Duoreod faintly smiled at the optimism of the Adian. “I’m afraid you are right in your preparations. I, however, will bring only my sword,” he slapped the silver scimitar at his side, indicating the weapon.
“And I shall bring only my bow, and a few other small possessions perhaps,” Andril looked about the smithy for anything that might be of use. “How long, do you think, will it take us to reach our destination?”
Duoreod paused a moment while calculating the distance, and how long it might take them to find the answer to the cause of the fumes. When he had struck a sum, the prince looked up at the smith as he replied; “Half a day to the road. A day, maybe two until reaching the base of the Bolgin Mountains, if not delayed.” He hesitated in troubled thought. “On the third we shall speedily ride homeward to deliver our report to the king.”
“No more then three days,” Andril agreed. “I will not be gone longer than that, mark you.” The smith slung the quiver of arrows around his shoulder, adjusted the strap to his comfort, and then faced Duoreod with a complete expression.
Duoreod again smiled at the stubborn attitude of his friend. Very long indeed had been the days of the two Adya’s together, and in all that time Duoreod grew to know and understand the feelings and emotions of the tough Adian. Andril would not openly express his sincerity to Duoreod, and always he pretended to dislike the Adian prince, and Duoreod always returned the favor. However, Duoreod knew, as did Andril, that the Strong Arm would always be ready to grab him at the last minute, if not sooner. Andril would go with Duoreod to help in fulfilling his task, and would stay with the noble prince until all was done.
Duoreod never left Andril, and Andril never left Duoreod; and either Adian planned to hold that security unto one another.
“Clean up first,” said Duoreod, crinkling his nose in an expression of disgust. “You stink of ash and melted steel. After that come find me near the barracks – there is one other I wish to invite.”
Andril sneered at the princes back as Duoreod turned round to leave, but he stopped before passing through the doorway. The sword that had been hurled at him still protruded from the doorframe, and Duoreod pulled it free to examine it.
“You have a fine hand at craft, Andril Strong Arm,” Duoreod observed. But before the smith could reply, Duoreod spun round and threw the sword toward him. Andril leapt aside with a cry of alarm as it past harmlessly by to embed itself into the wood of his weapon rack. Turning to face Duoreod where he was once standing in the doorway, Andril saw that he was already gone. He muttered to himself words against the prince.
Andril paused for a second, sniffed under his right sleeve, and then turned away from his work to find a tub of water and soap.
Chapter 6
Beyond the Smoke
“Line up!”
The voice was loud, booming over the roaring of the flames in the distance, and the determined passion in it caused the ranks of The Followers to align in perfect order. They all appeared like exact replicas of the other, standing there, ranks on ranks of pale faces firmly set toward the Northern Steppes of the land. The sun bore down on them, glinting off their mesh armor and adamant weapons through the smoky haze. They all looked the same. They all thought the same. They all hated the same enemy. They all served their all great and all powerful Urden’Dagg. But, even with all these similarities, they all lacked what the other had: Conviction for oneself. It had been beaten out of them because of their mistakes, and so they learned to be like the other.
They were all going to die anyway.
Several of them, particularly those standing among the first ranks, closed their eyes and muttered prayers of mercy to their god. They would all die for the victory of the Urden’Dagg. After all, this was the end each of them was born for.
“Form ranks!” The speaker came into view, commander Taganar riding astride a six legged lizard – a basilisk of the Shadow Realms – holding a long spear to the side as he crossed in front of the ranks of the countless Followers, “Spearmen to the front, and archers to the back! Stay clear of the flames, all of you!”
Someone was cursing repeatedly behind Neth’tek Vulzdagg, a young Follower among the foremost ranks, his eyes fixed on the smoky horizon in the distance. Nothing but leaping flames arose to meet them there. Scout reports told that the enemy was somewhere within a miles charge from their standing position.
By the time we reach them, he figured privately, we will be too exhausted to draw our swords! His cursing comrade spoke his feelings on the matter, though, and so he held his tongue for the moment.
