by Dan Gillis
The forward sentries were signaling. Tey’ur pulled in Calista sharply, causing her to wicker in mild protest. Motioning a halt to his troops, he spied upon a small camp in the distance, amongst the rolling hills, close to the road to Khyvla. He signaled for two rangers to inspect the site. As the two lightly clad infiltrators moved silently away, the grizzled veteran checked his vanguard and equipment as was his habit.
He sat tall in the saddle (as his height was well above that of typical men) which was an advantage when surveying the troops in combat. Despite being well acquainted with his winter years, Tey’ur’s body was still robust and healthy - the gift of Symian blood. Whatever age had taken away from youthful strength, he had made up for in wiliness in combat. That was not to say he was frail by any stretch; he was still feared in the Dorgyn Circles and was more than a match for any man.
He stretched his tall frame and felt the straps of his shoulder plates dig the chain mail uncomfortably across his lateral muscles. Unfortunately his large frame also necessitated customized armour which was molded to his body type. While customizing was not unusual for some folk (most armour required some modification), Tey’ur’s was a completely different situation. It took ages to receive work back from the smiths and usually not to his satisfaction. He demanded perfection, as shoddy work could easily turn the tide in a close skirmish. He tugged on the vambrace absently. Intricate symbols lay etched beneath scars and dents from the old days. It was the only armour he retained from the Halls. The rest had fallen by the wayside, irreparable from countless battles since the Breaking, now faded into memory. He glanced at the white stained cuirass and checked his thoughts.
The White Guard was under his stewardship now, and presently they needed culling. Evidence of this was ample and ever-present, as shown with the rashness of the recon guard! Hot-headed folly most likely led to their doom. Recon was not equipped for a strong defence. Instead, he had designed the unit to move swiftly; delivering quick death and handling light engagements.
He guessed what had occurred. The Gnarel likely devoured the recon within an hour, if they foolishly fell into difficulty. The White Guard had been itching recently for an outlet to their restlessness. It had been particularly bad when some of his men had reduced themselves to enforcing provincial laws upon the hapless peasantry in the area. When the Gnarel attacked the White Guard, it was a mother-send to some of the younger men, and the recon guard had left without orders.
Tey’ur supposed the Gnarel had effectively culled his forces for him. He sighed quietly and surveyed the encampment in the growing light. The scouts returned swiftly across the scorched earth, and reported to their superior. Chain of command was essential in the guild. The scout lieutenant strode up next to Tey’ur’s brawny warhorse. The stealthy man hefted a great bird of prey on a padded arm.
“My Lord,” his lieutenant spoke in hushed tones, “the camp consists of our recon unit, minus one, who are all resting. There are no other marks in the area. Gnarel tracks lead away from the camp, in a northerly direction, about three hours old.”
This was strange news indeed. The scorched earth presented new challenges for the scouts but they had adapted. There was no mistaking their report and he hadn’t expected to see his men gathered in such a way. He suspected they would find the survivors of the conflict straggling along on a return journey home. But to have them all gathered together with camp unbroken this late in the day? Indeed, it was most unexpected and mysterious. The Gnarel tracks were even more perplexing. Normally, Gnarel tracks would have passed through this area, and in the worst case been the only tracks remaining. To have his men alive and to have departing Gnarel tracks made no sense. The Gnarel rarely retreated. It was beyond peculiar. It merited caution. He dismissed the ranger curtly with a gesture.
“Corbin.”
A solemn hooded figure in white robes moved his horse up from his position to his Lord’s back right. He halted the animal next to Tey’ur and spoke quietly.
“My Lord?”
“What do you sense from the camp ahead? Is there any evidence of Ashori activity?” He waited as the brow of the Ignitor wrinkled slightly.
“Not presently; however the lingering residue of the weaves we have been tracing is strongest here.” He said nothing more. Short and to the point is what Tey’ur demanded.
“I see nothing that bespeaks danger, and yet my instincts will not rest. They have not let up since we left.” Tey’ur calculated the options aloud. Corbin’s face drew into a sardonic smile.
