Exiles

by Jaye L. Knight

  Amidst the roar and the heat of the fire, Goler glanced toward the road. “Trask should have been here by now. His hour is up.”

  He rose abruptly, dumping Anne into the vacant chair, and motioned to his men. “Bring him forward.”

  Two of the soldiers grabbed Anne’s father and dragged him closer to Goler.

  “No!” Anne jumped up and latched onto Goler’s arm. “You can’t do this. You can’t just kill him.”

  Goler brushed her off and shoved her at his men to restrain her. “I can and I will.”

  Anne fought against them, her tears flowing faster. “No, please!”

  Taking a stand beside her father, Goler pulled out his sword. “John Wyland, you have been found guilty of treason, and as baron of Landale, I sentence you to death.”

  Anne screamed for him to stop, but he raised his sword.

  “Goler!” a voice echoed.

  Trask pulled his horse to a sliding halt, sickened by the sight of Goler about to behead Sir John. Goler looked up, a twisted satisfaction growing in his expression. Trask jumped down from his horse and glared at him. The entire way here, he’d tried to formulate a plan, but he had nothing. All he knew was that he had to buy his men time to figure something out. Though he fought to banish feelings of vengeance, he wanted nothing more than to take Goler down for what he had done to his father and to Anne.

  He whipped out his sword. “Are you going to hide behind a bunch of captives like a coward, or will you face me like a man?”

  He didn’t care what happened to him next; he just wanted the beast away from Anne and her family.

  Goler took a step toward him. “I could just kill them if you don’t drop your sword and surrender.”

  Trask glanced at Anne. He would surrender if that’s what it came to, but he needed more time. “And that would prove to every man here that you’re too afraid to fight me one on one. Proof you’re a coward and don’t have the backbone to rule Landale. It doesn’t take much to order the killing of unarmed people while you strut around pretending to be something you’re not. You’re just afraid to fight me because, deep down, you know you could never defeat me in a fair fight. You’re afraid because you know I’m the true leader of Landale, and you’re nothing but a pretender.”

  With every word, Goler’s face turned a deeper shade of red until he snapped and stalked toward Trask, his sword raised.

  “I’ll show you who the true leader is.”

  With an enraged roar, Goler swung and brought his sword crashing down against Trask’s. All the years of animosity between them would be settled here. As Trask had always predicted, it would surely end with one or both of them dead.

  Their swords clashed with ear-shattering blows that sent shockwaves all the way up Trask’s arms and into his shoulders. The emotion drove each of them forward relentlessly. For every strike, Trask saw all of the moments he and Goler had faced each other before. All of the misery the man had caused those closest to him—to Anne, her family, his father, and the people of Landale. He fought for them.

  Trask used all the moves he’d learned and practiced with his father, but Goler met each of them with maddening precision. He’d always considered the former captain a fool, but that didn’t diminish his skill with a blade. They were an even match, but eventually, one of them would fall.

  Their swords came together, and Trask leaned into his to shove Goler off balance. Slightly larger, Goler didn’t move. Instead, he lashed out and kicked at Trask’s shin. Jumping back, Trask almost fell. He caught his balance but released his sword with one hand. Goler stepped forward and swung hard, driving the sword from his other hand. Before he could catch him unarmed, Trask grabbed Goler’s arm and slammed it down across his knee. Goler cursed as his own sword dropped into the mud. Trask then threw a hard punch across Goler’s chin.

  Swords abandoned, they traded punches. Goler’s attacks caught Trask in the jaw and the ribs, but he gave back as good as he received. Though panting for breath, he would not let up or back down. To do so would be to die, and every pounding heartbeat rebelled at this man taking him down.

  A hammer-like blow to the cheek brought an explosion of stars and sent Trask staggering. Goler rammed him, and he landed hard in the mud. He scrambled to regain his feet, but his battered body reacted clumsily, and he slipped in the mud. Goler jumped on top of him, a manic light in his eyes. A dagger glinted in his hands. Trask gasped and grabbed his wrists just before the weapon would have plunged into his chest.

