by Chris Pisano
Nevin found Belhurst well outside of camp. Strange that the chief wizard secluded himself while the rest prepared to leave and could have greatly used his help, but Nevin was thankful for the opportunity it presented. Grymon was still chatting away in Diminutia’s ear when Nevin had last seen them while Silver kept Follen ignorant to Nevin’s whereabouts.
Nevin climbed the slope of a rocky little knoll and stood next to Belhurst, clearly trying to meditate.
“What do you want?” the wizard groused.
“Just seeking the opportunity to coordinate. You have a plan. Or do you mean to take the Elite Troop on in a fight?”
“Nevin, I don’t have the time to explain this to you. And even though I don’t particularly care what your thoughts or opinions of me are, I wouldn’t have you see me as disordered and impulsive. But we must get that stone. If that requires a fight, then so be it.”
“Belhurst, that’s madness,” said Nevin, procuring some jerky from his hip pouch and tossing it into his mouth. “Surely you can’t mean that. And more surely, you can’t expect us to help with that.”
“Nevin, believe me. If diplomacy and reason stood a chance, then they would be my first choice. The stone they carry has immense strength and perverse effects. Whoever carries that stone will be well beyond the capacity of rational thought when we get there. He or she will have set themselves up as godlike in their mind. Paranoia will cloud their judgment, and even their own friends will have cause to fear physical harm from them.”
Here the wizard paused, lowering his head. His shoulders sagged, and he seemed suddenly frail to Nevin. In a moment, all of those months without sleep had caught up to the mage. Lines he was hitherto unaware of etched themselves deep into his brow and around his eyes and mouth.
“Of course, I will give you the opportunity to leave if you so desire, though I would greatly appreciate it if you and your men would try to steal the Elite Troop’s stone. I would prefer to avoid bloodshed if possible. I will recompense you in whatever means I can, and do what I can to extricate you from the situation, though if things get tense you will have to fend for yourselves.”
Nevin regarded the wrinkled wizard with a suspicious gaze. He held no contempt for the man, yet he had zero trust in him either. The wizard hid his true desires well, but Nevin knew they were there. Even the most generous of men acted for selfish reasons, they craved the feelings of enlightenment that performing good deeds brought. Nevin had never felt such feelings, but he knew they existed. Just as he knew every man and woman never acted without some form of personal gain.
Nevin’s mind raced, visualizing various scenarios that could be brought about by certain word choices. He and his thieving partners wanted to swindle the wizards, but not to the point of evoking their wrath or leaving themselves in a situation of dire peril. However, Nevin realized the latter of the unsavory options could not be avoided as commotion from their campsite commanded his attention.
Screaming. Growling. The clanking of supplies getting hurled around. Belhurst and Nevin glanced at each other and then back to the site. They knew these sounds meant an attack.
Nevin ran back to the campsite, the old wizard a few paces behind, to see the commotion. His stomach sank, and his spine grew cold. He expected to see the Elite Troop, fearing they discovered the campsite. What he saw gripped his heart and squeezed all hope from it. The shadows moved.
Nevin and Belhurst ran to join their friends in the center of madness. Diminutia and Silver slashed at random movements. Follen and Grymon uttered nonsensical phrases as small bursts of fire flashed from their hands, enough to push the shadows back for minor reprieves, but not enough to keep them at bay.
“Where’s the camp fire?” Belhurst cried, looking around the ground as if it had simply been misplaced.
“The thieves extinguished it!” Grymon answered.
“What? Why would you do something so asinine while the suns are gone?”
“You were the one throwing a fuss about being discovered by the Elite Troop! Especially worried about the fire!” Silver shouted in defense.
Nevin assessed the situation. It was dire indeed. They had set up camp on a plateau, high enough to prove fatal should they decide to jump, that could only be accessed by a small alley of difficult rock. Shadows swirled in front of the only viable escape rout while black mists rolled onto the plateau edge. And the thieves and wizards were caught in the middle of an ever-constricting perimeter of darkness.
