Brian Rathbone - Call of the Herald

Wendel cried out in dismay. His mind had been made up, his course set, but now he found himself swayed. Reaching back, he grabbed Elsa's sword and released a battle cry that had not been heard in many seasons. As he charged toward the approaching soldier, he saw the look of relief on Elianna's face; she believed he would save her. Life had given Wendel no other choice; there was only one way he could ever live with himself: he had to save them all.

In the darkness, all of Benjin's fears came to life and stalked him from every direction, waiting for him to let down his guard for even a moment. He was soft and slow with age, and he was unprepared for what lay ahead. Too long had he lived an easy life, forgetting the lessons his father and grandfather had taught him. He had always thought there would be time to prepare, time to train his children to face the coming storm, but now the storm had come early, and his work was not even begun.

Things most people thought of as legend were now here as flesh and blood, wood and iron, pain and fire. The Masters had always said it would only cause a panic if the truth was known to all, and thus they kept their knowledge hidden. The citizens of the Godfist would pay for the Masters' folly… and his.

When Catrin pulled herself from her bedroll, all but Benjin still slept. Their shelter blocked much of the morning light, and the air was still cool in the shadows. Benjin stood at the southern opening of the crevasse, his silhouette standing out in stark contrast to the bright landscape beyond. Catrin padded silently to his side and put her arms around him. He gave a start at her touch, and she knew he must have been in deep thought since he was usually impossible to sneak up on.

"Sorry," she said.

"It's all right, li'l miss. You just startled me."

"Not just that. I'm sorry about all of this. I never meant to cause so much trouble. I'm not even sure what I did, but now I've dragged all of you into my mess," she said, and she leaned her head against his shoulder for comfort.

He patted her on the head and guided her into the sunlight. "None of this is your doing, Catrin."

She looked up at him, surprised he would call her by name. She was so accustomed to "li'l miss" that her name sounded odd on his lips.

"We live in times of change, and all of us will be affected whether we wish it or not," he continued.

"But it seems, everywhere I go, trouble follows. It doesn't seem safe to be near me," she said, wanting to tell Benjin about the destruction of the grove, but she could not bring herself to speak of it.

"You can look at it that way if you wish, but I suggest you concentrate on what you can do to make the situation better. You cannot change what has already happened, but you can prepare yourself for the future. I can't say what this day will bring, but I vow to face it with my head high and my wits about me. I suggest you do the same. You can wallow in self-pity if you like, but it'll only bring you misery. There's a greatness in you that you don't realize yet, Catrin, so you must not lose hope. We'll get through this together and be stronger for it."

"I know you're right. I'm sorry."

"And no more 'sorrys' from you," he said, shaking his finger at her. "I'll strike a bargain with you: If you promise not to intentionally hurt me, and I promise not to intentionally hurt you, then there will be no more need for another 'I'm sorry' between us. Do I have your word?"

"You have my word," she said with a small smile.

"And I give mine," he replied with a flourish and a bow. He smiled and touched her shoulder. "C'mon, let's go make the best of things."

Catrin felt a great deal of comfort from their talk. He'd forgiven whatever mistakes she might have made, and now maybe she could forgive herself. She made a conscious effort to tell herself she was forgiven and was surprised at how much it eased her guilt and anxiety.

She acknowledged that most people never intended to hurt her; her pain had been an unintentional by-product of their actions. A great weight seemed to lift from her soul, and she decided to focus on positive things. Taking a deep breath, she released her anger in a long sigh. A renewed Catrin strode back into the crevasse with confidence.

After they broke camp, Catrin helped the others stow their bedrolls and check their packs. Benjin led them by memory, and they often had to backtrack when the way was blocked. Numerous game trails crossed the valley floor, and he seemed to have trouble finding distinguishable landmarks. By noon, it seemed they had covered very little distance.

Chase, Strom, and Osbourne talked quietly among themselves. They were worried about their families and the other people they had left behind. They speculated about the invaders: who they might be and why they would attack.

Catrin listened in silence. She ached to know her father was safe, and she tried to have faith. Her mental image of him was one of strength and unbending integrity, and bringing that image to mind soothed her. She could not picture a man of such goodness and fortitude ever being in danger, and she clung to that illusion.

"I heard said some of the ships bore a symbol of a man and woman in an embrace. Sounds like the mark of a Zjhon warship to me. As much as I hate to speculate, I fear invaders have come from the Greatland," Benjin said.

"The Greatland!" Strom snorted. "I thought that existed only in fairy tales and legends. There's been no contact with other civilizations for thousands of years. Only the old texts mention the Greatland and the Firstland, so what reason do you have to believe they even exist?"

"I assure you the Greatland does indeed exist, and the danger presented by the Zjhon empire is all too real," Benjin stated flatly.

"You talk like you've been there," said Strom.

"That's because I have been there, but that's a story for another time. What's important now is that you know the Zjhon empire has not forgotten about us. They believe the Herald of Istra will be born on the Godfist and will be revealed through great acts of power. The Zjhon prophecies say the Herald will betray them and destroy their nation… or something like that. It's hard to tell just what they mean.

"I believe they'll go to great lengths to capture and kill anyone they believe could be the Herald. As much as I hate to admit it, I think Nat Dersinger was right: they've come to destroy us in a desperate attempt to save themselves. They will not find the Godfist an easy place to conquer, though; the Masters and a few select families have been making preparations for decades."

"You knew they were coming?" Osbourne asked, incredulous.

"In a sense we knew, but our information was thousands of years old, and it was nearly impossible to tell truth from fairy tale. Huge amounts of information were lost during the great wars and the Purge, and no one knew if the prophecies were anything more than legend, but we did know the Zjhon believed them to be sacred and quite real. We did our best to prepare for an invasion, and seeing their ships over the years kept us vigilant, but we thought we'd have much more time before it would happen. I guess our calculations were wrong," he said, stopping to untangle himself from a thorn bush.

"I don't understand," Chase interjected. "How could you calculate when they would attack?"

"It's a long story and rather complicated, but I'll try to explain. About twenty years ago, we heard the Zjhon Church had started quoting certain scriptures again, the ones that tell the Zjhon their duty is to fight in the name of Istra. The scriptures also say Istra's return will be the divine signal to embark on their holy war. We know they calculate the Vestran cycle to be about 3,017 years, but by our reckoning, it has only been 2,983 years since Istra departed."