  He held it just inches above his ribs, but his arms shook. Goler put his entire bulk behind the weapon, and it inched closer. Trask couldn’t hold it. With the very last of his strength, he struggled to push it aside. His arms gave out, and the blade sank into his shoulder. He yelled in pain, but adrenaline surged with it. He raised his elbow and smashed it into Goler’s head. Goler grabbed at his face and rolled away. Trask reached for the hilt of the dagger and pulled it from his shoulder, fighting away the shadows that narrowed his vision.

  He raised the dagger just as Goler lunged at him again. The momentum brought him chest first into his own weapon. He froze, staring down at Trask as if unable to process what had just happened. Defeat flashed in his expression followed by a burst of fury. He stumbled away from Trask, the dagger still in his chest, and looked toward his men.

  “Kill them!”

  “No!” Trask fought to rise as Goler fell beside him.

  The soldiers drew their swords. Agony ripped through Trask’s heart greater than any physical wound. Elôm, no! He would never reach them in time. “Anne!”

  Just before the soldiers reached her, one of them cried out and stumbled forward. Four others did the same. A roar shattered the air, and several dragons burst from the trees. Cretes rushed from behind the stable, their bows fitted with fresh arrows matching those already embedded in the fallen soldiers. The other soldiers dropped their swords immediately and backed away with their hands upraised. One of the dragons landed between them and the captives with Warin in the saddle.

  In that moment, all of Trask’s strength drained out as relief flooded in. As much as he wanted to get up, he let himself fall back, not even caring about the mud or his wounded shoulder. All he could do was draw deep breaths amidst the pain of his throbbing ribs.

  “Thank You, Elôm,” he gasped skyward.

  “Trask!”

  Groaning at the effort, he slowly maneuvered himself back into a sitting position as Anne rushed over to him, falling to her knees at his side. He cupped her tear-streaked face with his hand. “Are you all right?”

  Anne looked at him as if he were crazy. “Am I all right? You’re the one who’s bleeding and beaten half to death.”

  Despite the concern in her voice, a small laugh escaped him. He couldn’t help it, though smiling didn’t help his swollen jaw. “I’ll be fine.”

  He glanced to his right. Goler lay a few feet away, unmoving. Trask looked at him in disgust, but he wouldn’t hurt anyone ever again.

  Footsteps drew Trask’s attention away from the body, and he looked up at Warin. He attempted a frown, but it stung his face. “I thought I told you no dragons.”

  Warin shrugged. “Occasionally, a man has to disobey orders if convicted.”

  Trask’s smile broke out again. “Well, I’m glad you did.”

  Warin reached down for his good arm and helped him to his feet. Trask hissed out a breath, but he managed to stay upright under his own power even though Warin hovered close, ready to reach out and help him.

  “We need to get you back to Josef. That shoulder needs to be looked after.”

  Trask nodded slowly, glancing around the yard before his gaze settled on Anne. “Just as long as she comes with me.”

  She wrapped her hand around his arm. “I’m coming . . . and this time I’m not leaving.”

  Pain seared through Jace’s arm, shocking him into a hazy semi-consciousness. He had no strength to hold back the cry that followed. He pulled away from whatever caused it, but
something pinned him down. He couldn’t move at all. Not even his eyelids would work. The pain shot through his arm again, more intense this time, dragging a groan from his aching throat.

  “Easy, Jace. Hang in there.”

  The quiet voice floated around him. Rayad? He couldn’t make his lips form the name or his voice to follow. A sinking sensation descended on him, tugging him with it. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to or could fight it, so he let himself sink, and the lingering pain faded.

  Whether time passed or stood still, he couldn’t say. Yet, when awareness returned, clarity slowly joined it. The awareness grew instead of leaving him in a confusing numbness. Pain returned, though not the sharp, intense pain of before. More of a deep throb in his arm letting him know something was not quite right. Yet, he felt comfortable—warm, dry. He struggled to open his eyes again. It took great effort, but they opened this time, heavily. His surroundings were only a blur that faded as his eyelids slid closed again.

