by CW Thomas
The boots swiveled to face Scarlett, and an ox-sized man crouched into view.
“Are you all right, Little Red?”
BRAYDEN
A mere whisper of morning light drizzled through the desert fog. In cold and eerie silence an exhausted Brayden Falls stumbled over wind swept sand dunes and sharp rocks, struggling to keep up with their mysterious rescuer. Since their successful escape from the clutches of the Thalmian guards, the man had not stopped to rest once. He hadn’t even slowed. He had said little, and given them nothing except his name: Yori.
He was a lean depiction of well-formed muscle and agility, clad in dark, close-fitting gray leather, a tight hood and a ratty old cloak. An ominous metal faceplate pulled down from the folds of his hood and covered his whole face except for a slit across his eyes. His sleeveless leather torso exposed arms of sinewy muscle, his right sleeved in an intricate network of black tattoos.
Brayden wasn’t the only one struggling to keep up with him. Behind him he heard the labored breathing of his stepbrother, the twins Preston and Ashton, the Efferousian native Taighfinn, and his cousin Clint, who was still inebriated from the wine of Proditous’ generous party.
All day and well into the night they hurried over barren mounds of sand and through deep crags of dry gray stone.
Yori led them into a damp ravine, along the edge of a shallow river, to a rocky ford, then upstream for a time until they came to where a clear creek, gurgling down from the northern ridge, joined the flow. It was there that, at last, he came to a stop.
“We don’t have much time,” he said. “Take rest and water while you can.”
The boys fell to their knees in worship of the trickling creek. With the moon high overhead providing just enough light to see, the exhausted travelers drank and cooled their aching feet.
On his knees before the brook, Brayden gazed down into the rippling shadows of his reflection. His sand-dusted face looked pale and sorrowful, and his brown mop of hair was a tangled mess. He was tired and cold, and it showed. He had nothing to cover himself with for warmth or protection other than the clothes on his back.
“Give me your knife,” he heard Nash say.
“It’s back in Thalmia,” answered Preston.
“Even the one you usually keep in your boots?”
“These aren’t my boots,” Preston said. “This isn’t my shirt either. Proditous gave me these. He gave them to all of us.” The young man looked at Brayden. “They had us surrender everything. That swine betrayed us all.”
Brayden looked back at his reflection as a new wave of hopelessness washed over him. He shut his eyes, trying to block out the pained wails of Khalous echoing through the corridors of his mind.
Broderick came and stood next to him. He drove the tip of his sword into the ground and leaned over it to rest. “Are you all right?”
Brayden’s chest tightened. “No.” Then it tightened some more, swelled with a hot ire burning deep within him.
“You want to kill them as badly as I do?”
Looking at his brother, Brayden saw in Broderick’s eyes the same murderous rage he felt in his heart, the same thirst for vengeance. “We will. Not yet, but we will.”
“I am with you,” Broderick said. They were words Brayden never expected to hear from his brother, comforting words that gave him confidence and fueled the fire rising within him.
He set a hand on Broderick’s shoulder in appreciation.
Broderick nodded toward Yori and asked, “What about him? Do you think he’ll help us?”
Brayden looked at the Kriegellian warrior. It occurred to him that Yori had not given them his last name, a sign, perhaps, that he did not have one. He was a true outcast of Krebberfall, a man without a family, without a place to belong. His tattoos also told much of his story—an experienced warrior, a mystic, a man not even a fool would trifle with.
Nash approached Yori, still looking ridiculous in the colorful gold and bejeweled attire that Proditous had given him. “How did you do all that anyway? The way you killed those vipers. You were like a ghost. How did—”
“No time for questions,” Yori intoned.
Brayden sidled up next to Nash. He glared at the dark blue eyes of the tattooed warrior that he saw looking out through the slit in the silver faceplate. “I think we have time for one question. Who are you?”
Yori lifted the mask and lowered his hood, exposing the long patch of hair that ran down the center of his head into a braided ponytail. “I’m a friend of Tenri’s.”
