Rising from Dust (Light from Aphelion Book 1)

by Carlsson, Martine

  “And where do we send them?” Colten asked with his honeyed voice.

  “To a better place in the north to form a community.”

  “Voilà,” Colten exclaimed. “So when we have freed all the farms, we will turn to the outposts. Now, get yourself ready for tomorrow.”

  Kilda left the tent with a feeling of deception. She had worked hard to get information on the tower. Yet, she understood that saving the people was necessary. The villagers and farmers could not live with soldiers on their back. The idea of a community in the north, far from Pembroke’s lands, was the best solution.

  The air outside the tent was cold and damp. It was night now. She looked at the cages. The prisoner would not enjoy his night. She felt pity for him. The man had cried for his friends and had shown compassion for the children. She could make his detention less tough. Kilda went to the catering tent. She picked a loaf of bread and some cheese before she headed back to the cages. Lissandro stood in a corner, his head against the bars.

  “I brought you some food,” she said. “They don’t feed the prisoners every day.”

  “A charming company you have there,” Lissandro retorted, “but thank you for the bread.” He took the food she was holding. “Will they contact my friends?”

  “I suppose so. Colten wants a ransom.”

  Lissandro chuckled. “More money and nothing to buy.”

  “What do you mean?” Kilda grumbled.

  “Well, what does he want to do with my ransom? Buy a farm he has already sacked? Or maybe buy himself a castle,” Lissandro sneered. He bit the bread and chewed.

  “Are you always so mean? I told you that he gives it to the people,” Kilda objected.

  “I don’t think you are someone stupid,” Lissandro said. “So please, forget your hatred for Pembroke for a second and look at Colten, look at the camp. Does all this look honorable to you? Do you think that a man called Colten Three Fingers can be trusted? He is luring you. If you don’t trust me, and I can understand that, just investigate by yourself. See to the woman and her children. Learn what he does with the money.”

  The man sounded sincere. However, what he said was hard to conceive. The men here really hated the count. Why would they turn on the people? Yet, it cost nothing to check on the family she had brought here. She rose. “Good night.”

  “Kilda,” Lissandro hailed her. “Don’t get yourself caught.”

  She went to the pavilion where they sheltered the refugees. A guard stood at the entrance.

  “You can’t go in there,” he said, scowling at her.

  “I brought refugees today. I want to speak to them,” Kilda insisted. The men did not reply and kept blocking the way. “Listen, it’s really important…”

  “No one can enter this tent without Colten’s authorization,” the guard said.

  “And why is that? It’s just a tent with some refugees.” Kilda did not understand what could be so special about a tent that would only contain a few beds, blankets, and some nurses.

  “It’s related to the security of the camp.” The man stood imperturbable.

  Kilda gave up. It was useless. She would find another way or ask Colten directly. She headed to her tent and went to sleep.

  The horses’ whinnies woke her up. Kilda rose and got dressed. She pushed the flap of her tent. It was already morning. Yet, the sun was still low behind the top of the trees. She saw a group of riders leave further away at the camp’s border.

  “What on earth…?” she exclaimed, astounded. She could not believe that Colten and the group had left without her. She was always with them during the raids. Had she done something to upset him? Kilda had a bad feeling. She went to the cages in a hurry. She sighed with relief. He was still there. Lissandro slept on the ground, curled up on himself. Her footsteps seemed to have woken him up. He turned around, looked at her, and stretched.

  “Good morning,” he yawned. “Time for breakfast?”

  “Don’t be a fool,” she grunted. “Why did they leave? Did they talk to you?”

  “I have no idea what you are talking about. Did your dear friends go to the ball without you?” Lissandro sneered and stood up. “Good that I am not taller,” he said when his hair stopped a few inches from the top of the cage.

  “I really wonder why some people would pay to have you back,” she muttered and went away.

  So their departure had nothing to do with her prisoner. Maybe it had nothing to do with her after all. Maybe they had forgotten to wake her up. She was the only female soldier in the camp, after all.

  She was pondering all the possibilities while walking through the camp when she stopped dead. The guard in front of the refugees’ pavilion was gone. She moved closer slowly and gazed around. There was no one to be seen. She sneaked inside the tent. Kilda strangled a scream.

