A Gleaming Path

by Jeffrey Pawlak

  As Rawner doubled over and clutched his wounded sternum, Baldaron merely stood by and watched. A wicked smile formed within his black beard, as if he stopped only to admire his blow.

  Rawner soon found his strength again and renewed his offensive. He seemed to ignore whatever damage that Baldaron’s sword had wrought over him, swinging his poleax just as vigorously as he had before.

  Still, he could not overcome Baldaron’s deftness and speed. Baldaron blocked each slash that Rawner hurled, letting the Captain of Geldiar wear himself out until he slowed for just a fleeting moment. When that moment came, Baldaron struck again, his sword darting forward and into Rawner’s left arm.

  Rawner’s agonized holler echoed across the ridge. His arm fell limp against his side, lamed by pain. He seemed helpless as Baldaron drew back and prepared a fatal slash, but just before the broadsword came his way, Rawner somehow lifted his poleax with his right arm alone and deflected the attack.

  There was a look of surprise even in Baldaron’s eyes as Rawner commenced a maddened assault. Rawner swung his enormous weapon without any show of concern for his injuries, and he did so with even greater speed and ferocity than he had before—so great, that he eventually overcame Baldaron’s seemingly impenetrable defenses. With one swift cut, Rawner’s poleax slipped by Baldaron’s broadsword, and the tip of the poleax’s blade raked over Baldaron’s cheek.

  The wicked man uttered a loud grunt as he staggered back. He lifted one of his huge hands to the cheek that had been struck. Almost immediately, droplets of blood crawled out between his fingers. When he removed his hand, he revealed a gash that ran from his cheekbone down to his jaw.

  “Are you watching this, Alamor!?” Rawner cried out, his voice booming over the ridge. “He’s not like one of his Wraithlings! He feels pain just like you and I do! He’s made of flesh and blood like any man!” Rawner turned and looked out across the canyon. His blazing eyes reached over the rift and straight into Alamor’s. “If I can do this to him, if I’m able to hurt him—then you can defeat him!!”

  Behind Rawner, Baldaron grinned. When the Captain of Geldiar turned to face him again, Baldaron flew ahead. The wicked man struck with a slash that nearly knocked Rawner off his feet, and he began to unleash a series of thunderous strokes that Rawner struggled to fend off. Baldaron attacked with speed and power that far surpassed his previous efforts. It was as if he had been holding back his true ability all along.

  Rawner withstood the assault for as long as his exhausted, wounded body would allow, but each slash that Baldaron threw was quicker and mightier than the last, and the Captain of Geldiar waned under the duress of Baldaron’s fury.

  Baldaron’s blade eventually found Rawner’s right arm, tearing through his taupe armor and slicing through the flesh below. Rawner’s grip about his poleax was lost as pain visibly overtook him, and with another cut, Baldaron disarmed him.

  With a third blow, Baldaron slammed his sword into Rawner’s stomach.

  Even from far across the canyon, Alamor could see the tip of the blade as it protruded from Rawner’s back. Alamor’s aghast eyes broadened, and his mouth fell slack, but no sound was able to climb from his throat.

  Baldaron pulled his blade from Rawner’s stomach, and the Captain of Geldiar staggered backward. His jaw hung open and his eyes went wide as life slowly evaporated from his features.

  Just before Rawner’s feet could go over the edge of the canyon, Baldaron came to him and clasped an enormous hand about his throat.

  A great, vile magic began to overtake the air around the ridge. Alamor soon felt it stretch over the canyon and envelop him, chilling his body and spirit with its malevolent touch. It was somewhat familiar to him, similar to when he felt the presence of the countless souls that Baldaron had absorbed for his own power. But this new presence, this new magic, carried a more merciless nature with it, as cruel as the man who wielded it.

  Scourge.

  Alamor’s fears were proven true when he saw a host of ethereal lights slowly crawl from Rawner’s body and into Baldaron’s. They looked like tiny droplets, shining brilliantly with what Alamor knew was the essence of Rawner’s very life force and soul. A few moments later, they were joined by what looked like a ghostly outline of Rawner’s body. The bluish-white shade was no different from his physical form, even featuring the same shape of his armor. But most harrowing of all was that its face was identical to his, including the expression of shock and agony on Rawner’s countenance as his soul was siphoned.

