Within the sweeping lands of the continent of Calador, light winds blew through the southern corners of the human kingdom of Falconrake.  Even in the hazardous Aumbridge Forest, the gentle movement of air gave a reminder, of the natural order of peace for all living things in the physical world.   West of the Slick Trail Mountains, hidden from sunlight and unwelcome eyes, a servant of evil disregarded life and all its representations. Within a massive complex of caverns under the ruins of an ancient, forgotten citadel, he toiled with dark forces, to bring great swaths of the living world and all in it under his control.

The tall human wizard, bearing pale white skin, and dark hair peppered with spots of grey, wearing an ornate, onyx-inlaid crimson robe, stood before a massive wooden workbench.  Quietly, he stayed bent over a shining, magically-engraved, brass plate. To his right sat an ancient burial urn, filled with ashes. To his left, he had placed a bowl made of black iron and engraved with cursed runes. Within the bowl sat a rolled piece of white broad-cloth. The fabric, which was centuries old, was not frayed or ragged. The written symbols on its surface imbued too much power to leave it vulnerable to mere time. Fortunately, he did not have to destroy it, but just contain its effects.

Through a hole cut in the bench, a small, enchanted brazier burned, administering a low, calm, blue flame to the underside of the plate.

“The hot fire might cause the remains to drift up, rather than fall evenly, master,” rasped a small, green-skinned goblin, standing to the wizard’s right.

“Silence, Kersh,” Hethauz Noriece, the arch-mage, replied.

In the center of the plate, sat a brass scroll-tube, capped with rounded brass plugs on either end, forming a stout rod.  A solid ring of gold, about as thick in circumference as a plum, sat tightly in place around the cylinder.  Within the metal of the ring, set equidistant apart, four large gems – each roughly the size of an adult human’s eyeball – sat in their mountings. Each jewel was cut into the shape of a different animal’s head – a blue crow, a green lizard, a red fox, and a yellow panther – and individually sparkling in the dim light.

“But master, after going through so much to acquire your prize, I think only of the proper preparations.”

At the moment, Noriece completely disregarded the words.  His attention sat engrossed in the spell-encrusted parchment before him, and the rod, which sat propped up, so the enlarged sapphire – with the scowling crow’s visage – was facing upward towards its enchanter.  Or rather, its master, the wizard clarified to himself, as he waited for the invoked aura to grow to its proper strength, before he began the spell of binding.

“Master Noriece, if it takes so long to make, why not get help?” asked the powerful orc chief, standing next to the dust-laden chamber door.

The human calmly looked up from his precious work.  “I have made it clear, Grilcol,” he serenely answered, allowing the implications speak for themselves, “no one is to know of this effort, especially not members of my own order, whose greed and vanity would drive them to steal my secrets.”

And of course, as was well established, he would use his own magical powers to bring a great and painful death, to anyone who spoke of it.

“Aye, master,” the veteran warrior replied.

Noriece noticed as the goblin smirked beside him.  Kersh resented the big orc, because of his strength, and the respect given to him because of it.  The runty green-skin was not the best of assistants, Noriece often observed; but he had an intellect far greater than others of his race.  And, motivated by a proper degree of fearful respect, he had shown some value.

Noriece called for silence again, and slowly let his consciousness sink into the currents of magic which circulated above the paper, into the final incantation he had painstakingly memorized for this task.  Slowly, he started reciting the words, pairing each syllable with the proper inflection, and even hand gestures, as only an expert spellcaster could.   

He lost all track of time, as the spell gained strength with each completed phrase, and drew more of his own awareness into itself, as if using his being to feed the expression of energies coalescing before his staring eyes.  He was dimly aware of the smell of smoke rising past his nostrils, as the spell-sheet turned to cinders, and curled into ashes in its own self-destruction.

  Amid growing fatigue, with completion of the final commands, a swirling air current, like a miniature, glowing tornado, materialized in front of him.  The concentrated tempest swept the ashes up, out of the urn, and like a deep-biting drill, drove itself into the bird-gem.

Noriece stood transfixed, his hands outspread and steady as a rock, despite the draining of his stamina, as the spell crept inevitably towards its final step. 

The bench suddenly shook, as if in an earthquake; tiny, rapid shockwaves vibrated through the air and the floor of the room.  The flames of the brazier grew, coming dangerously close to his robe, and smoldering the wood of the bench.  But he did not falter, as he gave himself to the enchantment, and felt a new presence permeate the pulsing waves in front of him, now radiating from the blue jewel.  The individual who had once commanded those emanations may be disturbed, in whatever final resting place his spirit might reside. But to have that power under his personal control, was a price Noriece was willing to pay.

His wicked heart beat fiercely with the flush of victory, as he clutched the table in his weakened state, and filled the chamber with a triumphant laugh.

  *                                                          *                                                          *

The snarling dogs were quite vicious today.  On either wall of cages, they got their snouts through the bars just enough to flash their teeth. 

The girl in the horse’s saddle remained steadfast, maintaining calm control of the 1200 pound animal, despite her youthful years, and despite holding the reins with only her left hand. 

If the beast shied as much as two inches from the biting jaws on one side, the fangs on the other would rip his flanks, not to mention her foot.

Despite his natural instincts, he followed her guidance through the narrow path.  As a powerful steed of Rendart, famous home of mighty cavalry forces, he would go on to stand alongside other horses and riders, as the good kingdom battled all manner of foes, human and otherwise. 

