Eyes of the Blind Read online

  EYES

  OF THE

  BLIND

  Guardian’s Prophecy: Book One

  By

  D.A. Godwin

  The Sixfold Path

  Tormjere walked reluctantly up the trail that wound its way alongside the creek, his thoughts as turbulent as the water rushing past him as it tumbled down the mountain. His pace was slow and deliberate, but not because of the slippery footing. He’d been travelling this path for his entire life — all fourteen summers of it — and his feet knew every rock and root.

  He paused to take a deep breath of the damp, fragrant air. Morning sunlight filtered through the falling leaves to warm his face and paint the forest in colors, but even those pleasant sensations did little to improve his mood.

  With a sigh he continued, following the trail until it drew close to the water’s edge. His younger brother, Eljorn, was there in the middle of the creek, eyes closed, as solid and unmoving as the mossy boulder he sat on.

  Tormjere came to a stop on the muddy bank and crossed his arms, suddenly angry. Hair as dark and wild as his eyes perfectly framed the scowl on his face.

  Eljorn opened one eye and glanced towards the shore.

  “Put away the frown, brother,” he called over the rush of the water. “This day is too nice for unhappiness!”

  “You’re going to spend the rest of your life meditating in a cave somewhere and this is what you do with your last day of freedom?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Tormjere stepped smoothly across the wet stones and climbed up beside him. It wasn’t a large rock, and they sat shoulder to shoulder.

  Eljorn smiled. “I did feed the dogs this morning.”

  “It was your turn anyway.”

  Their family owned the only kennel in the valley, or “cove” as it was called by those who lived there, and both siblings had helped with the business since an early age.

  “Speaking of which, where’s Blackwolf?” Eljorn asked.

  “He managed to get into what was to be tonight’s supper and Father locked him up for a while,” Tormjere said, chuckling at the thought of the sometimes-troublesome dog stealing their food.

  Eljorn laughed with him.

  They sat quietly for a moment, watching the red and gold leaves floating past. A passerby might have been hard-pressed to tell them apart were it not that Eljorn’s hair was pulled back neatly while his brother’s fell as it would about his shoulders. Both were thinly built but sturdy, with well-tanned muscles used to long days of work. Although Tormjere was older by over a year, they were often mistaken for twins by those who didn’t know them, and occasionally by those who did.

  “What will you do for fun?” Tormjere asked.

  “I’m sure something will present itself.”

  “Doubt it. They’ll make you cut your hair, you know.”

  “Only if I’m accepted,” Eljorn laughed. “It will not be missed.”

  Tormjere sighed. “What will you miss?”

  Eljorn watched the leaves slowly falling through the air, and his smile faded into a thoughtful expression. “This,” he said, “and Mother and Father, and the dogs, and you.” He looked up the creek, absently following its path through the trees. “But I want to do this — it just feels right.”

  Tormjere stared at a rock, fighting against the lump in his throat. He put a hand on his younger brother’s shoulder. No words were needed, and he didn’t have them anyway.

  “We should head back,” he said after a moment. “They were spotted coming down the pass, so it won’t be long now.” He rose and crossed the rocks to the shore where he stopped, waiting expectantly.

  Eljorn followed with reluctance, pausing at the water’s edge to take one last look at the creek.

  As they set off down the trail towards home, Tormjere wondered if his brother would ever see this place again.

  * * *

  The Enrik family cottage was nestled in a clearing at the south end of Kenzing village, affording them plenty of room for a large garden in addition to the kennels and dog runs. Just beyond the dead-hedge fence the ground sloped up sharply, beginning its steep climb up the side of Mount Kenzing, the tallest of the peaks that ringed the valley.

  The wooden house was composed of two large rooms, one on either side of a double fireplace made of rounded stones. A covered porch ran the length of both long sides — an unusual luxury that their grandfather had included for his wife many years before. Smoke from the chimney rose steadily into the cloudless blue sky.

  “That much smoke this early means Mother’s fixing a big meal,” Eljorn said.

  “Your last good one for a while, I bet,” Tormjere said, still hoping to change his brother’s mind somehow.

  Eljorn gave an indifferent shrug, but Tormjere knew he’d miss their mother’s cooking.

  As they approached the house, the pair of dogs sprawled on the front porch perked up and began wagging. Dogs had long been employed by many families in the Kingdom. Though aggressive animals were favored in the eastern lands, the Enrik family bred dogs for the more practical purposes of herding and guarding. Both brothers were busy greeting the animals when frantic barking erupted from behind the house. They looked at each other and smiled, knowing exactly who was making such a fuss.

  Tormjere shook his head. “I’d better go settle him down before Father throws something at him again.”

  For the past four years, Tormjere and his dog and been almost inseparable. The animal, almost solid black with only a patch of white on the stomach, had proven too noisy and untrainable to be sold, so Tormjere had been permitted to keep him as a pet. Their father had taken to calling him “that little black wolf” for all the trouble he caused as a pup. There may have been some truth there, for the dog had a decidedly wild streak in him compared with his litter-mates. As he’d grown, Tormjere had shortened it to “Blackwolf,” and the name stuck. Despite being one of the strongest dogs they had ever bred, he was at the same time one of the most lovable. His father had often complained that were a thief to ever enter their home, the dog might lick the intruder to death, but he certainly wouldn’t defend them.