  When the ghostly image of Rawner finally dissipated, Baldaron released him. Rawner’s body fell into the canyon, his eyes lifeless, and his face still frozen in that same expression of horror.

  Alamor wailed as he watched his friend’s body plummet into the abyss. Joth and Tiroku took hold of Alamor and began to drag him away, but he paid no attention to them. He hardly felt their touch as they pulled him along. He only looked back at the canyon while they continued their retreat, his screams filling the air and reaching far into the rift as Rawner’s body fell.

  “Rawner!”

  25

  Even while the desert heat slowed their progress, Tauroc and the Rockclaw Baroso made a hurried march out of the Arid Reaches after Baldaron let them go free. They conserved their energy during the hot mornings and afternoons, moving at a determined, but measured pace while the sun blazed high overhead and cast its searing rays onto the sands below.

  They rarely slept, mostly only during the hours of the daytime when the desert’s heat became too unbearable to wade through. Once twilight descended over the land, they resumed their march and moved swiftly through the night, only slowing their advance when the new morning came and returned the blistering heat back to the air.

  It was an exhausting trek that would have ended most beings, but the Baroso endured it without reconsideration. If any of Tordale’s inhabitants could survive such a trying task, it was their kind, and not just merely Baroso, but the mighty Rockclaw Tribe. Where fatigue and pain were struggles for most creatures, they were only nuisances for Tauroc and his tribe. To the Rockclaw Baroso, the taxing march was well worth it if it brought them back to their ridges sooner, and sleep could always be recollected when they were safely with the rest of their tribe.

  After three days, their trek brought them to the Tower Mountains, where the more hospitable air finally allowed the Baroso to move at the pace they could only long for in the desert. With the kingdom’s greatest peaks rising alongside them, they marched with greater urgency than ever before, knowing that they neared their village, and a return to normalcy after spending weeks under the command of the warlord who sought to conquer Tordale.

  Baldaron may have granted them freedom, but his dark presence remained in the form of the Strife Wings and the battalion of Wraithlings that followed closely behind the Baroso. This, too, compelled Tauroc and his warriors forward; the sight of Baldaron’s minions made the Baroso feel as if they were still enslaved by the man’s will. A true sense of freedom could not even come to them in their dreams, for although they slept deeper and more often while they were within the mountains, the Strife Wings and Wraithlings did not. As the Baroso slumbered, Baldaron’s minions simply watched.

  On the third day through the Tower Mountains, a dreary afternoon where the sky was a grey veil over the land, they finally approached their beloved home, Rockclaw Rise. Tauroc spotted the ridges and their village when it was all hardly a half a mile away. Even from that distance, he could see that their home still wore some of the devastation that Baldaron brought with his attack. Only a handful of the tall, thick fir frees that once dotted the ridges stood coated by green needles; the rest were charred, naked pillars that stood as reminders of the fires that nearly engulfed the village. Tauroc saw no other foliage, not even the thin carpets of grass that once brought color to the ridges’ rocky floor. In their place was either scorched earth, or blankets of dark soil that the Baroso put down to bury the ashen ground and cultivate the terrain.

&n
bsp; It seemed that only half of their huts had been rebuilt, and most were clearly hurried attempts that were constructed out of necessity by the Baroso who remained behind. They were not erected with the same level of detail or care as they were originally, and most were noticeably smaller than what the Baroso were accustomed to. The rest of their huts lay in shambles over the ridges, still not touched by the she-bears, cubs, and elders who attempted to rebuild their home.

  Even before Tauroc and his warriors set foot onto the ridges, many of the Baroso who they left behind weeks ago gathered to witness their return. It appeared that once Tauroc and his warriors were spotted, word spread throughout the tribe. Every she-bear, cub, and elder Baroso turned away from whatever they were doing to run and greet their brave fighters who had been forced to leave Rockclaw Rise many weeks ago.

