“A few days ago, I would have sworn that there were no people on the other side of the Arc,” I continue, pulling my legs up close and wrapping my arms around them. “Now, we find ourselves living among them, eating their food and staying as their guests.” I shake my head and shoot him a wry smile. “Real life has a way of being stranger than fairy tales, I suppose.”
He snorts and lays back on his rough-spun blanket. “Stranger, darker, and more brutal. I think at this point I prefer the fairy tales.”
I sigh again, gazing around the tent. It is actually quite spacious, a wide circle that is large enough for us to stand up in without having to stoop. The walls appear to be constructing by a patchwork mixture of animal skins and dull-colored fabric, held together with reeds and splintery timbers. The fact that these people dwell in tents as opposed to permanent structures of brick and mortar seems to indicate that they are nomadic, never staying in one single place for long.
Perhaps it is the demons, I think to myself. They must wander from place to place, harvesting its resources and handing the majority over to the R’Laar. A pitiful existence, but existence nonetheless.
“These poor people are in quite the position,” I say softly, staring off into space. “Unable to settle down, to farm and grow. They are constantly under the threat of being exterminated by the demons and have lost all memory of their ancestors. I feel sorry for them.”
Owyn shifts on his blanket and grunts. “They’ve lost the will to fight back.”
I shoot him a glance. “Wouldn’t you, if you were in their situation?”
He thinks about it for a moment, then shakes his head. “Never. I’d rather die than live as a slave.”
Well, I think, curling up on the hard ground myself. There’s a very real chance that this will become our reality as well.
We lay there in silence for a time, the encampment growing quiet outside our tent. In the darkness, I try to sleep but find that I cannot keep my mind from turning. The gravity of our situation begins to weigh upon me. Where do we go from here? Discovering these people complicates things. If we do manage to find a way inside the Arc, do we merely abandon them? How can we justify that knowing the horrors they endure at the demons’ hands?
They are troubling thoughts, and eventually I push myself to a sitting position, giving up on my attempts to find rest.
“Owyn,” I whisper. “Are you asleep?”
He grunts and rolls over to face me. Little light filters in through the tent flap, but from what I can see he seems to be rubbing his eyes. “Not anymore...”
“Sorry,” I reply. “I can’t sleep. Too much going on in my head.”
“You need to learn from my example,” he says, voice scratchy. “Can’t have a lot going on in your head if it’s empty to begin with.”
I smile faintly as he pushes himself up to a sitting position.
“Is everything alright?” He asks a moment later.
“It’s just,” I begin, trying to verbalize my feelings, “I... I’m not sure what we should do next. Things seem much more... complicated now.”
He scratches his chin and yawns. “What do you mean?”
“These people, the demons subjugating them... it causes a problem. What do we do now that they are in the picture?”
He pauses for a few seconds before responding. “Honestly, I’m not sure it changes anything. Our primary goal should still be to find a way back into the kingdom. Being here only ensures that we’ll have food and shelter.”
“But these people need us, Owyn. We can’t just leave them behind to be abused while we return to the comforts of civilization!”
“Zara,” he begins, sounding as pragmatic as ever. “Until today, we didn’t even know these people existed. The fact that they are here should have nothing to do with our mission. Remember, our first duty is to protect the realm. Everything else is secondary.”
I try not to let myself be annoyed by his callous response. As a ranger, he has been taught to make hard decisions, to deal with life and death in a very literal way. Still, I can’t help but disagree with his definition of ‘duty’. The Light teaches that all life is sacred, and that it is valuable and worth protecting. The fact that this group of individuals live outside the borders of the kingdom has nothing to do about whether or not they are worth defending.
However, discussing this with Owyn will no doubt turn our conversation into an argument. If an emotional appeal will not work, then perhaps a practical one will.
“You’re right about the food and shelter,” I reply. “But I think that it is fortuitous that we happened upon these people.”
He cocks his head to the side. “How so?”
“Maybe they are the key to us getting out of here,” I say, an idea forming in my mind. “They know this area better than we ever will – and they know the demons as well. If we can earn their trust, then perhaps they will aid us with information on how to get back inside.”
Silence fills the tent as he considers this. Then, he shakes his head. “We can’t even communicate with them, Zara. And besides, if they knew a way into Tarsynium, don’t you think they would have escaped this place long ago?”
I respond almost immediately, anticipating his question. “I’m a scholar and mage, remember? I bet that with a little time, I could learn their language and communicate with them. As for the other thing... I agree. They probably don’t know how to get through the Arc. But that doesn’t mean they won’t have useful information – perhaps they know the movements of the demons so we can avoid them, or perhaps they know where some source crystal can be found. If I could get my hands on a new talisman, I could probably open a hole in the Arc for us to get through!”
The more I talk about it, the more excited I become. For the first time since being exiled, I feel like there is actually hope for us to escape.
Owyn still seems unconvinced.
"I don't know, Zara. I don't trust these people. If they're completely unwilling to defend themselves from the R'Laar, what's keeping them from betraying us?"
