Osken Greenbridge’s palms grew clammy. He felt his pulse pound in his hands as he clenched them around the straps of his bag and watched the guards at the closed portcullis. They had set their eyes on the quiet street beyond the walls and away from his hiding place near the armory. They did not consider that on this morning someone was trying to break out, not in.

  Osken pulled up his hood as the rain started to fall faster and harder. His wool cloak was solid gray, baggy, and obscured his lean figure well in the early morning light but did little to keep the water away. The cloak hid a thin leather jerkin embroidered with the sigil of his house, an emerald bridge over a silver river. On his back, he carried an oversized and awkwardly laden bag, filled with his books and a stolen artifact.

  The rain should help. Gods help me if they catch me. Father would be wroth if he knew what I was doing.

  He waited patiently for his opportunity to move. He did not wait long before a tall, older man clad in armor rode up behind the guards on a black warhorse.

  Ser Bryant. Punctual as always.

  One of the guards went to open the gate and Osken seized his chance. He moved in perfect timing with the guard’s movements. As one cranked the chain to raise the portcullis, the other chatted with Ser Bryant. Osken moved between the knight’s large warhorse and the guard as the man struggled with the winch on his own. The other two were too engrossed in their conversation to notice his approach. He was through the gate and out the keep before they had it fully raised, and he quickly ducked into a nearby alley across the street.

  In the alley, he waited for the portcullis to close again and for the sound of Ser Bryant’s horse to quiet as he rode into the city.

  “I am not free yet.” Osken whispered to himself as he started down the empty city street.

  The rain was cold against Osken’s pale skin, soaking through his doublet and down to his underclothes.

  He struggled with the weight of the bag as the rain soaked it too. His eyes caught a puddle, and he saw himself in the reflection. The hood of his cloak did not hide his face as much as he thought.

  Someone will recognize me.

  He ruffled his combed hair and pulled the strands over his brown eyes and the purple birthmark on his left cheek, his only distinguishable feature. Lastly, he rubbed his hand in the street and begrudgingly wiped the grime across his face.

  He wound his way down the city streets and away from the keep. A caged dog barked, startling him, but he quickly turned a corner and made sure no one was watching. Seeing no one, he continued and soon found himself in the market square. The promenade was empty except for the unmanned stands that crowded the space and a pair of guards on patrol. He worked his way around in an opposite path to them. It took a few more minutes than he would have liked, but he arrived at the edge of the city and the old bridge that gave the city of Greenbridge its name.

  The bridge, fashioned from mortared stone and older than the city itself, was a marvel of engineering in his ancestor’s time. Now, a dark green moss covered its legs and sides, but it was still strong enough to support the carts and carriages that traversed it regularly. It spanned the nearly three-hundred-foot-wide Craslan River and connected the cliff that the city sat on to the gentle hill and road on the east side. A fortified gate secured either side of the bridge. The City Gate was open, and the guards paid Osken no mind as he exited the city. He started across the bridge, but hesitation gripped his heart.

  When will I see this bridge again? Will father ever want me to come back after he finds out what I have done?

  Osken pondered that a moment before he shook away the thought. He made it across the bridge just as the guards opened the Far Gate for the merchants of the day to enter the city. Osken walked past with his eyes firmly fixed on the road ahead of him, trying to avoid the guards’ gaze, and no one stopped him.

  The worst is behind me. Now all I must do is follow the Chief Sage’s instructions.

  Osken pulled out the letter he carried in his cloak’s hidden pocket and removed it from its waterproof case and envelope. He was careful not to break the dried wax seal of the Chief Sage and then skipped ahead to the directions.

  ‘Follow the east road and go to the Guardian Tree. I sent escorts to guide you to the Keep of Stars. They will meet you there.’

  Simple enough, though how does he know I can find the Guardian Tree? Maybe father told him the story of our hike there. They see each other often at court, and I imagine there is ample time to waste.

  He continued down the road and toward the forest, struggling with the pack he carried. As he walked, the cloud covered sun crested the horizon and illuminated the bones of ancient trees. The Petrified Forest, a lasting reminder of the wrath of gods, spanned for leagues to the north and east of Greenbridge. The once thriving forest had turned into stone millennia ago, but nature was fighting its way back into the land as evidenced by the shrubbery along the ground and the occasional true tree.