  Their joy lifted Tauroc’s spirits, but only briefly. As soon as he and his warriors neared the ridges, the Baroso who gathered to welcome them back took greater notice of the Strife Wings and scores of Wraithlings. At once, the relief and anticipation in their features fell into looks of fear.

  Destrala, too, seemed to discern their terror. “This is what you wished to return to with such haste, Tauroc?” she mocked, her white eyes scanning the scarred ridges. “It has been weeks since Lord Baldaron tread here, and yet your home still lies in ruins, and your kind is still petrified at the sight of his forces. You would have been better off migrating elsewhere, or perhaps remaining among Lord Baldaron’s army.”

  Tauroc’s sneer reached over his whole snout as he turned back and faced the great Strife Wing. “Any place in this kingdom is better than at your master’s side.”

  Destrala’s grin had no purpose other than to taunt Tauroc. “Are you sure of that? If you had chosen to stay in service to Lord Baldaron, he likely would have offered you and your tribe a sizable piece of territory to settle upon, something far more appealing than these ridges.”

  “We are more than content here,” Tauroc replied, defiantly. “We will continue to rebuild what your master destroyed, and eventually he will be nothing more than a memory to us.”

  “Oh, he will never fade from your minds altogether, I promise you that,” Destrala said. “Maybe you will never look upon his face, again, but you will feel Lord Baldaron’s presence for the rest of your days while he rules over this land. In little time, should you ever step foot even a few miles beyond these ridges, you will witness some sort of reminder that this entire kingdom is within his grasp, and that you are merely confined to a small portion where he allows you to know any semblance of peace.”

  “That is more than enough for us to be happy,” Tauroc said.

  “Just remember this, Tauroc—you will only know ‘happiness’ as long as you heed Lord Baldaron’s words. He has entrusted me to remind you of his final warning, that should you ever meddle in his conquest over Tordale, you and your tribe will endure the same kind of destruction that he brings everywhere else he walks. You will only continue to exist if you are a simple memory to him.”

  “That is what we will all be,” Tauroc said. “And since that has been decided again, here in our territory, this brings an end to the pact we made with your master.”

  Destrala nodded. “You are correct about that. Your alliance with Lord Baldaron is finished.”

  “Then do not linger. Leave our ridges and my tribe in peace.”

  Destrala chuckled devilishly. “Don’t worry, Tauroc, we have no intention of taking another step forward. Lord Baldaron entrusted us only with the task of accompanying you back here. But still, I would think twice about speaking so boldly to us, for to defy us is the same as defying Lord Baldaron, himself. If I truly wished, I could see to it that my sisters and these soldiers wipe out what remains of your home and your tribe.” Destrala lifted her eyes and swept them across the Baroso that gathered before her. Her lips fell and revealed her cruel fangs. “It is already a tempting thought. A big, strong Baroso would fill our stomachs for weeks.”

  Tauroc’s expression flared, and although the temptation to lash out at Destrala and make her pay for threatening his tribe screamed in his mind, he did not allow his rage to overtake him. He simply stood in silence, his glare riveted on the Strife Wings as he waited for them to depart.

  When they did, they offered no further words. Destrala turned away from the ridges and lifted herself into the air, her sisters following closely behind her. A moment later, the many Wraithlings spun around and commenced their march back the way they came.

  It was a few minutes before Baldaron’s minions were out of sight, and it was only then that the Rockclaw Tribe finally felt free of any threat. As the tension that once filled the air around them began to dissipate, the Baroso slowly came together, the warriors reuniting with their friends and family for the first time since being pulled away onto Baldaron’s trail of destruction across Tordale. The she-bears and cubs hurried to see their mates and fathers, cautious joy returning to their faces.

  But as Tauroc looked about the reunion, there was one among his tribe that he could find. “Where is my son?” he eventually asked aloud.

  His question was initially met with silence. His fellow Baroso immediately quieted their conversations among one another, telling Tauroc that they heard him, yet none answered. Most could not look him in the eye.