  “Jace.”

  The quiet voice helped anchor his focus. This time he knew with certainty it was Rayad. He desired to respond, but everything from his eyelids to his tongue felt incredibly heavy. He forced his eyes open again, blinking to clear away the fog. Slowly, Rayad’s face came into focus. The man smiled and released a sigh. “Praise Elôm.”

  At last, the fog clinging to Jace’s mind lifted and images of the battle came back to him. He tried to move and look around, but that jolting pain speared through his left arm. He sucked in a breath.

  “Careful,” Rayad said gently. “Your arm is broken.”

  Jace winced. “How is everyone? Michael?”

  “Michael’s all right, thanks to you.”

  This new voice came from Jace’s left, and he shifted his gaze to Kaden.

  “He’s learning all about healing from battle wounds,” Kaden said. “But it’s nothing too serious. Some sliced ribs and a shoulder wound.”

  Jace let his breath seep out slowly and turned back to Rayad. “What about everyone else?”

  Rayad’s expression sobered. “We lost some men from Saul’s village. A few others are in rough shape. We also lost five of the dragons. You gave us quite a scare. If not for the resilience of your ryrik blood, you probably wouldn’t still be here.”

  As weak as he felt right now, Jace believed it. Not even in Auréa’s dungeon had he felt so frail. He doubted he could even raise his head.

  “How long has it been?”

  “The battle ended yesterday afternoon.”

  Jace’s eyelids grew heavy once more. Just talking drained what little energy he had. Weakly, he looked over at Kaden. “Gem?”

  Kaden smiled. “She’s tough, like you. She’s got a few scrapes, but she’ll be all right.”

  Jace let himself smile too but could no longer hold his eyes open.

  “You just rest,” Rayad said as he drifted away again.

  Trask eased into a rocking chair near the cold fireplace and bit down on a groan. He’d managed to dress himself without Warin’s help, though the man had come over early and hovered nearby. The action did set fire to his shoulder and pulsated in every bruise across his upper body. However, inside, he hadn’t felt so settled in a long time. All he had to do was simply walk across camp to see Anne, and that soothed any aches and pains. A contented smile grew on his face. Before yesterday, he hadn’t smiled in a week. He still ached keenly for his father, but knowing Anne and her family were safe eased his pain. Now that they were here, he wouldn’t have to worry about the same fate befalling them.

  Moments later, a light knock sounded at the door. Warin answered it and let Anne step inside. Trask’s smile widened as she approached and pulled up a chair beside him.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked.

  Trask traced her lovely face with his eyes. “Very well, especially now that you’re here. I was just about to come over and see you.”

  Anne frowned lightly. “Don’t you dare get up. You need rest.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my legs.”

  Her expression turned scolding, and he chuckled, holding his ribs with his good arm.

  “Trust me, I’ll be fine. There’s no way I’m leaving this world without first making you my wife unless Elôm tells me otherwise.”

  This seemed to please her, and he asked, “How are your parents?”

  “Father is a little sore, and I’ll feel better once the bruise on Mother’s face goes away.”

  “Are you settling in all right?”

  Anne nodded. “It will take some getting used to, but I, for one, am glad to be out here . . . finally.”

  “Well, you know how I feel about you being here.”

  She smiled, and he motioned to the opposite wall. “See that trunk over there? Since you’ve forbidden me from getting up, why don’t you go over and open it?”

  Anne rose and walked over to the trunk to lift the lid.

  “Find the bundle wrapped in blue silk and bring it here.”

  She picked through the trunk and brought back the bundle.

  “Open it.”

  Taking her seat again, she laid the bundle in her lap and untied the ribbons. When she folded the silk aside, it revealed shimmering white fabric. She took it in her hands and held up a beautiful satin gown—a wedding dress. Her wide eyes darted to him.