“Tenri? No friend of that traitor is a friend of ours,” Broderick snapped. He lifted his sword and aimed it at Yori.
“The betrayal of your captain was not the fault of Tenri,” Yori said. “Tenri is an honorable man, but like many from Edhen he is hiding, afraid to go against anyone who serves the Black King out of fear for his own life. He did not betray you, but those above him did once they found out who you are.”
“This whole country hates us,” Nash groaned.
“On the contrary, there are many on Efferous who sympathize with the refugees of Edhen, but they live in fear of their leaders who live in fear of the Black King. Do locus dubi veevay. Have you heard of this?”
Brayden and the others shook their heads.
“It is what the people here call your homeland: the place where evil lives. Your Black King is poison, and the people fear—”
“He is not our king,” Brayden said. “The day we see his head on a spike can’t come soon enough.”
“Then I think I can help you.”
“How?”
Dogs howled and barked in the distance.
“They caught up to us already?”
“Caught up?” Yori said. “No. They never left our heels.” He pulled his hood back up and said, “Time to leave.”
“No!” Broderick said. “This is senseless. We need to fight them.”
“Agreed,” Nash said.
“For what they did to Khalous,” Broderick said.
“And Stoneman,” Preston added.
“We fight.”
Yori shook his head. “Without proper weapons, no armor, and you’re all exhausted, undernourished and parched, you don’t stand a chance.”
“I don’t care!” Broderick shouted. “They’re going to pay for what they—”
“Pay they will,” Yori said. “But not now. We need to—”
“No,” Brayden said. He stepped between Broderick and Nash and approached Yori, his fists tightening. “We need to do this. We need to fight them.”
The boys became silent, their eyes fixed upon Brayden. He caught a glimpse of his brother from the corner of his eyes smiling and nodding his head.
Clint staggered to his feet, holding a short sword he lifted from a black viper. “Most sensible thing I’ve ever heard you say, cousin.”
Yori’s eyes flitted to each boy, coming to rest on Brayden. “This is foolishness.”
“You just said they’ve been right on our heels for two days,” Brayden said. “If we can’t lose them, then we kill them.”
Yori was silent for a moment. Then he asked, “Is this the will of all of you?”
The boys stood before him, jaws set, eyes blazing, dirty fists and dingy weapons at the ready.
The tattooed warrior gave a nod of his head. “Then follow me. There is one place where we might have the advantage.”
He took off into the darkness.
Despite the burning muscles in his legs and the painful blisters on his feet, Brayden pursued him. A newfound eagerness bounced in his step, fueled by anger an adrenaline.
Yori’s pace accelerated. He sprinted through the night across large flat swaths of dried mud, hurrying to get to somewhere but he never said where. He ascended up onto a hillside then followed a ridgeline east.
It wasn’t until a wall of dark rock blotted out the stars to his left that Brayden realized they were ascending into the mountains on a narrow path.
At long last Yori came to a stop. He instructed the b
oys to rest, and then darted up onto a boulder to peer down into the sandy valley they had left behind.
“Is everyone here?” Nash groaned as he lay on his back puffing light gray wisps of breath into the frigid night air. “Clint?”
“Here,” came a weak voice.
“Damn it,” Nash whispered.
“Oh, shut up!” Clint fired back.
Brayden smirked, glad to see the boys had not lost their sense of humor. He could tell that the thought of killing black vipers had invigorated them.
He walked over to the boulder and gazed up at Yori. “What do you see?”
“Torches,” the warrior replied. “They are on the move.” He hopped down. “On your feet. Battle draws near.”
“How many?” Broderick asked.
“Twenty torches. Probably thirty men or more.”
“We should move further up the trail,” Brayden said. “It looks like it narrows just ahead. We’ll draw them into tighter quarters. Force them to come at us slowly.”
“The cliff does more than just narrow, Master Brayden,” Yori said. “It cuts across the path.”
“A dead end?” Nash said. “This is the place you thought we would have an advantage—a dead end?”