“You should have considered a career as Ashori,” the hooded one commented, “Your instinct is as shrewd as any acquainted with the arts that I know of. Perhaps it’s not too late …”
The Lord of the White Guard Hall glared at the man with tempered disdain. Corbin simply nodded and moved his mount back to position. Within himself, Tey’ur smiled. That man was destined to lead the White Guard, he was sure of it. Mild effrontery was tolerable, if not evidence of the winds of change. Corbin's words were nothing but a heralding of the winds of fate. Besides, his aging bones were closing in upon their last war. Soon he would leave the defence of the land to the young. Tey’ur raised a weathered gauntlet and signaled the advance.
As the company of a hundred grew closer, the forms that huddled around in small circle took shape. He recognized the men under his command, most sat hunched over their knees with bowed heads. The one thing that did catch his attention immediately was the absence of wounds. If they actually survived the encounter, there should have been bandages and dressings to cover all manner of trauma. He did not equip most units with adepts in the alacritor arts, as healers were in short supply. He glanced to his left, and watched their guild healer look on with apparent concern. The healing role was a demanding one. Often when situations became perilous or hopeless they would suffer the greatest. The inability to solve every dilemma sometimes broke their resolve and they withdrew into themselves, never to heal again. Sadly, they did not live long after.
The company vanguard spread out to form a perimeter head, while the rear guard moved to fill in the gaps. The maneuver would guard effectively against any outside attack, at least long enough to regroup into formation. He moved through the center of the expanded configuration, and guided Calista toward the circle of motionless guildsmen. After moving close, he slid carefully from the saddle to the charred earth. He felt his muscles complain under the stress of the dismount and grimaced within; truly, it had been some time since he had been on the hunt. Tey’ur moved steadily in the half plate mail to the foremost soldier who was already being assessed by Menhol, First Alacritor of the Guard. The graying lord crouched down and placed a hand upon the hunched shoulder of the man.
“Yohen.” He whispered to the man’s ear. Slowly, the subordinate’s head lifted and stared with a dull expression into the older man’s eyes.
“My Lord Tey’ur …” He seemed at a loss and struggled to find his words. “The shadows … guard yourself … it’ll destroy us all!” Moisture was forming in the corners of soldier’s frenzied eyes and mouth. He seemed to be in a daze, or trance-like state. Menhol was silent, slowly delving the man for injury. “Lord, how did you …?” the soldier spoke frantically. Reality suddenly settled upon the soldier and he began to sob silently.
“Easy, Yohen.” He eased the weeping man’s head against his armoured chest. He leaned slightly toward the monk. “Tell me, Menhol, what’s happened,” he whispered. The monk frowned and stroked his chin thoughtfully. After a moment he responded.
“I am not exactly sure. There is no evidence of injury, and yet …”
“Something’s happened inside.” Tey’ur tapped his own temple softly. The healer nodded.
“I have little expertise in this area as it’s a highly complex and developed form of lore. My initial assessment is that there may have been alterations through parts of his psyche. Yet, I have my doubts. A mind master would know for certain if another of his craft were tampering. However, Cerebors are extremely r
are in the land, most are known and accounted for … and they are hardly numerous. As you know, there are none in the White Guard who can delve into the mind.” His mouth frowned sternly in concentration. The old warrior stood slowly and cast a gaze into the glowing horizon. His eyes, which witnessed untold wars, gazed to a faraway place to the south.
“I have known many … seen their work. None have ever been capable to act on this scale.” He stared unflinching as a northern wind tossed his cloak about his massive frame. The Gnarel trail was a false lead; a greater mystery lay in other paths. He breathed in deeply and listened to his innermost feelings. They were drawing him south, inevitably connecting to his past. It was either sentimentality or a distinct impression. Perhaps She was guiding him … No, that would be impossible. He closed his eyes and then turned to face Menhol. “Get these men loaded into the equipment transport. We move within the hour.”