  What was this forest like before the Fracture? I am sure there are some works on the subject at the Keep of Stars. If anyone has that information, the Sages do, and I will soon be one of them.

  The only company Osken found during his rainy walk along the road was a cart pulled by two oxen and led by a man of maybe fifty years. The overbearing smell of ammonia notified him that the man was a leatherworker coming to trade his wares in Greenbridge. After walking for around two miles, he found the path he sought and took it happily.

  And Imrell said I was hopeless as a navigator.

  The path had turned to mud in the rain and became treacherously slick. He had to take care and grip the stony bark of a petrified tree as he entered the forest. Osken nearly fell a dozen times in the next hour but managed to keep his footing and save himself the dishonor of presenting himself to the Sages covered in mud.

  ‘Imrell the Perfect’ would never approve of me running off in the middle of the night to join the Sages, even at the behest of the Chief Sage himself. He would approve even less of me taking the Chronicle.

  His feet were hot with blisters, and he was chafing in unmentionable places by the time he decided to rest and eat his breakfast of cold bacon and biscuits.

  Should I change my clothes? No point, the rain will not stop soon, and it is not too cold. I should not have worn new boots. Maybe I should have risked a horse… or hired a nice carriage, like when father took all of us on the circuit of Gallmont.

  He thought back on that trip as he ate.

  If only I had known that it would be the last trip we would take as a family, or that the true purpose was to find matches for us. I would have tried to be more courteous to the ladies instead of staying between the pages of my books the whole time. Not that it would have helped much…

  Osken failed to make a match where Imrell easily secured a bride from Grace Hall. His two other older brothers, Uthwen and Pallon, died from the flux a year later. Their deaths left Osken in stark contrast of Imrell.

  Father does not need me. I never met his expectations, and he will not care that I am gone so long as he has Imrell.

  The rain beat down harder as he tried to take cover under a tall shrub that grew beneath one of the stone trees. Despite his gloomy thoughts, Osken could not help but feel excited as he began his adventure by journeying through the Petrified Forest.

  So many adventures crossed this ancient wood. What will mine bring? Love, danger, maybe even a dragon…

  When Osken finished his meal, he continued to follow the River Craslan and his mind filled with pleasant memories for a change.

  ‘Craslan, meaning swift or raging in the common tongue, is a Dvergan word,’ his father had told him on a hike like the one he walked today. ‘The Dvergur named it when they still ruled these lands a thousand years ago.’

  Father used to sit and read the Dvergur histories with me all day. Now he chooses to drown himself in the business of the king’s court in Auramar. Why did the king have to take you away, father? Some other lord could have been Archon.

  His mind seized on his thought like a wolf with a wounded deer and a worse memory manifested.

  ‘Never!’ He remembered his father saying. ‘None of my sons will ever join the Sages. It is one of faithless paupers who have nothing to call their own.’

  It was the last thing his father had said to him before he left for Auramar a week later.

  It does not matter. He will either see the truth when I become a great Sage or he will never see me again.

  He felt for the letter again. It was an answer to his prayers when Osken found it slipped into the cover of his favorite book two weeks ago. He took it out of his pocket again and read it in its entirety, huddled under his cloak to keep it dry.

  ‘Osken Greenbridge, I call upon you to join the Order of the Sages. Your talents have not gone unnoticed, and I have learned of you from your father at the court of Auramar. Though I know your father will not approve, I know it is best for you to join us. He wastes a lad of your insight and learning by forcing you to stay among those that refuse to cherish your gifts. I will not have it!

  I will send trusted men to find you. You must wait a fortnight, then the adventure of your life will commence. Follow the east road and go to the Guardian Tree. I sent escorts to guide you to the Keep of Stars. They will meet you there.

  I ask but one thing in return, a tribute to know you are true to our cause. Bring the Chronicle. We have long wanted to study it and will return the artifact to its rightful place when complete. Bring it, and you shall find your place amongst the Sages. Take care no one knows our plan, lest my work be undone, and your chance squandered. You have my best wishes for your success, and do not worry about your father, I will see that he finds rest in this course.’

