“How do you figure?” Owyn asks, raising a skeptical eyebrow.
I level a serious look at him, brushing past a group of off-duty soldiers as we walk. “Think about it – all the most beautiful ladies in the kingdom gathered together in one place, thinking that any day might be their last on Byhalya... it makes them want to seek comfort. Any kind of comfort, physical included.”
Owyn chuckles and shakes his head. “Eleven Hells, Talon. Only you would think of that and a time like this.”
I shrug my shoulders and give him a wolfish grin. “I’d imagine there’s no better time to think of it. Just think – one moment, you’re worried about demons and the destruction of the city, the next, you’re being comforted by a big strong ranger like myself. It’s foolproof!”
Again, Owyn glances at me skeptically. “Has that ever worked?”
“Well, no,” I admit. “But I haven’t really gotten around to trying, yet. Been too busy waltzing around with you lot.”
We round a corner and begin making our way toward the western gatehouse, a great cube-shaped building of white stone and heavy iron. Archers patrol the high walls to either side, and stationed before the portcullis is a troupe of knights, their armor gleaming and their spears held at attention.
“Whatever happened to that nurse from Dunmar City,” Owyn asks as we stride toward the city’s exit. “What was her name? Sybil?”
I barely suppress a grimace. “Yeah... she and I aren’t really talking anymore. Not really sure why. I think I may have said something that offended her.”
“That’s hard to believe,” Owyn mutters, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Running a hand through my hair, I try to play it off with an air of nonchalance. “It’s all water under the bridge now. Plenty of other fish in the Loch, so to speak.”
The captain of the guard immediately recognizes us as we approach the gatehouse and waves us through, calling for his subordinates to open the gate. There is a screeching wail of grinding metal, and in short order we are on the other side, walking into the Heartlands and the sea of refugees waiting there.
“Speaking of ladyfolk,” I continue, picking the conversation back up, “how are things going with you and Zara? Have you sealed the deal with her, yet?”
Suddenly, Owyn’s whole demeanor changes, his movements growing stiffer, less comfortable. “The two of us – we’re fine. Just deciding to take things slow.”
“I knew it!” I exclaim, grinning widely. “That’s what you get for falling for a mage. What, does the prude expect you to wait for marriage, too?”
He stops short and whirls on me, giving me a hard shove that nearly takes me off-balance. “Shut up!” He growls, face darkening. “You don’t know what in the Hells you’re talking about. She’s not that kind of girl, and that’ not what this is about.”
“Whoa, lighten up, mate,” I say, raising my hand and my stump in a placating way. “I was only joking.”
He gives me one long, hard look then turns away, stomping off down the road toward the camps of refugees. Straightening my tunic, I go after him, making sure to guard my tongue so as to avoid further offending the lovesick fool.
Must be a touchy subject, I think as I fall into step once more beside him. Wonder what happened while they were away?
We begin to make our way out from the city, walking in a brooding silence – the brooding coming mostly from Owyn. Luckily, it isn’t long before we fall back into amiable conversation with one another. Ahead, I can see the area where the desert folk are camped, a little way off from the Nightingales. All the other refugee bands around them seem to be giving them a wide berth.
“Who do you say these people are again?”
“Zara believes they are descendants from the lost kingdoms of Byhalya,” he replies, sounding unsure. “Apparently, they are the ones who were left behind when the Arc of Radiance went up, and have been subjugated to the R’Laar ever since.”
“Burning Hells,” I mutter, feeling a twinge of guilt for the poor blighters. A thousand years of slavery? That’s got to do a number on morale.
“Zara wanted me to check on them,” he continues, stepping off the road and into the dead, yellowed grass. “She’s developed something of a soft spot for them – wants to make sure that they are doing all right.”
“Sure you haven’t developed one yourself?”
He does not respond.
