Sapling: The Broken Halls

by Dan Gillis

  “L - lord … surely, you are not giving up?” Stefan had to ignore his fear, as far greater matters consumed his mind. He had never seen the young king in such a state, defeated and demoralized. The chancellor had accompanied him on many campaigns and had seen Toryn in many battles. This behaviour was so unlike him - unnatural and alarming.

  “When have I ever shirked my duty, Stefan?” the voice of the monarch carried a sharp rebuke. Toryn sighed and paused before speaking again. “I cannot cling to hope any longer; my heart is drawing faint. I would prefer to reside up here, in my solitude, and wait for the end than lead a country through false hope. That would be more deceptive than the darkest acts of the Ahtol cadres.” The young man turned, the years as The Standard of Kenhar seemed to weigh his shoulders down to the cold stone.

  “My liege!” Stefan called out vigorously, “I cannot bear to hear these things! Forgive me but your words are what the enemy would rejoice to hear! Come to your senses!” Stefan swallowed uncomfortably. Those words could easily land him in the stocks or time in the cells. Yet, he could not refrain; his face was flushed in anger and sorrow. The young king did not flinch upon the outburst but remained still for a moment.

  “Peace, my friend … I understand your sentiment and I would react the same had our places been reversed. I …” As the king made to step down to his chancellor, a powerful wind crashed over the high precipice, and Stefan looked on in horror as it caught his Lord in its potent lashings. It all passed as brief moments in time. The king was swept to the edge of the stone, his body all but carried over into the air. Toryn’s eyes were set strange; so calm and accepting. His large frame seemed to linger there upon the edge. The wind, as if acting as the cruel hand of fate, was judging the monarch. Then simply and unnervingly, the howling ceased and all was calm and silent. Toryn slumped to the stair, one leg thrusting down over the edge. Catching himself upon the edge, the King of Kenhar looked about in wonder. He looked to the east.

  The fiery orb had begun its escape from the jagged teeth of its captive mountains. The sky was thrown into vibrant luminous colours and the streams of light pierced the top of the tower. Colours, bright and fervent, spread like streams of holy power across the heavens. Toryn sat in a daze, the new day light brushing his face and glistening in his grey eyes. A tender tear fell across his cheek as he paused motionless upon the brink.

  “So beautiful …” he whispered.

  “My liege! … Toryn …” Stefan called out and despite his fear he scrambled up to his king and helped him to the safety of the stair. “Please … let us go down …”

  “Yes. The moment has passed.” The king rose under his chancellor’s arm and took a few steps down the stair. Then Toryn stopped and turned his head slightly. “Can you feel that, Stefan? There is change in the air … it is like a strand of the sun’s power breaking the shadows. It feels … like something has moved in the land. In Aerluin’s mercy the heavens shine down upon the faithful.” He stood for a moment and basked in the warmth that shed from the rising sun. The shadows began to flee like a drawn veil across the land. Toryn stood as resolute as the far peaks upon the horizon. “I shall no longer sit in the shadows and allow this sickness to grow unchecked. These Ashori shall no longer act with impunity under my rule. I swear this to Mother - may she guide my words.”

  The king of Kenhar turned his face from the sun and slowly the two men descended the long open stair.

  * * *

  The ground around Firah was scorched black in areas, as were the trees which had blazed unchecked until they were consumed - black and lifeless. Mother and her skin were abused. The whole needless scene angered her. Though considered immature at sixteen years, she picked up all the particulars of the skirmish as she walked through the torn camp. Mournful whispers from the survivors who thought to subdue their talk from her ears. It was in more than just words. All the surrounding area cried out in anguish. Now standing atop the ridge she could see the scene in a grander scale. Grey Rangers had positioned above the camp while mercenary forces pressed upon the defenders below.

  Firah could hardly blame the White Guard for anything they had done, for survival and victory were powerful masters. The Guard had not been the aggressors in this event. Rather her ire was directed against the senseless actions of their enemy. She could hardly fathom the folly of the leaders of the company that had ambushed the White Guard. What was to gain? Was there any purpose to their raid?