Calculating the odds of survival, Nevin listened to Belhurst and Grymon exchange possibilities of spells to ensure escape or survival. They lacked necessary ingredients for every spell suggested. The odds diminished in Nevin’s mind with every failed suggestion, until there were no suggestions left to be made—except one.
Nevin turned to Follen and watched with amazement at the fluidity of the wizard’s movements. During any other situation, the aged wizard would twitch and fuss, but when it came to plying his craft, he possessed the skill of a dancer. Nevin drew his dagger and approached Follen.
“Enchant this,” Nevin said, grabbing Follen’s arm.
The wizard scowled, wondering if the thief believed the task to be enough for escape. He then looked into Nevin’s eyes and realized the thief knew very well an enchanted dagger would be nary enough. With a quick nod, Follen took the dagger and stabbed the ground. He removed it from the dirt and sliced Nevin’s hand. Finally, he forced Nevin to wield the dagger with his bleeding hand. “Babba Eyooga Dellat!”
Nevin watched as a bright, yellow flame engulfed his weapon. Looking at Follen, he said, “You better get ready to push that damnable cart.”
As smooth and silent as a shadow himself, Nevin slid to Belhurst. Belhurst noticed the thief’s wry smirk and pursed his lips, ready to spew forth insults and profanities at the thief for smiling during a time of despair. But he was interrupted by a simple gesture, Nevin holding up the pilfered Shadow Stone in his fingers. The wizard reached for it, but the thief was gone.
Nevin ran toward the blocked escape route and waved the stone for all demons to see. He then sprinted along one side of the perimeter of undulating blackness toward the plateau’s cliff. The demons followed, uncloaking the escape route like a falling funeral veil.
Follen and Grymon took immediate advantage and pushed the cart to the exit. Belhurst needed to restrain Silver and Diminutia.
“Nevin!” Diminutia cried out. “Don’t be a fool! Drop the stone and run!”
His friend’s words fell on deaf ears as Nevin faced a wall of rippling ink. He slashed at it with his blazing dagger, but missed. Feeling enough time had passed for his companions to stage an escape, he turned to retreat. Bars of flowing darkness stopped him. He cut through them with ease, releasing shrill screams of pain as dark tendrils flopped along the ground. He ran toward his friends amid a chorus of, “Come on! Run!” but he soon found himself getting no closer.
Dark mist held the elf in place as the ink oozed over his shoulders and down his chest. His waist and hips disappeared. Blindly, he stabbed at the wall of black that held him, but did little more than elicit more screams. He could no longer see his legs and feet. The black was cold, ice touched every inch of his skin. But he endured the chilling pain by the warmth in his chest. Had he ever felt the graces of nobility before, he would have done it more often. As threads of frozen agony wove their way to his bones, he tossed the stone back to Belhurst. The shadows covered Nevin’s face.
Silver and Diminutia both raised their daggers and screamed. However, the black mists disappeared into chasms and crevices as quietly as they had came. Belhurst pocketed the stone and put his hands on the thieves’ shoulders. “Come. We must hurry. Their appetite has been sated, and they will need some time to heal their wounds, but they still might try to return tonight. We must move.”
Silver spun and placed the tip of his dagger under the wizard’s chin. Tears streamed down his face as he spoke through gritted teeth. “If you ever imply that my friend was nothing mo
re than a diversionary meal again, I’ll slice you and feed you to those demons!”
With a huff, Silver sheathed his dagger and walked past Belhurst. The wizard turned to Diminutia and stammered, “I didn’t mean …”
“Shut up,” Diminutia whispered, still staring at the spot where his friend sacrificed himself. Diminutia’s evening began with him running from an angel and ended with his friend running to the devil.
Twenty
Dearborn faced three pairs of angry eyes, all of them bloodshot and trapped behind eyelids swollen from exhaustion. She imagined hers must look the same since they burned and watered with every blink.
“The horses can’t take much more of this, Sergeant,” Glindos stated, his eyes saying more. “And neither can we.”
“He’s right,” Barrett joined in. “We all feel that way. Why don’t you?”
