A Change in the Wind

Ol-Lozen had only just finished the final coat of oil and scrubbed off the impurities that accompanied interrupted work when the soldiers came into view. He wasn’t certain what came as the greater surprise: the appearance of armed forces, or the fact they rode horses.

He had only ever seen the creatures on television or in glossy magazine photos, or read about them in stories: stallions of superb power and endurance carrying supplies and people across vast distances; the steeds of heroes, and the most nefarious of villains twirling spindly greased mustaches. And sports, but the age of horse sports had come and gone. They had become a rare breed. Their name lived on in advancements in engine technology, their skeletons lived in museums, their spirits in every form of written and broadcasted entertainment under the sun. But here they still thrived. As the soldiers rode from the forest, ponies galloping, Ol-Lozen gaped open mouthed, oblivious to the idea that, perhaps, the soldiers clad from foot to head in full plate armor, shortswords at their waists and shields on their backs, had come not to show off for him their wondrous steeds, but for matters of a nature most alarming.

As his sense of mind returned, he was struck by a curious thought. Compared to the horses of his world, these ones were quite small, with narrow bodies and little muscle. He hoped they would not ask him to ride one.

One of the soldiers pointed, unquestionably, at Ol-Lozen. The leader of the group, the not-man assumed, from the pauldron emblazoned with a sigil depicting a triad of towers in the jaws of a roaring bear, shouted words he could not understand. The word “demon” was used, so it was like as not a command meant to be obeyed. He raised a hand and waved, though he may as well have bent over, dropped his pants, and exposed his buttocks for all the progress it made. The leader kicked a leg back to dismount their horse, landing with a heavy thump, and removed their helmet. From the greying hair and deep lines extending from the corners of his eyes, he appeared a man whose life had barely kissed its fall, but the vigor with which he shouted for someone who could speak his language told of a soul half that age under the wear.

“It is a magus he seeks.”

Daigay stepped from her home, arms firm across her chest. The grey, almost silver curls of her hair were unbound, and bounced with each step. Where Ol-Lozen sat, she paused, and nudged his boot for notice. “Stay with me. Look not behind you, it is only we who reside here.” She motioned to his weapon with a hand hidden behind her upper arm, and he saw her hands were gloved. “Leave that.”

It was not a delicate thing, and as such there was no need for gingerness in its handling, but Ol-Lozen laid the sword upon the ground where the metal would sit flat without forcing the blade or pommel to bear excess strain. He chose carefully, and treated the sword with due respect.

Where the blade contacted the earth there was a sharp retort, like a man caught in the flare of his anger stomping the ground as a child was wont to do. Jagged cracks split through the soil. From the earth belched clouds of dust.

Together they approached the soldier awaiting them. It might have been a trick of his nervous mind, but Ol-Lozen swore the man’s shoulders had relaxed.

“He’s here for you,” Daigay said, listening to the leader’s words, nodding, and then translating for Ol-Lozen.

“Is he now? Did I commit a crime today?”

“Hardly. The mistake lies with me dragging you along to town, and so, we come to our consequences. A good box to the ears now and again would do me wonders, I think. Keep me from ruckus.” Every “me” was spoken with inflection, so those with the ears to understand might divine her underlying meaning of whom truly wore the blame.

“And this is?” Ol-Lozen kept his eyes straight ahead at a point far behind those lurking on horseback, blinking freely while the soldiers eyed him through the thin, rigid slits of their full-face helmets. After a short exchange between the two inhabitants, the leader withdrew from his waist a white scroll banded with wax, the same sigil on his shoulder imprinted into the red binding. He broke the wax seal and unrolled the order. Holding it aloft for all to see, he pointed with a mailed finger at the words written.

“Bureaucracy.” Daigay muttered the word, disdain in her tone, and the leader’s eyebrows narrowed.

