Derek whispered loudly as we made our way across the increasingly thicker drifts of snow.
“Get up,” Derek said, kicking at tents, “we’re under attack.”
As we moved toward the other side of the camp, I began to wonder if I had dreamt the whole thing. If we were under attack, where was the rallying cry to battle? Where were the orders to be relayed by the chain of command?
I began to worry that my dreams had affected my waking life. That the boundary of the beyond had become blurred and my fantasies had come to torment me.
What would everyone think of the Ranged Guardsman who dreamt up an attack and awoke an entire battalion in the middle of the night?
The grasping fingers of flickering light played with the trees and reflected off the snow. Strange shapes struggled to define themselves and played with my mind.
In the distance a naked form danced just beyond the light of my torch. It was beautiful and pure. Long hair swayed, hiding the depths of her perfect form. I followed and I ran, like some drunk-obsessed sailor, forlorn into the darkness. As I wondered at the purpose of it all.
Fear edged its way deeper into my heart. It wasn’t the fear of some unknown threat. It was the fear of failure. The fear of judgement and eventual punishment. The Ranged Guard had become my new family. I couldn’t lose them. Not to my own stupidity.
More insipidly, was the fear that I’d lost my mind.
A scream filled the night air. It was loud and strained as though birthed by something wicked. I looked to Sabin for confirmation. His face had blanched in the cold night air.
Strangely, a small part of me felt relief, as I realized I hadn’t dreamt it. It had been real.
The scream, echoed into silence, as it curdled my blood and sank into my bones.
“What in the seven hells was that?” Derek shouted, his voice cracking slightly.
“I don’t want to know,” Sabin responded.
I didn’t dare respond. I didn’t trust my voice to respond, so I continued to move toward the source. Naked images fled my mind as a distant imp slipped from view and fell from memory.
The mountainside had become alive with activity as soldiers came awake and formed into teams. Torches added to the meager light I carried and tinged the snow yellow. The crunching of fresh snow under hundreds of boots was nearly as loud as the quiet commands and mumbled cursing.
Shadows and movement lurked beyond the reach of the light, stimulating greater levels of fear. I had never been in battle. Was this what it was like?
I had always imagined it more organized, as lines of soldiers fought in rank and file.
Another piercing shout echoed through the night, painting it in the colors of dread. Soldiers shouted as they relayed information. The sounds of ringing steel muted the horrific screams, as swords were drawn.
The Heavy Infantry attempted to form a line, as the Light Infantry scrambled under feckless leadership. The Ranged Guard, plowed on.
A tree burst into flame and temporarily blinded me.
“Salvare be damned!” Sabin cursed, grabbing hold of my shoulder.
We stopped, attempting to blink away the temporary blindness. I fumbled a few steps, feeling about blindly. The sounds of shouting and movement enveloped me. Was the enemy moving in?
“You guys good?” Derek shouted.
“Yes,” I responded.
It was a lie. My heart was beating frantically. My eyes still burned and bright spots marred my vision. My night vision was ruined for at least twenty minutes.
“I’m good,” Sabin said.
A fear inducing roar shook the woods, followed by another scream. I drew an arrow and looked about. It was confusion. There were no neat battle lines. The enemy was hidden in shadow, beyond the flickering reach of torchlight, dancing in the recesses of my night blindness.
“West, one hundred feet,” Derek shouted.
Derek took point as he bolted up the slope. There were more soldiers running down the hill. Some ran east, while others headed south. It was a tangled mess of movement.
“Jon,” I yelled, as I saw his tall frame lumbering to my far right.
He looked over, scanning the madness. His eyes locked onto mine, and he changed course to join us. Nell and David were with him. Their eyes were wide with adrenaline and fear.
“What did you see?” Sabin asked Derek, as we scrambled up the hill.
Derek didn’t respond. He just pressed onward.
A cold gust of wind swept over us, causing my torch to flicker and my face to burn. More shouts joined the cacophony of the night.