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  It is all I could ever hope for and all it costs is the temporary relocation of a rusting artifact from father’s treasury. Not that he could even notice its absence from so far away.

  He stood up and put on his pack to start walking again. Another two hours passed and his pack’s straps were starting to dig into his shoulders. He was not used to such a burden.

  The artifact, a half shield known as the Chronicle, and his books were more than any load he had ever carried for so long. He was thoroughly exhausted by time he arrived at the Guardian Tree.

  The Guardian Tree was a pillar made from a single enormous, petrified tree with the likeness of many beasts carved from the base to the top. The carvings including an eagle, a bear, a wolf, and a dragon among others.

  He heard his father’s voice again, ‘The Gurrektheen made these carvings long ago when the giants still allied themselves with us… before we betrayed them.’

  The pillar rose far above the other trees and marked a sacred place for the Gurrektheen, but he did not know why or how sacred it was. Each totem’s eyes seemed to follow him as he walked around the base to get a good look at them.

  He let down his pack and rubbed the soreness out of his legs. He had barely finished before a grizzled man in a dark green cloak emerged from what seemed like thin air and called out, “You Osken?”

  Startled, Osken turned and said, “Uh, um, yes.”

  “Good, I was beginnin’ to think you wouldn’t show. We best be on our way. The others ain’t waitin’ long.” The man said with an eastern accent marked by a slight draw on his words.

  “Very well,” said Osken. “You are my escort?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I know your name?”

  “Burk.” The man answered brusquely before he turned on his heels and started walking away.

  Osken grabbed his pack and hurried to follow. Burk was a tall man who looked to be near forty years old. He wore a full beard, but his head was clean shaven. The beard was a fiery red-orange, and his eyes were green as pine needles on the branch. His cloak looked worn, and he kept it wrapped tightly around his body. The only other clothing Osken could see was his old, cracking, and worn leather boots.

  The walk was quiet as the two travelers started down a new path taking them north. The rain had passed but clouds remained, covering the sky.

  “How far is it to the Keep of Stars?”

  “Far.” Burk replied.

  He is certainly not one to waste words.

  “What is your specialty? Are you a Sage of history? Figures? Do you study stars or maps or ancient texts?”

  Burk did not answer him, and Osken grew nervous.

  I hope I have not offended him in some way. Perhaps he is not a Sage. He looks much more like a Justiciar, and I have heard they hate for outsiders to mistake them for Sages or Hopes.

  “Perhaps you are a Justiciar? That would make sense based on your more… rugged clothing.”

  Burk answered this time, “You could say I’m somethin’ of an apprenticed Justiciar.”

  Osken’s face broke into an excited smile. He had never met a Justiciar in person before.

  “I have read accounts of your order’s deeds in Sage Barthem’s Justiciars and their Triumphs. The book explained your duties, but more interestingly, Sage Barthem recounted the history of many Justiciars of his time. Scholar warriors that hunted down infamous murderers, rapists, traitors, and the like. Even Ser Bryant, my father’s castellan and captain of our city guard, has expressed his admiration for Justiciar valor and leadership. And trust me, he is hard to impress.”

  “Sounds like you know it better than me.” Burk said.

  “That is high praise, thank you. I always admired Justiciars as the outsiders of the scholastics, and though I never desired to join them, I find them profoundly fascinating. Being both the masters of the law and the elite enforcers of it is a heavy charge for one to take willingly.”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me then, have you caught many criminals? Met many scoundrels? Why did the Chief Sage send a Justiciar to retrieve me?”

  Burk answered angrily, “No, no, and I don’t know. Kid, I’m just doing my job. Stop asking me so many damn questions!”

  Osken stopped in his tracks, surprised and fearful at the quick temper of the justiciar.

  As if Burk knew how Osken felt, he calmed his tone and said, “If you insist on talkin’, why don’t you just tell me some stories. They told me you like to read.”

  Osken’s nerves remained, but stories always helped.

  “I can certainly do that. Do you know the story of Talaks?”

  Burk looked over his shoulder and said, “No,” as he continued to weave his way through the stone trees almost too fast for Osken to keep pace with.