  There were cages inside the tent. The same kind of cages where Lissandro was trapped, but these did not have a single man in them. They were full of women and children. Their hands were tied and they had gags on their mouths. Worse, there was blood on the ground. Some cages were open and empty. Only by the filth in it, she understood that people had been trapped in them. The prisoners looked at her with pleading eyes. There were no guards inside the tent, but no keys either. Kilda spotted a table in a corner. She rushed to it. It was covered with papers and writing objects. No key. She found a piece of metal and thought of picking the lock. She had never done it, but she could try. She ran to a cage and tried to force the bolt. The women inside the cage pressed against the bars. While she worked on the lock, Kilda realized that she had no idea what to do if the door of the cage opened. She could not save them from the camp. She panicked. She took the dagger she had on her belt and pulled at the nearest woman’s wrists. The woman struggled, frightened, but Kilda was stronger. She cut the rope with her dagger and gave the knife and the piece of metal to the woman. “Save yourself and the others,” Kilda told her, her voice full of grief. “I’m sorry.” She looked around. “I’m sorry!” She ran out of the tent.

  They would notice. They would soon know. Kilda ran through the camp. She stopped, her hands on her thighs. “Think,” she muttered, “think.”

  Kilda went to the cage where Lissandro sat. She took a deep breath to stay calm. “You there,” she hailed the guard. “Open that cage,” she commanded him. “I have the order to bring him to the main tent to be interrogated.”

  The guard did not question her. He muttered some unintelligible words and opened the gate.

  “And now comes the torture,” Lissandro grumbled.

  “Shut up!” She dragged him out by the arm and pushed him in front of her, holding him tight. “Keep walking.”

  “Did your friend change his mind?” Lissandro asked with a hint of worry in his voice.

  “Don’t talk,” she whispered. “We’re fleeing out of here.”

  CHAPTER 26

  The bucket of water was heavy. It was his fifth one this morning, and carrying it to the tent made his arm ache.

  “Do you want some help, my lord?” a soldier coming the other way suggested.

  “No, thank you. I can manage,” Folc answered.

  He insisted on doing his chores. Louis had asked the officers to be a good example for the soldiers. Folc was not an officer, but he wanted to be a solicitous squire to the captains. It was his way of being helpful. He would not be a lazy lord with an orderly around him. Faremanne had appreciated his services. The man had shown him around the camp, explaining in detail the resupplying. In exchange, Folc had had clothes to wash, boots to clean, and easy tasks like replacing the candles or boiling water. It was mostly page tasks, but he did not mind.

  Things were a lot more difficult with Selen. His friend did not like to delegate work. The best Folc could do was fetching water and doing some washing when Selen was away, but he knew better not to make his bed, empty the pots, or touch the armour.

  Folc entered the tent and poured the water from the bucket into a basin. He took the goblets and
did the dishes.

  “What are you doing?” Selen mumbled. He sat on his bed, sharpening his sword. Selen picked up the whetstone out of the water at his feet. The rasping noises of the stone on the steel were short. Selen was angry. His sweet friend had always been calm and complaisant, except these last two days. Selen had stood silent and had brooded on his own. It made the atmosphere in their tent unbearable. Folc could not hold it anymore.

  “Washing the cups,” Folc muttered. His fingers turned on the inside of the goblet. The water spun and spurted.

  “I can see that,” Selen said, irritated. “None is yours. I already told you. You’re not my servant. We need to be on the field in half an hour. Get dressed.”

  “I need to feel useful,” Folc complained. He let the goblet fall into the bucket. It disappeared with a plop.

  Selen got up and strode towards him. He grabbed Folc’s sword from the rack and removed it from the scabbard. Folc gulped and shrank his shoulders. Selen sat down next to him and placed the sword onto his lap.

  “You see that?” Selen asked harshly, pointing at brown flecks on the blade. “That’s rust. If you didn’t lose all your precious time with things both of us don’t care about, you would have taken care of your materiel.” Selen looked directly at Folc. “I don’t care if there are stains on the mugs or if my clothes need sewing; we are in an army camp. What I want is that you can watch my back during battles with a sword that won’t fall into pieces. Now, take that stone and remove the flecks.”

  Folc took the whetstone from Selen’s hand and complied. Selen went to his armour and got dressed. “What is wrong with you?” Folc asked.