He could hear the soldiers of his army forming behind him; armor clinking, voices muttering. Their commander reined in his own basilisk, lifting a curved horn to his lips as he blew a tremendous blast, and gradually the sounds faded away with the drifting smoke. He sniffed once, taking in the aroma surrounding them, and grimaced at the smell of the charred land.
Another blast rose up from the east ranks, signaling that the troops there were ready to charge, and then another echoed from further down those lines. Neth’tek stood among the furthest lines to the west, and so beyond the faces to his left he saw nothing but bare land. Three more blasts from the various battalions rose into the smoky air. The lines were ready. They were all ready to charge.
“We go to the Lesser Realms,” his cursing companion said from behind. He didn’t know his name, or expect he ever would. “They command us to wait, so we wait for our death. They command us to charge, so we charge to our death.”
Neth’tek straightened, doing his best to ignore the speaker behind him, and watched as his mounted commander urged his basilisk forward with spear raised over his head. A single and powerful blast shook the earth from behind, roaring its command for them to charge with their commanders... And so they charged.
*****
Stylinor left his home early in the morning, just as the sun was rising in the east, casting a grey light over all the land. He dressed himself and stuck his hatchet under his belt, and then strode out the door to meet the morning chill of a winter dawn, his parents still asleep. The days chopping would be long, he’d have to finish that tree he’d cut down the day before, but perhaps he might convince Kinimod to help him out. So, with a set plan in mind, Stylinor Grylson followed the road northwest to find Kinimod in the more inhabited areas of Heinsfar.
The smoke to the west was still very visible, if not more vast and threatening, and Stylinor found that he was again staring into its midst with wonder in his mind. But shaking such silly emotions from his mind he pushed onward uphill, following the muddy road through the great pines, the gentle breeze sending a chilly whisper through their needles and branches, causing them to sway in a dreamlike way. There were no birds, or squirrels or deer anywhere to be seen, and Stylinor found that a strange thing. Such animals were numerous in the woodlands of Heinsfar. However, in the damp mud of the lane he found a mess of paw prints, which, when he looked closely, he could discern as nothing other than wolves.
“Blasted monsters,” Stylinor said to himself as he continued on, looking down at all the prints in the earth, shaking his head. “These wolves, they always come around, and whenever they do they chase all other creatures away, making life all the more dreary and lonesome.”
“Not to mention frightening,” a familiar voice said from the trees to his right, and turning suddenly with surprise, Stylinor saw Kinimod crouching beside a pine tree, his face pink in the frosty air. His expression was troubled. “Sty, they’ve become much fiercer than they have ever been before, as if driven by desperation.”
“What are you doing out here?” Stylinor asked him curiously. “I thought you hated the mud.”
“I do,” Kinimod said. “But when word of wolves breaking into homes goes round, I can’t help but come out here and check on you.”
“Well, that’s mighty kind ‘o ye,” Stylinor said, smiling faintly.
“Of course, you’re all I got,” Kinimod said, still looking troubled, and he seeme
d to avoid looking up at Stylinor. “I mean, who else is there for me? Me dad hasn’t so much as spoken to me for almost a year, not after losing mom the way he did last winter...” he stopped, letting his words hang there, his voice seeming to drift away with the chilly breeze as it past them by.
Stylinor stood still. He forced himself to look away. Poor Kini, he thought. If only there were something I could do for the boy, something to comfort him with...
Kinimod stood, though, and kicked at a pinecone lying at his feet. “Never mind all that,” he said, shrugging his thoughts away, “Let’s finish that chop ‘o yours.”
Stylinor nodded slowly. “All right than,” he said, “This way.”
They walked off the road and went into the trees to the west, passing through shadows toward the enormous clouds of darkness rising to meet them.
