Shadow Of The Mountain

by D. A. Stone

  He continued speaking to the mount, rubbing its neck and nose. In the torchlight he could see that Darkfire’s eyes were surrounded by copper-red hairs and his ears flicked as they watched him, sharp and alert. There was intelligence there, and wisdom. His eyes had the youthful gleam of courage and strength, like an open challenge to face down any opponent, any obstacle. Every inch of Darkfire was sleek power, every ounce built for battle. The right horse, indeed.

  “Sorry I’m late, brothers,” a voice called out as a man on horseback slowly approached the group. “I just couldn’t decide what to wear.” A few men laughed and the group seemed to relax as the rider approached.

  “Already slowing us down, Baelik?” a bearded warrior asked amiably. “You look dressed for a dance rather than a ride. Are we to pick up Natalia before we head to the coast?” The men around Tenlon chuckled at the apparent jest, although he was at a loss.

  “No, Paloran,” Kreiden spoke. “She should be safe with Argos by now. He knows to have her up to the Gambit should things continue on their downward path.” At this a murmur of approval swept through the escort. Dismounting, the man moved to Tenlon and stood before him with his hands on hips.

  “So, you must be Tenlon,” the champion said with a crooked grin. “I am Kreiden. I’ve been told you need to be in Korando in ten days. We will get you there in six. Piss now, for there will only be stops when I say we stop. Understood?”

  Tenlon nodded. “Understood.”

  “Are these yours?” he asked, bending down and retrieving Tenlon’s blades, handing them over.

  “Yes,” Tenlon spoke, pulling the short sword out of its scabbard. “But I’ve never used one before.”

  The nearby Desik sighed and shook his head.

  “Well, the sharp end points away from you,” the champion told him simply, threading the hunting knife and sheath into the leather sword belt. “And try not to stab yourself when you scabbard the blade. In fact, don’t even touch it.”

  He swung the belt around Tenlon’s waist and tried to buckle it. There weren’t enough holes in the leather to accommodate such a small waist.

  “Hmm,” Kreiden muttered. He pulled a throwing knife out of his baldric and began making new holes in the leather. “Don’t like to eat much, eh?”

  Tenlon felt the eyes of the other riders on him and his stomach dropped in embarrassment.

  After the belt was secured, Kreiden helped him into Darkfire’s saddle. He adjusted the stirrups and tightened the small saddlebag that was situated behind the apprentice.

  Satisfied, the champion expertly vaulted into his own mount. He went around and introduced Tenlon to the other riders, most of whom said nothing, instead choosing merely to nod.

  They were a dangerous-looking group, all grim-faced and serious. Everyone but Kreiden and Tenlon wore the green cloak of Amoria and all were armed for combat, some even carrying short throwing spears. None, however, were wearing their customary cavalry armor, likely forsaking the protection for increased speed.

  This was to be a mission of swiftness first and violence second. Still, Tenlon felt these men were not the type to shy away from a fight.

  Deep thunder rumbled as Tenlon’s escort began to move, making its way out of the camp.

  ***

  They carefully headed towards the main path in single file, with Tenlon feeling much more comfortable on horseback. Riding had always given him enormous pleasure, though as of late his workload at the academy had begun to grow more difficult and he hadn’t been able to ride for some time.

  Now he found himself atop the king’s horse, easily the greatest mount in all of Amoria. Much of his fear from earlier had evaporated as soon as he was in the saddle. No matter the dangers awaiting him, he had Darkfire’s speed and power on his side.

  Once on the main path, they increased their speed to a canter, putting the front lines of the battle at their backs. They passed many small tents and lounging men, paying them no attention.

  Kreiden led the group and Tenlon was situated somewhere in the center. None of the escort spoke. The cracking of thunder and lightning above had increased over the last hour and he was glad to be heading away from the unnatural storm. He adjusted himself, feeling the weight of the artifact strapped to his back. It was warm against him, like summer sun upon the skin.

