The White Flame
By Nathanael Sniatecki
War Forges The World
Prologue
Aquilius. A vast world filled with a great diversity of creatures and places. By cartographers, it was said to be a massive island, hundreds of miles long. In the earliest age, which was temporally uncharted, the majority of civilizations were tribes.
They were composed of two or three scores of people, ranging in age and likeness. Few of them bore weapons evolved from primitive spears and bone axes, but as the centuries passed, they began to grow in knowledge.
Swords, bows, and other forms of similar weaponry were invented and used for hunting and intertribal combat. Most tribes were found in the northeast, among the lush mountains. Eventually, they joined and rallied under one flag, and one king, Crinis.
Sovereign he was, having command over dozens of tribes in a peaceful and just reign. For three decades, he ruled the tribes as their king, and they were contented with his rule.
Then there was another power. Rorganoth, a beastly ruler forged by the sorcery of necromancers in the depths of the unforgiving Red Mountains, rose to oppose King Crinis. He was both the servant and the ruler of the Red Sorcerors, created by them to rule them.
Rorganoth, by his own will, challenged Crinis to a massive battle, after he had slain the Red Sorcerors during the night. Only he remained as the power of the Red Mountains.
Crinis had heard of Rorganoth’s sheer might, and knew of the destruction that would ensue if he refused the challenge. If Rorganoth would not recieve an answer, he would begin a bloody conquest across the tribes, killing all inside them.
So in the eve of King Crinis’ thirty-second year, he gathered his armies and marched them to a massive valley, which was wide and deathly. When he arrived, Rorganoth was already standing in the valley.
There he stood, the infamous enemy. Sixty feet tall he was, gripping a black mace large enough to bash away an elephant. He was solemn and sinister, showing no emotion. He was made completely of a hard, black armor that was thought to be entirely impregnable.
King Crinis stood with his army, facing the terrible foe with great valor in their hearts. Without a warning or sign of attack, he swept away the first line of soldiers. Crinis was knocked back, but soon regained his standing position.
In a vigorous charge, Crinis led his soldiers to vicious clash against Rorganoth and his superior, dastardly might. They swarmed onto his legs and bashed them with their primitive weapons, which were of no use.
By the dozen, he shook and smashed them off, killing them with the impact of hitting the black rocks. Men and morale were running thin, and Crinis directed a retreat away from the might of Rorganoth.
The next day, in the morning, he led his men in another strike, but their charge was beaten back once more. Crinis knew he could not drag on such a battle for a longer time. Though retreat would bring only inevitable death.
So instead of retreat, he decided on a temporary shelter in which his soldiers could rest and create a plan. He found a deep chasm in the side of a mountain, and brought his soldiers there to rest and recuperate.
Their numbers had been brutally diminished, and their morale was battered. However, it was in those caves, while spying on the terrible foe, that Crinis realized the power of Rorganoth was of his crown.
Atop the enemy’s head was a black, spiked crown embedded with one dark jewel. That night, Crinis told his soldiers of the discovery he had made while spying on Rorganoth and discussing the matter with his generals. In the morning, they rallied for the last time, to make their last patriotic stand against the foe of the smog shadows.
Rorganoth looked down upon his pitiful adversaries and spread his arms in a bellowing, mocking laughter. A blanket of dark clouds had covered the sky and deflected the sunlight from above. It was assuredly the darkest hour of mankind.
Knowing well his chances of victory were slim, Crinis led the tribal soldiers into their final charge against Rorganoth. While laughing in mockery of his petty opponents, he had tipped himself over and fell straight onto his back.
Crinis led the last troops in a vicious swarm, and they bashed at Rorganoth’s head with all the ferocity to be found in a man. He rose, however, and shook off the tribesmen. Crinis and the others fell, bruised and battered even more than they were previously.
The king of the tribes gazed wearily up at his foe, who stood over him with untouched power. King Crinis learned that day Rorganoth would not be defeated by men.