  None of this mattered to Tormjere, of course, who loved his dog as much as any member of the family. Today, however, he gave the animal a disapproving look as he entered the pen.

  “It’s your own fault, you know,” Tormjere said, scratching him behind the ears. “You have your food, and you’re not to be eating ours.”

  Blackwolf just wagged happily and rolled over so his belly could be rubbed.

  “Enough,” Tormjere said with a laugh. “I’ll be back for you later, but you’re stuck here for now.”

  Tormjere entered the house as his mother was pulling the last pot off the fire. He found the table fully set, and, as his brother had predicted, there was a great deal of food. A roast steamed in its own juices alongside potatoes, greens, and freshly baked bread. It was a feast they usually had only a few times a year and never for mid-meal, because the meat was expensive. It was, however, Eljorn’s favorite, and their mother wanted his last meal at their house to be a good one.

  * * *

  That afternoon, the village was abuzz with excitement. Every other year the Toushin monks would visit villages and towns throughout the Kingdom, searching for new applicants. The Brotherhood was highly respected for their charity and fairness, and it was considered an honor if a family member was accepted into their ranks. While anyone could offer themselves for service, only a few would be judged worthy of their high standards.

  The procession arrived with the customary trappings of ceremony, preceded by pounding drums and flags in their traditional browns and yellows. Their journey would have begun weeks earlier with only a handful of monks. Now, having already visited a sco
re of villages and towns, they had collected several dozen new applicants, or dimnants as they were known. By the time they had completed their journey there would often be more than fifty boys in tow. Of those who offered themselves, many would not make it through the long walk back to the monastery, and fewer still would remain after the demands of the first year. Followers of Toush led a difficult life.

  Bystanders handed food and water to those marching past, for the monks carried little with them and relied largely on the generosity of each village for sustenance. The young dimnants were particularly thankful. For most, this was the farthest they had ever been from home.

  There was much cheering and even some dancing, but Tormjere didn’t feel the excitement that he had in the past. He kicked at the dirt as he waited with his family in the town commons. He wished Blackwolf was there too, but his father hadn’t allowed it, fearing the dog wouldn’t behave well in the large crowd. He was right, of course. Blackwolf hated crowds as much as his owner, but it didn’t make Tormjere any happier.

  For him, the approaching thud of the drums echoed the rising feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. As the procession reached the common field the drums stopped, and an older monk dressed in yellow and orange walked slowly towards the center. Unlike larger towns, Kenzing had no official speaking platform. The monk, however, walked with purpose towards a particular patch of earth as if it had been placed there for just such an occasion.

  “Is that the Mantrin?” Tormjere asked his brother. He at least knew what the head of the Brotherhood was called, even if he didn’t know what such a person would look like.

  “No,” Eljorn said, “the Mantrin would be in red and gold, but he never walks the Journey of Entry. He has too many other responsibilities.” He studied the man as he passed. “The orange means he’s one of the Suman. They report directly to the Mantrin.”

  As the Suman monk turned to face them from his chosen place, the crowd fell silent. “Those who walk in the footsteps of Toush bring a question to the Kingdom of Actondel,” he said in a loud, clear voice. “May we speak?”

  It was a formal request. Anyone who wanted to address such an assembly was expected to first gain permission of the local lord. In a city that might be a governor or steward, or possibly a baron or duke if the occasion warranted, but Kenzing wasn’t large enough for a position of such importance. Since the village had no officially appointed steward, such formalities fell to the commander of the garrison, as the most senior representative of the crown.

  Sir Warron, sword-sworn knight in service to the king and captain of his forces, had occupied that position for as long as Tormjere could remember. Warron had known the monks were coming, of course, and he was already present. With his salt-and-pepper hair, broad shoulders, and firm jaw, the military man would have stood out from the crowd of commoners even without the green-and-gold tabard of the King’s Army draped over his chain hauberk.

  “All those who bring peace may speak, and be welcome,” he replied with the corresponding formality. Though his hand rested easily on a well-worn sword, his tone was friendly, and its good nature was mirrored in his eyes. While the knight saw to the safety and security of the village and dealt harshly with troublemakers, he was a good-natured man and generally well-liked by the populace.

  “We come in the name of Toush, the Great Thinker,” the monk began. “He who sits in contemplation, guiding the choices that we make as we walk our path through life. There are many paths which may be chosen, each with their own trials and rewards. Some are easy and may be trod without care. Others are difficult and should be travelled with caution. Toush, recognizing that knowledge of what lies ahead makes the chosen path easier to walk, established the Six Pillars of Service, and vowed to walk his own path six times over so that he might learn fully from each.”

  The monk continued his speech extolling the altruism and rewards of a monastic life, but Tormjere stopped listening. After all, he’d heard most of it from his brother at least a hundred times. Those who committed themselves would be trained in the ways of the monks. After years of contemplation and study, they would be sent out to be of service to those most in need, wherever they could be found. It was the Second Pillar, or was it Third? Tormjere couldn’t remember the particulars, and it didn’t make sense to him anyway.