It is a good point, but not one that I haven't already considered. "The young among them seem to be on our side. That one boy, the one who led us here, seemed to plead our case before their elders. You saw him before he left us, after that girl was taken away... he was angry. Perhaps that anger can be turned to our advantage."
He still seems uncertain, but he doesn't object. Instead, he sits there quietly, mulling over our conversation.
I allow the silence to linger – my own thoughts still spinning at the possibilities. I'll probably be the first mage in the Conclave's history to translate a living language. How long will it take me to be able to carry on a conversation with them? Curse my interest in artifice... I should have paid more attention to Evoker Thomison's lectures on the ancient kingdoms of Byhalya.
As the minutes pass by, I find my mind turning to darker subjects, casting a pall on the excitement that has swelled inside me. Why did the gorgons take that girl away? Was it some sort of sacrifice? From what I have observed, the R'Laar seem to channel their magic by sucking the life force out of living things, draining them to fuel their power. Is that what they were going to use that girl for?
I shudder at the thought.
Apparently sensing my sudden emotional shift, Owyn gets up from his place on the other side of the tent and walks over to me, sitting down on my blanket beside me and putting his arm around my shoulder.
His presence puts me at ease, and I find myself relaxing resting my head against his muscled shoulder.
He leans over and kisses me tenderly on the forehead, then proceeds to simply hold me, further comforting my troubled mind.
I'm not sure how long we sit like that, but eventually we lay down beside one another, still cuddling in the darkness of the tent. The warmth of his body seems to seep into me, lulling me into a sense of safety. It seems that, having our essential needs met for the time being, our romantic flame has been somewhat rekindled. My heart flutters
at first as we lay wrapped up in each other's arms, but it is quickly replaced by drowsiness, my eyelids growing heavy.
The last thing I remember before drifting off to sleep is smiling to myself, grateful that the two of us have each other. After that, the shroud of sleep covers me, engulfing me in comforting blackness.
That is, of course, until the nightmares inevitably come.
Chapter Fourteen
Talon
"Bloody Owyn," I grumble to myself, stomping across the yard of the Nightingale encampment. "Eleven Hells curse you. Why did you have to go and get yourself captured? Bloody thought you had more sense than that..."
The sky is dismal and grey this morning, mirroring the general temperament of everyone in the encampment. Ever since news reached us about the death of Protector Thel and the second betrayal of King Aethelgar, everybody has been depressed, scared of the future and unsure about what we should all do next.
At least there has been plenty of ale to drink, I think glumly to myself. I’m not sure how I’d deal with all of this if I couldn’t take the edge off.
I make my way past a row of tents, the soldiers all lounging and dicing with one another, talking in hushed conversations. Normally, I wouldn’t disapprove of such behavior. What’s life without any enjoyment every now and again? However, this sort of thing has been going on for more than a week, ever since the bodies of the Protector and the other Nightingales were discovered by that old church. Owyn and Zara were not among the bodies, thankfully. They are no doubt holed up in some prison cell in Tarsys, trying to figure out a way to escape.
At least they’ll be safe, I think, walking over to the quartermaster’s tent. That’s more than can be said for us.
The Nightingales are now leaderless, stuck in the middle of the Heartlands and surrounded by enemies. Over the last several days, our scouts have been harried by the cavalry of the king. They seem to be testing our defenses, looking for a weakness they can exploit. It has put many on edge, and the remaining generals and captains all squabble about who should be chosen to lead the army.
It’s been bloody terrible.
I step into the tent and allow my eyes to adjust to the dim light within. Among sacks of grain and barrels of supplies, I spot a rotund man smoking a pipe on a crate near the back. “Master Ault,” I say cheerily, striding up to him. “How are you faring on this fine day?”
The man eyes me suspiciously, taking a long pull on his pipe and puffing it out in my face. “Just dandy,” he says at length, frowning. “The constant threat of death and the lack of decision-making in this camp have made this a wonderful place to be.”
I flash him a small grin and try not to cough from the cloud of smoke. “Oh, come on, Quartermaster. It’s not all bad. At least you still have your health!”
He does not smile back. “Come for more ale, have you?”
Feigning surprise, I take a step back. “Master Ault, you insult me! What makes you think I want at your ale stores? Perhaps I’ve merely come for the pleasure of your company.”
He takes another pull on his pipe and exhales through his nose. “It’s going to be five silvers a pint, this time.”
“Five silvers!” I exclaim. Now, I do not have to feign surprise. “That’s outrageous!”
“Supply’s low,” he replies with a shrug. “Lots of folks been drinking to deal with the recent events. Besides, I don’t like you very much. Not too keen on giving you a discount.”
Cheeky bastard, I think, reaching into my money pouch. At least he’s honest.
I pull out five coins and drop them on one of the barrels beside him. “Buy yourself a friend, if you can afford it. And I'm not just talking about the lady folk."
He snickers at that, and I take it as a personal achievement as I walk over to where the ale is stored in barrels. After finding a pewter mug, I quickly locate the nearest barrel with a tap affixed to it and place the mug beneath it.
Reaching forward with my left hand, I unwittingly attempt to open the tap with my stump. Grimacing, I pull back, using the fingers on my good hand to fill up my pint. Annoying, that. I should be used to not having a hand by now.