Then, just as his hope was going to fall completely, Crinis saw something in the sky breaking through the dark smog. Rorganoth, harmed by the sunlight, looked upward and caught sight of mankind’s first ally, the gryphon.
A pack of gryphons had swooped down from above to come to the aide of man. Directly they dove down upon Rorganoth, who soon became crippled by the sunlight. The chief of the gryphons, Roinil, stretched out his talons and clutched Rorganoth’s dark jewel.
After plucking it from the crown, Roinil sent the jewel crashing down to the hard stone where Rorganoth had slain so many and with such brutality. In one bursting shatter, the jewel of Rorganoth was broken, and he with it.
Rorganoth fell to his knees, and with a surge of wind, he was brushed away into ash. The soldiers rejoiced, and were joined by Roinil and his great host. The gryphons spoke not, but joined in the cheer nevertheless.
King Crinis, in his old age, knew similar foes would arise, so he took the fragments of Rorganoth’s jewel and used their magic to construct a white tower far in the northeast, in place of his tribe. The tower stretched upward with great sovereignty, and its construction was aided by the gryphons of Roinil.
Atop the tower was a wide platform, wide enough to fit a small city. So, by the final decision of King Crinis, the tower was named the Citadel of the Sky. The descendants of Crinis and his people dwelled atop the tower in peace, thriving more with each passing year.
Many centuries later, King Antropus arose, but not by the same method. He conquered four of his brother-kings, and seized their kingdoms to be his own. His deeds of betrayal were executed using a dragon, whose origin was unkown.
The Dragon War, which thus ensued because of his outward strike was known to be the most costly of all the wars to ever come about in Aquilius. There came to be a rising necromancer beyond the Red Mountains, known as Draossiphus, who took a sinister interest in the affairs of King Antropus.
Draossiphus gathered two armies, the Vilons and the Grey Shrimps, to oppose Antropus and capture the dragon for the purposes of Draossiphus. This dragged on for decades, with no end in sight, until Antropus’ death. His son, Ornok, died shortly afterward while attempting to live on his father’s legacy.
A short while later, a merchant from the Eastern Islands, known as Ching Hao, won the hearts of Antropus’ senators, and thus assumed power as the new king.
Draossiphus held back his armies from then on, for the dragon was no longer a threat, nor was the former kingdom of King Antropus. However, the time for war would soon be upon Ching Hao…
Chapter One: The Forsaken Tooth
“Let them come.” These words were uttered by Ching Hao after the attack made on his life led by Petrici Shugaz. He had already suffered many other attacks and assassinations prior to that. Little did he know the storm was still brewing in the west. The storm that few would emerge from.
After his death, Ornok’s tooth fell below the gaze of every nation. Most objects of its mass would have sunk instantly. It was heavy and dense, like an igneous stone. However, it floated and stayed as such unless tampered with. The flowing current carried it downstream for miles, undetected.
All other teeth passed from kingdom to kingdom, but this particular tooth remained hidden deep in the foliage of the hills. Kings and emperors deployed search parties into the area at which Ornok was said to have been slain, but all came back with empty hands. They did not take into account that the tooth had gone downstream.
After many years, a young boy by the name of Moslo found it and took it out of the water. The boy was at the age directly before adolescence, but he built his body up to appear larger. His clothes were shabby and rough, made primarily from slabs of bark sewn onto leather. The reason for his poor care was his lack of parents. His mother and father disappeared in a blaze when Moslo was of a small age. For the first year of his life, he was nursed to health by local animals, then he moved on from cave to cave, treetop to treetop.
Eventually, he gained a longing for a solid structure to call his own. So he scouted out a wide, well flowing creek with several lush trees at its border. It was there that he established his small hut made of tied reeds, branches, and long logs. Over the next few years, he added various other modifications to his home, such as a roof deck, a one way door, and a small platform over the creek upon which he could stand and catch fish.
Though he had a contentment with his solitary life, part of him knew of a severe aching for the outside world. Once or twice a week, a traveler, merchant, or simple messenger would pass by on the trail ten meters from his hut. He paid them no attention, for fear of danger from them.