  “Well, legend says Talaks was the first man. Born of a dragon and an Ederlef woman. All of humanity flowed from him joining with the other mortal races. He led them and even learned to control the Summersong, the mythical power of the Ederlef, from his mother. He became so strong with that power that his father thought he could heal Dragon Madness and save the dragons.”

  “Bullshit, nothing can cure Dragon Madness. Except death.” Burk said.

  Surprised, Osken replied, “You have heard of Dragon Madness?”

  “Yes, I have. My pa told me that a mad dragon killed some High Lord a while back. Tore right through his castle and ate him whole.”

  “I have heard the same.” Osken said, happy at having hooked his guide into talking. “The High Lord Derron Trent lost his life to a dragon that invaded his castle some sixty-five years ago. It killed the High Lord and many of his kin. One of the Summerguard hunted down the dragon and slew it after two years of searching. The Summerguard are truly amazing knights.”

  “People exaggerate the skills of the Summerguard. Good knights, but I have seen better warriors.”

  “There are none so brave as them.”

  “Maybe, but brave don’t mean smart. I wouldn’t go messin’ with a dragon. Sounds like that knight had more courage than wisdom, and a good warrior needs both.”

  “You sound like my brother.” Osken told him.

  Burk did not respond to that, but instead asked, “How did the knight manage to kill it?”

  How did he kill it?

  Osken did not know, but quickly fabricated an answer as to not look ignorant and said, “He took a spear of adamantine and pierced its heart from the belly.”

  “The belly is the weakest spot.” Burk said as if agreeing.

  “Yes, it is, and the skull hangs in the Trent castle today.”

  At least that detail is true.

  Burk continued walking. It was now well past midday. The sun hung low in the sky and barely poked through the clouds. A few radiant beams danced through the stone branches and cast the forest in a comforting light. Osken took out his water skin for a drink and nearly drained it as he realized how thirsty he was.

  Burk noticed and said, “We will stop soon to rest. Have some food.” The justiciar handed him a piece of jerky straight from a pouch on his side.

  “What meat is it?”

  “Boar, and it is all I got.” Burk replied.

  Osken took a bite of the jerky. It was chewy, gamey, and the salt left his mouth feeling dry. They found a thicket of young trees amongst the stones and Burk stopped in their shade. Birds chirped among the trees and fluttered about the branches looking down on their visitors.

  We are likely the first people these birds have seen. Burk has taken us deep into the forest.

  The shade and rest refreshed him. He finished his water alleviating his salt-parched mouth. Burk was still eating, so Osken took time to examine some lichen growing on one of the petrified trees.

  Rulliko would say this is some sort of spirit trying to bring life back to the forest. But only the gods could perform such a feat. He is a strange man, but it is stranger still that all his people believe in spirits. I will miss him and his eccentricities.

  “So, what did you bring us anyways.” Burk asked, dragging Osken back to the present.

  “The artifact the Chief Sage requested.” He answered. “The Chronicle.”

  “They told me it is a special shield.”

  “You are correct, a buckler to be precise, or half of one at least. It is made from adamantine, forged by a Dvergan smith for the first Duglan King, Arrek Duglan.”

  “What is so important about it? The boss has wanted it for a long time.”

  “Well, it is a piece of history. The Duglans painted the shield to depict the crowning of Arrek Duglan. His descendants carried it into battle whenever they went to war. That is until Nathanial Summersong the First conquered the Duglan lands during the War for Talaksia. He split the Chronicle in half with his sword, Celestial’s Scorn, and took the left hand of the last Duglan king, Jace Duglan, with it.”

  “Fascinating.” Burk said dismissively.

  “It is really,” Osken said, defensively, “and there is more.”

  “What do you mean?” Burk asked.

  That may have been a stone too far. Father would truly condemn me if I shared the prophecy with a common Justiciar.

  “Well, uh- it is valuable for the metal.” Osken said. “Adamantine is rare.”

  Burk nodded and gestured for him to rise. They walked until near sunset. Osken fought against the pain in his feet, hoping, praying that the Justiciars would have brough horses for the journey. They reached the top of a hill and he rejoiced. Just down the hill, Osken saw a campsite where several men ate around a small fire in a dank ravine below.

