by R. M Garino
"Remember what I told you. We'll be watching, but we won't interfere. Your trials are your own." Garrett patted Logan on the shoulder.
"I understand." Logan stepped toward the exit. "Thank you for your assistance."
"Don't tell the world about us, Logan," Garrett said. "They have already grieved for our loss. Please do not reopen those wounds."
Logan considered the request before nodding his consent.
The stone doorway slid aside, and he stepped out into the Sur.
He paused on occasion to check the tactical display to resolve his direction and keep his course. By his reckoning, he should be approaching the corridor between levels. According to Garrett, this would lead him to the appropriate juncture to reacquaint with his cohort. The periods of rest never lasted long enough.
Besides, there were creatures lurking behind the trees, half seen forms that watched from the shadows. With the amount of effort expended just on travelling, he did not want to test his fortitude against a foe right now. He pushed onward, slashing through the briars, always watchful of where he was and where he placed his feet.
He held the projection before him, he scanned the world through the transparent haze of its screen. He was off the path by several feet. He adjusted his course and continued to carve his way.
Before him reared an enormous tree, its trunk too wide for even ten Lethen’al to wrap their arms around. It was split in two from its base to a quarter of the way up its height, forming an opening to the innards of the plant.
Logan consulted the display. He walked around the tree. The path disappeared from his view. He walked back to the entrance, and the path reappeared.
This was the juncture.
It was inside the tree. He needed to pass beneath the arch.
He approached it, gauged the size of the passage and tried to ascertain what lay beyond. It was just big enough for him to squeeze through, but he would have to do so sideways. Chancing a glance behind him, he caught the shadow of his unseen pursuers slip behind the undergrowth.
He really did not have much choice.
With his sword leading, Logan wedged himself into the tight space. He dragged his pack behind him, and cursed its size. It was more constricting that he surmised, and he had to exhale to force his way through. The rough edges of the bark tore his clothes and ripped across his scalp. Each laceration left an impression on his psyche, bursts of anger and hatred that permeated the Sur. But he pushed the clairvoyant images aside and pressed on. The path contracted with each step, and before long his advance slowed to a painful wiggle. His chest was constricted, and he was unable to fill his lungs. The need for a deep breath was an aching plea, and his head started to pound. He drew shallow, gasping breaths as best he could, but it was nowhere near enough. Panic lapped at the edges of his consciousness, forcing him to draw upon his decades of training to still his mind.
And then he was unable to move any further.
The walls pressed in upon him and crushed him in their embrace.
He wanted to scream when he felt his ribs compress, but he lacked the air in his lungs to do so. His vision tunneled and darkness pressed in around him. The constriction rolled across him, from his left to his right. It lessened and then began again. When it passed, he sucked in a lungful of moist air. His body shifted and turned when the contraction embraced him once more.
Images raced across his vision, memories from so long ago that they were buried in the folds of his mind. With them came the attendant emotions. Embarrassment. Humiliation. Anger. Hatred. Jealousy. Pity. Fear. The darkest moments of his life rose to the surface between one gasping breath and the next, only to be forced from him with each squeeze.
He fought against it, wiggling his shoulders by what degrees he was able. A warm wetness saturated him, and when he gasped for another breath, more liquid filled his lungs.
His body shifted with each spasm, jerking and twisting in its fight to expel the foreign liquid. The pressure moved from his feet toward his head now, and pushed him forward.
His desperation lessened.
Awareness slipped away, replaced by a strange serenity.
He resigned himself to his fate.
The Lost Guard was an illusion borne of the Sur. He took the word of a liar as truth.
A hand grasped his shoulder and pulled him forward. Another latched under his arm.
Logan’s mind seized upon the event, and he resumed his fight. Desperation gave him strength, though he was as yet unable to move beyond the occasional jerking twitch. A loud popping sound filled the air, and a dull red light, murky through the haze of liquid covering his eyes greeted him. Figures moved across his vision, and he felt himself dragged across the ground. He heard sounds, though they came from far away. He was flipped to his side, and something impacted with his back. A tremor ran through him and the darkness threatened to return. Another strike landed against him, and then another. He felt something push into his mouth, but he was unable to respond to the sensation. A fourth hit expelled the fluid from his lungs, and he panted for air. Powerful coughs wracked him, and he writhed in pain before he clawed for his next breath.
His head was turned, and he felt something warm holding him by the back of his head. His sight returned in slow, creeping increments.
“Logan?” a voice said when he lifted his head. “Take it easy. Not so fast.”
He knew that voice.
He reached out, grasped the arm of the speaker and levered himself upright. Cormac helped him up and braced him until he steadied himself. As usual, he wore his idiot grin.
“We thought we lost you, brother.” Cormac continued to pat Logan's back, though the need was past.
McAlister stood behind Cormac, his thick arms crossed over his chest, with Bryan next to him, his slight frame overshadowed by his companion. As usual, the females Sionid and Alis stood off to one side, their dark hair and clothing making them hard to see in the reddish light. Vadin and Senet held position a little to the right, their blonde hair almost glowing. Each was filthy, battered and bruised, with numerous lacerations decorating their faces and forms, but each wore similar expressions of joy at his presence. Their sin’dels shone in the gloom.
