Within

by Aaron Bunce

  The sailor danced back, a horrified look on his face as the bulk of the larger soldier crumpled to the ground at his feet. The wiry guard did not hesitate. He lunged forward and jabbed hard with his sword at Balin’s belly, but the blade was swept aside as Balin’s dagger flashed out from beneath his cloak.

  “Come on…kill him now. I will pay you all the gold that was due to the others. You will be rich, do you hear me? Rich!” Surge shouted.

  The guard came at Balin in a flourish. He swung hard across at Balin’s head, then midsection, stopping the blade and reversing its direction with deft movements and practiced hand. Balin was more than up to the task. He ducked, dodged, and weaved around the sweeping attacks. His dagger hovered by his ear, poised to deliver its fatal response.

  “You’re a tricky one…you’re no fighter, more like a dancer,” the wiry soldier said between gasping breaths.

  He was skilled with a blade, but Balin had already succeeded in winding him. Surge cursed as he ducked from side to side, but Balin worked hard to position his body between the two men and the door behind him.

  “Kill him already. What are you waiting for?” Surge spat, growing more frantic with each passing moment.

  The guard jumped back and pulled off the grungy, tattered clothes, his chest heaving as he gasped for breath. His armor beneath was of outstanding quality, the black tunic emblazoned with the horned ram’s head insignia was clean and well maintained.

  Balin knew that he had been able to play games with the soldier up to this point, but he reminded himself that the guard was no novice to battle. He wielded his weapon well and eventually might get lucky, or Balin would slip up.

  He reached inside his robes, scrabbling for the finely crafted throwing knives, but before he could pull one free, the soldier lunged back in. He stabbed relentlessly with the short sword in his right and now brandished an exotic looking dagger in his left. Balin ducked back, but then had to knock the sword aside as the follow-up came in quickly. The curved blade of the soldier’s dagger cut across before him, but it had no length and offered little threat at his range.

  The soldier worked his sword in and down, stabbing for Balin’s belly with the sharp point of well-crafted steel. Again, Balin danced aside and knocked the follow up aside.

  Movement caught his attention, distracting him just as the guard spun. His dagger cut clean through Balin’s heavy cloak, but the blade glanced harmlessly off of the scales of his polished vest. The mail had protected him from the blade’s wicked edge, but the blow stung his ribs nonetheless.

  “Stop dancing, you coward, and fight,” the soldier growled as Balin danced back out of range.

  “As you wish,” Balin replied coolly, casually inspecting the cut in his cloak.

  When the soldier swung in again, Balin quick-stepped forward and kicked out. The heel of his boot caught the soldier’s sword arm just above the wrist. The impact stole the strength in the man’s forearm and jarred the sword from his hand.

  Surge cursed as the guard repeatedly stabbed at Balin with his curved dagger, all caution thrown to the wind. Balin was too close to dodge out of the way so tried to deflect the strike. The curved blade glanced off Balin’s dagger and bit deep into his arm before he could move.

  He accepted the sting of his flesh and the heat of the blood, but he did not let it overrule his senses. The man slashed at him again, only this time Balin reversed the grip on his dagger and cut across.

  The two short weapons collided, the notches forged into the back of Balin’s weapon effectively trapping the other blade. A twist of the wrist wrenched the soldier’s dagger from his hand, sending it rattling to the ground.

  Balin could not afford to let the man regain his footing and go for the dropped weapon, so he snapped out his foot, smashing his genitals. The guard swung in a wide, desperate arc with his right but Balin swept under the punch and cut hard at the man’s armpit. He cried out and lurched, but Balin grabbed him by the collar of his mail and jerked him around.

  Balin drove the dagger hard, sending it plunging into the guard’s mail coat and the soft flesh beneath. The man gasped and slumped against him, the fight quickly draining from his body.

  Balin was already looking past him, however, straight into the eyes of Surge Niscum, as the sailor watched in abject horror. Surge ran back and forth like a cornered rat, desperate for any escape route large or small. He clambered onto a table, knocking everything on top of it to the floor, but the window in the room was too high and far too small.

