Deren's Road

Willowdell Stables rested at the bottom of a great swell of golden land, in a sheltered vale spotted generously with oak and willow. A gentle stream flowed from the northern slopes, winding lazily through the tree-shaded pastures. Over a dozen horses and several long-horned cows grazed contentedly in the morning sun.

Nestled in the sheltered crook between two hills, where the golden grass of the hills transitioned into the dell’s green, was a large two-story farmhouse. In the front yard an ancient oak grew. The stable’s namesake was the oldest in the valley, and had a full canopy over the lawn and porch. From its wide, swaying branches hung a rope-swing.

The farmhouse overlooked a courtyard in the valley below, where the ginger stable, smaller barns, tack-houses, and sheds rested. Inside the stable, a large sorrel gelding stood in the dust-streaked sunlight as a young boy brushed him down. Topped by wispy, strawberry blond hair the boy was tall and slender with innocent blue-green eyes and a quick smile. His young face hinted at manhood, but remained full of youthful animation as he hummed a simple tune.

"Quiet, Deren," said a slow voice from the shadows, "you’re keeping me awake."

Deren paused and straightened, ignoring the lock of hair that fell into his eyes as he looked at his brother. Five years older, Kharl was an awkward, round-jawed youth dozing lazily in the hay.

"Sorry Kharl, I forgot," Deren tried to look contrite until Kharl grunted and closed his eyes again, then he stuck out his tongue defiantly and continued his work. By the time he finished with the draft horses, leading Bones and Bundy out to pasture, he was humming the tune again. When he returned to the stable to fetch the pony, Nara, he was singing out loud.

Kharl sat up angrily, removing his old hat with a quick motion as he glared furiously at his youngest brother. Straw clung unevenly to his clothing and dark hair making his disheveled appearance even worse than usual. Deren froze, not needing to turn around to know his brother's nostrils were flaring like Brunt’s, the neighbor’s bull. It was an expression he knew well.

"Deren," Kharl growled, "do you want me to...?" Kharl began threateningly.

The unmistakable sound of the farmhouse door slamming open echoed down the valley. Deren gave a small sigh of relief as he heard his father call for his mother, the wind easily carrying his powerful voice down the slope.

At this time of morning Emria Willow would be either feeding the chickens in the coop at the side of the house, or milking the goats in the Small Barn. The brothers heard their mother answer, Kharl’s name audible in the distant murmur of her voice.

Kharl flew to his feet in a spray of dust and hay, his bulk swaying clumsily in his haste. Eyes frantic, he moved quickly for Deren. Unable to escape in time, Kharl grabbed hold of Deren’s shirt, grabbing the horse brush out of his hand. Struggling fruitlessly, Deren could do nothing as his brother tossed him into the hay.

Deren landed, sputtering and sneezing, as the stable door darkened with the broad, towering silhouette of their father. Swatting dust and hair out of his eyes he looked up and swallowed nervously at the look on the large man's face.

Tyler Willow entered the stable with a confident stride. This always intimidated Deren, for it meant that his father was in a serious mood. Their neighbors dubbed Tyler, ‘Old Ty’, but Deren thought it a misleading moniker. Tyler may have been well into his prime, but years of working with horses kept him strong, with powerful shoulders and arms. His hair was iron grey, but thick and cropped short, emphasizing his angular, bearded face. All this was nothing compared to the force of Tyler’s personality, to the strength and conviction that men only foolish men ignored.

Tyler looked down at Deren with hazel eyes, lined from years under the Andesian sun, and nodded in brief acknowledgement. He then looked at Kharl, dutifully brushing down Nara, and narrowed those eyes. Once the most famous of knights, even acquiring the coveted rank of Paladin, Sir Tyler had stood at the right hand of King Waelan Snowdragon himself. After retiring to Willowdell Stables, Emria’s childhood home, he continued to succeed, helping his aging father-in-law grow the stables into the success it now was.

“Kharl, come with me," Tyler said in his deep, rumbling voice. "We need to have a talk."

Kharl shrinked within himself and Deren felt a pang of pity for his brother. It was never an angry lecture or whipping with their father, but a talk. Sometimes Deren wished his father would just give them a couple slaps with his belt and be done with it, better a few bruises than the guilt and shame one of his talks aroused.

Kharl stalled a moment by placing the brush in its proper place on the shelf. Then, dejected, he followed his father out of the barn, flashing Deren a quick glower.

"Back to work, Deren," Tyler said over his shoulder.

"Yes, father," Deren replied. He glared back at Kharl a moment before shrugging and retrieving the brush from the shelf. Kharl was lazy. If Tyler was giving him a talking to, then Kharl probably deserved it. It was no fault of Deren’s.

After grooming Moon and Detouroh, Deren stood back with a contented sigh, admiring his work. And he still had an hour before lunch, just enough time to take a quick swim in the pond. Smiling, he grabbed his belongings and led the horses outside, chatting absently at them as they wandered towards the pond. The morning was setting up to be a beautiful autumn day. Already the midday sun chased away the overnight chill common for this time of year, leaving Deren warm in his farm clothes.