The mug fills in short order, and soon I am making for the exit, sipping the froth off the top and waving goodbye to the surly quartermaster.
I step back outside with my ale in hand, taking in a deep breath of cold, wintery air. It smells of war, oiled leather and smoldering fire pits. I much prefer the smell of taverns, but it could be worse... at least it doesn’t smell like death.
Taking a long drink of my ale, I begin wandering through the camp for perhaps the thousandth time. There isn’t much to do besides train, and with my crippled arm, I feel rather useless. What good is a ranger who can no longer fire a bow?
The infirmary tent passes by on much left and I hasten to avoid it. A few days ago, Sybil and I got into a spat, and things haven’t quite smoothed over yet.
The last thing I need is a lecture from some girl, I think, taking another drink of my ale. That won’t help my morale, no matter how nice her backside looks.
A cluster of soldiers call out to me and I raise my pint, acknowledging them. I’ve probably diced with every Nightingale in this camp and have somehow developed something of a reputation. Not that that’s a bad thing. Better to be known as the one who knows how to have a little fun, rather than the one who has no fun at all, like Owyn.
I feel a pang of guilt as my thoughts turn once more to the other apprentice, and I drown it with another long drink. What were the last words I said to him? I hope they were positive, and not me calling him a git for spending too much time with the mage.
A disturbance on the edge of camp captures my attention, and I look to see A group of soldiers running toward the commotion.
Curious, I drain the last of my ale and jog after them, grateful for another distraction to take me away from my own dark thoughts.
When I reach the picket line, a long series of trenches and sharpened sticks along the perimeter of the encampment, I can see a single rider making his way toward us, flying no banners. At first, he is too far away to make out, and the Nightingales around me mutter to themselves about an enemy messanger, but soon I am able to make out the man's apparel, which consists of a grey mottled cloak similar to my own.
"A ranger," I say to myself with a smile. "Well, isn't that a sight for sore eyes?"
Those around me notice it too, and the captains begin calling for the men to stand down. An ally is coming to the camp – and at this point, we need all the allies that we can get.
I race with the others to the entrance as the rider arrives, pulling his nickering horse to a stop. The man has a bow slung across his back, as well as a quiver that is bristling with arrows. As soon as I see his face, though, he is easily recognizable, with his greying hair and dour expression.
"Elias Keen of the rangers," he declares from atop his war horse. "I've come to speak with Protector Xander Thel on a matter of great urgency."
I STARE AT THE DANCING flames of the brazier, listening with half an ear as the Nightingales argue the same stupid points they have been arguing for days.
Night has fallen, covering the camp in darkness, and in the center of it all, Elias Keen speaks with the remaining leaders of the rebel army.
“The betrayal is a grievous offense indeed,” he says, standing up before the assembled leaders, “but we have to keep in mind the greater risk. The whole reason Protector Thel led us down here was because the Arc is failing. We stand a much greater chance of being destroyed if we remain divided.”
He speaks with such eloquence, I think to myself in mild surprise. I never would have expected that from a man like Elias.
The ranger-turned-Nightingale had returned from the Grand Lodge in a rush, his horse lathered and near to collapse. Apparently, the meeting with the Wardens had gone well, for he still had his head attached to his shoulders. Not only that, be he now seems to have a renewed sense of urgency in his voice, an intense desire to ral
ly the rebels and bring the whole realm together.
I should have liked to have been in that meeting when the Master Warden and the others grilled him, I think wryly. It would have been liked watching wolves fighting amongst themselves over an injured stag.
“You sound like one of them,” growls one of the lesser Nightingale captains, leveling an accusing finger at Elias. “You care more for the lives of royalty than you do for our people.”
Elias stares him down, gaze as hard as steel. “I care for the free people of Dunmar City, Vel. In case you’ve forgotten, I’ve fought and bled for the Nightingales. But I also care for the hundreds of thousands of innocent people in this kingdom who will suffer if we cannot unite.” This seems to quell the anger somewhat, causing much of the arguing to die down. Elias continues. “King Aethelgar is a snake,” he says, turning to address everyone sitting around the brazier, “but we are all children of the Light. The R’Laar is the greatest threat we have ever faced... and make no mistake – they are coming for us all.”
“Then what do you propose that we do?” Sturgis asks from the side. Many in the camp believe that he should take command of the army, since he was close to both the Protector and General Barus. “Do you want us to simply submit to the wishes of the king and go willingly to the executioner’s block?”
Many rumble their agreement.
“We need a new Protector!” Another man speaks up, his voice fierce and passionate. “The Nightingales are rudderless without a leader!”
“I agree,” Elias replies, still standing before the assembled group. “We need a plan. But we cannot allow emotion to guide us on the road ahead – it will only lead us to ruin. These are troubling times, and we need logic and principles to guide us more now than ever.”
“To the Hells with principles,” the same man says, standing up to regard Elias from the other side of the fire. “My anger is stronger than that false king’s guile! We need someone to take care of our people and avenge our murdered brothers!”
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