“Because in here no one will find us.”
Once inside the apparent safety of the clearing, Arjobec helped her down from her mount. He offered food and water, and she ate in nervous silence, feeling as though there were no one else alive in the entire world except for her. Arjobec stoked a small fire, a blaze that tried but failed to keep the night at bay. When she finished her meal, she gathered her exhausted limbs beneath a thin blanket and slipped into an uncomfortable sleep.
Poor, poor Arjobec did not remain awake much longer. He crossed his legs in front of the fire, his eyes drooping, his yawns frequent. Finally exhaustion claimed him. He fell into a deep sleep and did not stir again that night, not even when a rider tread near. The rider, his horse kept quiet by masterful hands, moved not twenty paces from the campfire. He parted the greens and spied into the clearing. In those moments, darkest of all, Andelusia and Arjobec were not alone. They were watched, though not by friendly eyes.
A New Oath
At Castle Verod, dawn splintered the night. The great storm was gone. Sunshine poured into Verod’s decrepit towers, bringing warmth to its halls and passages, reawakening creepers of ivy upon every stone. Outside the walls, the hillsides flowed with green, a gift of all the rain that had fallen. A hundred streams babbled and spilled over their banks, their waters carving new channels wherever they went. The season was late spring, and Verod was surrounded by a new outburst of life, though inside the castle, all was quieter than ever before.
Far below Verod, Tratec was nearly empty. Its markets were vacant, its dwellings hollow. With each passing day, travel upon the Crossroad grew scarcer. All the merchants and common folk had scattered westward into the Dales, leaving their lives and homes behind. They were fearful and rightly so, for they had all heard the tales of the Furyon army, raging mercilessly through all of Mormist, spreading like wildfire.
It was there in quiet Tratec, on the eighth dawn since the armies of Lord Lothe had gone to their doom, two riders trotted onto the Crossroad. Their arrival was somber, their gazes empty, while it seemed to the few folk who saw them that the sunshine could not touch their faces. The two guided their horses up the winding path to Verod, where they halted before the castle gates and stared as if deciding whether or not to enter.
“Few will be left,” said Garrett, his ebon raiment dappled with dried Furyon blood.
Marlos grunted atop his horse. “We should have gone straight to Gryphon.”
Garrett slid down from his horse, Marlos soon after. The castle gates, swung wide from within, creaked ever so slowly open to greet them.
“Ghosts…” Dennov blanched at the sight of them. “Garrett, Marlos… They said you were dead.”
“And yet here we are,” grumped Marlos.
Dennov stammered, “Is that… is that Rellen?”
Garrett unslung the pallid shape from his stallion and took him into his arms. It was Rellen, sure enough, limp as a storm-battered leaf. Rellen’s face was whiter than the moon, though he breathed still, slumbering in Garrett’s arms like a sickly child.
“We need to get him abed.” Marlos shouldered into the foyer.
“Of course. Follow me.” Dennov hurried them inside.
Trailing in silence as Dennov drowned Marlos in questions, Garrett carried Rellen to the highest tower in Verod. He complained none, not of Rellen’s weight, not of the thousand stairs he had to climb. He entered the great circular room at tower’s top and laid Rellen lightly as a feather atop the bed. The same he shared with Andelusia, he remembered. But the girl has likely gone home, just as he feared.
For three days and three nights, Rellen slept. Garrett remained in the tower as his watcher and protector. Straggling soldiers trickled into Verod from every corner of the woods, most of them wounded and grieving, but Garrett never left Rellen’s side. Tratec filled up again, becoming a reservoir for the lost, the hopeless, and the dying. The city mourned, wailed, and cursed everything from the Furyons to Lothe to the rain. Garrett was grateful Rellen slept through it all.
So it was on the fourth dawn, Garrett awoke to the feeling of sunshine on his cheek. He rubbed the sleep and dreary dreams from his eyes, and just as he had the three mornings before, he sat solemnly beneath the room’s massive window, a spacious arc of glass beyond which the rising sun glittered. The Crown Mountains were visible, their distant shapes silhouetted like soldiers against the scarlet dawn. Better to be there than here, he thought longingly. Fog Mountain, Spire’s Grove, Lords’ Peak, how I have missed you all.