About to strip out of his dusty clothes, Deren froze as the sound of a stallion’s call echoed across the valley. Deren knew it was not Kallandor, for the farm’s stallion answered with a bellow of his own from his paddock. Surprised, Deren ran to the fence, standing on the bottom rail as he looked past the broodmare pasture to the road. A lone rider sped up the laneway towards the farm, his large, chestnut horse armored in costly barding.

The rider wore a large ice-blue cape that fanned out behind him in the wind, a stylized, white snowflake stitched into the expensive clothe. Deren's eyes went widened at the sight and he almost fell in his hurry to climb the fence and race to the farmhouse. The nine broodmares raised their heads curiously, but returned to their grazing after recognizing Deren.

His young legs carrying him swiftly across the valley, he twisted haphazardly when he heard a dog’s excited bark behind him. A small dog with short, auburn fur barreled towards him through the grass, wet from his own swim in the duck pond.

"Barkley, no!" he cried as the dog rammed into the back of his knees, knocking him onto a sharp rock. The stone jabbed painfully into his knee as he pushed at the dog, who was trying to lick his face with considerable enthusiasm. Managing to climb to his feet he limped painfully across the pasture, trying to wipe away the smell of wet dog. Barkley bounced at his side, purple tongue flopping in happiness as he alternately barked at Deren and then the mares.

Given to him at Haaran’s Market nearly five years ago, Barkley was now a compact, muscular dog with powerful shoulders and jaw, intelligent amber eyes, and a stubbed tail…the result of a youthful entanglement with a field badger. The brownish puppy fur matured into a nice red color a little darker than a fox’s. With his long snout, Barkley could almost be mistaken for one.

After getting Barkley, Deren had learned that russets were hunting dogs from Noresauld, a very expensive breed prized for hunting bears, wolves and boars. Apparently they were fearless, relentless hunters with an instinct for combat and intelligent survival instincts. But Barkley was not aggressive, he was happy, and Deren loved him. They were inseparable companions around the farm.

The boy and dog paused at the low, white fence which enclosed the house and yard. Almost directly across from him, Deren’s father stepped out from around the far side of the house and onto the wide porch. He was dressed in his arena clothes, and Deren knew he would be running the yearling horses through their training paces after lunch. Kharl was nowhere to be seen. He was proud, despite his failings, and would most likely sulk in hiding until supper.

Tyler lit his pipe as he watched the strange rider cut off the laneway and approach the house across the hay field. His expression was unreadable as he watched the newcomer weave easily through the drying bales. Concealed by the fence and swaying hay, Deren stayed where he was. If his father saw him, he would send him away.

Jumping the low fence, his helmet flashing in the sunlight, the horse and rider scattered the yard chickens as they approached. In front of the house the stallion abruptly reared up, looking the color of blood in the bright sunlight, then danced to a stop in front of Deren’s father. As the horse paced and snorted the rider smoothly dismounted with a clink of armor and a swirl of his blue cape. Removing his helmet, he surveyed the large farmstead, taking in the clean farmhouse and stable grounds with an indifferent glance.

As the newcomer turned, Deren could see he was a young man, near his eldest brother Jereme’s age. He had shaggy, coffee-brown hair that blew in all directions in the valley wind. His eyes were blue-gray and framed with dark lashes, startlingly old on a boyishly handsome face. Abruptly the young man threw back his blue cloak and tucked his helmet under his arm, walking proudly towards the farmhouse where Tyler stood.

The stallion remained where he was. Prancing in the dust, his nostrils flared in the direction of the broodmare pasture and his ears flickered towards Kallandor’s paddock, where the stallion neighed questioningly after them.

"It's a knight, Barkley!" Deren almost jumped with glee as he grinned and stared in awe at the snowflake and magnificently decorated armor. "A real knight. From the Sky Palace!"

The power of the Blue Throne of Abrett stretched with mighty hands to the furthest reaches of Andesia. It oversaw everything from the crops and cattle in the south and west, the fishing coasts of the east, and the great fortresses protecting the mines and holds of the northern mountains. The knights and paladins of the Triad of Winter were the enforcers of the Blue Throne’s laws. The order was ancient and fiercely loyal to King and country, willing to die in defense of both.

"Good morning, Old One," the knight called out, "Sir Lucas of Branshire, here to see Sir Tyler Warden, First Paladin to the late King Waelan."

Tyler blew out a puff of smoke, which wafted about his balding head before getting caught and swept away by the breeze. "Sir Tyler retired long ago."

"He does own this farm, does he not?" the knight asked as he stepped forward, carefully trying to keep mud off his fine boots.

“The farm belongs to Mistress Willow’s family,” Tyler answered slowly.

"Well, could you do your job, farmhand, and fetch your master."

Deren's father raised his eyebrow, but didn’t move. "What business do you wish to discuss with `my master'?"

"It is knightly business!" Sir Lucas sniffed, glancing with further disdain at the mud on his boots. "Not for those who don’t understand the wonders of the grand life."

The screen door squeaked slightly as Deren's mother, an elegant, raven-haired woman, stepped out onto the porch. Emria Willow was wiping her hands on her apron and balancing baby Eliah on her hip. She was probably the only woman who could do that and still make it look graceful, Deren thought absently as he ducked down further.