  With a crash, the sailor fell to the ground, and when he rolled over, Balin stood above him. Surge crawled onto his knees, his shaking hands held out before him in a meek sign of surrender.

  “I’ll pay you the gold. All of it. Piles and piles of gold!” Surge ranted, his lips trembling.

  Balin paced forward, the bloodstained dagger hanging loosely at his side.

  “Wait…wait, no! You can’t kill me. I saw him….I saw him,” Surge screamed. His hands clamped around his head, covering his ears like a child throwing a tantrum. “It had to be, couldn’t be any other. Yes, I saw…him. He is terrible, like a nightmare...with his staff. He had half our men killed without batting an eyelash, then emptied our hold and set us adrift. He didn’t care if he was leaving us to die, but we made it out. Yes, I made it, made it back, alive!” Surge’s eyes went wide with a crazed look.

  Balin grabbed the sailor by the hair and pulled his head back to stare into his eyes. “Who was it? Who did you see? What did he say? Why did he kill your men?”

  “It was the gold, don’t you see? There wasn’t enough. That’s it! It has to be…not enough. He just starting killing men, it wasn’t enough. It’ll never be enough, never, ever…never!” Surge chortled crazily, a wild look inhabiting his eyes. Balin drove his dagger into the sailor’s chest once and then twice for good measure.

  “You said he killed half your crew. What happened to the others?” Balin asked, staring into the man’s dimming eyes.

  Surge’s mouth cracked in a bloody smile, and with his last breath said, “I killed them, of course.”

  Chapter 21

  In danger’s way

  Julian walked through the long grass and looked out over lower Craymore as it sprawled beneath him.

  “Whole stinking place has changed,” Nirnan said, stepping up next to him. Julian nodded.

  “People don’t linger in the streets anymore. Those who do venture out into the city don’t go far. They look like frightened animals. Skittish and ready to run,” Julian said absently.

  “Half the merchants keep their shops shuttered and their doors locked anymore. No one travels by themselves in the lower city anymore, and once the sun sets the streets empty completely. It’s like a goddamned ghost town,” Nirnan replied, leaning on his axe.

  Fear hung in the air. Julian could feel it. It was palpable, thicker than the haze from the pitch fires. It had grown into an oppressive presence.

  “The lower city is victimized by a continuous string of gnarl attacks. There is no defensible wall, and the streets are a twisted maze. So what does the Earl do? He garrisons more troops in the streets,” Julian said.

  “Yeah, if only that worked!” Nirnan laughed. It was a bellowing, barking noise.

  “We patrol during the day and walk the fire lines at night. It is a simple strategy,” Julian mumbled absently.

  “If you don’t mind wandering around in the dark waiting for beasts to jump at you,” Nirnan sniggered, but there was a nervous edge to his voice.

  The lucky patrols saw the stealthy raiding parties slip past them during the dark hours while the unlucky ones ran into them face to face. Either way, more people died.

  “Jiqou made a mistake promoting me. Surviving doesn’t make me a hero,” Julian said quietly.

  “Aye, but it does. You did what most couldn’t on that day. You stood strong. Lots of men look up to you now, make em feel stronger and such,” Nirnan offered, slapping Julian on the back.

  Juli
an snorted. He struggled considering that bloody day anything but a defeat. He constantly thought about all the people he saw die. Their screams haunted his dreams. Their bodies were always so still, bloody, and torn, like butchered animals.

  “Not sure I will ever look at another sunset the same,” Julian said, but Nirnan had already walked back to the fire and didn’t hear. The sun dropped behind Bahlman’s Peak, and the remaining light had turned. The wind picked up out of the mountains, biting at his skin with a chill the fading sun could never hope to vanquish.

  Julian watched the wispy clouds hanging lazily in the strawberry hue of sunset for a few moments. He would have thought it beautiful, if not for his fear of the coming night.

  “Curse the dark,” Julian whispered and turned back to the camp.

  Their temporary home consisted of simple tents to cover their bed rolls, for the rare occasion when they were able to sleep, and a cooking fire flanked by two large cold chests, to keep their food from spoiling.