  Suddenly, her eyes caught hold upon something moving in a copse of trees ahead of her.

  Thinking it was some sort of animal or a fawn, the girl decided to investigate. She focused all her thoughts and energy around her, as she had done so many times before. Gradually, she slowed her breath to long and deep passes. After a few moments she reached out and touched the bark of a nearby tree. It pained her to mimic the tortured blackened skin of the tree. At once her skin took on the hue and texture of the surface she touched upon. The young thief strode swiftly and silently upon the ground. Her breathing was slow and deliberate and her heart thumped away with its hammer inside her veins. Each time she reached out and contacted a new surface, she would change with it.

  Firah proceeded further into the wood. The ground gave way to endless twisted and tangled roots which jutted out everywhere. Her every step was measured and placed with the utmost care. Firah loved to watch the wild creatures; however, they would never permit an intruder into their private world. As a result, she had to rely upon her ability to sneak about, not only in the towns but also in the wild. Animals had such highly developed senses, she was often detected even while concentrating with all her ability. As she pressed on, her whole body was tingling with energy, her form constantly shifting with the surrounding wood.

  Firah drew silently under the thin tree canopy. Her eyes drew to what had originally caught her gaze and she was surprised to spot three cloaked forms. Large and splendid bows and partially filled quarrels were strapped to their sturdy backs which were hunched slightly as they conversed in low tones. They were all large in stature and shifted occasionally in their stances with cat-like motions. They were dressed to match the colours and environment around them, though she noticed that they all also wore grey in some fashion.

  Firah was unsure what to do. She did not recall seeing these people in the camp. Their colours did not match that of the White Guard. While the Guard scouts dulled down the white significantly (it would prove difficult to prowl in glaring white), it did not match the grey apparel of the strangers before her. She presumed that they could be spies of some sort. Her heart beat hard inside her chest. Should she chance it? Not that she owed anything to Lord Tey’ur but payback for a few days of misery and frustration. Rather, she was inherently curious, to a fault. She wanted to know what they were talking about; afterward, she would decide what to do with the information. Gathering her courage, she began to slide ever closer to the small cloaked group.

  As the forms grew larger and more detailed with every step, she began to hear some muttering. She still could not discern words, only quiet rumbling. She stepped gingerly around a large root, taking care not to break the underbrush or shift the fallen leaves. She silently cursed the Darkwood season. Moving was slow due to the numerous fragile and crispy leaves which lay as a coloured blanket across the wood’s floor. Firah steeled herself, bringing her body into complete harmony with the environment. She edged ever nearer, until finally she stood poised behind a tree mere feet from the huddled party. Perking her ears, she strained to listen.

  “… is inevitable. The Guard will be unable to recover.” One spoke quietly.

  “That may be true; however …” another voice rose and fell in volume while Firah gripped the tree nervously. She could only catch bits and pieces, morsels of information falling from the wind. “… it must be so. There is no other option.” The silent observer was turned away from the group and could not discern any movement. She suppressed her breathing as best she could, yet her heart raced like a chased roe
through the woods.

  “I propose that we act …” the voice trailed off for a few moments. “… will be ours. Victory is assured.” Firah’s throat constricted tightly. They were planning some sort of counter attack, but where and when?

  “You will alert Lord Kurel. I will remain to observe their progress. Swift the shaft brings …” A brief pause and then two voices rung low in response.

  “… Mother’s judgement.” Firah heard nothing more and waited for a few moments before daring to breathe outward. It was an eerie calm that prevailed. She waited an eternity it seemed. Her mind was swaying in anxious excitement. Despite her dislike of the cadre Lord, Tey’ur should know what she knew, as limited as the knowledge was. Yet, she needed to escape first from the situation. She still heard nothing, no evidence of any movement or voices. Finally, she decided to chance a look.