***
Tohm’s brow dripped sweat across his exposed barrel chest and upon the dry ground. The morning sun shone high overhead. The southern passes of Tamers Reach loomed ever nearer with every passing hour. Plodding on, Tohm adjusted his grip on the shafts. His muscles were taut and strained from hours of labour, yet he never uttered a complaint. His eyes never veered from the vast field that spread before him. His mind was set on one goal, to deliver the motionless monk he carried to safety. They had pressed on for hours with short but otherwise merciful rests. Though they had emerged from the scorched land some time ago, the southerly winds harassed them with debilitating dust. Zyr now lay cocooned within the waggon tarp, shielded against the foul particles of charcoal-like dirt which swirled about them.
Following the terrible struggle where Zyr and Shien had subdued the demon, the monk had performed some last acts of complete compassion. After reviving any survivors from both sides of the conflict, he healed them to the last combatant. His last instruction to the three of them was to head in a strictly southerly direction and tend to him as his body recovered. He collapsed after that, completely immobile. An improvised bed had been formed from the remnants of the cart. The terror of the previous night had driven the ponies away and no one looked for them. A sense of uncertainty had settled over the group.
Tohm was concerned; Shien had not spoken to anyone, not even Firah. He walked ahead of Tohm several paces, checking the direction of their travels against the sun and hills. Previously he had eliminated evidence of their tracks for a significant distance. After fording a steady stream, which fed from the southern peaks of Tamers Reach, Tohm’s inner logical mind began to be at ease. Rivers were difficult to track through, especially with Shien taking care to replace rocks and stones to hide footfall and tracks etched by Zyr’s bed. A pack was slung across the young man’s back which he clung too tightly, while weapons on his hip swayed in cadence with long strides. The young girl walked behind, head down and feet dragging through the grass. Her hand grasped the grip of her dagger constantly. The whole mood of the group was somber and withdrawn. He shook his head and pressed onward with renewed fervor. He knew that his mind was weak; he would at times lapse into fits of rage and animal-like lust, yet he could not fail his most precious possessions, the friendships he treasured more than life itself. He could not fail, and strangely, his mind was stable as he focused on the singular task of dragging the litter across the ground.
Suddenly, Tohm’s instincts exploded into fire. He reeled as his conscious mind screamed in protest. ‘No! Not again! I am in control!’ Yet that same consciousness watched in vain as his body released the shafts and crouched low in a feral stance. It was if the limited conscience was trying to control a raging tornado by shouting feeble words; it was utterly useless. Tohm scampered across the ground swiftly toward the girl, his large frame defying logic as it flowed across the ground. The girl looked up suddenly, her red eyes full of alarm.
“Tohm, wait!”
Tohm felt his body lurch to a halt beside her. He sniffed the air. Strange smells filled his mind as his brain interpreted the odors. Horses, men, energy, and excrement mixed with endless smoke and ashes. The weakened mind that was Tohm’s strained to rein in the beast, to prevent it from acting rashly. It might as well have tried to blow out an inferno with a breath.
“Danger approaches.” His arm lifted to the north and he watched as his hand moved slowly to hers. She snatched it away quickly.
“Not this again. Shien!” The young man slowly stopped and hesitantly turned himself around. His face betrayed no emotion, as he walked over. Tohm watched the young fighter’s eyes. They were hard and impassionate.
“What is it?” He said coolly. She flinched slightly at his terse address but quickly continued.
“Tohm says we’re in danger. Normally, I would say it’s his mind but I was thinking about last night and …”
“Tohm. Where is the danger?” Shien interjected. Firah fell silent and her head lowered slightly. Tohm felt his hand rise again.
“There. The danger comes. We must go.” He was beginning to fidget where he crouched, his keen eyes locked upon the horizon where the enemy would appear.
“Where are we going to go, Tohm?” Shien’s voice was steadily increasing in volume and force. “What in Aeredia’s name are we going to do? Zyr is half-dead, and you think we will be able to do anything? Look at us. Despoilers! Beasts and demons! We should be running from ourselves!” His face was red in anger and frustration.