  A patrol rode through their camp earlier in the day and brought news of yet another attack earlier in the day when dawn had yet to lift. Unfortunately, Julian knew little more than that. He hadn’t passed along this news to any of his men yet, deciding that it would only serve to distract them.

  Julian reached into his breastplate and coiled his finger around a thin length of fabric. Tanea gave him the token the last time they met. Julian kept it hidden, tucked in his armor and close to his chest, where, deep down inside he could still feel the rhythmic beat of her heart. Occasionally, when he knew no one was looking, he would pull it out and hold it to his cheek. It still smelled like her. He found it was a most welcome distraction.

  From the first night they met, they spent every possible moment together. At first, they talked, learning about each other, while trying to make sense of their intense and sometimes overwhelming connection.

  “It’s legend,” she told him, “the priests call it the divine binding.” Their manuscripts held stories about it, in scribbled tomes of old. It was believed to be a blessing bestowed upon the devout, the truest servants of Mani. But there was almost always a purpose, and sometimes, a great cost.

  As a cleric, Tanea was bound to the charter of purity. To break this vow would mean exile from her order and public shame. Her order created the charter in an attempt to keep the clerics and young priests devout and selfless, providing from their body and soul only to the tired, pained, and weary. And although the divine binding was inexplicably written into their history, the priests believed it only flourish, written to woo and captivate followers.

  And such was their dilemma, bound together by an ancient and strong magic, yet banned from being together. Tanea wanted to take him to her charter priest and profess, but Julian wouldn’t let her. He understood the repercussions, and couldn’t bear the thought of her being cast out, of being shamed. He would never forgive himself.

  Julian met Tanea in secret. They talked mostly, trying desperately to explore any and all connections that forged the strange bond between them. At other times, they explored the physical bond. Simple physical contact became an intoxicating experience and only grew more intense the deeper their romantic attachment became.

  Parting became a painful experience. It felt like a team of horses pulled Julian apart every time they separated. And then Tanea’s presence remained, like a lost piece of himself echoing off in the distance. She wasn’t just a shared heartbeat any longer. She was a part of him, as he was to her.

  “Fire’s lit, stinking, oily messes the lot of em,” Nirnan said, tromping up heavy-footed and jarring Julian from his distant thoughts.

  “Good, good,” Julian said.

  “What’s got you so bleary-eyed and groggin? You need sleep?”

  “Just lost…in thought,” Julian said, then shook his head and tried to clear away his thoughts of Tanea. Stay focused.

  “About?” Nirnan started to ask, but Sky, Tristan, and several other men rode into the camp on horses.

  “The north is clear all the way to Bahlman’s pass. The fires rage,” Sky said, dropping from his horse.

  “Good. The sun will be down within the hour. I want everyone up and alert tonight. We stay sharp, and we all greet the sun tomorrow,” Julian said to the small group.

  Julian walked through the camp and roused the rest of his men. He felt guilty waking them. For many of them this was the first real sleep they had received in days. But as he was learning quickly, necessity kept you alive.

  Their camp lay on a small hillock on the edge of the Silverwood. From there Julian could see up the tree line towards Bahlman’s Pass, and south over the jutting rock cliffs of Bahlman’s Crest. The rocky soil made for unsure footing, for man and horse, while the scraggly vegetation provided cover for the invading beasts to hide.

  Julian’s group huddled around the fire. They pulled their wool cloaks in tight, trying to fight off the sting of the cold wind.

  “There was an attack on the western approach today. Of the attack, I know very little. Be mindful of it, but do not let it cloud your thoughts. Four men will take the northern camp, patrol to Bahlman’s Pass. Keep the camp and rotate off the fire line often, keep your eyes fresh.

  “I want another four to take the Crest camp. Take dogs, they’re your best shot at seeing and hearing what’s coming in the dark. Mind the fires and stoke them often, I want those flames licking the heavens. Stay sharp tonight, watch your fellow’s back, and everyone will greet the sunrise,” Julian said, patting the closest man, a short but powerfully built blond man named Stark, on the shoulder. Julian split the men into two groups, assigning each two dogs and horses before sending them off.