Jon slipped about some trees and came in close.
“You guys up?”
I looked about, counting heads, temporarily remembering Edon. Too late, he was dead, no time think on it.
“Team’s up,” I responded.
“Enemy left,” Sabin shouted.
I looked left, scanning the tangled movement of soldiers. It was then, that I cast my eyes upon them. But it wasn’t an enemy. Not in the traditional sense. It was unlike anything I had ever seen before.
I struggled to cope with the unfolding shape of reality as a mythological beast, born from legend, bore down upon us.
My eyes were drawn to its gaping mouth with three rows of teeth, each nastier than the last. A sharp tongue darted about, as it released a terrifying sound.
I remained frozen as I watched and struggled to comprehend. I simply stood and watched as it attacked the nearest soldier.
Its muscular body moved swiftly, as its long tail swished about for balance. For a moment, the world seemed to slow, as I watched blood plume, and carnage reign. There was another scream, as a soldier was ripped apart. His arm was torn too easily from his body, as if he were made from straw. The snow turned red about him as death claimed him.
“That’s a manticore,” Sabin uttered in fear, “It can’t be…”
More shouts echoed from ahead. They pulled me from my haze, and the world sped up.
“Form on me,” Derek shouted, sword held firmly ahead of him.
Jon came in, forming the right flank along with David. Nell fell in behind. Sabin and I made up the left flank. Our training took over, washing away our fear, in the face of the impossible.
I tripped on half a body, glimpsing blood-stained snow. It didn’t matter. We had to fight.
“Incoming, right,” Jon yelled.
Our team moved, bows slung and swords pointed toward the threat. The massive body of a manticore leapt forward. Jon’s sword glanced off its thick skull. Nell and Derek moved to either side, stabbing at its great, hulking body. The beast roared and twisted about. A set of fearsome claws slashed at Nell, killing him before he fell.
“Peter,” Sabin shouted, “I don’t want to die.”
Neither did I, but I felt powerless as I watched my friends cut down. I swung my sword at the great beast, catching it in its hindquarters. It thrust a kick at me. My head spun, as the air from my lungs left in a huff. I was hurled down the mountainside, slipping along the snow, and slid to a stop behind a large conifer.
Shouts echoed about me. I struggled for a moment, as my head swam with pain. It hurt to breath. But I had to get up. My team relied on me. We were under attack. I had to fight.
I gripped the tree for support and stood, surprised to see my sword still in my hand. I had lost my torch, bow and quiver. The forest, however, was lit by the burning light of trees alight in flame. It was a yellow-orange hue that bathed the blood-covered snow in a soft glow.
“Sabin!” I shouted.
There was no response, but the distant shouts of fighting and death.
How far had I slid? Where were my friends?
I sheathed my sword and swiftly climbed the tree to get a better vantage of the battlefield. I had to find my team.
I scampered higher and higher, before pausing and looking about. There, in a clearing, I saw the annalist. I don’t know how I knew it was him from such a distance. I think it was his height, and his calm de
meanor.
Three manticores lay dead at his feet. I tried to tear my eyes away, to look for my friends, but I couldn’t. My gaze was fixed on his slow-moving figure. He held his arms overhead as a strange humming light encapsulated him. It grew like the rising sun. It spread warm fingers across the mountainside, highlighting him like some mythical figure.
Suddenly a blinding flash of light erupted over the mountainside. A deafening blast of sound swept across the scene, shaking trees, causing branches to break and snow to fall.
It passed and was followed by a strange sucking noise. It pulled at my skin. My ears popped as my eyes felt like they wanted to leave my head. I was left blind and deaf.
The world swam before me. I gripped the branch with my arms and legs but couldn’t feel it. I was numb to the world. It was as though someone had carved my senses from me. I was temporarily trapped in a void of disbelief.
With each heartbeat I regained a part of my senses. My ears began to ring. My eyes saw stars of white and red. My hands began to feel the bite of the cold. As the ringing faded, it was replaced with silence.
