Blinking against the dizziness and the blinding light of the flames, I can see that a wide swathe of the grassland in front of us has been completely burned, the grass blackened and smoldering. The darkhounds, all six of the ones who had been about to slaughter us, have all been fried, their bodies turned into little more than smoking husks.
"Eleven Hells," Owyn breathes behind me, sounding utterly stunned. "You absolutely obliterated them!"
I turn to look at him, smiling weakly, then nearly tumble to the ground in exhaustion. "I'm all right," I say as he rushes up to help me, his concerned words falling on deaf ears. "I just need a minute to compose myself."
The assembled defenders see to the dead and the wounded, moving quickly and eyeing the burning wreckage still smoking before them.
“More will eventually come,” Owyn says grimly, sheathing his blade but remaining close by me. “We should be out of here when they do.”
“What of the dead?” One of the farmers asks, gesturing sadly at one of the human corpses beside him.
“Leave them," he replies a little callously. "We cannot afford to dally. The presence of these demons means that the R'Laar army is on the move. We'll all be dead if we do not move quickly."
The farmer gives Owyn a dark look, but he ignores him, turning his full attention back on me. "You've been very reckless lately, I'm worried about you."
I wave a dismissive hand at him and roll my eyes in exaggerated fashion, forcing nonchalance. "I'll be fine, ranger boy. Let's just be glad that for now, the darkhounds have been dealt with."
He eyes me for a long moment, then finally lets out a sigh. "Come on," he says at length, wrapping his arm around me for support. "You're riding in a wagon for the rest of the day. And no arguing."
Feeling his strong, muscled arm pressed against me, I make my way with him down the road, starting our long walk back to the caravan.
Chapter Six
Talon
“More bloody refugees? Hells, the city is already at capacity as it is!” I regard the Nightingale runner, who merely shrugs and urges his horse down the road to deliver the message to the rest of the camp.
“Dunno how they’re going to feed ‘em all,” Tael mutters from atop his mount beside me. He proceeds to lean over the side of his saddle and spit a large wad of phlegm into the grass. “Seems like the whole bloody kingdom ‘as moved out this way.”
I absently rub the still-tender stump of my wrist. “Nobody wants to be near the wastes, Tael. With the Arc gone, it’s only a matter of time before the demons start moving in. Even piss-poor farmers on the edge of nowhere can understand that much.”
He gazes out at the western road, stretching into the dismal Heartlands and the low-hanging clouds that seem so common of late. “Ain’t gonna be good, that many people cooped up together. I’d hate to be around when the food starts to run out.”
“You forget one important fact, my simple friend.”
Scrunching up his whiskered face, he shoots me a sidelong glance. “What’s that?”
“We’re probably not going to live long enough for the food to run out,” I reply, flashing him a grin. “C’mon. Let’s go welcome these newcomers to their new home.”
I dig my heels into my horse's flank, spurring her forward as Tael stares after me, a look of confusion on his face. Finally, he too spurs his horse into action, riding behind me toward the distant speck of travelers to the west.
Tael is a good enough fellow, able to hold his liquor and play a decent hand of cards, but he’s not much of a conversationalist, his wit slow and his tongue even slower. Still, he keeps his sword sharp and his armor well-oiled, the scars on his face and hands indicating that he isn't a stranger to fighting. Now, he carries a pole and a plain white flag instead of a spear, though his long sword is still within arm’s reach on his belt. Overall, not the worst sort of companion that I could keep.
Ever since coming back from the city, Elias has had the Nightingales on high alert, treating us as a guard force watching all the roads leading into the city. With the recent influx of refugees from all corners of Tarsynium, the job is a much needed one.
Better to have a well-armed force holding the roads, I think while we ride. Otherwise, this whole area might erupt into chaos. More often than not, a sword is more important than a shield.
Impulsively, I glance down at my handless wrist, though I almost immediately regret it.
Getting along without a hand has been like having a constant hangover – it hurts and makes doing even the most menial tasks almost impossible. In fact, only a constant stream of alcohol has made being a cripple bearable, the ale keeping me blessedly numb while the world descends into madness.
The worst part by far has been relearning how to fight. Rangers, even apprentices, are not worth very much if they cannot even hold their own in battle. Sure, I can still fire a crossbow well enough, but I cannot reload one without any help. The long sword has never been my strong suit, and dual wielding short swords, which had been my forte, is now out of the question. This leaves me with only one option: the spear and the shield, a decidedly unattractive yet utilitarian combination. The Nightingale smith had created a special bracer for my arm capable of holding a shield, and the master at arms has gone through great lengths to ensure that I receive the proper training in spearcraft.
The grueling exercises have made me almost wish for a swift death at the hands of some demon.
For now, I am content to simply have a loaded crossbow hanging from my saddle and a long knife strapped to my hip. None of these frightened border folks are going to pose any threat to us, anyway. That cursed spear can rot back at camp for all I care.
As we draw nearer to the oncoming travelers, I realize that this seems to be one of the larger groups we’ve come across. Most of the incoming refugees have been families and small farming communities, a small, steady trickle rather than a flood, though there have been sizeable groups of dozens and even hundreds to come through. Even so, the steady flow coming from all directions has created something of a refugee crisis in the city.