“But we’ll have the element of surprise,” Brayden said, trying to remain optimistic.
“How so?” Nash asked.
“They don’t know how far ahead we are. If we can surprise them, we might catch them off guard.”
“Some of us should stay behind,” Preston said, “attack them from the rear. We’ll drive at them from two—”
“No,” Brayden said. “We all attack from the left. Push them over the edge.”
“Let the rocks kill the scum,” Clint said, grinning. “Second most sensible thing I’ve ever heard you say.”
Brayden eyed each one of them. They looked horrible—sweaty, ragged, downtrodden—but they had been hewn from the aftermath of war, trained to take the blows and keep on hitting. They were boys who were suddenly becoming men, and he admired them for their tenacity in the face of fear, weariness, and death.
“We get bloody,” Brayden said.
“Bloody bloody,” Broderick replied.
“What does this mean?” Yori asked. “Is this a saying from your homeland?”
Nash picked up a rock and tossed it in his palm. “It means we’re tired of getting pissed on by the Black King and his broods.”
The barking of dogs echoed up the nighttime path
“It’s time,” Yori said, unsheathing his sword.
He hurried on ahead to where the wall of rock curved in front of the path and spilled over the edge. A vertical drop into darkness and certain death lay below.
Brayden selected Broderick, Nash, and Clint to hide themselves within the narrow crevices of the rock wall. He knew that when he gave the signal they would fight with more aggression than Preston or Ty, who were far more elegant and balanced fighters.
The ferocious yapping of the dogs drew nearer. They had the scent of their prey, and they knew they were close. They scurried over the ridgeline like crazed beasts and when they caught sight of their quarry their pace quickened.
“Leave them to me,” Yori said. He closed his eyes and lifted his fist to his lips. “Forgive me, my friends,” he whispered.
The dogs charged toward the boys, two of them, violent teeth exposed under raised lips, mouths swashing hungry white foam.
Yori vanished. He reappeared a moment later next to one of the dogs and with a violent kick he plowed its front shoulders into its companion, sending both beasts yelping and toppling over the ledge. Their high-pitched cries echoed like ghostly wails into the night.
“A wizard?” Preston whispered.
“Kriegellian magic,” Brayden said.
Yori walked back to them, his face troubled. “That was not honorable,” he lamented.
“No, but it was necessary,” Brayden said.
“And amazing!” Ty said. “You could be fighting all them enemies for us.”
“I hate to disappoint you,” Yori said. “A dozen men I can handle on my own, fifteen at my best and in ideal conditions, but not thirty.”
Brayden saw a glimmer of moonlight reflect off a silver helmet a little ways down the trail. “They’re coming!” he said. “Wait for my signal.”
The moonlight carved jagged shadows along the cliff wall, and illuminated the ridge path in a dull gray light. He could see the black vipers cutting dark shadows along the rock, their silver armor and weapons reflecting in the light from the moon
“How’s your aim, Ty?” Brayden asked.
The dark-haired Efferousian skipped ahead, yanking back his arm and lurching forward, sending a stone the size of his fist hurling at the closest soldier. The stone plowed into his face and sent him toppling to the path in a cloud of gray dust.
“I always hits them well, sir,” Ty said.
“Now might be a good time,” Preston said as two more soldiers drew near.
“No, not yet,” Brayden said. “We need them closer together.”
Yori jumped out ahead of Brayden, putting him two steps from the next black viper in line. The viper drew back his blade and swung for Yori’s throat, but the Kriegellian warrior wasn’t there. When he reappeared behind his enemy he ripped his sword up the man’s back.
He put two more black vipers in the grave before returning to his place alongside Brayden, Preston, and Ty.
“They’re gathering into formation,” he said.
Brayden squinted into the darkness and saw the soldiers of the high king slowing their advance. They merged into a four-man line with spear tips glinting forward, creating a lethal plow at the head of the group. Inch by inch they moved forward along the narrow mountainside pass toward their cornered prey.