His heart became hard with loneliness and primitive thinking, as the seasons passed.
It was the summer of his twelfth year, the day was barren of both radiating sunlight and pouring rain, and a young woman was riding her native horse down Moslo’s path. She wore leather clothes and a long, tattered robe. She held a gnarled, wooden staff in her right hand, and the horse’s rein in her left. On her belt was a machete in a sheath. Her brown hair was braided back with small wooden clips holding it.
The young woman stopped her horse and brought a bark map out of her satchel. She looked at the map, then at the surrounding forest. With a perplexed look on her face, she rubbed her forehead and studied the map once more. After scanning the forest again, she saw the shack and shouted, “Hello! Can you tell me how to get to the nearest town?”
Moslo, who was fishing on his back pier, heard her call. He sighed with frustration and set his pole onto the moss covered logs that made up the platform. He walked through the hut and yelled in reply, “Uh, it’s down that way. Keep riding for twenty or thirty miles to find it. If those directions are false, I cannot help you further. Now be on your way.”
The young woman looked at Moslo and asked, “Where are your mother and father? Perhaps one of them can provide better directions.”
Moslo turned his head to the side and looked at the trees. “They’re gone,” he muttered.
She squinted her eyes and tilted her head in realization. “Are you?” she began to ask. “Are you from the Hill Villages? If so, I have an explanation for your missing parents.”
Moslo lashed, “How dare you speak of them? They–urm, fine. My first memory was finding myself in the woodland with the two of them running away. There was a fire, and people were scattering about, screaming. Where are they? Where are my mother and father?”
The young woman dismounted. She answered, “They are dead. But they placed you here to protect you. The event was a nightmare for all. The village guards…they turned on us. They set fire to the village and killed every villager, including some of their own. The guards hunted down every last villager by order of the king. To my knowledge, you and I are the only survivors.”
Moslo put his forehead to a tree next to him and closed his eyes tightly. “And what you’re saying is complete truth?” he doubtfully asked.
She nodded solemnly. Moslo retreated to his hut without a word coming from his mouth. The young woman got back onto her horse and continued to ride down the path. “My name is Gojiing! And yours?” she called out one last time. There was no answer at first.
Just as she was leaving, Moslo called back briefly, “Moslo. My name’s Moslo.” Gojiing grinned to herself and rode on.
Gojiing was very eager to make friends, so meeting Moslo was seen by her as an opportunity. She intentionally rode down the path on multiple occasions, making conversation with him each time. With each visit, Moslo became more open and friendly. Gojiing’s plan was successful.
As the visits passed, Moslo received bread and meats from Gojiing, for she had access to such things. She was good friends with the family of the Citadel, and thus, was able to bring her orphan friend decadent food from the Citadel’s stores.
The day was 10 months and 9 days after the meeting of the two Hill Village orphans. Gojiing rode swiftly and furiously through the forest, her hair flowing in the warm breeze of early summer. The sun bountifully shone atop the scant clouds. A buck was bounding in the forest in a perpendicular path to Gojiing and her steed.
She kept her eyes locked on the beast all the while, with her staff prepared to send a blow to it. She glanced at the approaching area, and saw a gap in the trees, enough to send her blast to the buck. She rode on with her salivary glands stimulated for the taste of well cooked deer meat.
The opening appeared. The buck was in prime position. Gojiing lifted her staff and aimed the head at the unfortunate buck. In an instant, she yanked the staff back and propelled a thin, green burst of energy at the animal’s chest. The buck tumbled into the ground, causing a momentous uproar of dirt.
Gojiing reared her horse and dismounted. She rustled through the thick foliage at her feet and knelt beside the dead animal. As was tradition in the native culture, she gave a brief but meaningful thanks to the animal for its body and vowed to utilize it to the best of her ability.