  The escort approached the end of the Amorian encampment. Blockades of sharpened stakes were moved to allow them through while silent soldiers watched them depart. Tenlon wished the battle were over, that the men could go home to their families, but he knew that none would be able to. Amorians fight to the end. Always.

  Kreiden heeled his mount forward as they approached the first sloping, grassy hill. Tenlon and the rest of his escort followed suit. A small group of horsemen passed them from the opposite direction, making their return trip back to camp. Tenlon saw many empty saddles amongst the company, while others carried slumped, lifeless bodies. He bit his lip, hoping his escort wouldn’t be passing through such danger.

  After cresting the first hill, it dipped down into another tiny valley, only to rise back up another incline. It would be like this for miles. Wide branches of lightning crackled, illuminating a ceiling of clouds in flares of white. They rode on, leaving the fate of Amoria and their friends behind.

  The first hour passed quickly, hill after undulating hill. Tenlon looked up and saw the edge of the massive black cloud that had been placed above them. He kept watching until the blanket of the storm reached no further. A night full of stars finally opened and he could see the crescent moon casting its silver light across the slopes. Relief washed over him and he felt more relaxed.

  He was away from battle, which he loathed, surrounded by rolling green hills covered in a slippery sheen of dew. The only danger was behind at Goridai and he was gaining distance from that with each passing heartbeat. Protected by the king’s champion, he had an escort of Amorian soldiers and was mounted on Darkfire.

  He was as safe as possible and heading for the coast.

  Tenlon had never seen the ocean before, and had always wondered if it truly looked like it went on forever.

  ***

  They were heading to Ebnan, a port city of Korando along the coast of the Venda Sea. Korando was nearly half the size of Amoria and a nation of budding prosperity. Their economic strength stemmed from the various port cities that stretched around Haldur’s Bay. The winter currents of the Venda pulled ships to Korando’s ports with ease and the goods passing through them were spirited across the realm. Slaves, weapons, spices, wild animals, exotic fabrics: all must make stops at Korando ports.

  Also, because of its political neutrality, the area was a perfect relay point for mercenaries and a promising honey pot for brigands, thieves, beggars, and whores. Tenlon was to meet with a man named Darien Foll and his sister, Lesandra. He was told they were both exceptional scholars of Amoria and that they were a well-trusted pair. They would surely know what to do with his cargo, even if he did not. Still, Tenlon had no idea why they were living in a city of such ill repute. Perhaps he could ask them when they met.

  After riding through the night, early rays of dawn began to glow on the horizon as pinks and purples spread across the sky. The distant mountain ranges of Amoria could be seen looming like ghostly sentinels just beyond the eyes reach.

  The troop rode for a few more miles until daybreak, when Kreiden called for a brief rest at the crest of a slope. The grasslands were softly lit by early morning rays, and the hills were covered in a thin mist as the sun’s warmth dried the dampness of night. The men dismounted and looked south as they drank from canteens and chewed a light breakfast.

  Tenlon was busy with Darkfire, wiping him down with a stiff bristled brush, cleaning off any dirt or debris that may have amassed during their night ride. At first he didn’t notice what the men were speaking about.

  “That is certainly an unusual sight,” one man, Fenton, remarked to another.

  Tenlon looked up and stared across the expans
e they had traveled since setting out the previous night.

  In the distance the black clouds remained clustered over the rim of Goridai like a massive stain against the sky. It was so black and out of place amidst the bleak surrounding grayness that it looked as if it might just drop out of the sky to come crashing down.

  The storm was occasionally illuminated by lightning strikes from within, and every so often the wind that swept across the hills would bring faint whispers of thunderclaps.

  Tenlon drank from his water bag and ate some dried fruit. No one spoke to him.

  “Pack it in. We’re leaving,” Kreiden ordered the group.

  At first Tenlon was shocked. They hadn’t even rested for three minutes! But then he looked at the warhorse he had ridden in on and felt a ripple of excitement to ride again. Darkfire was spectacular; his responses to direction were immediate and Tenlon couldn’t wait to let him stretch his legs and see his true speed. Kreiden had already mounted and he tapped his heels towards Tenlon.