“Calm yourselves,” Brayden said. “Wait.”
The marching feet of the soldiers drew closer. Brayden could discern the sounds of metal weapons and heavy armor jangling against buckles and straps. He noticed, with no small amount of fear, that there were more than thirty.
“Wait.”
One of the vipers thrust an armored fist into the air. He gave a sharp command to stop. He walked toward Brayden, his wide shoulders capped with spiked silver plates from which swung a black cape bordered with a thick white stripe. A blood stained helmet in the shape of a stag skull adorned his head.
He lifted the face plate. It was Lord Marshal William Rushwater.
Brayden’s lip snarled.
“Brave little warriors,” the lord marshal said. “Stupid little warriors, thinking you can fight us here as poorly armored as you are. I bring an offer from the lord of Thalmia, one that ensures your survival providing you swear allegiance to—”
“NOW!” Brayden shouted.
Clint, Broderick, and Nash rushed from their hiding spots within the mountain’s cracks and slammed into the packed unit of stationary soldiers. They pushed with as much aggression as Brayden knew they would, toppling their enemies over the edge and into the dark abyss. Screams filled the night and faded as the soldiers spilled onto the jagged rocks far below.
Brayden, Preston, Ty, and Yori tore into the black vipers at the head of the line. With the ranks of the high king’s men so tight together the soldiers had no room to maneuver.
The lord marshal looked just as furious as he did insulted, an expression Brayden wiped off his face with a swipe of his sword. The man dropped to his knees, clutching at the void where his cheeks and nose used to be.
Brayden tossed his sword to Preston and picked up the marshal’s, a shiny, well-balanced blade with a line of freshly sharpened steel glistening along the edges. The weapon tore through three other black vipers with ease, spilling the contents of their bodies in thick, syrupy sprays of blood.
War consumed the narrow mountain ledge. Metal against metal, fist against flesh. Swords struck bone and tore through ligaments and veins, sewing a tapestry of gore and gristle that darkened the earth with red liquid. Men holl
ered in pain, then in terror as they plunged off the beaten path, their armor clattering onto the rocks in an ugly discordant mess.
Brayden felt his energy flaring in ways he’d never experienced before. His adrenaline spiked, fueling his strength, pressing him into his enemies with a vigor he found thrilling. He set loose years of pent up rage, let every swing of his sword be for all the injustice the Black King had inflicted.
A spear sailed toward him and missed, bounced off the rocky ground, and then hissed as wood and steel slide across stone. He took a sword’s edge to his shoulder, but fought to ignore the pain and dispensed his rage into the gut of his opponent with the full length of his sword. Once the hilt of his weapon could go no further he tore it free, and then brought it down onto the back of his opponent’s neck—one hack, two hacks, three hacks, and then the head tore free.
Brayden saw Yori to his right, then to his left, then in front of him behind a cluster of enemies. The mysterious warrior fought like a demon, vanishing from the present world into another and reappearing elsewhere, delivering death everywhere he went.
He glimpsed Broderick fighting like a madman, even with a crushed and bloody nose.
“Get down!” Nash shouted.
Brayden ducked as a battleaxe swung over his head. He spun, plowing his sword into the black viper’s thigh as Nash descended upon the man’s back, thrusting through the soldier’s neck a blade that punched out of his chest.
He ducked a second time when the body of a black viper sailed over his head and into the nothingness beyond, a mere toy hurled by Clint who threw himself weaponless into the fray. With nothing but his anger and his bare fists, he latched onto the enemy like a bear in the wild, hungry and desperate and joyfully furious.
On the narrow ridgeline, the number of black vipers meant nothing. Unable to coordinate any kind of attack, they had no choice but to fall before the enraged warriors of Aberdour.
“Stop!” came the tired voice of one of the soldiers.
Brayden whipped around to find a viper holding Nash from behind, his arm locked around the young man’s throat. Nash looked spent, his face a mess of sweat and blood, his bright embellished clothes stained and torn. The soldier pressed a knife to his cheek, just under his left eye.