That is precisely why we are here to speak with them.
We pull our horses to a stop in the middle of the road, waiting for the caravan to come to us. The too-warm wind howls in my ears as we wait, and Tael, as emotionless as a board, sits straight-backed with his pole in the stirrup, blank standard whipping about in the air above his head.
“Well over a hundred,” I mutter, resting a hand on the pommel. “Maybe even two or three. What do you think, Tael? Forest Hill?”
He grunts in response but does not offer a guess of his own.
“Alright then,” I say, heaving a sigh. “Do me a favor and let me do all the taking. You just sit there and look menacing.”
He hawks and spits over the edge of his saddle once more. “Aye. If you say so.”
I resist a grimace. “I think it would be for the best.”
Finally, the head of the long column pulls to a halt in front of us, a fat bald man in rich clothing eying us warily from the front. His horse, a well-groomed palfrey, seems unfettered by his enormous girth, and around him, farm folk in simple garb look around nervously, obviously concerned by our presence.
“Hail, good sir!” I call out in good-natured fashion.
“Hail,” the fat man replies, voice haughty and refined.
A noble, then, I think to myself. Must be their mayor or governor.
“Sorry to delay your journey,” I say after a moment, lifting my voice so that it will carry over the wind. “But we are tasked with speaking with all those on the road this day, especially those making for Tarsys.”
Despite the chill in the air, the man pulls out a handkerchief and dabs his upper lip, as if wiping away sweat. “You do not wear the king’s colors. Who are you to stop us on the road?”
I give him a broad smile. “The king? Oh, no, good sir, we are not agents of the king. I am Talon, a ranger’s apprentice, and this good fellow to my left is Tael, and he is
a Nightingale.”
Tael flashes him a smile that is somehow more disconcerting than his usual scowl.
“Nightingale?” The man asks, sounding alarmed. “Good gracious."
“No need to be alarmed,” I say, making a placating gesture with my good hand. "We're not here to rob you or anything – just to relay some information."
This seems to settle the man down somewhat. "I've had dealings with the Nightingales in the past," he says, this time dabbing his forehead with the handkerchief. "However, these days one can never be too careful."
“Of course,” I reply dryly. "And your name is...?"
"Governor Prior of Forest Hill."
"Ah, Governor Prior. I am pleased to make your acquaintance." I give the man a little bow from my saddle, then delve into my oft-practiced speech. “Well, let me get down to it – the city is filling up fast with refugees from around the country. Areas have been quartered off to accommodate...” I trail off as I see a pair of figures emerge from the mob of travelers, their clothes dirty and worn. One of them is tall and lean, in supple leathers and a green-grey cloak similar to my own. The other is a slender young woman in blue mage robes, pretty, with straight, chestnut brown hair. Upon seeing me they stop, surprised expressions mirroring the one I now currently wear.
“Thrice burn me and call me a gorgon,” I exclaim, suddenly laughing uproariously. “Owyn Lund and Zara Dennel... back from the dead to aid us in the eleventh hour!”
Leaping from my saddle, I race over to meet them, throwing my arms wide to embrace them both in a hug.
“It’s good to see you, too, Talon,” Owyn says, patting me on the shoulder. “How have you been lately?”
“How have I been?” I respond incredulously. “Well, let me think... aside from the collapse of the Arc, the death of the king, and the looming threat of worldwide destruction, I think I’ve been fairly well! How about you?”
Zara perks up, eyebrows knitting together in concern. “The king is dead?"
“Aye,” I reply, nodding soberly. Many of the people around us begin to mutter darkly. "Your old master saw to that. Did him in good with that favorite knife of his."
"Elias murdered the king?" The governor seems aghast, his face growing pale. "This is an outrage! He'll surely hang for–"
"Keep your shirt on, governor," I interrupt, waving my hand at him nonchalantly. "Nobody's hanging for anything, especially not after all that has happened. Aethelgar dying was the best thing for the kingdom. Now, we might actually have a fighting chance."
The bald man begins to bluster incoherently, but I turn my back on him and face Owyn and Zara, my smile returning. "It's so good to see the two of you," I say, suddenly feeling oddly emotional. "I was starting to give up hope that the two of you had survived being exiled."
"A lot has happened in our absence, it seems," Zara replies, reaching up and fiddling with that crystal of hers.
"Why did Elias kill the king?" Owyn asks guardedly. "I thought that he was with the rangers in the Ashwood."
I shrug. "They absolved him of his crimes. He returned to our camp in the Heartlands and then commanded a mission to take out the king."
Owyn frowns. "Commanded?"
"That's right. After Xander Thel died, the Nightingales elected him to be their new Protector, with a little help from yours truly,” I add glibly.
Owyn's eyes go wide and Zara lets out a tiny gasp.
"I know, I know," I say, making a placating gesture. "It's a lot to take in. Worry not – we shall have lots of time to catch up when we get back to civilization. I should like to have a mug of ale and listen to your wonderous tales of exile." I sniff the air, then crinkle up my nose in distaste. "After the two of you have a bath, of course."
Zara glares at me but Owyn merely nods, agreeing with my astute observation.