A while of dawn-gazing, and his reverie was interrupted. Marlos knocked roughly on the door and entered the room without invitation. The Gryphon captain was loud and brusque as usual, but Garrett did not stir.
“Looks peaceful from up here,” remarked Marlos of the view. “You’d never know what the trees hide.”
Garrett’s expression gave nothing away. His heart was broken the same as every man of Mormist, but no one would know it by his composure. “Mormist is gone,” he murmured. “Whatever the Furyons do, wherever they go, home will never be the same. You should take a bit of heart in knowing Gryphon is still far from here.”
Marlos chomped on an apple. “Home is here, leastways for now. Gryphon seems lost to me. Only a month, and I can hardly remember what she looks like.”
“Then remember this sunrise well. It may be among the last we know.”
Marlos ceased chewing. “Never thought I would hear you talk like that.”
Garrett turned away from the window. His eyes were dark, his countenance polished clear of emotion. “Do not mistake me for beaten. I am not giving up. Whether by my hand or another, our enemies will answer for what they have done. It is the way of the world to find balance. It always has been so.”
“And what of him?” Marlos pointed to the four-posted nest of pillows and blankets where Rellen tossed and turned. “His lady is lost. He is wounded, and badly. Hard to exact revenge without our champion.”
Garrett narrowed his eyes. “He has lost much, but he will survive.”
Even as he and Marlos looked to Rellen, the pile of pillows began to stir. A murmur sounded and a hand appeared to peel back the heavy bedcovers. From darkness into light, Rellen emerged. He was terribly pale, his face and arms inked with bruises, but he was very much alive.
“The boy awakens!” cried Marlos. “My mother be a kitchen wench, his eyes are open!”
“Was it a dream?” Rellen creaked.
“Lay back your head, milord. You are badly hurt.” Marlos was first to the bed.
With all the strength left in his battered body, Rellen pushed himself until he was sitting upright. “Where am I?”
“You are back with us, though you should not be,” said Garrett. “This is Verod, your old tower. Your work is not done here. The stars have decided to spit you back into the world.”
Recognizing his friend, Rellen’s eyes brightened, and for a moment it seemed as though he had awoken from an unpleasant dream. “Garrett…” he exhaled. “I was there, against a huge…a big…a towering giant. I cannot see his face. He was…undefeatable. And then the sunlight, it struck me so hard. I lost all feeling. I cannot remember any more. What happened?”
Marlos scolded him, commanding Rellen to rest, but Garrett spoke soothingly. “Be calm, Rellen. Listen to me. By some power unknown, you are alive. I wonder if you remember the silver bracer on your left arm. When the villain cut you down, the bracer burst like starlight. You were saved from death and the Furyons briefly blinded. You are wounded still, but not by the giant’s sword. The starburst threw you into deep unconsciousness, in which you have slept for seven days. If you doubt me, look at your flesh. You have few marks, no cuts, and nothing where the blade carved through your armor. The welts and bruises on your arms were mostly gotten in bringing you here. This is no hereafter. You are alive. Others will say your second life is impossible, but we know what we saw.”
Though gaunt and bleary from so long asleep, Rellen looked haler already. He p
ulled back his shirt collar and peered at his shoulder, eyeing the spot where Daćin’s sword had fallen. “No scar? No blood? It does not even hurt.”
“Yes.” Marlos grinned. “We know.”
Rellen’s eyes widened. “I told you. There is magic. What other explanation? The Furyons have it, Lorsmir too.” He slid down onto his pillow again, his excitement taking its toll. “I was reborn. Father’s gift. Lorsmir’s smithy. The bracer. It was a perfect fit. But now…I am so tired. I do not want to sleep again.”
Soon enough, Rellen was soon snoring again. Garrett sat beside him, watchful but unworried.
“You knew he would come back,” said Marlos. “How?”
“I did not know. I assumed. He has more fight in him than most.”
“Then today is a good day.” Marlos clapped his hands together. “The first in a long, long while. A day or two for him to recover, and back to Gryphon we will go. Emun will set things to rights. The Furyons be damned!”