With the buck strapped across the rear of her horse, she approached Moslo’s hut. Moslo heard the horse’s hooves clomping down the path and walked outside. He looked at his makeshift sundial which Gojiing helped him create. “A bit early in the day for a visit, isn’t it?” he asked as he rubbed his eyes. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll go back and…”
He noticed the particularly fat beast on top of the horse and stopped what he was speaking. His eyes lit up with excitement. As Gojiing assumed, he was very eager to stay awake. He rubbed his hands together and exclaimed, “Let’s get a fire going, shall we?”
As Moslo arranged rocks in a circle and stacked branches and small logs, Gojiing butchered the buck with her hand created knife. As Moslo worked at making a spark, he asked, “Gojiing, could you grab one of those racks in my hut? They’re next to the door as you’ll walk in.”
Gojiing set down her knife and walked to the house. She bent herself over to get inside, for the doorway was built for someone of Moslo’s height. The ceiling was, however, spacious so that Gojiing had a full inch above her head while standing erect. She scanned the room, turning to and fro, looking for the cooking rack. She realized that for a boy living alone in the forest, Moslo had quite a collection of belongings.
On his desk was a pair of identical knives, displayed as if they were a pair of axes in a Dwarf emperor’s great throne room, a stack of parchments with scrawled attempts of writing on them, a small, sharp stick with which letters could be written, a few particularly large leaves, and an assortment of woodland creature skulls.
She moved on and ruffled through the mound atop his bed. There were four different animal hides stacked on top of each other, a plump pillow stuffed with hundreds of well cleaned feathers, a simple book he used for practicing reading, and a crude candle. Gojiing huffed and moved on, still searching for the elusive cooking rack. “Right beside the door?” she thought, echoing Moslo’s faulty advice.
She rummaged through the other items which were of no order. The rack was missing, to her knowledge. Just as she was going to walk out, she noticed the corner of the rack peeking from behind an old, broken crate Moslo found. Gojiing moved the cumbersome crate aside and grabbed the rack. Then something caught her eye.
This object was much more important than any cooking rack or even any gold pendant. This object was far more elusive than the rack. This object had evaded the grasp of kings for years. There, amongst the rubbish that boy had stashed and hoarded, was the missing dragon tooth.
Gojiing dropped both the rack and her jaw. Her hands scrambled through the old bones and fractured wood slabs to reach the tooth. She brought it slowly toward her face and stared at it in utter awe. From her teachings of Pritan himself, she heard only tales of the king and his dragon. She remembered pretending to do battle over the control of the dragon when she was young. Her hands trembled to feel such a sought after object.
She blinked a few times and asked, “Moslo, uh, w-where did you get this tooth?”
Moslo looked up and replied with apathy, “Oh, that? I found it in the creek a long time ago. I haven’t a clue where it came from. Would you like to keep it?”
Gojiing proceeded to regale Moslo with the story of Antropus, the dragon, and the scattering of the teeth. This telling took over an hour, and, while his stomach rumbled, Moslo remained drawn to the tale. After finishing the story, Gojiing asked anxiously, “May I take this to King Pritan? He will want to know of my discovery.”
Moslo objected, “But what of the venison? My stomach growls at me!” Gojiing tossed an apple into his rough hands and briefly stated, “I must take this to the Citadel immediately. I shall return by nightfall.” She mounted, unstrapped a bag of hearty food and tossed it to Moslo, then her horse galloped off into the woodland.
Over many tall hills was the point known as the depot. It was atop the largest hill in that area, which rivaled the altitude of mountains. Gojiing rode underneath the lush canopy and halted her steed near the peak. She temporarily got off of her horse and climbed to the very top of the hill, which was officially the depot.
Gojiing looked out towards the Citadel, which was built on top of the highest mountain in miles. It was a peculiar structure, built like no other of its time or land. Hundreds of feet tall was a pillar made of dense, white stone. It was a massive tube that withstood the elements for decades. The pillar’s purpose was to hold up the city itself, which was a long, flat slab wide enough to fit a large fortress. It too was white. The tower’s peak reached even the clouds. It was truly a Citadel of the Sky.