  “Wow. You sound like a real commander,” Nirnan said jokingly once the others had ridden off.

  “He’ll command the whole of the city before too long. We might even see it happen. That is if we aren’t torn apart and eaten for stew out here in the dark,” Sky said, punching Nirnan in the arm. The big man didn’t move.

  “Don’t feed those dogs too much, boy. We want em hungry and mean!” Nirnan shouted to Stark, who tended to the two large wolfhounds. One of the dogs growled angrily when he tried to take its bone away.

  “Not too mean, I guess,” he said, giving up and letting go of the bone.

  Julian and his group huddled by the fire while the sun set. His nerves made for a touchy stomach, so Julian ignored the cast iron pot of stew hanging above the fire.

  “Never thought I would hate night so much, I might never sleep right again,” Stark said, checking the fletching on a bundle of arrows.

  “It will pass. We’ll track them down like badgers in their holes, and then we’ll send the wretched brutes back to whatever pathetic afterlife awaits them,” Nirnan said, stew dribbling down his beard.

  “Why don’t we strike back?” Stark asked. “I mean, I heard others talking about it. They attack us from both sides of the mountain. They attack almost every day. That means they must have a camp somewhere, right?”

  “Aye, but that would make sense. Have ya learned nothing from your time in Craymore? They think if they stay tucked away long enough, the gnarls will give up and leave. Blubbering cowardly if you ask me,” Nirnan said amidst another mouthful.

  “Ama’lik…why don’t you say something? They respect you,” Stark said pleadingly to Julian, who listened halfheartedly while watching the day’s last fading light dwindle.

  Julian wanted to tell the younger man that he had already tried. That he longed to strike out at the gnarls with force. To make the city safe once again, but no one would listen. He couldn’t tell his men that he was in constant fear. That his purpose in life was shifting, yet he could not articulate how or why. They would think him crazy.

  Deep down inside there was a part of Julian that would probably agree. He wanted to run away, to take Tanea as far from this wretched place as possible, but his sense of duty held him.

  Could I live with myself if Tanea dishonored herself, for me? Julian di
dn’t feel worthy of anyone making such a sacrifice on his behalf.

  The tug-of-war between his sense of honor and his desire for companionship was gut-wrenching. Now he had the dark of night to endure as well.

  “We follow our orders. We keep our fires and walk our lines. That will keep the ones we love safe,” Julian said, his voice cutting off more of Nirnan’s grumblings. “Doubt yourself, and your purpose here, and you will only get others killed.”

  Nirnan paused mid-chew and pounded on his chest, “here here! Well said, Ama’lik!”

  A gray glow permeated the horizon, temporarily holding back the black of night. Like all good things, it ended, and eventually the ebony murk settled in for good. As darkness fell, the city glowed to life, shining like a beacon amidst the black. Their fire line looked like a string of starlight, stretching clear across the width of the valley.

  “The night has become its own monster altogether. It moves, shifts, and sighs like a slithering, scheming beast. We have to trust our instincts. If we rely solely on our senses, the darkness will lead us astray,” Sky said as Stark walked off with a handful of firewood.

  “Hence no wine or mead,” Julian replied.

  “Aye. They are honeyed companions, and once in your tummy, they will slow your arm and trick your eye. Sure’n no faster way to meet your end out here,” Nirnan agreed. He fidgeted with a horn of mead for a moment before stowing it away.

  * * * *

  Julian stumbled back into the camp a short while later, having patrolled the northern line. He handed the leash to Stark, who promptly trudged off into the dark, the large dog pulling him along.

  Julian stoked the campfire while Sky split firewood from a dead tree they had pulled from the forest earlier that day.

  “A dozen men, Ama’lik,” Sky said, shaking his head in between swings of his axe. “To marshal and patrol all of this land. It would not take a skilled sneak-thief to slip past us.”

  Julian nodded quietly as he warmed his hands and feet. “I wanted thrice that number. But with the attacks and men deserting, there simply aren’t the men to spare.”