  Firah moved her head gradually around until her vision just cleared the trunk, attempting to keep the thick tree between herself and the group. To her surprise, only one form came to her sight, resting quietly upon the ground cross-legged. ‘Where are the others?’ she thought frantically. The silent figure was motionless and turned away from her; she took a second glance. They had left as silently as she had arrived. Her heart sank in contemplation of the mortal danger she had put herself in. These people were extremely skilled in the same art as she. How many others could there be in the area? ‘How careless!’ she chided herself. She knew that she must get away and quickly. Firah lifted a foot slowly to begin her slow escape.

  “I was wondering when you would move, little mouse. Your Root is good enough for amateurs, though hardly a test for me,” a deep voice resonated from the sitting figure. Firah jumped and emitted a small noise of fright. The man had caught her completely off guard and frightened her unexpectedly. Her mind raced in fear, what should she do? “You may try to run if you wish, little one, but you will not leave this wood. You carelessly trespassed into our domain. Your life is mine.”

  Firah had heard enough. She dashed with all her might toward the camp. Leaves crunched harshly and twigs snapped. She did not care; she did not want to die. She heard no sound of pursuit, which unnerved her, but she saw the exit to the wood and charged onward. ‘So close’ she chided.

  The air around Firah burst into a violently swirling grey cloud. Dust particles plumed and churned around the girl’s body. Firah swiftly covered her eyes, but the stinging sensation told her it was too late. Her eyes now burned intensely and when she attempted to open them for a moment, her body forced them shut again. She cried out in pain and brought her hands instinctively to her face. When she rubbed her eyes, the stinging grew much worse. In her stumbling about she came into contact with a tree, her face striking hard against the bark. She fell to the ground, blind and helpless, tasting her blood.

  Her terror heightened and her mind struggled to maintain a semblance of sanity. The thief was dragged back to the fields of carnage she had walked through that morning. Although Firah knew it was not real, she could not stop the strange memory unfolding with alarming tangibility. She could not escape the nightmarish web of past events.

  She walked unsteadily amongst the rows of bodies. She still ached from a bruise that covered her entire right side. Something had happened last night, in her sleep. Something terrible … her gaze fell over the mangled remnants of the dark battle. Truly, the two monks had given miraculous service, yet not all could be saved. War disturbed her greatly, to see the expressionless grey faces of so many fallen men and women. It all seemed so senseless and futile. All of them, thinking and breathing human beings but hours ago - now lifeless husks rotting upon the earth, waiting in vain for a nameless grave. Most were now a shadow of their former selves; some had been reanimated into grotesque twisted shapes, others fated to be hewn down again and again. In her young life she could not have believed such a thing possible, and yet what she had been told was terribly evident in her gaze. She turned away from their faces.

  As she limped her way past the endless rows of cold sentinels, her heart trembled within her breast and her breath came short. She was deathly frightened of the dead. Somehow, deep within she felt something had fled from her. She had lost a reassurance, a steady bulwark that had always been there. Now she felt empty as a void, stumbling about in dark uncertainty. The sky seemed darker, the dull greyness weighing down her every step. She looked toward the heavens while drifting through the rows of tangled bodies. The sun was shrouded in a thick grey veil. Her steps faltered upon a slope, yet she barely noticed the change in elevation. Everywhere she looked was grisly death, pale eyes casting their jealous gaze upon her. She wrapped her slender arms about her trembling body. The cold Darkwood wind picked up and tossed her ebony hair about as she ascended the rise.

  After a few steps, she stumbled over an outstretched leg and fell to the earth. She reeled, caught in frantic terror. She twisted around to see the body of a mercenary which she had tripped over. It lay crumpled and bent inward, almost in the act of consuming itself. In a heartbeat she saw the head move slightly. She checked her gaze and was unable to detect any sign of movement from the collapsed husk. Yet, she could feel things shifting about her, twitching.

  She emitted a small cry when she felt something brush the back of her arm. Her breath came rapidly as her crimson eyes, wild with fear, flicked about the area. Still nothing was moving … in her direct sight. Subconsciously, her hand drifted to her belt for that reassuring comfort … and found it bare. She jerked her head down in panic. The blade was gone! She patted her belt all around; her mind reasoned frantically ‘Perhaps it could have fallen when I tripped.’ She felt all around the area and madly searched in vain for her prized possession. She heard the sounds of distant moaning.

