Victory and Defeat: Book Five of the Restoration Series (6 page)

He didn’t look behind him, but he was being led by a contingent of the
king’s guard. These were some of the best-trained soldiers, and they were fiercely loyal to the king. They led the way in formation, crisp and military-like.

The streets were lined with people, old and young. Most just watched him trudge by, but a few threw things at him. They didn’t throw anything that would hurt him too bad, as they wanted him in decent shape when they killed him.
After twice being hit in the face with rotten fruit, Flare kept his face down and watched the cobblestones move past. It didn’t keep the spectators from throwing things, it just kept the mess out of his face.

The guards stopped
abruptly, and Flare nearly walked into their backs. The guards parted, half moving to the left and the others moving to the right. In a way, it was a weird parody of an honor guard.

The whip crack rang out again
, and the pain seared its way into his back. Grinding his teeth against the pain, Flare started forward.

He could see where he was going now. A scaffold had been erected in the middle
of a large city square. A large, black-hooded man awaited at the top holding an axe.

Flare sighed in relief;
at least it would be quick. He could think of many worse ways to go.

Just then
, he caught sight of something else and he tripped in surprise and horror. He was not the axe-man’s first victim. The edge of the scaffolding was lined with the heads of his friends.

Flare stopped and stared, afraid he was going to be sick at any moment. Then he saw something else. It wasn’t just the Guardians, but the heads of his half-brothers and sisters lined the edge as well.

Confused and disgusted, he scanned the row of heads again and stopped on the one in the very middle. It was King Darion, his father. Someone had mockingly set a thin gold crown on the severed head.

Confused even more, Flare searched out the nobles
who were gathered all along the stairs that led up to the scaffold. Swallowing hard, he recognized them, but not from his time in the Telurian Palace. These faces he recognized from his time at Mul-Dune; they had led the goblins attack. Sure enough, Zalustus stood at the head of the line, grinning in triumph at Flare. For the first time, Flare realized Zalustus now wore the dragon armor, Nerandall, and Ossendar was belted to his waist.

At that very moment
, Flare wished he could gouge his own eyes out so he wouldn’t have to see that abomination.

Something changed, and the small part of Flare that knew he was dreaming thought it was in the dream, but it wasn’t. The change was real.

Flare bolted upright, gasping for breath. The dream had been so real, so vivid, that he felt he might actually be sick. Still breathing hard, he swallowed several times, trying to keep the bile down. He was covered in sweat and it wasn’t from the heat, it was the nightmare. That was when he realized that something really had changed; the need had come back. It was time to return to Sha’al to learn from another dead ancient master.

That couldn’t be right,
he thought. Surely it hadn’t been more than two weeks since the last time he had gone. When he had first heard of Sha’al, he had been told that he would know when it was time to return. He had also been told that the interval between visits was not necessarily a fixed time; he might go two or three months between visits and then be summoned twice in one day. Still, it felt like it was too soon.
Perhaps,
he thought,
time grows short and the training is being rushed.
He sighed.
A lot of good the training will do if it kills me.

He climbed to his feet and looked up at the sky. It was late afternoon
, and they would be starting soon. He needed to hurry if he was going to get this done.

He crossed their wide camp. T
hey had spread out, each trying to find a cool place to lie down. Heather had the watch and she sat on a small rock mound.

Heather nodded as Flare approached. “You look like hell,” she said.

Flare grinned. “I know. It’s miserably hot, isn’t it?” She only nodded and he continued, “Where’s the closest water?”

Heather pointed west.
“There’s a small stream that way, about a hundred yards, but if you want to bathe, I suggest going that way,” she said, pointing north. “There’s a bigger stream,” she shrugged, “about a quarter mile.”

“Thanks,” Flare said
, and he headed north.

Flare reached the small stream less than ten minutes later. Looking out over the stream, he began to worry that there might not be enough water to suit his purposes. Getting to
Sha’al should be fairly simple; all he had to do was to completely submerge himself in the water. The problem was that, although the stream was a good ten feet across, the depth looked like it would only come halfway to his knee.

Flare stripped down to his small clothes and
stepped out into the slow-moving water. He had been correct in his guess about the depth of the water, so he sloshed around trying to find a depression or hole. After a few moments searching, he found a shallow depression, but the water barely reached his knees.

Figuring this was the best he could hope for, Flare sat down in the water. The water was cold
, but it felt good due to the heat of the day. He closed his eyes and lay back, feeling the water wash over him.

He lay there with his eyes closed, just enjoying the cool water on his body. The buoyancy of the water caused him to bounce against the bottom several times
, but he didn’t mind.

After several moments, he felt the need for air. With his eyes still closed, he let his body sink, intending to push off of the bottom of the stream, but the stream bottom was gone.

Flare’s eyes flew open, and he frantically looked around at the much deeper water. There was a frantic stretch where he didn’t know which way was up, but then he calmed himself and swam toward where the bright sun could be seen through the water.

He broke through the surface and gasped for air, the panic not quite all gone. He
wiped the water from his eyes and looked around. This was his third time in Sha’al, and each time he had arrived in a different place. The first time had been a lake between large mountains, and the second trip he had been in a slow moving stream. This time he was in a small body of water, no more than twenty yards across. He glanced around and realized just how clear the water was and that it was very deep.
A spring, perhaps?
he thought.

Flare swam over to the edge and pulled himself out. The water
was cold, and now he stood shivering on the bank. It was strange, it had been a hot summer day in Telur but here it felt like a cool spring morning. A breeze began blowing, and he suddenly wished he had worn more clothes into the water.