"I'm feelin' all warm and fuzzy, seeing you lot together," Tael snidely calls from his horse behind us. "But if you're done being all sentimental, we need to head back to camp. The sun's goin' down."
"He's right," I reply, sighing. "We need to start moving back. Not safe to be out on the roads after dark. Refugees are not allowed within the city walls, but I think we can carve out some space for you lot to set up camp outside. That's what everyone else is doing, anyway. Come on, let's get moving."
With that, I turn back to my horse, the two of them following me along with their enormous caravan of followers.
We begin making our way on the road east to Tarsys. Tael races off ahead of me to go to the Nightingale camp, and I remain dismounted in order to walk beside Owyn and Zara. There is so much catching up that we need to do.
On the way, they regale me with their exploits, surviving in the wastes and meeting the strange desert people who had been enslaved to the demons for a thousand years. They tell me about the quill demons they fought, the discovery of a large node of source crystal, and the enormous army that is now bearing toward us, bent on our annihilation. When they are finished, all I can do is shake my head in wonder.
“That’s quite the tale,” I reply, giving both of them a disbelieving look. “It makes my own seem downright boring by comparison.”
“I wouldn’t call it boring,” Zara offers. “You were witness to the succession of the Nightingale Protector and the regicide of Tarsynium’s monarch. Those are events of tremendous import, Tal.”
“Spent most of that time in camp, though,” I reply, shrugging. “Cripples don’t really come in handy when it comes to fighting.” I hold up my stump as if to emphasize my point.
Owyn groans. “Again with the puns? Light, Talon, that was terrible.”
I can’t suppress the grin that splits my face. “Just admit it – you missed the humor I bring to this group. You two are brilliant, don’t get me wrong, but neither of you is very funny. That, at least, I can still do with excellence.”
Both of them are now grinning as well, and for a moment, it feels like we aren’t on our way to the biggest showdown in human history – we are simply on the road to an adventure, enjoying pleasant conversation.
By the time the sun finally goes down, we are within sight of the Nightingale camp. The sprawling sea of earthen defenses and tents stretches out across the Heartlands on the north side of the road, just a few dozen miles from the outskirts of the city. Beyond that, in the countryside surrounding the capital, every village, roadside inn and field has been overrun, choked by an avalanche of refugees. They live in tents and inside wagons, their families and their possessions clustered together in ramshackle and temporary dwellings.
Upon seeing the sight, Owyn lets out a low whistle and Zara begins to prattle like a scholar.
“Light almighty,” she gasps, eyes widening. “I’ve never seen so many people! The outlying towns must have completely emptied!”
“Some hundreds more come in every day,” I reply, staring out at the scene.
“It’s extraordinary,” she says introspectively. “What effect will this have on the city? Housing such numbers will prove difficult, let alone feeding them all. And what will become of them when the R’Laar arrive? Light... the city cannot possibly contain such numbers.”
Owyn and I share a suffering look, and Zara heaves a sigh. "I wouldn't expect the likes of you to consider such things. Too much critical thinking."
We share a laugh, then break off of the road and head into the fields.
With the help of some sentries, I manage to find them a suitable place for the newcomers to camp, though the people of Forest Hill and the dark-skinned people of the desert seem to separate themselves as much as possible from each other. Zara and Owyn exchange some words with them, then come with me to the fortified camp of the Nightingales, claiming that they want to learn about the goings on of the city. They seem to share an affinity with the wastelanders, though I suppose it is not unwarranted.
I would probably have a connection with them as well if I had lived with them for weeks on end... besides, the foreign girls are not half-bad to look at.
“We can head into the city tomorrow,” I say, leading them to a pair of spare tents. “Elias and most of the leaders are already in there, negotiating with the various factions.” I shake my head in bemusement. “It’s a bloody mess, I tell you. Nothing short of a miracle will get everyone to work together.”
We come to a stop before the tents, and I point in the direction of one of the large nearby campfires. “Supper will be served over there,” I say. Then, lowering my voice conspiratorially, I whisper, “However, I have a good relationship with the quartermaster. I bet I can get us a few pints of ale to wash away the dust of the road.”
“That’s a very kind offer,” Zara replies diplomatically, “but it has been a long and taxing journey, and I should like to rest before meeting the Conclave again.”
“I think I should get an early night as well,” Owyn says, offering me a weary smile. “Sorry, mate, but these last few weeks have been rather taxing.”
Crossing my arms, I fix both of them with a look of disgust. “You two would rather snog than spend quality time drinking with your good friend Talon? I’m so disappointed.” Judging by the glare that Owyn gives me and the sudden flush reddening Zara's cheeks, I realize that I may have just overstepped my bounds. Raising my hands in a motion of defeat, I attempt to put on a suitably contrite look. "Only kidding. Hells, lighten up you two. I suppose a good night's sleep wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. Still, one of these days, I expect you to tell me the story behind these," I gesture at the strange chitinous weapons hung on Owyn belt and slung across his back.
"Goodnight, Talon," Zara says meaningfully. "Thank you for bringing us here."
I sweep a courtly bow. "Of course, Magus. All in a good day's work."
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