THE PINES

  Saltwater invaded Asho Ashen Ashiphiex’s nostrils as Hellion's hooves crested the final ridge. Anticipation and wariness had warred within him since they had left the Ironoak at dawn. At the bottom was the clearing of charred pine trees overlooking a rocky beach, and then, the channel.

  Kohl broke the silence. “Are you alright?”

  The prince tightened his grip on Hellion’s reins. “I need to see Kohl.” He hadn’t been strong enough before. Now, Asho wished he had. If head made this journey three years earlier, how would his life be different? Would he be more self-disciplined? More respectable? More of the heir that the COnqueror and the empire expected him to be?

  Their horses carefully navigate the treacherous steep slope. The hill bore an ugly burn scar— corpses of blackened trees uprooted and splintered over moss covered boulders. Hellion startled and whined. Asho glanced down to see what his hoof had caught on.

  A rusty piece of metal - the dome of a legionnaire’s helm half submerged in the thick mud. Sorrow welled in his gut. His eyes scanned the rest of the hill. There were no bones, no shrouds left to burn. All that remained of the vanished legion was metal and charred pine ash.

  Asho dismounted at the clearing. Kohl followed. It felt too profane to be in the quiet battlefield. His feet slid through thick mud as he stepped across a decade of separation to the shore line. His heart too burdensome in his chest. Saltwater overpowered his senses as he stepped onto the black sand beach.

  His boots carried him over to the lost legion’s banner. The prince knelt, removing his helmet. His hands ran along the padded leather of its cavern. The Ashenian falcon’s bronze wings had turned green in the years by the sea as it stood virgil over the channel. Asho lifted his ocean blue eyes across the fog. If he squinted he could make out the black cliffs of Bruttanium.

  So this was where his father had stood down the invasion of barbarians. Awe and fear pierced Asho’s heart.

  Kohl placed a hand on Asho’s shoulder as he knelt. His friend's hazel eyes were sorrowful. Kohl unfolded a cloth with two slices of bread and cured ham. Asho ate his tasteless portion in three bites. He leaned back on his haunches, watching the tide ebb and flood over the jagged rocks.

  “I never knew him Kohl.” Asho whispered. It was true. Even before the Bruttanium invasion, the Conqueror had always sent his second youngest son on some campaign or another. Ashen had been gone for months, sometimes years at a time. Asho lowered his head in shame. Some days, he could barely picture his father’s blurry face.

  “Surely the Conqueror has told you stories.”

  Asho shook his head. “He doesn’t discuss him.”

  “Maybe it’s too painful.” Kohl offered.

  The prince was about to speak, to mention the Conqueror was hardly human in the way he and Kohl were, and thought better of it. Instead he numbly replied. “Maybe.”

  “Well, I can tell you this. I owe my homeland and my family’s life to Ashen’s courage.” Kohl said, returning to his good natured optimism. “Our father’s were great friends. Did you know that early in the war Ashen swam to the other end of the channel in the middle of the night, returning with a barbarian's shoes to ust prove he could. And when you were born, his first and only son, my father says Ashen talked of you endlessly.”

  Asho choked up. “That’s kind of you to say.” At the moment he didn’t feel as if there was much to speak of. The Conqueror thought he was a dynastic disappointment. And he’s right. Asho thought bitterly. He quickly wiped his stinging eyes. “They never recovered his body, Kohl.”

  “I, I know. My father believes it was swept up by the channel.”

  “But if they never found it, he never received his rites. How?”

  “I’m sure the Stormlord made an exception. All of them.” Kohl ran a hand along the rusting legionnaire banner. “They were heroes. They died a heroic death. The skytops would have smiled down upon them.”

  Asho stared across the foggy channel, trying to picture the tall tan legs and broad shoulders of Ashen as he led the charge into the surf. Did he know he was about to sacrifice himself on the edge of the Empire? Had he thought of him? His mother?

  A new surge of resentment towards his uncle swelled. It should have been Hortus who died. Not Ashen. It should have been Admrilia, not him, who grew up without a father to guide them. He stood abruptly. “I’m ready.”

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  Kohl looked startled. “You don’t want to stay longer?”

  “No.” Staying among the rusting metal and salty air would only make Asho dig up the past. The prince ran a finger along the falcon’s crest, committing the view to memory. “I’ve gotten what I’ve needed.”

  Asho paused when he caught sight of the cloaked figure huddled over near the crickbed. Putting a finger to his lips, he waved Kohl behind a nearby tree. Kohl cocked an eyebrow. Asho shook his head, pointing to the figure as he lowered his hood, revealing a caul of matted auburn hair. It was the boy that had hovered at the White Jarl’s side. Asho ducked low against Hellion’s flank as the acolyte’s head whipped around; scanning the forest with his green eyes. The acolyte slowly turned back around.

