by C. J. Aaron
“Please, despite what Le’Dral might say, there’s no cause to call me sir when the captain’s not around.” Ryl’s chiding was polite. At least this one had the mental fortitude to actually look him in the eyes when addressing him. There were far too many who still viewed him with unrestrained awe. To some he was worshipped. Revered. He was their savior.
He’d stood in the face of the numberless armies of the Horde, saving them from what was a certain death.
The attitude made him cringe. He had done the best he could, nothing more. He’d pushed himself to the brink, as there were no others to answer the call.
He felt the crushing weight of the prophecy press on him.
Not all were as kind.
From his life in The Stocks, he’d grown apathetic to the hateful stares from the guards tasked with his watch. The looks of distrust, disgust or ignorance elicited no more reactions from him. They were accepted as the way things had been for a millennium. Ryl never anticipated that the opinions of the masses would change overnight.
The looks that caused concern were thankfully more infrequent, yet an understood reality.
The cooperation between the armies had faltered quickly as the last of the flames sputtered out. Once the grim task that had united them to the common call of a gruesome cause had been completed, the vast differences in ideologies came to bear.
Accusations had been levied.
Blame had been cast.
Sides were drawn that pitted friends against friends. Neighbors against neighbors. The resulting disagreements had been heated, though largely nonviolent. Small skirmishes had broken out among the most militant, yet were resolved quickly with little added toll.
The ire was generally heaped upon Le’Dral’s troops as well as the army of House Eligar. They were viewed by many as an invading force. Fay’s diplomacy had been put to the test as he argued that he responded to the same muster from the king as had all the other houses. In the end, they were the only house to arrive in Cadsae Proper in time.
Not surprisingly, after the death of King Lunek the Third, none of the other houses had arrived. Even though the mass of the Outland Horde had retreated into the secretive wastes to the west, no additional troops came in support. Few messengers sent bearing news of requests returned.
The rule of Damaris was up for grabs. Those who thought themselves worthy consolidated their power, vying for the title through influence, or force if necessary. Supporting the devastated city of Cadsae Proper held little clout in their quest for increasing superiority.
Ryl stopped as he reached the waist-high stone railing. Vox waited, his eyes trained on the growing shape of the rider approaching from the east. The landscape that graced the interior of The Stocks was vastly different in appearance than the recently churned earth leading to the west. Wide plots of crops were scattered between the random outcroppings of trees. Many had remained fallow since the last season’s Harvest. Those closer to both settlements of Cadsae and Tabenville had been planted once more. For the first time in a millennium, the soil had been tended by a combination of guards and the remainder of the survivors from Cadsae Proper. Protected by the limbs of the Erlyn, the tributes shared none of the workload.
A single rider neared, his horse maintaining a steady trot. The narrow path ran close to the base of the southern palisade, formed by the frequent patrols between Cadsae and the guard tower that inhabited the corner of the palisades.
Still too far off to make out the identity, the rider raised his hand in greeting as he noted Ryl and Vox waiting atop the wall. Ryl offered a subdued wave as he swung his leg over the wall, descending the rope ladder to the earth below.
“Let’s see what news they bring now,” he muttered to Vox as he disappeared over the side of the stone crenulation. “They’ll run that poor boy ragged before long if they keep this up.”
Vox grunted a single laugh in reply.
The vastly altered dynamic had required changes to be instituted along the walls that had for generations served the sole purpose of keeping those inside from getting out. Riders bearing messages or the next shift hastened to and fro, forming well-worn paths along the inside of the southern palisade. Hobs, the young Cadsae Proper guard whom Ryl had interrogated after the death of Lord Maklan, was a constant visitor. Once or occasionally twice a day, the young guard would bring news of this and that.
Ryl was not displeased with the routine appearance of the youngster. When he had first met Hobs, the morning before the battle with the Horde, he had picked the nervous youngster from the ranks of reserves. The quivering, green soldier had been an easy target for the information he sought to extract. The boy, barely old enough to be called a man, had matured exponentially since then.
He would meet Ryl’s gaze, unafraid to peer into the depths of the perpetual shadow that covered his face. There was emotion in his expression, yet it was neither awe nor fear. His voice spoke with respect not reverence. Hobs had been among the first to volunteer to remain among the Cadsae Proper guard once Le’Dral resumed command over the post.
The phrenics had maintained a steady vigil in the guardhouse along the southwestern corner of the wall. Here, the views of the Outlands to the west and the interior of The Stocks within were the greatest.
Though Ryl was certain the dreaded Horde had moved far from their view, there was no telling when or where they’d resurface again. With the death of Leiroth, the king and the incapacitation of the Lei Guard, his command over them had been resolute. They respected and feared power and power alone. He was the embodiment of that power. They had fled without question. Their blackened bodies streamed across the narrow gap of the river; countless were lost in the crossing. They ran at speed, returning to whatever depths of the monochromatic landscape that they called home.