  “That is the rest of our party, yes?”

  “Yes, it is. Now come, we are already late.”

  Burk picked up a fast pace down the hill, and Osken jogged to keep up with him while trying to avoid slipping on the muddy ground. As they approached, he saw the men wore muted clothing under green cloaks, just like Burk. One man stood out among them for his dark blue robes with red stars sewn on the sleeves.

  That one looks like a Sage, but why bring so many Justiciars? I suppose trekking the countryside is more their forte, but this bodes a dangerous journey…

  The Sage looked worn and old, having a bald head and deep wrinkles around his eyes, but the other men looked far younger. However, it was not the Sage Burk addressed when they reached the campsite.

  He stopped a few feet away from the fire and addressed a man eating from a bowl of broth, “Ser, I brought him like you asked. No one followed and he says he has the shield.”

  “Good.” The man said as he turned his attention away from the bowl and to Osken, “You brought the Chronicle, son?”

  The man looked middle aged and very handsome. He had a strong jaw, a thick chest, deep blue eyes, and his hair was red as Burk’s beard. He wore a chain shirt over his fine clothing, and he wore a sword on his left hip.

  Stammering, Osken managed to get out, “Umm, yes. I did.”

  Osken unslung his pack and removed the shield. He brought it closer to the fire to prove his claim and looked around the fire for approval. He saw none, but the man did stoop to inspect the shield. The painting on the face of the shield was faded and the leather straps on the reverse side were nearly rotted away. The Sage of the party stood up and moved for a closer look too.

  He looked at the shield inquisitively and spent minutes feeling, squinting, and even listening to the sound of the metal as he tapped a rod of iron against it.

  Do they doubt it is real? Why do they think I would take such a risk?

  After another minute of toying with the shield, the Sage stood up with a satisfied look on his face and walked to the man with the fiery hair.

  “This is most certainly the Greenbridge half of the Chronicle.” The Sage said.

  Osken sighed in relief and said, “So now that you know I am true, when do we begin our journey to the Keep of Stars?”

  “I am afraid we will not, Osken.” The leader said with a casual smile.

  Osken’s heart dropped and he asked, “What do you mean?”

  Before the leader could answer, the other men stood up from their seats around the fire and drew their swords from their scabbards.

  “Oh gods, what are you doing?” Osken asked as he backed away, readying himself to run.

  As he stepped back, he slipped and started to fall. Before he hit the ground, someone caught him by his cloak. Then, a blade stabbed between his ribs just under his right armpit and a hand covered his mouth as his attacker lowered him to the ground. He gasped from the pain, but the hand over his mouth muffled the sound. He felt the warm trickle of his own blood and a terrible stinging pain as he felt the blade twist before his attacker pulled it from the wound.

  He weakly turned his head and saw Burk above him with a bloody dagger and a stern face. Burk was kneeling on Osken’s chest to keep him from attempting to stand back up, but Osken knew he couldn’t have even if he tried.

  “Sorry kid. It is just bad luck for you.” Burk said.

  The leader spoke again, “Forgive us our deception, but there was no other way to retrieve the Chronicle without greater bloodshed.”

  “I feel cold,” Osken whispered, “please help me.”

  He struggled for air, but most of the men simply turned their gaze away.

  Their leader did not, “You like stories, yes? I will make sure the Sages record your part in this story. You will go down in history just as we promised. House Duglan thanks you for your service.”

  Two men approached and grabbed him under his arms to carry him away from the fire to a hole in the ground he had not noticed before. As they let go, Osken felt himself plummet to the cold, hard ground but he barely registered the impact. Not a moment later, his pack landed beside him with a thud and his books scattered around him like flowers at a funeral. He could no longer feel his legs, barely having enough strength to reach out towards the sky.

  As he lay dying, Osken remembered the prophecy he almost told Burk earlier. ‘When rebellion spreads under darkest skies, the shield of Jace will announce the rise. An end of an age, lasted too long, will bring the death of the Summersong.’

  The words rang hollow in his mind, losing their meaning as the clouds broke above him, revealing thousands of stars above. They were too far away to warm him, and the light grew dim as his vision faded.