P
ine and cypress trees were scattered around, but there was a lot of open space between them. The ground was generally flat, and the trees grew denser off to the east and north. A thick grass grew everywhere and came up over his ankles.

With no obvious sign as to which way to go, Flare reached out with his spirit, searching for the master’s presence. He found it almost immediately, off to the southwest.

Still shivering in the breeze, he began to jog. He hoped the exercise would warm him up a bit.

It didn’t take long and the pine trees began to thin and then he
emerged into a wide open meadow, the far side being maybe a half a mile away. The southern end was covered with bright wildflowers and gave the meadow a picturesque feeling. The thick grass was even thicker and taller through the rest of the meadow. The pine trees grew denser all around the edges and a few stumps were all that were left of a few pines that had tried to grow inside the meadow’s boundaries.

A small cottage
was set in the shadow of the pines on the western edge of the meadow. The cottage wasn’t much, it didn’t look big enough to be more than a single room. The walls were made of logs, and the roof was thatched. There were a couple of small animal pens on the southern side, but he couldn’t see any animals.

The door of the cottage was open and a man stood there. He was far away
, and it was hard to see much, but Flare could tell he was thin.

Sighing, Flare
jogged across the distance. In his experience, most masters did not like to wait.

Flare crossed the meadow quickly, being careful though not to step in a hole. He didn’t want to meet this new master with a broken leg.

He slowed to a walk for the last ten yards. His initial assessment of the man had been correct; he was thin, but that leanness showed a good deal of muscle. Flare guessed his age to be fifty or so. He had thick, blond hair that was well mixed with white. The man was clean-shaven, but he wore a golden earring in his left ear. His skin was dark and leathery, probably from many years in the sun, and he had a long, beak-like nose.

Flare stopped short and cleared his throat. He wasn’t sure if he should speak
; his first two instructors had been informal, but he didn’t want to start off his relationship with this man by angering him.

Flare was still trying to decide what to do when the older man grinned and spoke, “Well met! What’s your name?” He spoke in a friendly jovial tone.

Flare returned the older man’s grin and said, “My name is Flare. Please forgive me my indecision, but I wasn’t sure how to address you.”

“You may call me Byron,” he said. “Once I was known as a bit of a swordsman.”

“Byron?” Flare repeated doubtfully, a suspicion growing within. After a brief pause, he asked, “Where are you from?”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ve never heard of the small pigsty
where I’m from.” He paused, but Flare didn’t say anything; he just stared at the older man. After a moment, Byron continued, “It was a small town called Dilmun.”

Flare nodded, taking a deep breath. He had heard of Dilmun but only in that it was the birthplace of one of the most renowned swordsmen of all time. “Byron of Dilmun,” he whispered. Despite the quiet way he spoke, the words seemed to echo around the
meadow.

Byron sighed. “S
o, my name is still known?”

Flare, with his eyes wide, could but nod. As a kid
, he had heard the most amazing stories about the great Bryon of Dilmun, and he couldn’t believe that he was now standing next to the fabled master swordsman.

“I continue
to hope that there will come a time when I arrive here and my student does not know me,” Byron said. His smile was gone, and he frowned at the way Flare was gawking at him.

Flare shook himself and pulled his gaze away from Byron. “My apologies, but I’ve always heard about you and the amazing things you did.”

Byron shook his head. “Nothing I did was amazing. Most of the stories you’ve heard are probably exaggerations, or outright lies.”

Flare cocked his head to
the side. “Lies?” he asked, confused.

“Lies,” Byron repeated. “Did you ever hear the story about how I died?”

“Yes!” Flare said eagerly. “Everyone has heard that story. You were in a castle defending the honor of a princess.” He paused, trying to remember the story. “At least I think it was a princess. Anyway, you killed over thirty men by yourself before they shot you through with an arrow.”

When Flare finished, Byron just stared for a moment and then he threw back his head and roared with laughter. He continued laughing for a bit
, and he even had to wipe a few tears from his eyes. Finally, his mirth slowly disappeared and he shook his head. “That story was absolute rubbish. Do you want to know how I died?”

Flare swallowed hard, suddenly unsure
of whether he wanted to know or not. There was no way that he could say no, so he simply nodded.

Byron pushed away from the door
frame and stepped out into the open. “The truth will actually be good for you and it’s a great first lesson.” He motioned down at his body. “This is how I was when I died - past my youth but still an extremely dangerous swordsman. I was passing through a small village; I’m not even sure if it even had a name. Anyway, I stopped at the inn, ate dinner, and I was just leaving when a boy came at me with a sword. I drew mine and easily disarmed the runt, knocked the sword out of the boy’s hand and gave him a nasty cut in the process. He was just standing there wringing his hand, and I laughed at him. Then you know what I did? I turned my back on the boy and walked away.”

So far the story didn’t sound too bad but Flare was sure there had to be more to it. Regardless, he couldn’t see any lesson in it for him. “So, what happened next?”

“That boy picked up his sword with his left hand and ran me through the back.”

Flare’s mouth dropped open. “You were killed by a boy?” That couldn’t be right. The stories had said he
’d died after being overwhelmed by fighters; he simply couldn’t believe that one boy had killed the greatest swordsman to have ever lived.

“Yes, a boy killed me, but do you know why?” Byron didn’t wait for Flare’s answer but kept right on talking. “He knew who I was
, and he wanted to kill one of the great swordsmen, and he did.”