Soon, we can see the odd-shaped brown tents poking up upon the wide plains, a miniature city unguarded and spread out in nomadic fashion. The tents themselves seem to be made out of skins, dried and cured by the sun, and even from this distance I can see the people milling about, tan-skinned and wearing foreign clothing.
As we approach, many of the people on the outer edges of the encampment flee, hiding away as if they are afraid of us. Then, within moments, a group of teenagers, both boys and girls, come rushing out to greet us, handcrafted spears and clubs held in their hands. They assume a menacing stance at first, then relax when they recognize Owyn. One of them, a long-haired boy of about fifteen who I recognize from before, steps forward to greet him.
“Greetings, Owyn,” he says in a heavily accented voice. “It good to see you.”
“Hello, Yari,” Owyn replies with a smile, stepping forward and clasping arms with him. “How are things in camp?”
“Things good,” Yari says, his grasp of the language slow and halting. He scrunches up his face as if in intense concentration. “No harm. No demons. People cold, but safe.”
“That’s good,” Owyn answers with a curt nod. Then, he turns and points at me. “This is Talon. He is my friend. Talon, these are warriors who helped us in the desert.”
They all offer greetings in a strange tongue I do not recognize.
“They look like they should still be in nursery school,” I murmur, smiling uncomfortably and nodding at them.
“They are the only ones who were willing to fight,” he replies somberly. “Everyone else is too beaten down, probably because of their history. I have been training them, and they have already weathered a few good fights.”
“Veterans, then,” I say, half-sarcastically. “Alright, warriors. Care to show me around your camp?”
Yari nods after I repeat myself a couple of times, then proceeds to lead us on a tour of the camp. The other youths fall into formation around us, all of them seemingly deferring to Owyn as their leader.
Light, Owyn, I think to myself, more than a little impressed. Looks like you have yourself a nice little honor guard here. How do I get one for me?
Everyone we pass seems timid, the women clutching their children and the men standing around with downcast eyes. They do not seem to be starving, but neither do they look well-fed. The air in the camp seems heavy with uncertainty, and everywhere I look, it is as if I am looking at a herd of scared deer, not a hardy encampment of humans.
"Everything seems to be in order," Owyn says to himself, inspecting the food stores. He then exchanges a few words with Yari, asking him in the simplest possible terms about the status of their food.
I tune them out after a moment, instead turning to regard a group of young ladies who seem to be eyeing me from the opening of a nearby tent. I smile at them, giving them my best roguish grin, and they begin giggling, putting their heads together and whispering excitedly.
Maybe this place isn't half bad, I think, hiding my handless arm behind my back.
As Owyn and Yari continue to exchange words, several of the youths move off to a nearby patch of grass and begin training, falling into fighting stances with their spears and moving with a grace that I find surprising considering their age. Based on my observations, they appear to have become rather competent warriors – even the women among them. While they train, I can't help but feel a pang of regret, my hand moving to rub the uneven surface of my stump. There was a time when I was like them, having full range of motion. Now, I am a cripple who can barely manage to hold a decent form.
Taking a deep br
eath through my nose, I try to banish the thoughts before they can turn me into a depressing raincloud like Owyn.
The other apprentice breaks off abruptly, having spotted something in a nearby basket. He grins wickedly and reaches inside, pulling out an unmarked clay bottle. Pulling out the stopper, he holds it up to his nose and sniffs only to quickly pull away, crinkling up his nose in distaste. Then, surprisingly, he offers the bottle to me.
“Here,” Owyn says, giving it a shake. I can hear liquid sloshing about inside. “You need to try this. I have a feeling you of all people will appreciate it.”
The youths, who had gathered themselves around Owyn, eye the bottle and me in mute curiosity.
“What is it?” I ask, my own curiosity piqued.
“Uzqi,” Owyn answers, as if the name itself should mean something to me.
I take the bottle and peer inside with one eye. “And uzqi is...?”
“Liquor.”
My own face brightens considerably. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” Bringing the bottle up to my nose, I give it a deep sniff. It stings my nostrils, filling my lungs with a pungent vapor that flushes my chest with heat.