  The sounds were closing and bodies were shifting all around her. One body caught her attention, a great gaping wound revealed the flesh and sinew within. A gargled retch emitted from her mouth, as her body nearly vomited from sheer terror. Slowly, her face turned to see one of the distant bodies, an armoured mercenary rising upward silently. The face was ghastly, the neck turned to one side from a vicious and lethal hammer blow. She watched speechlessly as the warrior slowly turned as if gliding upon the air, its eyes slowly settling upon her. A droning filled her ears, which seemed to come from all around.

  She moved herself backward slowly, out of instinct. 'I must get away!' she thought. Again her hand went to her belt and found it bare. Impossible, it couldn’t be gone! She kicked her legs to propel her backward until she bumped up against a tree. She turned to grasp the trunk only to find the side of a White Guard slumped over upon a spear that had impaled the warrior through.

  Screaming hoarsely, she shot upward and ran up the slope swiftly. The sky had darkened considerably and clouds billowed black overhead. Without glancing, she could sense the hammer-stricken corpse was overtaking her, as it appeared unencumbered by the terrain, simply gliding over all the fallen dead, toward her. The wind was howling and whipping her about violently, delaying her escape. The monstrosity drifted ever closer.

  “Get away! Leave me be!” She screamed in futility as she ran into the forceful wind. She had ascended the rise and now moved across the scorched ground with all haste. Twitching her gaze, her heart froze as the monster was almost on top of her. Its hand was stretching outward toward her small body. She froze where she stood, her fear all but consuming her soul. She waited for the cold fingers to squeeze the life from her body - just as they had nearly done before that night in Khyvla. She slumped to her knees and closed her eyes tightly. Every sensation tingled along her skin as she waited for the end.

  Something touched her shoulder and she shrieked in despair.

  “Such a foolish little one,” a voice whispered in her ear, “you should not have come here.” Firah felt reality stab through her dark delusions. She struggled in vain to detect the voice, swinging her arm around her head. The voice sounded like it was right next to her. It was cold and surreal. Remorseless.


  “Stay away from me!” She shouted through puffed lips. Her eyes were still darkened from the dust attack and she flailed her arms again in vain toward the sound of the voice. The assailant stopped her struggling with a solid blow to her abdomen which drove the breath from her even as it escaped her lips. She gagged and retched for breath that would not come. She was so disorientated, her body screaming so many signals, that she felt completely useless. She could hardly form a conscious thought. Suddenly, she felt herself being shoved onto her back and something heavy pressing uncomfortably down on her chest. “Wait, I promise I won’t …”

  “Lies have no place here,” the voice spoke coldly. She felt a hand moving over her body, not in lust but searching for something. She heard the man muse softly, “Deepstone? What are you doing with something like this?” She could not imagine what he meant and she could hardly breathe so she chose not to answer. She felt a tug against her leather vest near her shoulder and realized that he was taking her brooch. Despite the pressure on her chest and the pain she was experiencing, Firah spoke.

  “Please, don’t take that!” she gasped out in desperation. Struggling to open her eyes she found everything a blur. Her eyes were slowly washing away the painful dust but it was still impossible to see clearly. She felt the brooch snap from her tunic.

  “Why are you worried about it?” he commented quietly, “you will be dead soon.”

  Firah could stand no more. She lashed out at the weight that held her down, finding it to be a sturdy leg belonging to her captor. Not only was the attempt futile but the man shoved down hard upon her chest. She heard a popping sound and tried to scream with all her might, in intense pain and frustration. All her breath had left her. She clenched her fists tightly and shook her head weakly from side to side. “Heh. You don’t like this? You should have reconsidered when you entered the wood. You thought you were skilled, but you’re now hardly a concern for anyone. That is why we finished our business before dealing with you.” She felt the leg slide upward toward her throat.