Marlos stormed from the room, presumably to boast of Rellen’s recovery to the rest of Verod. Garrett said nothing to dissuade him. That Marlos or any other should have high hopes was commendable, even if unwise.
Midday, and with Rellen in the care of a capable attendant, Garrett descended into the bowels of Verod. He joined Marlos and Dennov in the old, cobwebbed dungeon, the same deep chamber he had met with Rellen and Saul only two weeks ago. The chamber was even gloomier than before. The room’s only light was that of a few small candles Dennov placed on the floor and table. The constant drip of water, another remnant of the month-long rain, echoed over the entire conversation, keeping pace with every word uttered.
“Rellen awakens, but what now?” asked a frustrated, weary Dennov. “I counted this morning, and there are almost a thousand new fighters outside, hailing from all over the forest. They want vengeance for what the Furies have done. They want to fight, but they threaten to leave because there is no one to lead them. Aside from them, we have received missives from Graehelm, but the letters are filled with questions about the enemy, not with promises of help. Do they not see that after the invaders take Tratec, the Dales will be blackened by Fury banners?”
“Take everyone and go west,” Marlos repeated for the twentieth time. “Rally in the Dales. It is safer than waiting here.”
For the last hour, Garrett had deferred, nodded diplomatically, and disagreed with nothing, but no longer. “No.” He steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “We cannot flee. True, running to the Dales will save lives, but still... if we are men, if we are warriors, we must guard Verod to our ends and make the Furies pay dearly for setting foot onto the Crossroad. The rest of Graehelm needs time to prepare. We are the only ones who can give it to them.”
Dennov and Marlos looked to him. “Stay?” Dennov flinched. “We may be brave men, but martyrs? The city is filling up, Verod too, but these men are not soldiers. They will tuck tail and fly at the first scent of the Furyon storm. They are vengeful, but how quickly will their fire go out when they see black swords carving men into ribbons and lightning leaping from sun-swallowing storms? What will happen to those who remain thinking themselves protected, to the women and the children? Come now, we have no real chance to keep this war inside the forest. We have failed Mormist entirely. What hope is there in staying?”
“We stay not to win, or even to survive,” Garrett said grimly. “We stay because Mormist is home. I would not expect Marlos to remain, but you are Dennov, as much a mountain son as I. You know the truth. Verod is Graehelm’s only chance. If it falls, the Furies will overrun everything before the year is done.”
“Well then, you will have to take command,” Dennov countered with a sigh. “There is no one else foolish enough.”
He leaned back in his chair and cupped his chin within his palm. He knew his role, and it was not as a master of men. “I am no leader,” he said. “But you are. You could keep them here, keep them from abandoning their country.”
“Perhaps… but for how long?”
“Long enough for Rellen to recover. Long enough to give him a chance to decide what is best.”
Dennov looked to the floor, to the ceiling and to the cold, wet walls. “I know the lad is your friend, Garrett, but look at him. He is a pale shadow of who he was. I came to Gryphon seeking the guidance of a king, and Emun sent me back with nothing but a boy. I wanted to believe, truly I did. But Lothe is dead and our hero crippled. Mormist is lost. The axe was hoisted when Ahnwyn was slain, and brought down upon our necks at Gholesh.”
Marlos rattled the table with his fist. The Gryphon captain was angry. “I hate this.” He glowered. “You are both right. We are cowards if we run, fools if we stay.”
Garrett understood all of their emotion. He knew fear, rashness, and anger were the prime poisons of war. He stood and propped himself upon the table with his fists. His audience saw the look upon him, the coals stirring to life in his eyes. “Whatever you choose to do, I beg both of you to wait until Rellen is healed. He will change the course of this war. You will see. His wounds are not of the flesh. He will recover quickly. When he finds Andelusia is missing, his fury will grow, and his desire to destroy the enemy will increase tenfold. Wait for him. I swear my life upon it. He will find a way to defeat them.”
Dennov shook his head. “What exactly do you think he will do?”
“I cannot say. Mine is not a strategist’s mind.” He shrugged. “It will be something we do not expect, I am sure. What I do know is fleeing to the fields is not the answer. If we allow the Furies to march unchecked, they will have free reign of the Dales, free reign of Graehelm, and all those who ran will perish just the same. We would be cowards not to fight, betrayers to our oaths as soldiers.”