  “Well, little mage, I hope you’re ready for some excitement. We’re about an hour from Killian Forest, and that’s where we’re going to be cut off.” Tenlon couldn’t tell whether or not he was jesting. He could never tell with these warrior types; they were always so dry. “When we get there, Fenton will be in the lead some way ahead of us,” Kreiden continued. “The rest will have you wedged in. I’ll be the point of the wedge, and you will be situated between Accostas and Desik. If the path we are on narrows and we need to ride in single file, you will drop behind them both, which will put you fifth in the long line. Still with me?”

  “Yes.” He thought he was, at least.

  “Good. Now, if men start dying, you do not stop,” the champion ordered. “You ride east until clear of the forest. Let Darkfire carry you out. He is much faster than anything that will be chasing us. If we don’t get out by nightfall, every one of us will die in there.”

  “Are we being followed?” Tenlon asked, not sure if he even wanted to know the answer.

  “Not yet, but we’ll bump into each other eventually. There is a massive circle,” he said, covering the land surrounding them with a sweep of his hands, “and they are closing it up. I was hoping to break through before the woods, but Amorian luck has been running a little thin of late. And it’s the only way.” He took a pause before continuing. “They will have Blackwolves, little mage. Many of them. I don’t want to scare you but thought you should know.”

  Tenlon felt sick, remembering the flies buzzing around the massive creature along the dirt road on his journey in. He’d heard tales of the beasts over the past few months—everyone had—but that was his first time seeing one. Now he’d be facing more of them, and living ones no less. The mere notion of it gave him chills.

  How could they even exist? he wondered. Hairy beasts with teeth like daggers, cloaked in gray, terrorizing small settlements and murdering men as they tended their fields—feeding on them. He must have looked worried, for Accostas made his way towards them on his own mount.

  “You should be okay,” the tall warrior assured him. “Desik has killed so many of them that he now finds it boring. Some he even put down with his bare hands! You stay close to him; he’ll keep you safe. Desik is the best.” Tenlon looked over at the brooding warrior who was securing his mount’s saddlebag. The tattooed man shrugged his shoulders.

  “I took them down with spears,” he added calmly. “And they were usually alone, one or two of them. Never ran into a whole pack before. That should be interesting to see.” He vaulted into his saddle. “We’re leaving now,” he told the apprentice with the mildest hint of annoyance. “Will you be joining us sometime this morning?”

  Tenlon looked around and noticed he was the only one not mounted.

  Heaving his thin frame up into Darkfire’s saddle, he struggled at first with the bundle strapped to his back before finally settling. Whispering a few words of encouragement to Darkfire, his company took off, rising and falling into the wave like the grasslands south of Amoria.

  They rode for several miles and the mountain clusters of his homeland became more visible as the sun rose into morning. The tree line of Killian Forest could be seen some distance to their right, but his troop continued riding towards the mountains. Tenlon wondered why they hadn’t simply turned towards the forest when it came into sight, but Kreiden apparently wanted to ride further for a deeper entry point.

  After an hour the champion made a subtle shift in direction towards the dark tree line. As they came closer, a tickle of apprehension began to flower in Tenlon’s belly. He didn’t want to enter the shadowy woods.

  The sun had just risen a few hours ago, sharing its warmth with the riders and strangely enough, he was beginning to enjoy himself. The grasslands were vast and open, with no danger in any direction. In contrast, Killian Forest was shrouded in darkness, a place where anything could attack from anywhere. He tightened his jaw and asked Darkfire to lend him some strength. The mount certainly had enough to share.

  As the troop neared the tree line, Kreiden dropped back and Fenton heeled his mount about fifty paces ahead of the other riders, gripping a spear at his side. The remaining Amorians smoothly pulled into a wedge with Tenlon in the center behind the champion, flanked between Accostas and the irritable Desik.

  Slowing to a canter as they entered the forest, the temperature dropped as they glided beneath the canopy. Soon their mounts were kicking up the dry, soft earth of an open trail. The riders slipped into a single line until Fenton found a path wide enough for Tenlon to have a soldier on either side. Shifting in and out of the wedge formation, they continued on until early afternoon without any trouble.