  Tauroc began to grow nervous from their silence before one of the elders stepped forward. He was a squat Baroso named Kamal, who Tauroc had known as one of his closest friends for many seasons. He stood at least a head beneath most of the warriors, although it was partially due to the hunch in his shoulders that came in his old age. His pelt was milky brown in color, except for the fur near his snout, which was ashy grey, and grew long like a beard. To assist his old legs, he walked with a thick cane carved out of hawthorn wood.

  “Your son is over this way, Tauroc,” Kamal answered, and began to make his way through the crowd. “Let me show you to him.”

  Tauroc followed behind the elder, still confused by the other Barosos’ reluctance to answer him. Once he and the elder made their way beyond the rest of the tribe and further over their ridges, he spoke up again. “Is my son all right, Kamal? He’s not hurt, is he?”

  “Not in the least,” Kamal answered, never looking back at Tauroc as he led him through Rockclaw Rise.

  “Did he do something dishonorable?”

  “Not that I would consider. In fact, I would say that no one in our tribe has worked harder to help us recover from the attack than he has. He’s stood guard at night, tended to the wounded, gone out into the mountains to forage resources, and he spends countless hours rebuilding the destroyed huts. You would be very proud of how strong he’s been.”

  “Then why were you the only one who could answer me when I asked about him?”

  Kamal’s response did not come so quickly this time. “Because while you would be very proud of Sarrek, he has begun to express different feelings about you.”

  Tauroc was stunned by the elder’s response. It took him several moments before he could find his words again. “What do you mean by that?”

  A quiet sigh escaped Kamal’s greying snout. The subject seemed to trouble him, as well. “It would appear that he disagrees with your choice to assist Baldaron in exchange for our tribe’s protection, and he has become very vocal about it in recent days. He seems to believe that what you chose was cowardly, and that the more honorable course of action would have been to defy Baldaron, even if it meant our tribe’s destruction.”

  “He never said any of this to me before I left.”

  “Perhaps he felt it disrespectful to challenge your decision in your presence. You are not merely a father to him, but the Chieftain of our tribe.”

  “I would have hoped that my own son would be strong enough not to fear me when he disputes my decisions.”

  Kamal shrugged. “I would not be so quick to question his courage. It’s impossible for either of us to say what has compelled him without hearing an explanation
from his own mouth. However, I have no such right to hear that. This is a discussion meant for the two of you.”

  They had walked so far now that they could no longer hear the Baroso further behind them. Kamal stopped when he brought Tauroc to the heart of Rockclaw Rise, where the Long Den stood. It was a great log house where the Baroso gathered for feasts and meetings when the weather outside was unaccommodating. The Long Den was a huge structure, running for more than fifty yards across the ridges and sitting wide enough to fit three of the Baroso’s stone huts in a row. Its walls were built out of the thickest fir trunks that the Rockclaw Tribe could find within the Tower Mountains, and its arched roof laid out with pliant aspen timber.

  The Long Den had been partially damaged during Baldaron’s attack several weeks ago. Nearly half of it was set ablaze by the fires that stormed over the ridges, but the Baroso who remained behind had all but completely repaired it by now. Whatever restoration that could still be done seemed to be largely superficial.

  Still, even as Tauroc and Kamal approached, Sarrek continued to scrape away at one of the Long Den’s sides and smooth its edges. It was as if he did so in a stubborn attempt to avoid acknowledging Tauroc or Kamal.

  A Baroso of just fifteen seasons, Sarrek was not yet the size of one of the fearsome Rockclaw warriors, but he was one of the largest and fittest cubs in the tribe. He was already as tall as a human adult, and his muscles were quickly forming into the kind of bulk that would one day make him as big as his father—maybe bigger, Tauroc believed.

  It was not the only way that he resembled his father. Sarrek had Tauroc’s same boulder-like head, thick snout, and dark eyes. He even wore iron wrist guards and faulds just as his father did. The one noticeable difference between the two was in their fur. While Tauroc’s pelt was beige, like wheat ready to be harvested, Sarrek’s fur was smoky grey, just like his late mother’s.