  “It was my mother’s,” Trask told her. “I know under normal circumstances, you might have worn your mother’s . . . but, if you’d like, my mother would have loved for you to wear hers. You can take it as is or make it your own. It’s your choice.”

  Anne’s eyes shimmered, and she smiled. “I would love to wear it.”

  Trask let his own smile grow. She would look beyond lovely in the dress. Then he reached for her hand. “Let’s get married tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? Don’t you think we should wait until the others return from Dorland?”

  Trask forced out an exaggerated sigh. “All right, but as soon as they get back, let’s get married. I don’t even care if it’s a big deal or not. I just want to marry you.”

  “Yes, as soon as they get back, we’ll get married.” But she frowned as she eyed the bruises on his face. “At least this way you’ll have a little time to recover.”

  “I don’t have to recover as long as I have you to take care of me.” He gave her a little grin and chuckled at the blush that crept into her cheeks.

  She sent him a reproving look and glanced at Warin, who was clearly pretending not to pay any attention. But he was a married man now. He understood.

  Then Anne rose. “I have to go. Lenae is cooking breakfast for us, and I don’t want to be late or keep Warin here. I just wanted to make sure you were all right. Clearly, you’re just fine.”

  Trask grinned as he watched her leave the cabin. He wished she would have breakfast with him, but soon enough she would, every day. And not just breakfast but all meals and every other moment they wanted to spend together.

  When Jace woke again, he could tell by the light in the cabin that it was much later in the day. He still barely had strength to move, but his head didn’t take as long to clear. He wasn’t used to being so weak. The last time he was right on the brink of death, Elon had healed him, and he hadn’t needed to go through a recovery process. He wished for that healing now.

  Movement drew his attention, and Rayad limped to his side.

  “I have to say it’s good to see you awake again.”

  Jace offered a bit of a smile, and his gaze shifted down to Rayad’s leg. “Are you all right?”

  Rayad nodded, touching where a bandage bulged under his pant leg. “It’ll hurt for a while, but it’ll heal.” He paused. “Can I get you anything?”

  “Water.” Speaking scraped his dried out throat.

  Rayad stepped away and then returned a moment later with a cup of water. Carefully, he helped Jace lift his head and put the cup to his lips. Jace drank deeply, and then lay back with a sigh.

  “We should get some food in you,” Raya
d said.

  Jace nodded. His stomach felt shrunken, though the thought of eating made him tired. Rayad left again, and Jace rested his eyes. He drifted off a little, but not completely, before Rayad returned. When Jace opened his eyes, he found Holden had joined them. His friend smiled widely.

  “Now I get to see you awake for myself.”

  “Barely,” Jace responded.

  Holden helped Rayad prop Jace up with folded blankets. Now that he could look around better, Jace found himself on a cot in the living room of the cabin. A few others lay around him, recovering.

  Rayad sat down on a chair next to Jace with a bowl in hand. “I’ve got a little soup here for you.”

  Jace pulled his right arm out from under the covers, bothered by how heavy it was, and reached for the spoon as Rayad held the bowl closer. He gripped it but couldn’t lift the spoon out of the bowl without shaking it so much he lost the whole spoonful.

  “Here, let me,” Rayad said.

  Jace grimaced at the idea of being spoon-fed, but he’d never recover without nourishment. Swallowing down his pride, he accepted a spoonful of savory chicken broth. The liquid trailed down his throat and warmed his stomach. Members of the group came to visit while he ate. It overjoyed him to see all of them alive. Talas seemed to be one of the most seriously injured with his arm in a sling.

  Just after Jace finished the small bowl of soup, Saul came to see him.

  “You don’t look so near to death now.”

  “Rayad said that’s because of your physician.”

  “Thank Elôm that Toris was with us and wasn’t one of the wounded.”

  “Thank Elôm you were all here,” Jace replied, “otherwise none of us would be.”