  His heart caught in his throat Asho dismounted Hellion, handing the reins over to Kohl. His friend's eyes were full of warning. Asho waved him off, tiptoeing around the trees so he could catch a profile view of the boy. His hands were resting on the thick black fur on one of the Conqueror’s hunting hounds. Asho’s eyebrows rose into his curly hair. Maybe the boy had been tasked with exercising the animal?

  Except, that didn’t explain why the acolyte had tied a rope around the hound’s muzzle. Or why his knee was in its stomach, pinning it in place. His thin bony hands fumbled around the crick bed, weighing rocks in his palm. He rained down the stone with all of his might onto the dog’s back leg.

  The hound wailed in pain. Unbothered, the acolyte grabbed the limb and twisted as if prying off a chicken leg. The acolyte began whispering fiercely under his breath. Asho darted forward from his hiding place. “Unhand that hound—”

  A blade was at his neck in an instance. His body being thrust into the dirt. Asho raised his hands in the air. A hooded figure had their knee pressed against his chest. Their hood had fallen back, revealing short brown hair, a pallid complexion, and silver eyes.

  “Unhand the prince at once!” Kohl demanded, dissolving from the trees. His bow was nocked, aimed directly at his attacker's head. “That is the heir to the Ashenian Empire!”

  The man lowered the blade and stepped back. “Your prince tramps around these woods like a common thief.” The northerner said through a thick accent.

  Asho stood and dusted off his tunic. He raised head imperiously. “That boy over there is the thief. That hound is the private property of the Conqueror.”

  “The hound was gifted to the White Jarl.” The man explained, and Asho quickly recalled that the stranger before him was one of the White Jarl’s personal guards. A member of the wyrguild. The man whistled and other guards materialized out of the clearing. They were dressed in thick furs and dark brown cloaks. Their faces were as interchangeable as their outfits. Unnervingly unassuming. A tall and slender one walked towards the clearing, where the acolyte was still ducked down in the clearing. Another figure, tall and lumbering with the dark skin of a Southerner moved towards them.

  “That acolyte is training to be a healer.” The imposing bald figure said through a thick accent.

  “By breaking an animal’s leg?” Asho demanded.

  “Better that, then the leg of a man.”

  Asho raised an eyebrow in surprise. He turned to where the child was hiding within the cloak of his guards. The Conqueror’s hound bounded over. Asho knelt, examining the hound as he nuzzled into his side. He ran a gloved hand along the restored muscle and tissue. He rotated the back leg fragilly in his hands as the hound panted. The limb was limber in his palms. Asho knew that such an impossible feat could only be accomplished by the use of the wyrd.

  He looked up at the burly southerner. “Who are you?”

  “I am Gabriyl Duskbringer. The head of the White Jarl’s wyrguild.”

  Asho nodded. “And who is the boy?”

  Gabriyl Dustbringer’s lips curled. “He is nameless. A nullius. As are all acolytes in the Rose Maiden’s service.”

  Asho stood at attention in front of the Conqueror’s desk. He had yet to change, his whole body yearning to wash the grief from the day off of his skin. The Emperor continued talking to Advisor Quercus. Neither looked over, and Asho fought the heat coating his cheeks. The Conqueror can sense your weakness. He chided himself. You have to stop being weak.

  Asho eased himself down into the stool beside Quercus. The elderly advisor glanced over, before continuing. “As you can see, your majesty, the lumber we will obtain…”

  “I just returned to find the White Jarls acolyte torturing your hound.” Asho interrupted.

  Quercus flashed him an irritated look. The Conqueror frowned. “Is this matter emergent, prince?”

  “I would say so. More than this inventory count. No disrespect, advisor.” Asho nodded his head to Quercus, who seemed to have taken plenty of affront to his interruption. “Kohl Ironside and I returned to find the White Jarl’s wyrguild protecting an acolyte as he tortured your hound. The child shattered its leg.”

  “I fail to see why you thought it necessary to interrupt us on the matter of animal cruelty.” Advisor Quercus said thinly. “The dogs are now property of the White Jarl. He can do with them as he wishes.”

  Asho made himself meet the Conqueror’s gaze. “The hound walks. The acolyte healed him.”

  The Conqueror leaned back in his seat. “So the boy was successful.” He said, nodding to himself.

  “You knew of this?” Asho was floored.

  “It was a matter discussed with the White Jarl, yes. Unfortunately you had predisposed yourself for the evening.” The Conqueror laced his fingers together. “I take it that you’ve seen the Pines?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Good.” The Conqueror grunted, and it was perhaps the softest Asho had ever heard him speak.