Gojiing shone a small but potent light in the air, as a signal. At the Citadel’s walls, guards stood watch with magnifiers to monitor activity, if any arose. Most of the people who came to the Citadel traveled by gryphon or flying lizard. There were, however, some who had neither and thus needed to be taken up by one of the catamarans.
For each catamaran, there were four gryphons. Two were at each side, and the pilot sat in the connector. The gryphons’ wings propelled the catamaran through the sky, and all four were strapped up to large side poles which connected to a middle rod. In the early days of the Citadel, creating these machines were incredibly difficult.
The pilot flipped up his grated visor. “Hello, Gojiing. How’ve you been?” the pilot asked with a rather jolly manner.
Gojiing said solemnly, “Splendid, Jonage, just splendid. But I’m afraid this is pertinent.”
Jonage temporarily aborted his friendly manner and switched to his professional mood. He cleared his throat and affirmed, “I see. Get inside, please.”
The catamaran carried the two up to the port of the Citadel, where supplies and passengers were normally unloaded. The port was underneath the wide plate, like an exposed basement. During every hour of the day, it was bustling and active.
Gojiing gave a brief, thankful smile to the pilot, exited the catamaran, and was escorted to the throne room by awaiting guards. The guards, unlike Jonage, were robotic and rigid. None of them spoke unless spoken to, and when they did, their voices were cold. Their silver armor clinked in unison as they stepped. When people in the street saw guards coming, they parted to the sides. Pritan made absolutely certain his guards were respected for their difficult duties as emotionless troopers.
The guards and Gojiing turned a corner and walked toward the glorious palace of King Pritan. The base of the tower was a large dome, like a massive bowl was tipped so that its bottom faced up. Atop the dome was a spiraling tower with small windows along the spiral lines. At the dome of the palace was a large, semicircular doorway, with heavy doors that fit perfectly into the shape when closed.
Gojiing, despite the fact that she had been to the palace many times, still marveled at its beautiful architecture when she visited. The guards at the gates halted the ones approaching and one ordered, “Papers.”
The leader of the approaching guards screwed off the head of his spear. Inside the head was a curled up parchment, which the leader unfurled and gave to the gate guard. The gate guard examined the papers thoroughly with his helmet removed. “Hawk Company Captain?” the gate guard began as he rolled the parchment.
The leader and the guards stood at attention. The gate guard handed the papers back. “You are free to pass,” he said. All guards saluted simultaneously, and the escort passed through the gates.
They walked through the memorial halls, which was dark, but had enough light from the throne room to see. There were also torches lining the walls. The reason for them being called the memorial halls was the decoration. There were suits of armor, royal paintings, artifacts, and war trophies along the walls.
The Citadel princess waited at the end of the hall, wearing a majestic gilded dress. She bowed to Gojiing and the same was returned to her as an orthodox sign of greeting. “Come, let us go to see my father. Your urgency is apparent.”
The guards were dismissed by the princess, and the two friends made a turn toward the throne room. They walked towards the king on his high throne, with other wise men arranged around him sitting in lower seats. The throne room was semi circular, and the ceiling was far up. The massive tube atop the dome was the extended ceiling, with stained glass taking place of the back of the tower wall. The vertical strip, when scanned up to down, told the story of the Citadel’s origin in wordless pictures.
The king sat in the highest chair, which was held up by three rods, as were the chairs of the advisors. Their chairs lined up in a slope formation, with all arcing down either side of the king. As sunshine rained down upon her face from the stained glass windows, Gojiing asked, “King Pritan, I have a favor to ask of you.”
“I can do a wide palette of tasks for one of my daughter’s friends,” the king’s calm voice replied.
Gojiing answered, “Your majesty, I believe I have found the eighth tooth, in the hands of a boy, of all people. My advice is to hold it here. Your fortress has not been penetrated before, and it shall not ever. If Draossiphus does gain knowledge of its location, he will have much difficulty gaining it.”