*****
He was sprinting, heart thudding in his chest, wind rushing in his ears, lunges expanding and then shrinking with every strenuous breath. How long had it been since standing, waiting among the ranks of the Urden’Dagg? It felt like an eternity. Beside him they were all running, all those who had joined the forces of the Urden’Dagg, charging straight into the unknown light beyond the desolate land they had destroyed. Where were they going? It felt like nowhere. What would happen once they broke free of the smoke and into the sunlight? What would they see? Death seemed to be all that awaited them, but the mystery behind it all kept him running, the purple spider silk cloak of the Urden’Dagg billowing out behind him.
The horizon Neth’tek had been staring ceaselessly upon now appeared to be a ridge, flames licking at the remaining grass upon its crest. They trampled over it without hesitation, their determination set on reaching the destination their commanders had set for them. It wasn’t a steep hill, but it was enough so that their speed quickened when racing down its northern face. Somewhere in the clouds of smoke and pallid dust Neth’tek’s mounted commander rode, leading them with spear raised.
The ground leveled out before rising once again; a hill among the many hills of this valley. Though once it had been a grass covered prairie, all that remained was blackened earth and thick clouds of smoke. What had it been before? None knew or would ever know. They destroyed it, and that was all that seemed matter to Neth’tek Vulzdagg. He climbed to the crown of the hill, slowing to a halt as he did, and stood to catch his breath. He couldn’t help but examine the landscape before him, the pillars of smoke and the excited shouts of his fellow Followers passing him by consumed his surroundings.
He turned without a second glance at the ash covered earth, and followed the charge of his commander. The land seemed to tilt upward now, the hills gathering into a consistent rise, and The Followers attacked its slope with a vigorous resolve to conquer it. The smoke seemed to fade as they climbed this hill, grass growing underfoot where the flames had not yet scorched the ground. It was green, however dark as the smoky clouds still gathered overhead, and tall pines and oaks rose before them like sentries to a confined garden.
Arrows whistled overhead, speeding toward the trees ahead. Who had given the order? Neth’tek glanced over his shoulder to where the rangers were aligned in the black smoke. Neth’tek shrugged. It wasn’t his business. Someone must have told them, or else they wouldn’t have done so.
He turned, disregarding the action and the whistling arrows, to be on his way up the steep hillside after his commander and comrades.
And then he heard the screams.
Chapter 7
Screams
People were screaming. That was all Stylinor knew. That was all Stylinor was thinking. That was all Stylinor was hearing and seeing. No one tried to figure out why. No one said any clear words. It was all a panic. He picked up his hatchet from where it had been wedged in the center of a small log he had been chopping, separating it into sections, and turned to face where the other lumbermen were fleeing from.
He saw nothing but trees, mud, and smoke. The smoke twisted through the trees, searching as it were for the people who fled on all sides, slowly vanishing into the trees while others stumbled on twisted ankles or slipped in the mud. Had the fire spread so far as to Heinsfar already? Only the day before had it been out near the Bolgin Mountains. Something must have been driving it forward as the lumberjack had said the night before, and whatever it was appeared to be coming upon them now.
A hand grasped his arm and yanked him backward, pulling him over his chops in an attempt to save him. Stylinor looked up to see Kinimod’s wide eyed expression caked in mud.
“What’s happening?” Stylinor demanded, trying to steady himself under Kinimod’s insistent tugs. He glanced back as he heard a cry of pain echo through the trees from the lumberjacks below, and as his eyes focused he saw a figure stumble into the mud with an arrow in his side.
“Sty, we must go now!” Kinimod pulled him once more before releasing his wool jacket to escape, running back down the hillside.
Stylinor, shoving his hatchet under his belt, turned and followed the rest of the fleeing people out of the woods. Kinimod was just ahead, winding his way through the trees and the groups of lumbermen as they all panicked to escape their demise. More screams echoed from the trees behind, the sound of arrows zipping through the branches causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end. Stylinor wanted to look back, he wanted to see what was coming after them, but the fear and the panic drove him blindly forward.