His cohort.
He found them.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Brother
Logan stared in wonder at his cohort gathered around him.
Cormac patted his shoulder, while Bryan clutched at his hands. Sionid went so far as to embrace him. Vadin offered him a slight bow, and Senet kissed his check.
"So," McAlister said after embracing him, "you were just birthed by a tree. Does that make you a Sapling instead of a Yearling?"
He burst out laughing at his own joke. The cohort let out multiple groans in response.
"You forget the forms," Bryan punched him on the arm. "Etiquette!"
"Oh please," McAlister thundered. "I don't feckin' care about etiquette any more. Seven Hells, we've almost died a hundred times. I for one am gonna say whatever the feck I want, when I want."
"Your sword, sir," Vadin said, ignoring McAlister. He wiped the strange liquid off on his sleeve before he presented the weapon to Logan, hilt first.
Logan nodded his thanks. They stepped away, and gave him the space he always demanded of them.
Their movement made his heart swell with grief, and he regretted the habit. He wondered at the change in his emotions. His joy at finding them was indeed genuine, but it was more than just that.
These were his friends.
Cormac and McAlister were part of his squad. He trained with them as Yearlings under Mason. Bryan, Alis, and Sionid were from a rival squad during his tour at the Gates, as were Vadin and Senet. The seven of them were a part of his life, a part of him. He missed them more than he expected to, and the strength of his elation surprised him.
Grabbing Cormac, he pulled his friend into an embrace, thumping him on the back. He repeated the gesture with each of them. Vadin and Senet were the most surprised, but
also the ones to return the fiercest hugs.
“I did not think I would see any of you again.” Logan cleared his throat, his voice raw from the continued coughing. “I am so incredibly proud of you all for making it so far.”
“Barely,” McAlister said with his usual glum tones. “The things we’ve seen…”
“The things we’ve done…” Bryan continued, he grew quiet with the memory.
“Were all done out of necessity.” Logan placed his hand on McAlister’s shoulder, his emotion displayed in his grip. “And they were done against the agents of the Apostate. Whatever form your demons took, remember who they really were.”
His words seemed to soothe them, and one by one their sin'dels shifted when they accepted his interpretation. He still saw the remnants of their trials lingering in their energy fields, and he was sure his own were reflected in his. He held up the display, the rings glittering in the darkness.
“We have accomplished one part of our mission,” he said to them. “I have located the Bore, and we now possess the most detailed map of the Sur in all of existence. It is a treasure, and beyond what I expected. Now, we must return it.”
They exchanged excited looks. The news of such a spectacular success rejuvenated them.
“I knew it.” Cormac pumped his fist in the air. “I knew there was a reason you were separated from us.”
Logan confirmed the assumption, and regained some of his composure now that the moment of elation passed him by.
“I was…" he paused and frowned at the ground. The way he was about to frame his words was inaccurate and inadequate now. This was not about him. It was about all of them. "We were tasked by the San Hedram to locate the source of the breaches,” he said at length. “But we have yet to complete our mission, it will not be easy.”
They exchanged glances, their sin'dels marked with surprise. Logan smiled, pleased with his choice. He activated the display and held it aloft for them all to see. Their route was marked with a green line.
“This is our path to the Gate,” he paused for the others to absorb the information. “You have made terrific time, and should be proud of yourselves. But, we will arrive early.”
That one single statement sobered them all and drove away the last of their elation. Dread tinged the edges of their energy fields, and one by one, he met their eyes to confirm their fears.
“We will be stationary,” Sionid said. He saw the sides of her jaw bulge while she clenched her teeth.
‘They’ll be drawn to us,” Vadin added.
“For how feckin' long?” McAlister said. If it were possible, his mood darkened more than usual.
Logan shrugged.
“Perhaps half an hour by my count.”
“We’ll be swarmed,” Senet said. “We’ll have to hold until they open the Gate.”
“And then afterward to assure none follow us through,” Logan said. “This will be where we earn the title of Elc’atar. Like El’Cain before us, we will stand united against the Apostate with no hope or possibility of aid.”
"So this is the real test of our mettle," Cormac said. Fear tinged his sin'del, and was echoed in his eyes.
Logan clapped Cormac on the shoulder and grinned. He stepped back, faced them all, and drew his sword. He held the blade face down in the ritualistic manner.
“Through trial and terror,” he said, and included the all of them in his gaze. “I, Logan of House Fel'Mekrin, pledge to stand by your side. Through joy and despair, my heart is yours. Together, we stand against the Apostate, screaming our defiance into the face of the enemy. Till the end of my days, my honor and pride are in your hands. Thus do I swear."
He bowed to them.
The cohort gasped.
Logan's vow of fidelity was reserved for members of a Pride. By doing so, he named them more than a squad of cadets, more than a cohort of Yearlings. A Pride was pledged for life, for all time, and was the most enduring vow possible in the Areth'kon.