  His eyes wandered through the crowd, wondering who else was going to join this time. Eljorn had wanted to join two years ago but hadn’t been old enough, but it was a choice that Tormjere could never see himself making. He admired the followers of Toush as much as anyone, yet he never understood what would make someone commit themselves so completely to helping others succeed.

  He turned his attention to the robed monks at both the head and tail of the procession. They were all relatively young, and mostly in brown. He recalled that the colors changed as they progressed in rank, but the details escaped him. Each of the monks wore the slightly bemused expression that was the hallmark of the Brotherhood. Tormjere wondered if Eljorn would look like that when he was finished with his training.

  Beside him, their father, Byron, wiped at his eyes, reacting to something moving the monk had said. His parents were happy for Eljorn, and rightfully so, but Tormjere felt as if he was attending a funerary, not a celebration.

  The speech was winding down, so he returned his attention once more to the Suman.

  “All those who would devote their lives to Toush and join us in our eternal quest along the Sixfold Path, please come forward,” the monk finished.

  Eljorn turned and gave their mother a quick hug, while their father administered a hearty slap on the back. Tormjere had thought he’d have something typically witty to say, but there was only a lump in his throat that allowed no words to pass. Eljorn’s eyes met his, and he knew they were thinking the same thing. Each put their hands on the other’s shoulders. Then Eljorn was walking out to stand with the dimnants. Three other boys from the village also stepped forward, as did another from one of the outlying farms.

  The monk was speaking again, but Tormjere hardly noticed. His brother had just walked away from their family towards something different. He thought about everything that they had done together over the years — growing up in the village, raising dogs, arguing, playing, exploring — and realized that it was all as gone as last year’s snow.

  Visitors in the Woods

  Tormjere stood with his bare feet in the edge of the creek, absently skipping stones across a smooth section of the flowing water. He normally found the sounds of running water relaxing, but today it offered little comfort. Even Blackwolf, splashing about happily and trying to catch who-knew-what beneath the surface, failed to put a smile on his face.

  Nearly a full cycle of the moon had passed since Eljorn had left, and Tormjere’s life had changed in ways both obvious and subtle. He had more to do with the dogs, of course, and additional chores around the house, but, in truth, it wasn’t the amount of work that was the problem.

  On more than one occasion, he’d turned to ask Eljorn for help or make some witty observation, only to realize that his brother was no longer there. It often left him frustrated or angry, or both. The house, the dogs, the woods, their friends — nothing he did could mask his brother’s absence. It was always there, lurking in the back of his mind. They had talked of leaving the cove many times, but Tormjere had always assumed that as the oldest he’d be the first to go. Yet here he remained, doing… nothing.

  He threw another stone and watched it skip across the water before clattering to a stop against a wall of piled stones, remnants of the brothers’ last attempt at building a dam. Trying to block the flow of water in the creek — a task as hopeless as it was enjoyable — had been a favorite activity for as long as they had played in this spot. Invariably, heavy rains would come, and the swollen creek would destroy half of what they had created, but that was part the entertainment. Or at least it had been.

  Blackwolf’s ears perked up as faint laughter echoed up the footpath that ran alo
ngside the creek. As the voices drew closer, they dropped to a whisper. From the amount of noise that could still be heard, it sounded as if three or four people were now trying to sneak up on him. He sighed. Blackwolf stood frozen, staring intently at where they would appear. When the dog tensed, he knew they had arrived.

  “I can hear you,” he said without turning.

  “Oh, good, there you are,” Morgan said, trying to cover for the fact he’d been detected so easily. He stepped out from behind the bushes, as if he’d meant to be found, followed by Amber and William.

  Amber gave Tormjere one of her little smiles that made the freckles on her cheeks stand out. William, of course, just glared at him in the same superior manner that he always did.

  “We’re going to the farm for some apples,” Morgan said with a grin, hooking his fingers in the overly-wide belt he was so proud of. “Want to come?”

  Tormjere raised an eyebrow. “Seems like the mill road would be a faster choice.” He knew why they were coming this way, of course: it would allow them to sneak the apples from the back of the orchard without being seen.

  “It would indeed,” Morgan said as he stroked his hairless chin with mock seriousness. “But I’m sure that Master Alwain is most busy preparing for the harvest, and we wouldn’t want to interrupt him, would we? Thought you might like to come along.”

  Tormjere would have been thankful for the invitation, had he not known that it had little to do with friendship. From where they stood, there were only three forks in the trail to get them to the back of the orchard without being seen. Morgan might be able to find the right farm this time, but he couldn’t get them past the Alwain’s dogs undetected — Tormjere had trained them too well.

  “Maybe later.”

  William smirked. “Told ya he wouldn’t go.”

  Morgan frowned, clearly disappointed. “You got anything better to do?”

  “Just not really in the mood for it.”

  “You’re getting boring, but suit yourself,” Morgan said. “More for us, then.” He stepped past Tormjere and continued up the path with purpose.