King Pritan leaned back in his chair and put his hand to his jaw. “What have my advisors to say?” he asked, looking down at them with his well wrinkled hands open. The advisors looked at each other and nodded in agreement. Pritan observed this and nodded to himself.
“Retrieve it,” he ordered with a sovereign manner. “And we shall hold it here.” Footsteps pattered through the memorial halls. There was rapid breathing, and a matching heartbeat. A messenger turned the corner and burst into the throne room. All heads turned toward him.
“Your highness!” the messenger announced, panting wildly. “A-an army is marching on a path for…for Capitox! They are under the command of a man named Skrysos! H-here is the transmission orb. He sent out a public frequency only five minutes ago.”
Transmission orbs were small orbs, the size of grapefruits, which displayed and recorded messages. One would record a message, with a visual screen and an audio recording that was synchronized. When displaying a message, it would project a translucent screen and speak the audio to accompany it. Public transmissions were sent to major transmission orbs, at town centers, castles, forresses, etcetera.
The messenger removed the orb from his bag and set it to the floor. “Project!” he ordered it. The screen appeared, and displayed something that instantly caught the king’s eye. One man, in a white robe was standing with a staff in his hand in front of an army of monsters. The monsters were heavily armored and stood well above the man in front. “Hello,” the man greeted peacefully but deviously. “My name is Skrysos. I am supreme commander of this army, known as the Sparsh. I refuse to tell of their numbers, however, I will give you comfort by telling you that you need not fight; they are sure to overwhelm you, so you can surrender, and the pile of your dead will be minimal.
“I am in possession of seven of the eight dragon teeth, and, before any of you wonder, I am on a direct path to Capitox, to unlock the dragon and use it as my ultimate weapon. First, Capitox, then…the rest. Though I speak of total domination, I will ally myself with Draossiphus and his armies. Vilons, you are my allies, Grey Shrimps, you are my allies, Rodenki, you are my allies, and the lot of you other brigands, raiders, and pirates, you are also my allies. The armies against Draossiphus, however, are wholly against me as well.
“So throw what men you can at Capitox! They will be all the more fodder for my army!”
Pritan climbed down the set of stairs behind him with haste. Without so much of a head turn, he strictly ordered, “Gojiing, come with me immediately.” Gojiing nodded and was quickly behind him.
They rushed down a few halls similar to the one leading to the throne room. “Here it is,” he said as he reached for his key. “The Citadel library.” He grabbed the key from beneath his robe and inserted it into the hole. The door opened exempt from a creak, as most old doors did not.
Gojiing looked at the door and asked surprisedly, “You consult this room often?”
Pritan opened the door and answered, “Yes, I do. It holds accounts of every morsel of known crimes, mythology, political altercations, battles, and even some things that are not known by most.”
Pritan lit a candle and led Gojiing through the ancient library. There was a forest of dark bookshelves, all fully stuffed with old, dusty books. There were desks laiden with random parchments, ink smudges, books, and small artifacts.
Pritan scanned past the shelves, each of which had a specific label stating what was contained in it. He muttered to himself as he walked by, “Kra-Hadad, mountain creatures, war chemistry, blacksmithing…ah, here it is: Capitoxian history.”
He turned and traced horizontally across the shelf. After a few minutes of careful searching, he stood up and had a vexed expression on his moderately wrinkled face. He set his jaw and tapped the shelf board twice. “Oh!” he exclaimed as he reached for a particular book. “Here it is. ‘King Antropus’ Dragon: A Detailed Book Regarding the Beast.”
He opened the dusty book, and two moths fluttered away. After blowing away the heavy dust layer, he held his candle over the page. He flipped through the pages, which were filled with detailed ink pictures and sloppily written notes. “Finally!” he exclaimed, his finger pointed to the page. “When a party inserts all eight teeth into the head, the dragon will be released and must submit to total control of the one who inserted the teeth.