Emria’s sky-blue eyes were as sharp as a hawk’s and she was much quicker than his father with her spoon and a scolding. She would not only send him away, but also give him a long list of chores to go along with it. On the farm, the chores were never-ending.

Instantly, when Deren crouched, Barkley began licking his face, making it difficult to watch what was happening. Ignoring the small dog as best he could, Deren tried to hear what the knight was saying to his father. From his position, Deren was barely able to make out the profile of the knight’s face, but he had a clear view of his father.

Tyler did not seem to be as impressed with the armor and stallion as Deren was.

"Last I heard, the life of a knight was far from wondrous," Tyler said, Emria nodding at his side, "what with the threat of war developing in the south."

Lucas of Branshire swelled in anger. "The soft life of a farmhand has made you ignorant, Old One. There will be no war against Highlord Vuulgaar, especially after I have completed my quest. Now, fetch the good Sir Tyler Warden at once."

"You're looking at him, boy," Tyler said, puffing on his pipe.

The knight looked Tyler up and down a moment before abruptly laughing out loud. Deren felt his face go red. How dare this guy come and laugh at his father?

"You cannot be Sir Tyler," the knight snorted, "legendary Paladin who once saved Emperor Waelan? Who slew Kraian of the Red Flame? This is an uncomely jest."

Deren almost fell over in his astonishment. Kraian of the Red Flame was a fearsome dragon out of legends and stories. It was said he burned nearly half of Andesia before being slain by a simple squire. His father could not have been that squire, could not have slain a dragon! It was impossible!

He quickly regained his balance and crawled along the fence, moving as close as he dared to the farmhouse.

"I am the only Tyler on this farm, and any business you may have, take it up with me...as soon as possible." There was no denying the impatience in Tyler's voice and Lucas’ laughter died at the tone.

Slightly embarrassed the young knight looked closer at Tyler and, after a brief moment, turned a shamed shade of red. "My apologies, Sir. I was so used to seeing your portraits in the palace, I…I thought you’d still look twenty years younger. I had no way of recognizing you should I have met you on the road. But now that I do see you, the resemblance is undeniable."

Tyler stared at the young knight a moment, squinting as he looked at the young man closely, "Branshire, eh."

The young knight nodded, his shaggy hair bouncing. "Yes, Sir, I am Sir Lucas of Br..."

"Yes, I got your name the first time. I am retired, not senile."

Lucas balked at the comment. "No, of course not, Sir, I...I didn't mean to..."

"And don't stammer," Tyler absently cut him off. "People may take you for an idiot. I know a Justin of Branshire, his youngest whelp was named Lucas, after his grandfather, that’s you?"

"Yes, Sir Justin is my father," the young knight said.

Tyler looked closely at the youth, then broke out in a smile. "Well, last I saw you, boy, you were no bigger than a lamb, and as round as one. Good man, your father, we served King Waelan a long time together. What are you now, seventeen?"

"Nineteen, Sir," Lucas said haughtily, “last spring.”

"You cannot be a knight."

"Raised two months ago, my father was very proud, with both his sons joining the Triad of Winter."

An inquisitive chicken approached Lucas and began to peck at its reflection in the armored boot. The knight kicked at it absently, but the bird merely dodged the foot and continued attacking the armor.

"Yes, and how is Casson? How is your father for that matter?"

Lucas’ face darkened and he lowered his gaze, trying to ignore the chicken. "I would much rather get beyond these pleasantries, Sir, if you do not mind?"

Tyler's eyes narrowed, but he did not question the youth's sudden change in temperament. "As you wish, Luc, what is it you have traveled all this way for?"

"Sir, I am hungry and the sun is hot."

Tyler glanced at Emria, who smiled warmly. "Of course, come along inside, we’re about to call the boys in for lunch, you’re welcome to join us."

Emria escorted Sir Lucas into the farmhouse, inquiring after his mother. Tyler watched them disappear inside then pulled several times on a rope at the edge of the porch. The hollow sounds of a bell echoed across the valley, beckoning Deren and his brothers in for lunch.

The boy hesitated a moment, watching his father follow his mother and the knight into the house. He was in a mild case of shock, absently stroking Barkley's head as he gazed at the front door, unsure what to do or think. Havan and Edra, two stable hands, ran to fetch the knight’s red stallion, leading him down the slope to the stable.

Deren then spotted his eldest brother, Jereme, walking toward the farmhouse from the direction of the duck pond. Jereme’s shoulder-length black hair blew gently in the afternoon breeze and his brown robes were wet at the bottom. He must’ve been meditating or praying by the pond again, Deren realized, though he hadn’t seen him when he’d been there. He shrugged and climbed to his feet, dusting off the hay and grass before climbing the fence.

"Come on, Barkley,” he said to the dog, “we won't learn much out here."

Jereme smiled serenely at him when they met on the front porch, his brown eyes kind in the shade. Deren entered after his brother, hearing the end of Sir Lucas’ statement. "…and if King Haesen doesn’t surrender the capital within a fortnight, the Princess Tsia will be executed."