled his mind with knowledge of strategy and tactics and a dozen other topics. There had been Sir Coomb to teach him horsemanship and the ways of animals, and there were other teachers, a dozen others at least. So many times he had resented these people, but yes, he realized, his mother had given him all that she could, more than any child had a right to ask.

Even his father, who had seemingly gone to far places in the world without reason, had apparently been watching over him from afar.

But is it enough? he wondered.

“You’re growing so fast,” Iome said. “I think you must be a head taller than all of the other children your age. Sometimes I have to remind myself that you’re still just a little boy.”

“I’m not little,” Fallion whispered. “I’ll be ten in a month.”

“You are to me,” Iome said. “You’re still my baby.”

“If you want,” Fallion said. “Just for a little while more.”

Fallion lay against her, his head pillowed by her breast and cradled in her left arm, while his feet dangled over the edge of the rocking chair, too near the fire. He saw Humfrey slinking about the hearth, laying a bright button in the pile of treasures he’d brought up from below.

Fallion smiled.

It was rare that he had his mother all to himself. For as long as he could remember, his father had been out saving the world while Mother seemed busy ruling it. He looked forward to having her nearby, just being with her.

His hand was throbbing in pain, but he put it out of mind and fell asleep, imagining how someday he would drive a spear through Asgaroth’s heart-a creature who was somehow a tall thin man with impossibly long white hair, leading an army of minions in black. In his dream Fallion was now the Earth King, and he imagined that he would slay evil once and for all, while the world applauded.

So he lay, his mother stroking his hair as if he were a puppy, content for the moment to be nothing more than a child.

David Farland

Sons of the Oak