The wind blew harshly across the land, scattering black dust which caught upon the girl’s dampened cheeks, marring her complexion. Her eyes squinted sharply. She turned her head away as raven black hair was tussled by the wind’s unseen hands.
Tohm’s rational mind ached to reach out to Firah. He sensed something was happening to her, but he could not piece together all the clues. He found it difficult to focus on keeping control of himself, when he did have control. ‘I’m sorry, Firah’ Tohm whispered quietly in the dark recesses of his mind. It was clear how much the monk had helped them, now that they were without his aid. No one knew how long he would remain in his state.
Shien’s light-colored hair shifted slightly as he pressed a hand to his face. He had sunk down to one knee and bowed himself low. “It doesn’t really matter …” his voice mumbled from his lowered head. “Do as you wish. In some ways, a quick end is preferable to all this.” He fell silent and remained still. Tohm’s body shifted anxiously but stayed beside the girl. His mind determined that it was probably useless to run, as there was no cover for miles. It was futile.
Two thundering columns poured over a far hill spreading rapidly apart. They branched outward and extended around the four companions. Tohm crouched lower, emitting snarling, guttural sounds. While Firah stood upright and faced the nearest arcing line of horses and men with stoic pose, Shien simply raised his eyes slightly and waited. The two columns intersected and then slowly turned inward, settling into various formations. In a few moments they halted thirty Spears distant from the small group, completely enveloping the four companions. The riders were adorned in shining armour and their weapons gleamed in the early morning sun. Their white cloaks and tabards flowed in the cool breeze.
One large rider dismounted and was followed by two others, who smartly stepped up next to either side of the first. The three armoured men approached the small group. As they grew nearer they slowed and stopped just out of reach of any potential attack. The large one considered the weary group for a time from behind a sparkling helm, his eyes moving from person to person. Tohm continued his low growling and seemed to be coiled tightly as a spring, with Firah’s hand on his shoulder the release mechanism. She stood boldly and waited upon the visitors to speak. Shien had not acknowledged the troops, but glared out from behind locks of hair which had been blown across his face. No one dared move.
“You seem to be in some distress,” the large one spoke finally. “Perhaps we could be of some assistance?” He seemed at ease, but Tohm could tell that the leader and all his men were wound as tightly as he. One false
move would bring a quick end. Desperately, he tried to cool the beast which hackled with anticipation of attack.
“We have things well in hand.” It was Firah who addressed the commander, which visibly took some of the surrounding troops aback. The large man displayed no emotion, but focused his gaze directly on the girl. She brushed the dark hair from her face. “Thanks for your concern, all of you,” She looked around at the massive force, “we’ll continue on our way.”
“So it will be.” The large man assented. Firah’s crimson eyes widened. Clearly she did not expect this.
“However, permit me to solicit some good will. It is our duty to assist those in need. I am Tey’ur of the White Guard, caretakers of Southern Mehnin and all its rural holdings. I have a healer with my troop who might be able to help your downed companion.” He indicated the resting pallet to which Zyr was secured and covered. Firah faltered. Tohm remembered well her philosophy about most men in the world, and it was not conforming to the demeanor of this stalwart warrior. He was intrigued to learn what was at the root of this request. The beast sniffed the air anxiously.
“I need a moment to talk with my companions.”
The large man bowed in simple courtesy. It was neither patronizing nor overdone, and the massive soldier withdrew with his guard to allow them room to converse out of earshot. Firah stared at them with her blood-like gaze and spoke quietly. “What do we do? Can they help Zyr?”
“Don’t be a fool, Firah.” Shien spoke quietly. Apparently, some sense had replaced portions of his indifference, perhaps in the event that they might yet survive another day. “Never trust soldiers, even ones who dress in white. Look at the emblems. These belong to the same group of men we helped last night. They have a reason for being here, more than just emissaries of good will. Judging by the size of their army, they are clearly engaged in more than a refreshing morning ride.” He was speaking to her, but his gaze never met hers.