A long quiet took hold. The three men rose from their chairs. Dennov blew out every candle, Marlos gathered his maps, and all three men marched out of the cold, cold chamber, little wiser than before.
The days wore on. Rellen healed, and summer settled upon Tratec. No new word of the Furies came forth, and with each new dawn, more and more folk from the far corners of the mountain country arrived, breathing life into the city again. Though crumbling, Verod became Mormist’s sanctuary. The stores of food from the Dales, unneeded by Lothe’s dead, served to feed thousands. Only the most desperate of souls fled to the Dales. The rest stayed, some out of fear, others because they believed in their hearts Dennov would protect them from the Furyons.
Dusk, and Garrett arrived alone in Verod’s grandest hall. The great chamber was overstuffed this eve, and not to his liking. He slid sideways between longtables bending beneath platters of food and huge decanters of mead. He could not hear himself think, nor breathe, nor even the sound of his boots striking the floor. The roar of some three thousand feasting men, all here by Dennov’s invitation, fair shook Verod to the point of collapse. Too much feasting, he thought, but did not say. They should be smithing, fletching, training… Mead and other liquors flowed in abundance. For the rowdy men of Mormist, it seemed for one night as though the war was but a myth, a thing that had happened centuries ago. Garrett saw Dennov wandering from table to table, treating every group of men like kings. He understood the reason why. Making friends. Doling out promises. Feeling out rivalries. Fill their bellies with beer tonight, and expecting their allegiance tomorrow.
Though many men asked Garrett to join their table, he stayed for none. For him, feasting amongst thousands was a poor substitute for dining in the company of a few. Plucking a few choice morsels for his supper, he excused himself and moved to the main door, where the cool calmness of the night beckoned him outside. When the gate shut behind him and the roar of the feast dimmed, he took twenty steps into the darkness and shook the tension from his limbs.
Tonight was meant for respite. Rellen was nearly fully recovered, and the few survivors of the Gryphon company were finished with the worst of their grief. He needed this night, needed a while alone to clear the shadows from his mind. And yet, even as he took to the path leading
down into Tratec, he saw ten riders approaching the rusted gates of Verod, Saul of Elrain at their head.
He joined Saul at the gate. Saul’s hair was wet and his beard full and wild. His raiment seemed to betray great sorrow, for his ragged blue cloak hung loosely from his shoulders, while his armor was filthy, its splendor matted beneath a layer of wet leaves and old blood.
“Others will be louder about it.” He approached Saul quietly, paying no heed to the gasps of surprise from the other riders. “But most men assumed you dead.”
Saul slid down from his stallion, a huge smile breaking upon his lips. “Garrett! Alive? We saw you surrounded! We thought… we were certain that…”
“Yes. Rellen lives too,” he said for the sake of the other riders, many of whom hailed from Gryphon. “Marlos the same.”
Saul trembled as though about to crack. “Aye, we heard about Rellen. Everyone in Tratec knows. Thank the stars for that. But you? You stood in a sea of Fury swords. I saw it with my own eyes. Am I to believe in magic now?”
“For Rellen perhaps.” He steadied Saul with a palm upon his shoulder. “But not for me. The Furyons are well-trained and better equipped, but they fight without passion. I might have killed a hundred more had I not been needed elsewhere.”
Without fanfare, he escorted Saul and the riders into Verod. Their horses were stabled and their filthy cloaks taken to wash. The other riders set immediately to feasting, but Garrett took Saul straight to Rellen’s tower. Saul’s mood changed for the better upon hearing Rellen’s laughter through the door. Garrett thought for a moment the bearded beast of Elrain might weep with joy, but somehow Saul swallowed it back.
“Saul!” came Rellen’s cry as they entered. “Another friend, alive!”
Garrett held back in the shadows. Awestruck, Saul strode immediately to Rellen, who was supping with Marlos at the room’s small trestle table. In the candlelight pooling upon the floor, Saul knelt and took Rellen’s hand into his own. “Rellen, thank all that is good. I tried to reach you, but the Furyon line would not break. Forgive me for losing you in the tide.”
Down the Dark Path (Tyrants of the Dead Book 1) Page 35