The Chimaera Regiment by Nathaniel Turner

tribe of my own.” He smiled at the girl. “But to answer your question, me and Tarroth have been here many years. Many years. Before we settled down, though, we were travelers, journeying round-abouts, ‘til I got too old and too slow to catch the edible critters, or to outrun the ones that could eat me.”
    Hector and Bronwyn exchanged knowing glances. If Fornein had traveled so much, then surely he knew about the obelisk and where it could be found. Hector turned to look at Brynjar, who nodded slightly; he had heard the comment also.
    Fornein settled into a big armchair with his own bowl of stew. As they ate, Bronwyn asked him, “Fornein, you said that you know the surrounding lands very well?”
    The old man nodded. He answered around a mouthful of flatbread, “Oh, yes, little miss. I’ve been all up and down this river, and north to the woodlands, and south through all the hill country.”
    Hector gnawed his lip anxiously and asked, “Do you know of an old monument called an ‘obelisk’?”
    Fornein popped his head up to look at Hector. Surprise registered on his face, but he quickly covered it up. Taking another spoonful of stew, he said casually, “No, I don’t think so.”
    Caradoc furrowed his brow. “Are you sure? It’s in the woodlands you mentioned, north of the river here.”
    “I said I’d never heard of such a thing!” Fornein snapped.
    The rest of the meal proceeded in silence. When it was over, Fornein passed out small plates, filled with apple cobbler, one to each of the travelers—except Brynjar, who refused to take any.
    The tension in the room was palpable. Hector and his friends ate the dessert slowly, trying to consume the time they had here with silent mastication. At last, Fornein blurted out, “What would you want with such a place, anyway?”
    Bronwyn explained cautiously, “The obelisk is engraved with a map. We have to use it to find the blades of the Emperor. Hector is the last living heir of that royal blood.”
    Fornein frowned. “You mean of the Fylscem Empire?” His tone was disdainful, maybe disappointed.
    Brynjar cocked his head to one side, now invested in the conversation. “You know of it?”
    Fornein snorted. “Of course I know of it! No self-respecting Storyteller would forget that den of corruption and waste! We exist to help the future learn from the past, and avoid repeating it.” He eyed Hector. “I had heard tales of hidden heirs to that throne, but I never really thought it was true. Why would you want to bring it back?”
    Hector drew his lips into a tight line. He trusted Aneirin, far more than he trusted this stranger. “Because I can make it great again,” he said, sounding more confident than he felt, “And if I don’t, then someone else will use it to kill and destroy.”
    Fornein took a deep breath as realization dawned on him. “The conqueror from the south. He wants to rebuild the empire, too.” He glanced among them. “Another one of your secret heirs, eh?”
    Bronwyn nodded. “We can’t let him succeed.”
    Fornein sighed. He was backed into a corner, and he knew it. “I relent,” he said at last, explaining, “The obelisk is in the land of the Keldans.”
    “The Keldans?” Caradoc echoed inquisitively. They sounded like a foreign and interesting people to him.
    “Aye,” Fornein confirmed, his tone making it clear that they were by no means friendly, “The Keldans. I’ve seen your obelisk there before, but they protect that land something fierce.” He sighed a little, reluctant to continue, “But I’ll take you there, on the morrow, if you’re bound to go.”
    “That’s not necessary,” Brynjar cut in, “We can handle ourselves.”
    “They know me, at least,” the hermit warned, “If it were you alone, they might kill you on the spot. You’d best let me show you the way.”
    Brynjar could muster no further objections. When dessert was finished and the plates cleared away, the four traveling companions, now five,