Dearborn never liked her authority challenged. But in this case, she deserved it. “I do feel the same way. I do. However, there has never been a time when Iderion gave an order …”
“Iderion?” Klandor snorted. “Iderion hasn’t given an order in days. It may be his mouth moving, but we all know it’s the mad prince’s words coming out.”
Klandor was young, a few seasons older than Mahlakore had been, but still young. His youth fueled the fire in his belly, and it would be some time before it mellowed to the point of discretion. A young dog always ready to fight, Klandor often barked and growled in the wrong direction. And like an unruly dog, he needed discipline.
Catching him off guard, Dearborn took a step toward Klandor and shoved her fingers between his leather armor and neck. She took the same step back, pulling down. Klandor dropped to his knees with a grimace. Dearborn then knelt herself and pushed, forcing Klandor’s shoulders toward his heels, arching his back to provide continuous pain.
With her face close enough for her breath to move the hairs of his unkempt beard, loud enough for the other two to hear, she said, “Your opinion of the prince doesn’t matter and should not be expressed. Remember, he is still the prince. If you can’t remember that, then remember who your general is: a general who has never led you astray. And if you can’t remember who your general is, then remember who I am.”
To show her true dominance, she gave one last painful push against Klandor’s chest, then stood, bringing the young pup to his feet with ease.
“Do either of you two care to express your opinion about the prince?” she asked Glindos and Barrett. “Care to start an open forum? Maybe a rousing debate?”
Neither Glindos nor Barrett could pull their eyes from the indents in Klandor’s leather armor caused by Dearborn’s thumbs. Wide-eyed, they simply shook their heads.
Dearborn exited the tent and looked around camp. Less than half the tents they started with lined the perimeter of the small, forest clearing. And their construction was less than perfect. Most of the men slept in the tents. The others chosen for guard duty or chores slept where they stood or sat. They were losing the battle against sleep; very few remained awake. She thought of rousing them, shaming them for passing out mid-duty. She then immediately thought of sneaking into a tent and closing her eyes herself. It was a tempting thought. She decided the best way to avoid temptation was to give in to it. Just as she started toward the closest tent, the general and prince emerged from it.
“Sergeant,” Iderion said. His voice, though still deep, lacked the impressive boom that commanded attention. His gnarled beard and mussed hair seemed to converge, hiding his eyes. If he shut them to slumber, no one would notice. “We’re moving.”
She made no attempt to hide her exhausted frustration. “What? We made camp mere hours ago, and now we need to break it?”
“It is the best course of action. They’ll never expect it,” the prince huffed, his breathing shallow and erratic. His eyes matched, darting from treetop to underbrush, never focusing on one thing for more than half a blink. A rat’s nest had more order than the prince’s hair, dirty and poking in all directions and slicked to his forehead, glistening with sweat despite the early morning chill.
Pushing the dread thoughts of how disrespectful she must seem in front of the general, if he was even awake, Dearborn pressed on. “We’ve been doing this for a week solid, never more than two hours rest on any given day. The men are passing out on their feet. I beg of you, please let us rest until the sun is completely over the horizon.”
“But The Horde …”
“We have encountered them once and have not seen them since.”
Out of new instinct, the prince placed both hands over his breast pocket containing the Satan Stone. Slightly hunched, he took a step back. “We are being pursued, Sergeant. Make no mistake of that. Unpredictability is our ally. If we head straight home, we’ll be caught”
“Your Highness, we truly don’t know if The Horde is pursuing us …”
“I fear it to be much, much worse, Sergeant. Something is chasing us!”
“Then let us find out. This is all I ask. A few men. Everyone else can rest.”
The prince’s jittery eyes focused on hers just long enough to show he understood. “Very well. No more than a few hours. And send Haddaman to me for counsel.”
“Thank you, Your Highness.” She emphasized her gratitude with a slight bow, then she glanced at Iderion; even though his eyes were hidden, he gave a thanking nod.