There were no more shouts. There were no more roars, screams, or clanging of steel. Instead, it was the onerous weight of stillness, born of Vintas. It settled over everything, casting its burdensome weight upon the land.
Slowly, my vision came into focus. Color and shape bled together, staining Verold in oily resins, struggling to paint the scene before me.
It was barren. Where there should have been bodies, there was snow. Where there should have been manticores tearing through a battalion, there was fallen armor, discarded swords.
The lack of people was more disconcerting than the silence. I clambered down quickly, scraping my shins and hands. It didn’t matter. I had to find my team.
I slipped as I made my way up the mountainside. I skirted the red stained snow, and I noted the discarded bags, weapons. But there was no one left.
It was strange, but I would have given almost anything to see Derek standing there, smug. Or for Jon’s tall frame to look down at me with a mild sense of skepticism. But these were only dreams, empty and hollow.
I wandered east, further up the slope, and paused.
There had been a survivor. He lay on the snow, his eyes closed, and at peace, oblivious to what had happened, a small bloodstone spinning wildly at his side…
Chapter 9
“Self-discovery is rooted in the service of others.” Canton of Sawol
Peter became quiet. The pieces of his story fell away like a broken puzzle.
The Wounded Soul rocked gently, somewhere north of the Isle of Galdor. He had already removed his winter clothing, stripping down to pants and a shirt. The air was humid, warmed by the morning sun, which was no more than a rosy blush painting the sky red.
Peter was sweating as he looked across to Thea.
The door to the cabin was open, allowing in wafts of fresh sea air. Yet, it did little to combat the humidity. Instead, it carried the sounds of the crew, along with the faint sounds of water lapping at the hull.
“Describe the light you saw,” Thea asked, her eyes fixed on Peter.
Peter tore his gaze from the open doorway. Thea’s face had become an amalgam of spidery shadows as his eyes took a moment to adjust to the relative darkness. Within those depths he could discern interest and something more. It was something buried, something hidden behind a veil of secrecy.
“It was bright,” Peter began, “like the Sumor sun, but warmer, softer somehow, unyielding in its intensity,” Peter paused, realizing his words didn’t make much sense.
“And the sound?” Thea persisted.
Peter took a moment to remember. Recalling the events of that night caused him to shiver, despite the heat. His stomach turned anxiously as some hidden fear circled his vision.
As Peter closed his eyes, he could recall the feel of the tree branch below him. He could feel the bite of the Vintas wind on his skin. He could see the annalist in the distance as an expanding and blindingly bright light reached out toward him. Then came the sound.
“It was like someone stole the air from me,” Peter said, memory churning vividly within his mind.
Thea only nodded, her face was an impassionate mask of passivity.
“And the annalist?”
Peter rubbed his chin in thought, where a light beard had begun to grow and prickled his fingers. Her tone belied the façade she had so carefully constructed. Peter detected a hint of eagerness in it.
“He lay where he had once been standing, unharmed…”
Thea leaned closer, interest now clearly writ upon her face. She nodded slowly, as if encouraging Peter to continue. He closed his eyes for a moment, reliving the scene. He could see every bloody detail as vividly as the night he had lost everything.
“I climbed down the tree and made my way to where the annalist lay in the snow,” Peter said, opening his eyes.
He couldn’t remove the image of the annalist from his mind. He lay twitching in the snow, mumbling quietly to himself in a language that Peter didn’t recognize. Sweat creased the annalist’s brow and his face was pale as the snow he lay upon.
Peter took in a slow and steady breath. Sometimes the truth was too burdensome, even for a well-trained mind.
“He lay there, breathing heavily, but unharmed,” Peter lied.
Peter knew that the troubles of Verold were greater than him. They were greater than the annalist or than Thea. He also knew that Thea was hesitant to follow the annalist. He needed to convince her that the annalist was a man worth following.