The Pining Gates that had been sealed shut now stood open throughout the day. There were few habitations to the east of the City Center that had survived the funeral pyre that had engulfed much of the city. The small slice of city sandwiched between the charred ruins of the remains offered the sole section of habitations outside the walls. Much of the industrial section nearest to the docks was salvageable, as the population there was sparse. The murderous wave of the Horde had little to feast on, so the cleanup was more manageable.
The approaching rider reined his horse to a stop as Ryl reached the ground below. He paused as the unfamiliar guard offered a rough salute.
“Sir, Captain Le’Dral sent me to retrieve you,” the guard called down from his mount.
“Is there something wrong?” Ryl quizzed politely as he moved to retrieve his horse, which grazed peacefully in the small corral they had erected in the corner of the walls.
The messenger was unfamiliar to Ryl, though that in itself was not a cause for alarm. Ryl had little desire to become overly familiar with the bulk of the guards who were once tasked with overseeing the tributes inside The Stocks. While the soldiers who rallied to their cause behind Le’Dral and Lieutenants Millis and Moyan were all known by name, many of the faces who now comprised their force were foreign.
After the last wisp of smoke had cleared from the pyre that had devoured much of Cadsae Proper, the dysfunction, desertion and realignment among the ranks of the armies was dramatic. Of the original force of nearly ten thousand who stood in defense of Cadsae Proper and The Stocks, less than half remained in the service of their new captain. From the king’s army, which had fielded shy of twenty thousand when they arrived that fateful morning, only a small fraction, a few thousand, chose to remain in the doomed city. Likely, they in one way or another had ties, be it family or friends, among the ill-fated city. More than half of the remaining army fled, returning to the houses they owed their allegiance to.
It was a pitiful and utterly defeated army that marched toward the capital, far to the east. Though they had spilled no blood in the conflict, it was a rout nonetheless.
“The phrenic returns from Tabenville, sir,” the guard mumbled. The uneven smile that
spread across his face was forced. His eyes darted from Ryl to Vox looming over them from the palisade above. “There’s news from Leremont as well.”
Ryl nodded his head. A message from the capital was long overdue, though the content was likely unsurprising. The act of convincing the houses to agree on anything was likely a monumental feat.
“Where’s Hobs?” Ryl inquired as he swung atop the back of his mount.
There was a momentary pause before his response. The guard swallowed uncomfortably before answering.
“The captain had him assigned to another task, though I know not what,” he offered as he turned his mount again to the east. Ryl sensed the unease in his voice. Among the nervousness, there was a disconcerting hint of excitement. Curious too, that the man rode alone. Le’Dral had always sent a phrenic along to replace him, or merely sent the phrenic him- or herself.
Ryl was accustomed to the anxiousness among the guards who’d been present to witness the battle that had played out before the Pining Gates. Those who hadn’t witnessed it in person no doubt heard tales so wildly exaggerated they made him cringe. He’d heard the whispers of most. Some were comical; others sent a chill down his spine, as the carnage he caused was indescribable.
He’d nearly swam through a river of black blood. He waded through a sea of dead and dismembered.
The alexen in his veins churned with anxious energy that matched the concern in his mind. He looked upward, meeting the eyes of Vox. Ryl nodded as he poured a single emotion from his core.
Concern.
“I’ll send Ramm when I reach Cadsae,” Ryl called as he spurred his horse into a slow walk.
“Safe travels, my friend,” the phrenic elementalist responded. The worrisome tendrils of caution washed over him as he followed his retreating escort.
It was only a matter of moments until Ryl caught up with the guard. He slowed his mount as he matched pace alongside his companion.
“You’re not a familiar face around here. What’s your name, my friend?” Ryl quizzed the newcomer.
It took a moment for the guard to respond. Ryl noted the track of his eyes scanning the landscape ahead.
“Aye. This is the first time I’ve had the honor of making the trek,” the soldier responded with a smile. The emotion of his response was more controlled, the hint of nervousness far better disguised this time. To Ryl, one who was looking for the inconsistencies, it shone like the sun. “My name is Leyet.”
The response was suspect. Ryl failed to accept it was the nervousness of his presence that was the root of the emotion coloring his words. There was something off. Something veiled behind his response.
“Nice to meet you, Leyet,” Ryl added. He let a disarming wave of honesty and trustworthiness flow with his words. “With what army were you stationed before?”
“I, I was moved to the Cadsae Proper guard a little less than a cycle ago,” he replied, though his eyes strayed not from the narrow path they were walking.
The beaten track they followed was barely wide enough to allow the pair of horses to pass side by side. Though it was well travelled owing to the necessity of maintaining a constant watch, there were few occasions that more than a few riders would travel together. It snaked its way alongside the southern palisade, arching to the north near the midpoint as it veered to reach the safest point to ford the river.
The river crossing was over a narrow section of rapids that bordered the northern edge of a small copse of trees. A crude wooden bridge had been erected, harvested from the stand of trees on the western bank. The workers had chosen to hew a path through the grove, clearing room for a small campsite in the middle. There they were somewhat protected from the frequently unpredictable weather close to the sea.
“Did you have family in the city?” Ryl inquired.
“No, sir,” Leyet replied. “My family lives in Leremont.”
His voice faltered as he reached the end of his statement. Ryl saw the skin of his cheek tighten as the muscles of his jaw clenched.