“Eleven Hells, this stuff’s strong,” I state, glancing up at Owyn. “You ever have any of it?”
He nods. “Me and Zara both.”
“Well then,” I reply, holding the bottle just in front of my mouth. “I’ll not be shown up by lightweights like yourselves. Bottoms up!”
With that, I pour a mouthful of the stuff down my throat.
As soon as the uzqi touches my tongue, it is like a fire has been ignited inside my mouth. It quickly spreads, rushing painfully into my gut within seconds, and before I know it, I am doubled over and coughing uncontrollably.
Everyone around me erupts into raucous laughter.
“Burning Hells, Owyn,” I wheeze, eyes watering. “What’s in this?”
Owyn shrugs. “No idea,” he replies, still chuckling. “Good stuff, though, right?”
“Good?” I ask incredulously, standing up and taking a ragged breath. “It’s bloody magnificent! I’ve got to bring some of this to the boys in the Nightingale camp! They’ll love it!”
Owyn shakes his head, and I notice that something of a crowd has gathered around us. Men, women, and even some children watch me like I am some sort of sideshow animal, most of them smiling broadly. At least they’ve seemed to have warmed up to me, I think to myself wryly.
“Yari,” I call, taking care to speak slowly. “Find me some more uzqi. I’d like to take some with me when I go.”
He looks to Owyn for approval, who merely nods, then scampers off to do my bidding.
“There’s a good lad,” I mutter, taking another swig of the stuff. Like the first time, it burns like fire going down, though not nearly as bad as the first time. Putting the stopper back on the bottle, I turn to regard Owyn. “Right obedient bunch of spearmen you’ve got here, mate. Should come in handy when all the fighting starts.”
Owyn opens his mouth to respond, when something on the wind catches his attention.
I hear it too, a sound like a hunting horn blaring from back by the city gates. I recognize it almost immediately. “Is that what I think it is?”
Owyn nods his head excitedly. “Yes,” he replies, cocking his head in the direction of the sound. “The rangers have come.”
Chapter Twelve
Owyn
We make haste to the city gates, abruptly leaving the wastelander camp and sprinting toward the road. Talon makes sure he grabs an extra bottle of uzqi, though he struggles to hold it with his one good hand. The youths stay behind, taking my breathless charge to guard the camp seriously. There's no doubt in my mind that they will do an excellent job.
Even though the two of us are in good physical shape, it isn't long before we are both panting and gasping for breath. The walls of Tarsys are several miles away from the camp, and the rolling hills make it difficult to run, especially over such a long distance.
Eventually, we make it to the gatehouse, closing the distance in what I consider record time. Even as we arrive there is a large commotion happening before the portcullis.
Rangers, hundreds upon hundreds of them, march into the city in a single file line, their grey-green cloaks hanging from their shoulders and their quivers bristling with arrows. Very few of them are mounted, but all of them are armed to the teeth, with swords, axes, flails and spears strapped to their hardened leather armor. Around them, many refugees gawk in open-mouthed wonder, their whispers drowned out by the sound of many marching boots.
Talon and I stop short just before the great column, breathing heavily with sweat pouring from our faces.
"Remind me," Talon says between gasping breaths, "to never... drink uzqi... before a miles-long sprint."
"Sure thing," I reply, reaching up and wiping my forehead with the back of my hand.
Several of the rangers from the column glance other their shoulders and apparently recognize us, waving their hands in a friendly manner before falling in with the rest of their comrades.
Thank the Light, I say to myself inwardly, feeling a profound sense of relief. I was wondering when they would arrive. And it looks like every ranger in the entire kingdom has come here... that's sure to have a positive effect on morale.
Indeed, seeing my brothers and sisters in such great numbers fills me with a renewed sense of hope. These are the most competent fighters in all Tarsynium. Having them to fight in the siege is going to be a huge advantage.
"Let's go," I say to Talon at length. "I want to be in there when Tamara meets with Elias and the others."