And Natalia Seilfen, seeing the trust the four-year-old placed in her, smiled at the progress he had made over the last nine months, as she had patiently employed the methods passed down among Rendart’s trainers for generations. For, only horses who not only obeyed the reins, but had faith in their riders, could be trusted to face the many threats of the world in which they lived. 

As they passed the dogs, the young equestrian reassuringly whispered, “Good boy, Terba.” 

Then she put her heels in his sides, and he launched into a full gallop.

She lowered the spear in her other hand, leaning forward.  Again, he stayed true to his training, and did not deviate. As the point flashed next to his right eye, he easily maintained his direction and speed. 

Ignoring the wind whipping her light brown, wavy hair across her eyes, the girl kept her focus as well; and barely two seconds later, the spear struck the chest of the practice dummy. 

Keeping hold of her weapon, she steered her mount out of the arena-like training area, to lope around the perimeter. 

Then, turning toward the barn, she slowed him to an easy canter. 

Finally, they came to a stop near the western end of the large barn, beside some hitching posts next to the corrals, where her unexpected audience was waiting.

“Did you think you could get away with this, just by getting up early enough, younger sister?” the older girl, with her straighter, night-black hair tied back in a ponytail, and the emblem of Rendart’s mounted lancers prominently displayed on her uniform, asked, none too pleasantly.  “Colonel Sawen wants no one working with this animal, except himself!”

“Good morning, Mariba,” Natalia, or ‘Natty’, as she was more often called, cheerfully replied.  “If he spent more time with his mount,” she added, with minute sarcasm, “and less time polishing his medals, I wouldn’t have to do this extra work.”

“That’s no excuse to break the rules, Natty!”

“Terba won’t let anyone, except me, ride him through the gauntlet.  You know that.”

Natty placed the saddle on the rail, and started quickly wiping the horse down, but Mariba was not finished. 

“That’s only because you appoint yourself mistress of the stables, and step in where you shouldn’t.” 

“I don’t – “

“Yes, you do!” she interrupted, as Natty led Terba through the gate to a large open pen, where he could take a grateful roll.

“And I can have you kept from setting foot in here again.”

“A good bluff.  But I’ve already proved my worth.”

Young Natty waved at the inside of the barn, as the morning sunlight spilled through the large east-facing door, illuminating the long line of stalls within.

“You’ve slowly abused your position, you mean,” Mariba countered, nodding to the very last stall at the opposite end of the barn.  They both started walking that way.

“I found a good animal that others had overlooked,” Natty said, in her defense.

“And decided to board him in a place reserved for the warhorses.  I’m amazed you got away with it for so long.”  She lightly scratched the edge of her chin.  “But I must admit, working with the other horses so much, so they could advance so soon to the real battles, was an excellent distraction.” 

“You think that if you raise this one right,” she asked, “you can ride out as a field-guard?”

“It’s what I was born for.”

“And I keep trying to tell you, you have excellent skills in the saddle. The horses hardly warm up to anyone, the way they do to you. You should put that to use, and join the lancers.  Father and Mother – .”

“I know!  It would please them to no end, especially Pa, to see us both carry on the family tradition.  But my love is not for the battlefield.  It’s for the horses, so they may survive it.  And, if they carry our brave fighters – overbearing sisters included – home safely in the process, so much the better.”

They came to the end stall, where a smaller horse, with a dark brown coat, black mane and tail, a white stocking on his right foreleg, and a white blaze down the length of his face, stirred.

“Morning, Bello,” Natty greeted.

Mariba leaned on the gate-post, as the animal came up to Natty, to brush her with his nose.

“With your way with the beasts, you could easily train up a proper charger.  But why this one?  He’s three hands shorter than the bays.”

“He doesn’t need a certain physical form to be great.  His heart is like fire, and his spirit is tireless.”

“And I suppose, part of that is from your special blend of feed?”

“So good of you to notice!” Natty gushed, as she scratched Bello along his lower jaw, much to the horse’s delight.  “He’s gotten stronger by the day.”

“But he’ll never be chosen for fighting duty.  Maybe he can be used as a courier.”

“He’ll do good.  Just watch.”

“And you think life will just hand you the title of field-guard?”

“You said it yourself.  I’m good with the horses.  And I love them,” she again waved at the line of stalls, “too much, to not fill the need.  It is the duty of the field-guard, to tend to the horses on the missions.  What good does it do, to train them at home, only to have them ridden off and get cut up in battle?”

“The same thing happens to us soldiers, you know.  This path will invariably take you where the fighting is thickest, with sights and sounds that will haunt your dreams.

“And I hate to say it, little sister, but early on, you’ll be faced with a decision. You’ll have to either go to a wounded countryman, or help a hurt horse.”

“A person can hold their own bandage in place,” Natty politely said. “Not so a horse.  That’s why I have to be there.”

“You’re still too young,” Mariba solemnly countered.

“That doesn’t matter!” Natty snapped, more forcefully than she had intended. 

Mariba made no reaction, but casually stood, waiting for her to say more, as she had on so many previous occasions.

For Natty, the topic of her age – which she could not control, but others were so quick to hold against her – tended to touch too sensitive a nerve.

“Besides,” she went on, quickly calming down, “it’s nearly my 17^th birthday.”

“Seilfen!”

Both girls turned, and saw the training-master of the stables, Chief Master Sergeant Roaquin, stomping toward them, with fury in his eyes.

“Looks like you won’t live to see it,” Mariba muttered.