Feast of Fates (Four Feasts Till Darkness Book 1) by Christian A. Brown

Author:Christian A. Brown [Brown, Christian A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Forsythia Press
Published: 2014-09-15T04:00:00+00:00

VI

At the edge of Kor’Khul, on the border between greenness and sand, Magnus told his soldiers the cause of their march. Shining and proud, the silver men assembled for the morning on the grasslands outside Meadowvale. Up and down the lines, his mare, Brigada, bolted like black lightning, and the king’s voice, bolstered by sorcery, echoed like the thunder that followed.

Remember your oaths, men and women of the Silver Watch! he declared. This is the time that all debts to your kingdom are repaid. I must tell you the truth of our journey, and what you have committed yourselves to do. My brother has gone mad! (No gasps from the men’s cold faces, only frowns.) We ride south to see if he can be cleansed of his madness. If not, then we shall return him to Eod in chains of feliron. Every courage, ever honor is needed for this fight, and if you think that you are short on either, cast yourself from the Watch, from Eod, and never return. For the weak do not tread onward. The weak are not the cloth from which we cut the heroes of tomorrow. And against Brutus, we can have only heroes. Men and women with swords and even the smallest fear will not be enough: they will be ghosts before the battle is won. Ask yourself, are you heroes or are you spirits to be forgotten? Declare yourself now and ride onward, or ride back. The choice belongs to you.

He stirred Brigada and plunged into Meadowvale. Come the counting of heads that night, not a single soldier had left their legions. With providence, a thousand warriors of stone wills could be enough to triumph against Brutus.

Meadowvale was glorious in the spring. It was a brocade of green fields and threading rivers ruled by weary, irregular hillocks, like ruined castles grown over with moss. Once, in an age that only the kings had seen, this was a land of fire and ash. Then, when the great inferno swept these vales no more and the land had cooled, life found the volcanic sediment to be a ripe bosom. As the king’s legions moved south, the land welcomed them with arms of verdant beauty. The line of horses wound through great dales of pine and shaggy firs, trees so old that the king could hardly remember when they were saplings. In the trees sang throaty birds, and in the bushes rustled hearty animals for the Watchmen to hunt at night. Thus, the army’s campfires were always satisfying and cheery, even if it was known by now that this was a march of war.

One night as they camped among the elders of the weald, these trees as imposing as a giant’s emerald feet, the king found himself alone on a solitary rock. The army had covered much ground in a fortnight and they were around a day’s journey from the Valley of Fair Winds. The king wondered how much the valley had changed in two or three hundred years.

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