Dearborn strode off with hastened pace. Despite the fact that Oxton had mysteriously vanished more than a week ago, she doubted that anything or anyone followed them, and she relished the opportunity to sneak away from camp. It was odd she got a renewed sense of vigor thinking about stealing a couple hours of sleep. And she knew just who to take.
Whipping open the flap of the tent from which she came, she saw Glindos, Barrett, and Klandor, all still dissatisfied with their last conversation with her. She gave them a smirk and said, “Come on. We’re going on a mission. Mount up.”
The men grumbled and groaned the whole time they prepared their horses. Dearborn had recruited two more men, Frewhar and Raynen, who had been falling asleep as they brushed their steeds. Despite the change of scenery, Frewhar and Raynen joined in the griping. Once the horses took them far enough from camp, Dearborn gave them the details of the mission. “I have heard less complaining from school girls with pigtails! I convinced the prince to allow me a reconnaissance mission, giving me ‘a few’ hours. I take ‘a few’ to mean five, so we shall ride a half hour out, take much needed naps in shifts and then head back with news that we saw no pursuers.”
All five men smiled.
The half-hour ride passed quickly, the time eaten away by made-up songs praising the wisdom of their sergeant. Jokes were told at the expense of those who could not escape the maddening clutches of camp. Glindos even leaned forward to hug his horse around its neck and said with relief, “Did you hear that, my sweet? Beautiful, beautiful slumber soon. I have missed you so!”
“There,” Barrett yelled, pointing to the base of a tree. It was actually two trees that had grown so close together they merged into one, forming a rounded alcove, the perfect size for a man to take a nap. “There is where I shall sleep! And I will run anyone of you through if you try to take it.”
Dearborn and the four other men laughed at Barrett’s zeal. She felt relaxed and gave the order to dismount, ready to discuss sleep rotations. She would take first watch, of course—until movement in the distance caught her eye.
With a quick flash of her left hand, she brought silence to the entire group. She had been in a similar situation once or twice previously, and she wondered for a moment if the sudden quiet acted more as a warning to the other party than as anything beneficial to her and her companions, but it was a force of habit.
Whatever she thought she had seen proved to be elusive at this juncture. Left hand was still raised; she tipped two of her fingers and pointed to the left. Wordlessly, Barrett and Glindos slipped off in the direction that she had indicated. After she was certain that they had mo
ved out, she tipped her head to the right, and Frewhar and Raynen moved off to complete the perimeter. With a flick of the wrist and a wink, she commanded Klandor to guard the steeds.
Dearborn allowed both groups a few seconds before she strode directly toward the movement that had caught her attention. Knowing that she was completely out in the open and had no chance of sneaking up on anything, she decided that speed would be her only advantage. Hastening her pace, Dearborn neared the cluster of trees that had served as obfuscation for the mysterious movements in the woods. Just as she prepared to duck around a tree a noise from above drew her attention. She jerked her head upwards but could see nothing immediately and loathed being distracted from the potential hiding spot directly in front of her. Tensing the muscles in her legs, she sprang to her right and did a tuck and roll around the little cluster of trees. As she followed her roll through to fruition, rising to her feet in one fluid motion, she took notice of what appeared to be the backside of a raccoon. Its face was still buried amongst the trees, but its brindled gray fur and long tail seemed to hint at its identification.
Strange that a wild animal doesn’t run, Dearborn thought. With her left boot, she kicked some dead leaves in the direction of the animal. It reacted as if in slow motion. Withdrawing its head from the vegetation with a pronounced slowness, it then hesitantly turned its face towards her. The muzzle was skeletal in nature, as was half of the face fixing her with a baleful stare. Shrinking back within itself, the creature gave a hideous hiss, revealing row after impossible row of spiked teeth.
In some deep, recessed part of her mind, it registered to Dearborn that this creature simply didn’t have enough mouth to house this many teeth when she became aware of the fact that its jaws and muzzle elongated right before her eyes. She watched in horror, rigid with fear and disgust. Despite her revulsion, she simply couldn’t tear her eyes away from the spectacle. Until at long last she heard the shouts of her companions.