  Minutes later Tenlon heard a distant howl.

  Chapter 6

  Draz was concerned he might collapse as he lumbered up the hill, his lungs struggling to pull in enough of the late autumn air to fuel his strength. He could feel the loose soil of the northern Amorian forest shifting beneath him as he climbed, forcing him to check his footing and dig into the rise even harder. His blond hair was damp and matted to his forehead, his chest aching from the strain. The muscles of his back and shoulders burned with fire beneath the brown academy cloak, and the hands that gripped the small boulder to his chest were slippery with sweat.

  No matter how he adjusted the rock—spinning, flipping, or rotating it—the damned thing always seemed to be trying to escape. He shifted it again on the move, locking his grip at the wrist and pressing on.

  Always on the move, his mind urged. Never stop.

  The sun was nearing the highest point of the day and its light danced in through patches of forest canopy to warm the surrounding hillside. Draz could hear the struggling breathing of the rest of his class behind him, burdened by heavy packs at the back and dulled sparring swords at the waist, but hampered most of all by the large stones each were forced to carry. Normally these runs were done with their shields, but a youth named Orrik had left his unattended on the ground earlier in the week: an unfathomable transgression.

  Instructor Trobe ordered them all to abandon their shields back at the barracks. Before setting off on their exercise, a heavy stone was assigned to each. They weren’t warriors anymore, he’d said. They were landscapers.

  Draz’s group had been running like this since dawn and was on its third day of it, resting only at dusk when the possibility of a twisted ankle or awkward fall in the dark made it too dangerous to continue. All present were reaching their limit, Draz included.

  “Fly, little birds!” Instructor Trobe’s voice boomed down from the top of the hill they climbed. “I would not follow any of you into battle! How could you carry a comrade to safety if you can’t even carry a stone up a hill?”

  Draz forced the old man’s mockery from his head, focusing on the incline. How the silver-haired instructor made it to the top so quickly, he could only guess. Just a few minutes earlier he had been berating another student below over some tedious concern—an unbuckled strap or a tangled bro
wn cloak, it was always something. The man’s pale, blazing eyes would settle upon you and make you feel like a child.

  Draz ignored the lone instructor and his taunts. All that was important now was the next push of energy, the next step, the next inch.

  Just keep moving.

  He fought to the crest of the hill and saw Sorkan ahead, already halfway down the backside of the rise. He couldn’t remember the tall runner ever passing him, but the climb had been a challenge and it wasn’t all that much of a surprise. Back in the barracks there was a tale of how Sorkan once ran down a buck in the forest on foot. It was said that for the better part of a day he kept chase, eventually finding it collapsed in a clearing nearly dead, lathered in sweat and surrounded by vomit. He claimed to have sat with the animal until its strength returned and it bolted into the night.

  A great story and one most would find hard to believe, but they had all witnessed Sorkan’s stamina during their training on countless occasions. It was as if he could run forever, and no one disputed the tale.

  “Down the back ass of it, Draz!” Instructor Trobe barked as they met. “How can you expect to lead men if you can’t even keep up with them? You are to set the example, not fail to reach it.”

  Draz stumbled down the hill, hugging the stone to his chest with tired arms. They had been on runs before, long runs, though this was the worst of it. His older brother Kirig had told him many tales of what to expect throughout the years of training, but this bone-weary run of exhaustion was something out of a nightmare.

  “You want your cloaks, but the lot of you can’t even handle this!” Trobe continued his tirade as the rest of the students struggled behind him. “It’s just a few stones up a hill! Faster, Jornan! Move faster! You may swing your sword like a man, but I’ve seen drunken mules move with more purpose!”

  Draz smiled inwardly, knowing his sword brother was not far behind. Jornan was always close by. The two of them were mostly identical in strength and speed, but Jornan had always outmatched him in one aspect of training: swordsmanship. In this he outmatched them all.