Something was crashing through the bushes, whether people or animals none could say for certain, though strange voices uttered cries and curses as they came near. A ringing of steal was heard just before another person cried out in pain, both sounds fading into the background as Stylinor rushed on his way, heart pumping almost as fast as his legs. An arrow passed beside his head, the whistle nearly throwing him off balance as he ran, and the shaft pierced the back of a man’s shoulder in front of him. The man stumbled against a tree, groaning in pain as blood soaked his leather vest.
He’ll live, Stylinor assured himself as he rushed passed the man, not thinking to even try and help. He’ll live if he . . .
Someone cried out from behind, a deep voiced wail that one would only hear from a lumberjack, and that someone fell to the ground with a solid thump. Someone else had killed the wounded lumberman.
Tears gathered in Stylinor’s eyes, caused by exhaustion, fear, and the chill of the air in his face. Where had Kini gone? Stylinor knew he had to stop and rest no matter how desperate he was to keep moving or to find Kinimod, his breathing was dry and unsteady. It was either find someplace to hide where he could catch his breath, or gradually slow on the trail where he would be shot down.
But something is hunting us! Stylinor argued with his conscious, trying desperately to make sense out of the chaos around him. If I stop I will die. If I run I will die. Muari be Beloved, help me now!
He turned and dashed into the trees, hoping to slip away from whatever was in pursuit without being seen, but he crashed through the underbrush much louder than had been anticipated. The strange voices cried out again, as if passing orders to one another, and Stylinor couldn’t help but look back to where he had fled from.
The toe of his boot struck a rock, tripping him before he could see anything among the thickly scattered trees, and he tumbled down into the muddy leaves and slid down into a crevice in the earth. He clenched down with his jaw as he felt himself falling, and craned his eyes shut as he was caught by roots and other branchlike substances, waiting for the painful impact. It never came. He was halted by the intertwining roots and branches and held over a drop into darkness. He held his breath, not daring to move.
“Hang on Sty, hang on!” Kinimod’s voice shouted down at him from above. “Can ye move?”
Stylinor hesitated, unsure whether or not he should try moving over such a dreadful fall. The roots creaked under his weight. He did not trust their strength to hold him if he adjusted his weight in any way.
“Kini,” Stylinor said carefully. “I don’
t want to move, Kini.”
“Can ye reach this?”
Kini’s voice sounded strained, as if he were reaching down into the pit he had fallen into, and so Stylinor turned his head ever so cautiously to see him. He saw Kini leaning over the lip of the pit, a long branch extended toward him. He saw how far he had fallen, and the sight of it made the muscles in his body tense. Nearly five feet!
“Try grabbing it,” Kinimod said, reaching further toward Stylinor with the branch.
Stylinor gently moved his arm up over his head, being careful not to stress one part of the netted roots more than another, and touched the end of the branch. “If I move any further... a little closer!” He shut his eyes, praying that the tree roots would hold as strongly as they did when pulling them from the ground.
Kinimod gritted his teeth in apprehension as he allowed himself to lower his arm into the crevice, his left hand gripping the trunk of a small sapling beside him. “That’s as far as I can reach. Just turn and grab it, fast!”
Stylinor twisted his arm, wrapping his fingers around the width of the branch. Two or three of the roots gave out and snapped, lowering him slightly toward the darkness, and in sudden fright he turned quickly to grab the branch with his other hand. Several more of the straining roots broke free of one another, but Stylinor had already a firm grip on the stick as the net of wild branches lowered even more.
“Take me out!” cried Stylinor, his knuckles whitening from their hard grip on the wood. It was his life, after all.
Kinimod turned onto his side, pulling the branch upward while wrapping his other arm around the sapling for further support. Stylinor held fast to the branch, holding onto it with all his strength as he waited for the edge of the pit to come within reach. Kinimod sat upright, grabbing at Stylinor with his other hand as he dropped the branch to the ground, and he pulled the struggling Sty out of the pit.
War of Shadow and Light: Part Three of the Redemption Cycle Page 4