“However, when only seven are inserted, the dragon is free, bound to no master. If such an event occurs, the party possessing the eighth tooth has a limited time to insert the last tooth, which will eternally lock the dragon, never to be released.”
Gojiing paused. “Why is it designed so?” she inquired with a tilted head.
Pritan put his hand to the page and insisted, “No, you must listen. If Skrysos inserts only seven, and we are not there to stop him, Aquilius will perish by the dragon’s malevolent fire. We must send someone to stop him.”
Gojiing argued, “No one can go alone, not even one of your knights. The open path is dangerous. There will be Vilons ambushing, brigands, and a plethora of others who would want the tooth for selling off to their king. We need a small band, half a dozen, at most. The band should go undetected, but will have adequate protection against the scum of Aquilius.”
“It will be done. And in no longer than two days will this gathering be accomplished, I guarantee you. The band shall consist of yourself, and whoever I can conjure in my search. Now fly! Become prepared!”
Gojiing shuffled down the stairs into the hangar bay with haste. Jonage the pilot stood up from his leaning position against the wall. He set down the apple core he was nibbling onto a barrel and asked in his unchanged, pleasant mood, “Oi, welcome back! I’m off duty during this hour, but I’d be happy to give you a ride down to the depot. O-or farther, if you needed so.”
Gojiing nodded, and they climbed into the catamaran closest to them. Jonage whipped the reins twice, and the catamaran was pulled off the bay into the cool evening air.
After a few minutes of sailing, Jonage asked curiously, “Why is it you don’t live up ‘ere? You’re good friends wit’ the royals, so I don’ get it.”
Gojiing replied over the strong wind, “I’ve always enjoyed the forest. Living permanently in the Citadel would not be fit for me. Though your hospitality is always appreciated.”
Jonage fastened his leather pilot’s helmet and shrugged. Many minutes of silence passed, where no conversation was spawned from either person. Finally, the depot arrived. “Well, alright,” he concluded, “have a good evening, miss. Stay safe tonight. I’ve heard there are–”
Gojiing interrupted with a small smile, “I know these woods, Jonage. I can ward off attackers, if need be. Thank you for your concern.” She walked down the hill with her staff lit. Jonage stalled at the depot a moment more. He blinked a few times, looked back into the sunset, and rode off.
Gojiing approached her horse, who had been waiting at his original position since she left him there in the noontime. He was fast asleep, but when he heard his rider coming, he stood as if she had only been gone five minutes. Gojiing smiled and told him, “You were wise to have rested yourself. We have a harsh journey in the night before us. Go! Like your legs are wings!” The horse galloped fiercely down the path and into the mountains, while the sun fell.
Gojiing stopped her horse at Moslo’s hut. The fire had been stamped out, and the buck carcass was taken elsewhere, as drag lines in the ground showed. “Moslo?” she called out.
Moslo opened the door and held a candle in his hand. “I’ve been waiting long enough for you!” he exclaimed, with an obvious glance to the moonlit sky.
Gojiing held out her hands and apologized, “My dearest apologies, my friend. Something very unexpected arose at the Citadel for which I had to be present.”
“Well you have returned now. I’m going to my bed for the rest of the night, so you can go back to your home,” Moslo said as he began to close the door.
Gojiing stopped him, “Er, actually, Moslo, I will not be coming back for a long time. I am needed for a mission.”
“Oh,” he exclaimed. “Do well at that, then. I shall see you when you return.”
Gojiing asked surprisedly, “You will be well without my presence?”
Moslo looked at his feet and answered, “I’ve survived here long enough without you. I can do it again. Now go. You’ve work to do.”
She bit her lip and swung herself to the top of the horse. “Goodbye, old friend,” she said. Moslo had already walked inside. Gojiing’s horse bolted up the hill as Moslo watched from his hut.
Once she had rode for a good, long distance, Moslo grabbed his travel pack. He stuffed all his necessities into it and walked outside, his back laden with a heavy burden. The hut to him looked empty and barren of life. He walked away and hiked south. Something beckoned him.