Thea dropped all pretense of royalty as she examined Peter carefully.
“He lay there awake?” she asked, barely masking her incredulity.
“No, your grace,” Peter replied. “I had to wake him, and he did not awake immediately.”
Thea leaned back in her chair, apparently appeased by Peter’s response.
“Carry on,” she said, gesturing casually to him.
“When he finally awoke he seemed confused,” Peter said, watching Thea carefully, “He seemed worried, fearful even.”
“Fearful of what?”
How did he answer? Wouldn’t anyone have been frightened by manticores tearing through a hardened military force? They had plowed through the Bodigan Battalion as if they were nothing more than Hearvest leaves before a Vintas gale.
“He feared the Witches of Agathon had joined forces with the Kan Savasci,” Peter said.
Thea made no movement. Her face remained impassive. Peter couldn’t read her.
“Tell me,” she questioned, “What do you think happened at Vintas Pass?”
Her tone was gentle, careful, yet carried a piercing strength that dug into the heart of Peter.
What could he say? Peter was but a simple soldier, a single thread in a massive tapestry. What did he know that she didn’t?
“I think the annalist saved the remaining Bodigan force,” Peter finally responded.
Thea raised an eyebrow but said nothing. She didn’t need to. Her face registered surprise. She knew that not even Grandmaster Kaldi could perform so many bindings. Thea knew it had to have been the work of hundreds of Agathonian, the work of a god, or the work of a fractured genius. Thea wasn’t sure which frightened her more.
“Then what happened?” she asked, partially to distract from the chill that ran down her spine.
Peter looked back, toward the map on the rear wall. His eyes traced the simple lines that depicted the Shrouded Mountains. They were nothing more than an artist’s rendition. Yet, for Peter, they were so much more. It was the sight of his greatest pain. It was a source of loss and confusion. Finally, it was where he had found purpose and a teacher.
“The annalist penned a short letter and rolled it up tight. Then he called out, and from nowhere, a bird miraculously flittered down from the sky. It landed upon his outstretched arm. He tied the letter to the bird’s leg, whispered some quiet words to it, pet its head, and released it to the air.�
�
Peter stopped and looked directly at Thea, his eyes absently focused on her wrist. Her sleeve had moved and the light played with the discoloration of a slender scar. She caught his gaze and quickly covered it, a subtle frown twisting her features.
“Did you read the contents of the letter?”
“No, your grace,” Peter responded quickly, turning his attention elsewhere.
“Did you see either the Witches of Agathon or the Kan Savasci?” Thea asked, the outer edges of her decorum crumbled ever so slightly.
Peter shook his head.
It was Thea’s turn to look away. If Peter had to guess, he would have guessed she hid disappointment.
“Continue.”
Her response was so abrupt that Peter flinched under the force of it. He took a moment to gather his thoughts, collecting them the way one would scattered leaves. What had happened next?
The annalist had been confused. Peter had remembered that much. It was as though he had forgotten where he was. Pain twisted his features as the annalist rubbed at his head. One question had stuck with Peter, ‘Why am I here?’
It had been such a simple question.
“It’s hard for me to remember all the details,” Peter resumed, “my mind wasn’t in the right place. I had lost everything in that moment, for the Ranged Guard had become my family…”
Peter let his voice trail off.
Thea’s features softened. The angular shape of anger gave way to compassion and exposed a remembered pain.
“If I remember correctly,” Peter said, “He simply walked off.”
Thea suddenly looked up, as if remembering there was an ongoing story to be told.
“The annalist?”
“Yes, your grace,” Peter replied, “I followed him, of course. But he told me to leave. He told me to return to Bodig, and to tell everyone of what had happened at Vintas Pass. He was insistent.”
Peter then stopped and rubbed his eyes.
“Could I get some water, your grace?”
Thea blinked at him for a span of heartbeats before remembering herself.
“Of course,” she said, gesturing to a nearby jug.
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