“What was it that made you stay when many of your compatriots chose to flee?” Ryl pried.
They rode in silence for several moments before the guard replied.
“I didn’t think there was much of a choice in the matter,” he mumbled, clearly over the impromptu interrogation. Gentle as it might have been.
“You always have a choice,” Ryl retorted with a grin.
Leyet opened his mouth to speak. He clamped it shut with effort, clearly thinking twice about the statement that was to issue from his mouth. “Desertion is a charge that bears severe punishment. The sentence is death. For you, and family if the king sees fit,” he grumbled.
“Aye, that is a threat we tributes know too well,” Ryl retorted. “There is no king, no army, no Lei Guard to enforce that statute at the moment. If it is merely duty that holds you to this post, I can relieve you of that if you so choose.”
The guard risked a glance at Ryl at the statement. His eyes attempted to peer under the shadow of the hood over his eyes. After a moment he gave up, looking back toward their direction of travel.
“Sir, Captain Le’Dral requested your presence immediately. We should make haste,” the guard added.
He spurred his horse into a measured canter. Ryl shook his head subtly as he moved to match the pace of the retreating guard. The cues were less than subtle.
Things were not as they seemed.
The rate of their travel and the cold demeanor of his riding companion made any attempt at small talk futile. Ryl scanned their surroundings with both his vision and his phrenic mindsight for any signs of threat, though nothing registered in either.
The path from their guard tower to Cadsae was a distance of fifteen miles. With their horses riding at a steady canter, the journey would only take them a matter of a few hours.
To their south, the drab grey stone of the southern palisade continued unabated. There were little signs of life from above, as the attention of the guards above were focused outward.
Ryl chuckled to himself. The diametric swing in the attention, the focus of those manning the walls above was startling. No longer did the sight of the walls bear the weight of the watchful eyes that tracked the tributes to every corner of The Stocks.
The gently rolling hills continued onward as Ryl trailed the messenger. The soldier was dressed in the customary drab uniform of the Cadsae Proper guard. As their numbers had shifted dramatically over the last moons, many of the uniforms were ill-fitting and mismatched. The garrison outside the palisades contained little of salvageable worth. Destruction followed in the Horde’s wake. Much of the supply of clothing had been destroyed. The remainder was soiled with the foul remains and the stench of the beasts’ passing. They were able to launder a pitiful remainder. The second store of uniforms had been a total loss, as it had been consumed by the fire that Ryl had set to the barracks alongside the Pining Gates. Le’Dral had done his best to requisition as much fabric as he could, yet even with the few shipments that had arrived, much of his force were clothed in a varied degree of apparel.
In these regards, Leyet was no different from many of his comrades in arms. His attire bore little resemblance to any uniform that Ryl was familiar with. As an active member of the Cadsae Proper guard, he would have worn his service uniform as well as maintaining a spare pack with his travel gear when they had sought to run the tributes to ground after the disruption of the Harvest.
His clothes struck a familiar chord within Ryl’s memories.
The utilitarian garb was fashioned to blend in. Made to appear as unremarkable as possible. They’d run into a similarly clad group on the road to Milstead.
Hunters.
Though the resemblance could likely be nothing more than coincidence, Ryl found his senses heightened. The alexen rushed through his veins with nervous anticipation.
Halfway to Cadsae, the track that they were following veered sluggishly to the north. Ryl could hear the rush of the river in the distance. The water churne
d, rolling with merciless rapids as it approached the barred exit in the base of the southern palisade. The volume of water compressed, forcing its way through the narrow opening, spewing out into the confluence that joined the Sea of Prosper a short distance to the south.
Ryl scanned the area again as they tracked to the north. His mindsight was unsurprisingly clear of any abnormalities. Aside from the rider several meters ahead, nothing moved to the north. The path ahead cut through the small copse of trees before reaching the makeshift bridge across the river. The trees in the distance were the only place along the trail where their presence would be hidden from any among the wall who might have noted their passage.
An ideal spot for an ambush.
Ryl maintained a watchful eye over his escort. Since the failed attempt at conversation, the man’s focus had been trained on the road ahead. Several times over the last mile, he had cast a seemingly absent glance back at Ryl. Now his head swiveled subtly, yet purposefully from side to side, scanning the terrain to his east and west.
As they approached the glade, Leyet slowed his pace. He had maintained a steady distance of several horse lengths ahead for the duration of their travel. As they reached the northern bend in the rough track, he had let his pace slacken, bringing the two closer together. Ryl’s heart raced as the actions came together to form the picture of what he expected to follow. There was no conceit in the fact that he knew a single soldier would be hard-pressed to cause him any undue harm. Any who believed even a fraction of the stories told of his prowess would be foolish to attempt the feat.
Surprise and numbers would assuredly be needed.
The surprise had failed.
The trees were twenty meters away when Leyet abruptly reined in his mount. As he had slowed, the gap between the two of them had narrowed to the distance of only a few meters. As his horse slid to a stop, the soldier ripped the sword from his sheath, swinging a vicious backhanded cut to his right.