Cormac drew his sword, his sin'del a blaze of honor and sheer joy. He repeated the incantation. His voice boomed with an unusual confidence. Each member of the cohort in turn drew their weapon and swore their lives to one another.
There was no pause.
There was no hesitation.
Their spirits firmed with fatalistic resolve.
“What are we waiting for?” McAlister said. “We know what awaits us. Let us meet it.”
“Can you run, brother?” Cormac touched Logan's arm.
Logan regarded him a moment, pleased with his adoption of the new term of endearment. There was a moment of irritation at the presumption, but it was a trifling thing, born more of past habits than any true disdain. He did not mind it in the slightest.
“See if you can keep up.” Logan offered a rare smile. “Brother.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Gate of Fang
and Thorn
The Pride departed in the easterly direction Logan indicated.
The landscape was different on this side of the junction. Instead of the thick jungle foliage, the terrain was rolling hills with short grasses and moss covered outcroppings. Copses of trees created small havens of refuge, but they were few and far between. The Pride ran just below the ridgelines, careful not to let their silhouettes appear over the summits, lest they stand out in sharp relief against the horizon. The sightlines were tremendous here, and a moving figure held the potential to be seen for miles. They needed to keep a low profile to avoid unwanted attention.
Everything here was intent on killing them.
It was not long until the first crouping cough echoed through the highlands. They paused, and listened in an attempt to gauge the distance. Logan consulted the display, and calculated the time to their destination. Shrulks were known to run at a speed of just above forty miles an hour, and held that for a disheartening duration. He knew the abilities of his companions, and estimated that they were able to run a fraction of that pace until they reached their destination.
They would be overcome before they reached the gate.
“McAlister, Vadin.” Logan called out the two strongest of their members while he disengaged the display. “Take the rearguard.”
He waited until they had rearranged themselves and all eyes were upon him before he continued.
“I need you all to listen to me very carefully. Our priority is the return of the tactical display. It holds the potential to prevent future breaches into the Patresilen and can save countless lives. This is greater than all of us. We need to ensure its return.”
One by one, the sin’dels of his cohort dimmed just a bit. It took him a moment to realize why.
They misinterpreted the intention of his words.
Tendrils of jealousy and envy laced their energy fields. He wore the display, and as such, it followed that he placed his life above all of theirs, despite his pledge. He gave them all just cause to make such an assumption over the years. As heir to House Fel’Mekrin, he was accustomed to a certain amount of assumed privilege in his life. His prowess with the sword only served to heighten that expectation, and he never shied away from an opportunity to claim it. His mother made sure that he understood that key lesson about her view of leadership.
But, he realized, there was another way to lead.
It was time for his Pride to understand it as well.
The crouping calls of their pursuers were closer now.
“Sionid.” Logan beckoned her forward. He slipped the rings from his fingers and held them out to her in a closed fist. She watched him, confused by the action and did not grasp his intent. “You are the fastest among us, and most likely to outrun any pursuit. You need to carry the display. The rest of us will be your guard. We will ensure your passage.”
“But…” she said, before her evident emotion constricted her words. “You are the heir to House Fel’Mekrin. The honor is yours.”
“House Fel’Mekrin is the sword against the Apostate.” Logan gestured with his fist for her to take t
he rings. “It is my honor, and my privilege, to ensure your passage to complete our mission.”
He saw their disbelief clear in their sin’dels, as well as the beginning of something else he was unable to identify. He took Sionid's hand from where it hung by her side and placed the rings in her palm. He folded her fingers over it, and tried to ignore the tears that welled in her eyes.
“We will form a ring with you in the center," he said. "You carry our honor now.”
Pride.
A new emotion colored their energy. They were proud of his actions.
“From this point forward,” he stepped away from Sionid and saluted her, “we are the Elc’atar Guard. If it is our fate to die this day, we will do so holding true to our rank.”
He saluted each of the Pride in turn, both fists crossed over his heart. Each took a moment to overcome their surprise, but returned the gesture.
Without another word they resumed their course. The calls of the shrulks gave fuel to their flight. They held to the ridgeline now, as they no longer needed to hide their movements. The beasts of the Sur had their scent, and they were incapable of giving over the chase.
A dark formation ahead of them grew in size with their approach. Mist and fog obscured its base. Logan was reminded of the hidden areas on Garrett's maps, but he pushed the thought aside. If this was a node controlled by a Lo'ademn, then so be it. They would do what they must.
They were unable to make out the details at this distance, but it was obvious that there was a significant obstacle in their path. It expanded as they neared, and their steps faltered.
A tangled maze of interwoven rose bushes loomed ahead of them, but the dimensions were wrong. They were too large, the branches as thick as tree trunks, and the thorns longer than spears. The flowers themselves were the size of shields, a speckled, bulging fungus marring the beauty of the enormous petals.
McAlister ran beneath an overhang of branches and waved the others forward. Their formation thinned into a single file, with Sionid the fifth in line.