Ol-Lozen stood silent as she and the leader rowed back and forth, tossing words like tennis ball for the other to receive, though from how the leader’s face reddened his wrist was apparently lacking. A smirk crept up Daigay’s face when he finally wrapped the scroll and stormed off back to his horse, shouting one final, courageous challenge to the old woman before snapping the reins of his steed to lead the soldiers back off down the path. Until the last tail had vanished into the tree line she held her ground, not an inch given to the wind.

“Well,” she finally said, turning back, “A little excitement for the heart.”

“Any chance you’ll fill me in?” Ol-Lozen asked. He followed in pace with her stride into the hovel. As she had not moved until that moment, neither did the giant not-man. Inside was an overstuffed chair sewn closed everywhere fluff had once burst through. Daigay collapsed into it with a groan, eyelids falling shut as the specter of sleep approached. As she did, one section of threads snapped apart at the arm and snow-colored innards rushed out.

“Lovely,” she said, caressing the wound. “Tell Mouse to fill a kettle to boil, would you, dear? And fetch me a quill while you’re at it.”

Ol-Lozen raised an eyebrow: Mouse stood at her grandmother’s side. From the blur of afterimages in her wake, Daigay’s fall into the chair had clearly surprised the girl hiding behind.

“I’m here, Grandmama.”

“Then I don’t need to repeat myself,” she replied, eyes still closed.

(Of course, as she said this in her own language, and not in Ol-Lozen’s, he did not catch a speck of what was said. But, from the way Mouse’s face scrunched up, he assumed the words were better off unheard. Nor did he hear what came after, and contented himself to sit on the floor in front of the door; the only clear space large enough to accommodate his size)

“Mouse, do all you must never to become a lord. Refuse it with all your might should it be thrust upon you, unless no one other soul is stupid enough to step forward and a method to abdicate with all haste is available. Becoming well versed in law and state will serve you. In this will your training as a magus be most beneficial. You’ll be well read, educated, and less flippant with social contracts established before either of us were born, able to engage polite society with respect and manners, and wielders of the arcane with grace.”

Mouse nodded to this, sparing no words for reply. All her focus was concentrated on the flame in her hands. Above on the iron rack – a vessel soon brimming with hot water was not about to be held – the kettle rattled as its contents received the heat of magic, before long whistling so all aware of tea to be served. Mouse filled an earthenware cup with green leaves, sticks of spice, and dark, ground up powder before she poured the water, stirring methodically with a silver spoon as she brought the tea to Daigay’s awaiting hand. The old woman sipped, smiled, and ruffled her granddaughter’s hair further, if such was possible.

“You heard my words, did you?”

“Yes, Grandmama. I will not become a lord.” Daigay stared over her tea, asking why with her eyes. “Lords often are fools, and know nothing of the true ways, and I am not a fool.”

“Good girl. Now, I still need –”

Mouse produced a quill, ink bottle, and a sheet of parchment as if from air.

“– my supplies. Thank you, dear. Now, the matter at hand.”

“Which is?” came a voice from the door who had gone too long unacknowledged.

“Note making,” she replied, in his language. “We’ll be departing before long to Larkhen’s Hold. Fool this lord may be, and overreaching, too, as this home I’ve made is beyond the walls and therefore beyond his jurisdiction, the entire purpose – mind you – but he is a fool with influence. An army. A magus or two of his own. To slight him underprepared would be… ill-advised. Does this make sense?” At his nod, she turned to Mouse. “Feed Jackbee an extra oatcake and saddle him. Ensure it’s tight. I’ll make you a list of supplies to collect, just in case.”

Mouse left, and once again Daigay’s focus returned to Ol-Lozen. “Bring the sword.” It wasn’t a request; her voice held an edge, one that urged caution.

“Why the note,” he asked, “If we’ll be seeing this lord?”

“Because I expect his soldiers’ return while we’re away. Sir Lentley is a simple man, and easily goaded.”

“I know the type. Some would say goading him was unwise.” He recalled the man’s red face and exasperation. “What did you call him?”