of the far west, thankfully.
When the moon began to find its way downward, Erik and I stopped in a small clearing, far from anything that might act as a hide. Still not speaking to me, he settled down on the soft ground and slept. His sword in his hand, he simply lay his head down on the ground, closed his eyes, and fell asleep. Thus was the habit of a trained soldier, even one as far removed from service as Erik. I was not so fortunate. I tossed and turned. I was not uncomfortable, having long since learned to sleep in such fields. That was not the issue.
No, I was tormented by dreams.
The eyes of a Dark Lord, this one different than the others, seemed to glare at me as soon as I began to sleep. I recognized the eyes from the statues that lined a courtyard at the keep, though I could not place them, nor give them a name. What did it matter, really? Evil was evil, regardless of the name it used, or the title it carried. Perhaps it was the nature of that particular statue that made its image stick in my mind. The long line of Dark Lords stretched back for centuries, and each one was remembered by the statue carved in their likeness, silent sentinels which seemed to glare down on those who saw them. Each statue was arrayed in fierce armor, with cruelly-wrought swords or axes, war hammers or other such weapons. Each was carved to seem more terrible than the last, as each successive Dark Lord sought to establish themselves as the most feared, the most powerful. Even in death, the Dark Lords of Skyreach Keep sought to exert control through fear.
Yet there was that one statue, just the one, different than the rest. The dates of that particular Lord's reign had been scratched away, the stone chipped and gouged, along with his name. It was as if someone sought to erase his place in history, yet feared removing the statue itself. One could not simply read the other dates and deduce his place along the black road of Krona's history, since the script on the statues was not Esian, but the darker Kronan tongue. In my early days, I could not read that language, and only barely spoke it. It was only after many years of visiting the keep that I came to understand it.
This unknown Lord, who's eyes glared at me in my dreams, was not as the others were. No armor, nor a cruel weapon at his side. This statue-Lord wore a simple tunic and pants, simple shoes, and covered his face with a swath of cloth which hid all but the eyes. At first, I had thought him not a Lord at all; perhaps some memorable adviser or other such minion who had earned the right to stand eternally beside his master. Yet his statue was not with the others, but off to one side, close to nothing. Indeed, the statue even faced away from them. Any doubt that it was a Dark Lord was swept aside when I closed my eyes. I knew it, I felt it. I sensed fear. The other statues, stone though they were, feared this statue. This was a Dark Lord, one whose crimes and horrors had been swept aside by history. The statue itself was old, weathered, and worn down from centuries. Still, it was his eyes which found me now.
It seemed so tempting to turn back toward the keep and investigate the mystery of those eyes. Veined red, wide open, with brilliant whites and terrible blackened centers. It was so very tempting to go back and figure it all out, but I did not. I knew that to turn back was to walk away from Erik and Jeannine, and the village which barely tolerated my presence as it was.
In my sleepless night, I came to understand that Erik was right. I had to leave the keep be. The dreams would soon be gone. The eyes would soon leave my dreams. They had to, surely. Surely.
***
Clearlake was a small village. Even before the war, before the magic plagues, it was a small place. A small hamlet, it was off the main roads, away from the trade routes traveled by merchants, and the grand roads paraded by soldiers and nobles. The locals had always been happy about that. The owner of the local tavern, Gern, sometimes told stories of the people who settled there; quiet fishers who sought a simple life.
Clearlake took its name from a small pond sitting on its western edge. The water was so clear, one could see the fish swimming about. Other than that, Clearlake was a collection of small houses and shops, circled around a central square of cobblestones, just like the single road which looped about it. At its height, in the days before the war, Clearlake had boasted a population of perhaps two hundred. The war has swelled that number to thousands. The exodus across the mountains and the desert had reduced it to perhaps one hundred, most of which were refugees who could not, or would not, flee eastward. Jeannine had been among those who stayed, not because she had no one, but because she stubbornly awaiting the return of her fisherman uncle, who did not return from the war. Instead, a father she barely knew returned to stay in the village. Erik took me in soon afterward.
I spent much of those first few weeks as most people did. I wallowed in a morass of pity and sadness. I awaited the end. My injuries were slight, but like most royal guards, I had been sent out to fight, and then abandoned by a cowardly commander who felt that his own Lordship title, earned only two days previous when his father perished in battle, was worth more than his men. It was a small comfort to survivors like myself that our fearful commander had died in the retreat, trampled by an enemy that was faster than he. Those of us fortunate enough to walk out of that terrible battle had been granted extended leave, and told to return to duty when we felt we could.
Soon afterward, word came of the changes around us. I watched the messengers of the royal court thunder into the village on their proud horses. At first, they came with reassuring news; Esis and Krona had signed a peace treaty, in order to focus their energies on the magic plagues which seemed to be sweeping the lands of both monarchs. The king and his greatest advisers were working tirelessly to end the plagues, fear not. The terrible Lord had sent his mages to work alongside our own. A cure would soon come. Pray for your king, that his wisdom would see us safe.
Then the messengers came less frequently, their words less reassuring. It was perhaps two months after the treaty was signed that the first word of an exodus began to reach us. Rumors grew, and then one day a messenger arrived. He was haggard, his cloths tattered. He did not carry the great flag of the kingdom with him, fluttering in the breeze. He gathered all the villagers and refugees about him, and read a simple proclamation; our great king, still suffering from the sudden passing of his beloved wife, had ordered his kingdom abandoned. All subjects wishing to follow him to a forlorn hope in the east were to wait until the day after the moon was next full in the sky, and then began moving eastward.
One week later, our kingdom began to empty. Krona likewise spilled out its people, like blood from a great wound. Erik stayed because Jeannine would not leave, would not believe that her uncle was not returning. I stayed as well, if only because I trusted the judgment of my old teacher, Erik, over the uncertainty of the endless desert in the east.
Now Clearlake was a quiet place once more. The villagers and refugees made do with what they had, what we had. We settled into a routine of survival. We gathered what we could, helped each other however we could, and survived. Slowly, mere survival was slowly making way for life, real life. It was now fifteen years since the exodus, and our lives had begun to return to some semblance of normality. Everyone had their lot in life, filling some need within the village. Erik was the villager's protector, and a good carpenter besides. I ran messages between Clearlake and the other villages. Jeannine helped out at the mill, producing flower for the village. Others fished. Gern, an old soldier, ran a tavern where he sold strong drink made in his cellar.
There was life here, and as the rising sun cast our long shadows into the village, I knew that it was time to really start to live it. It was time to stay home. It was time to make a life.
***
Her arms wrapped around me, the warmth in her smooth skin such a contrast to my own cold flesh. Jeannine's eyes twinkled as they always did, and I found myself looking as deep into them as I could. So much of the world seemed better, after gazing into the hazel eyes which matched her shoulder-length hair. Her slight features,