"Are you sure you don't want to just hang back?" Talon asks, having finally caught his breath. "It's sure to be taxing, having that many egos in a room together, and I know a few good taverns that are practically overflowing with good ale."
"Not a chance," I reply stubbornly, already walking after the rangers. "This concerns all of us, and I'll not stand by while important decisions are being made."
Talon lets out a long, exaggerated sigh before eventually coming after me. "I don't know why I hang around you, Owyn. Most of the time, you're no fun at all."
We begin our run anew, albeit not quite as fast as before, coming right up on the tail end of the column of rangers.
It takes some time for everyone to pass through the city gates, but eventually we make it through, the guards waving us on with everyone else. Walking under the yawning maw of the portcullis, we can see that the rangers have formed ranks in the western square, almost completely filling the wide cobblestone plaza. At the forefront, I can barely make out a golden-haired woman standing amidst a handful of men, her hair pulled into a long braid hanging down her back. She appears to be speaking with a delegation comprised of mages, knights, nobles and Nightingales, and unsurprisingly, she seems to command an enormous amount of respect.
Tamara Moyle, I think to myself, a small smile gracing my lips, Master Warden of the Rangers.
We go around the perimeter, passing the neatly organized ranks of green cloaks, until finally come within earshot of the delegation.
"House Banderwynth welcomes you to Tarsys, Master Warden," some self-important noble is saying. He pridefully gestures to his retinue like he is showing off his favorite hunting dogs. "With the king dead, we are one of the highest-ranking families in the entire kingdom."
Tamara nods her head impatiently, causing her braid to dance behind her like a golden serpent. "Yes, yes," she answers brusquely, "but where is Elias Keen? I was told he now has command of the Nightingale army."
"Protector Keen is currently on his way, Master Warden," one of the Nightingale captains says reassuringly. "He was surveying the eastern defenses with General Mohr and has been notified of your presence."
In the square, the rangers all stand at attention like statues, perfect examples of military discipline.
I decide that now is as good a time as any, striding with Talon up to the retinue and clearing my
throat loudly. "Perhaps we can be of assistance, Master Warden," I say, trying to keep a straight face. "The two of us have some grasp of what is going on in the city."
Tamara turns and locks piercing blue eyes with mine, her face softening somewhat, if only for an instant. "Owyn Lund and Talon Meecham," she says, her tone commanding yet also tinged with warmth. "I knew you'd turn up eventually. Whenever the fate of the world hangs in the balance, you seem to be at the center of it all."
"Begging your pardon, Master Warden," Talon says, "but that isn't our fault. This one seems to be cursed with bad luck, if I'm being honest." He jabs his thumb at me.
She gives him a suffering look, her lips tightening as if suppressing a smile. "Be that as it may," she continues, "It is good to see that you are both well. Last I heard, Owyn, you were captured by the king's agents. I should like to hear that story – but first thing's first. What is the situation with the city?"
Together, we begin to fill her in, explaining everything that we know to her and the Wardens. It isn't long, though, before a group of soldiers arrive from the east, accompanied by Elias and an armored General Mohr.
"Master Warden," Elias says stiffly as he approaches.
"Elias," she replies, giving him an odd look. Something passes between the two of them, something that I can scarcely understand, but it is over within seconds, a knight clearing his throat and gesturing to the General.
"This is General Marius Mohr, leader of the combined armies of Tarsynium, and protector–"
"We've already been acquainted," Tamara interrupts curtly, giving the man a nod. "It's good to see you again, General, this time under friendlier circumstances."
Mohr reddens at the statement, but merely says, "Yes. Likewise."
Tamara then turns her attention back on Elias, one of her slender eyebrows quirking up questioningly. "How are preparations going?"
"There is still much work that needs to be done," he replies, heaving a sigh. "The general here will be able to fill you in on the details of the defenses. Suffice it to say, we are hard at work making this place ready for a siege."
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