Chapter 3

Skip Watkins, Chief of Police of Rolling Creek, Montana, realizes that the Order of the Shard, a group of powerful warriors, actually exists. The Shardin are magical guardians who defeated Osmedales the Pale. Skip joins forces with the Shardin, Donovan, and the Olympians to face the threat of the Red Cloths. They plan to go to the Conclave to find Durindel. Perk, a tree-sprite scout, warns them of an approaching enemy. Gavin prepares for battle with his sacred sharan-eye and sharan-blade. Chapter 3 Right away Skip noticed the stares and the whispers. Wherever Gavin and Noah went, so did the attention of the huddles of Olympians and Legionnaires. Until this moment, the majority of the assembled considered the Order of the Shard to be fables told to children about a mythical race of warriors who once walked the world. Mythic guests? Fables? No. It turned out that he, Skip Watkins, Chief of Police of Rolling Creek, Montana, Earth, knew this and they didn't. The Shardin were the guardians of the Magi and had no equal. One part prestigious, two parts honor and seventeen parts kick-ass. Men and women who didn't just wield magic, but were magic. How would Gavin put it again? No eye of Newt needed? No bat guano necessary? There was an energy that pooled around them, a spark in the air that triggered something inside him just by being next to them. Even their attire would stand up and take notice, a sapphire-blue ensemble consisting of a suit of blue mail that glittered like wet diamonds covered by strategically placed metal plates, each custom-forged works of art that were as impenetrable as they were beautiful. He'd seen them in action. The Shardin were the only force on the known worlds ever to defeat Osmedales the Pale. Add them to Donovan, the sociopathic killer, and these Olympians and maybe, just maybe, they might have a chance. They'd stopped at a creek that ran through a narrow belt of red elm and gorse. Skip bent over and filled his waterskin, which was in essence a goat's bladder he'd picked up in New Room, during the Olympics. That was a happy thought. When he was done, he dug into his pockets and pulled out a small beaker filled with blue petals and shaved slivers of bark dwinselt that he'd given them back at his lopsided house south of the ridge a million years ago. Skip took out a petal and a splinter and dropped them into his waterskin. In an hour, he'd be able to drink. I tell you, there are three full armies of New Roomian legions in Vysor, a gaunt Decourian Rorschach said, which change course and head north to meet them. The others had settled into a temporary camp around them and took full advantage of the opportunity to rest. A couple of the northmen even snored lightly. Rolled out on the stone in front of the six were two maps, one small, one large. The small one belonged to Rorschach, the griffrider, who'd pulled it from a leather and wooden cylindrical sheath strapped to the saddle of his griffin. The other map was Donovan's, something he'd procured in the week that they'd been in New Room. Are you mad, dwinselt demanded. Look here, boy, and tell me how long you think it would take us to get to Vysor from here. Come, come. Out with it. How long? Decourian Rorschach rolled his head from left to right on his shoulders in an effort to contain his temper. Skip figured an officer of the famed griffriders didn't much care for being called boy in front of the assembled company. A fortnight, he said. Bah! At a gallop, with food and supplies and no stragglers. Did you see any horses grazing these trees? A pegasus, perhaps, lurking on a hill? Donovan had a way of both commanding and abstaining at the same time. He watched without saying a word. It was dwinselt's lead that their young, death-dealing companion was following in the first place. No, Rorschach finally answered through prim lips. He was a young guy, and now that Skip could see his face—he was holding his purple-plumed helmet at his arms—Skip pegged the Decourian for mid-twenties. Good-looking kid, too. Ladies' man. But tell me, good druid, what possible destination could you possess to lead what meager remnants there are of us into the heart of Vambrace? Rorschach cracked his knuckles. It could be argued that the Red Cloths are even worse than the Drin. Indeed? But we are merely passing through—a cenite, at the most—under the cover of these thick woodlands. And to where do you intend to pass? Both of dwinselt's eyes aligned and converged on Rorschach. Why, to the Conclave, of course. The Conclave? This time it wasn't Rorschach who spoke, but the other Neromian, Mr. Togerobe's Roland. For what purpose? The druids care only for their own. Yes, dwinselt answered, this is true. But they are also the only ones who know where Durindel is. Roland, who'd been rubbing a chin stubbled with white whisker-top, stopped. Did you say Durindel? Dwinselt gave a smile. Indeed I did. There was a quick but sharp struggle between the two patriarch magic-users, but in the end it was Roland who looked away and resumed pacing. Gavin looked on from a tree-stump with Amanda, her hand in his. It was strange not seeing him leading. On any other day I'd say you were a lunatic, dwinselt, to suggest that Durindel even existed. Now I can only pray—he stopped. How certain are you that it exists? Reluctant hope gleamed in the other old man's eyes. Durindel is a myth, a fable, Rorschach said. Like the Chardin, dwinselt said in return, the cavaliers of the South, they drin themselves. You are meant to believe that Durindel is a myth, de Curie and Rorschach. Only a select few in the entire world know of—they all heard it at the same time—a swelling rumble in the east. Off the cuff, Skip had been a betting man—he was—he'd have wagered he was hearing the approach of horses—lots and lots of horses. A moment later, the air shimmered, and out popped Perk, a four-inch-high tree-sprite with dragonfly wings that whirred as he hovered. Swords were pulled, axes unslung, but all eyes locked on to Perk. In the two days of their frantic flight, the sprite's value as scout and spy had become obvious to the whole company, even the Minotaurs, who in the beginning had to be subdued from their instinctive reflex to capture and eat. Speak, Perk, Donovan commanded. The tiny-winged man, dressed in an intricately fashioned suit of leaves and tree silk, complete with tiny sword, hovered before them. Embrace, he said in a flutty voice, both high and musical. There was a chorus of muttered curses and nervous murmurs. Perk might be new to this world, but he remembered those guys just fine. In a burst of memory he saw red-robed wizards of Vambrace slattering the last survivors of Gavin's people during all things—an award, compliments, a vision that was compliments of Dwensult's druid's pool when they first met the crazy-eyed druid once again a million years ago. How many? This time the question came from, finally, Gavin. He disengaged from Amanda and was standing, though to Skip, it looked as if he was going to fall over. Definitely not a hundred percent. Perk changed directions in mid-hover, like a hummingbird, and addressed his sallow questioner. More than I can count, Sir Stavanger. Gavin pulled his quarren eye from the scabbard of his belt. A few, he said, and his sacred sharan-eye— Motherfucker! I'm going to have to do that one again. Gavin pulled—I did this last time, too. All right. Gavin pulled his quarren eye from the scabbard of his belt. A few, he said, and his sacred sharan-blade shot out like a giant stiletto knife in a corona of blue fiery light. His eyebrows gathered in the center of his forehead over the bridge of his nose. Blades out. The thunder— Motherfucker! I've got to do that again. All right. Pause. Pause. Gavin pulled his quarren eye from the scabbard of his belt. A few, he said, and his sacred sharan-blade shot out like a giant stiletto knife in a corona of blue fiery light. His eyebrows gathered in the center of his forehead over the bridge of his nose. Blades out. The thunder continued to grow.