  Selen did not answer at first but kept strapping his armour on his legs. He stopped and lowered his head. “I don’t want to be a captain,” he muttered.

  So there lay the problem. Selen had mentioned his promotion before without enthusiasm. Folc wondered how Bertrant had seen a captain in his friend. He must have been drunk. “Did you try to refuse?” Folc asked, knowing the answer. Selen never complained about what was asked of him.

  “I said to Louis that I felt uneasy about it.”

  “That’s not a refusal.” Folc knew as well that Louis could not have changed the commander’s decision. Besides, Bertrant would never have accepted a refusal. Folc tried to cheer him up. “But why don’t you want to be a captain? You are certainly the best warrior in all the camp.”

  “There is a difference between fighting well and leading men. I’m not a leader. Definitely not to two hundred men.” Selen fixed his breastplate.

  “You won’t have much to do. Shout here and there. Show the good example.” Folc turned the blade down and polished the other side.

  “What if they don’t obey?” Selen stopped and looked at him, anxious.

  “Because of what you are?” Folc looked straight at Selen. His friend’s face turned pallid. Folc wondered if Selen thought of his appearance or something more specific Folc had suspicions about. There are other reasons why you felt embarrassed to join the men on the training field, Folc thought. “Because I see you as the man who killed The Mountain. They all do here,” Folc said. “Besides, it would impress Louis to see you leading men.” The blush on Selen’s cheeks turned Folc’s suspicions into certitude. Could that be their secret? He had heard of such men in dirty jokes, but they had nothing in common with either of his friends.

  Selen smiled. He finished attaching his gauntlets. “Maybe you’re right. Only a few orders here and there, you said?”

  Folc was glad to see Selen happy again. “Yep!” he exclaimed with enthusiasm, though he had a hard time imagining his soft-spoken friend shouting orders in a melee. Folc got up and put his protections and plates on. “Leave the motivation stuff to Louis. Just be brave and fight like a hero.” He smiled. They went out of their tent and headed to the south of the camp.

  Many soldiers stood already dispersed on the field. Folc and Selen moved towards a group of men waiting their turn for a duel with Faremanne. The captain was covered in sweat. He had probably parried for a few hours now.

  “Want something more challenging than a weary, old captain?” Selen asked the men.

  “Give this blustering captain a good lesson,” Faremanne said to his men, laughing. Two soldiers drew their swords and engaged on Selen. Folc encouraged the two captains.

  “Want to train with me, boy?” a lieutenant asked Folc.

  “Sure,” Folc said. He spread his legs apart and ensured his balance, holding his sword straight, but not too tight. While taking his bases, he tried to remember his previous training with Selen. As a boy, he had a much shorter reach. Folc watched the man circle and moved around in the opposite direction. He and the lieutenant launched and parried strikes.

  “You’re good,” the lieutenant said.

  Folc kept the blade close to him. He did not forget to bend his knees. All was in the balance, Selen had insisted. The lieutenant leapt forward. Folc sidestepped and avoided him.

  “You move like the purple mongoose over there. Did he teach you?” the lieutenant exclaimed.

  Folc only grinned. He would not let himself be disturbed. He kept on blocking the strikes, waiting for an opening. Progressively, he found the flow. The lieutenant threw his sword. Folc saw an overture and rushed in, but his arm was too short. The man blocked and hit Folc on the wrist with the flat of the blade, disarming him.

  “Ouch!” Folc cried out.

  “Did I hurt you?” the lieutenant asked with concern.

  “It’s only a scratch,” Folc answered. Blood ran from the cut. “I should go to the infirmary and put some antiseptic on it.”

  He looked in Selen’s direction. His friend was engaged in a fight against two soldiers. It’s not a good time to distract him, Folc thought. He left the field and headed to the infirmary. The pavilion was silent and almost all the beds were empty.

  Brother Benedict was in his workshop. He was carving a wooden stick into the shape of a miniature spoon. His hand movements were precise, and the knife cut the splinters clean.

  “Hello? Excuse me,” Folc hailed the monk.

  “Oh.” Brother Benedict raised his head. “Come here, boy! What can I do for you?” he asked amiably, holding out a hand towards Folc.

  “It happens that I cut myself on the field,” Folc explained. He showed his cut to the monk.

  “It’s not as bad as it looks,” the man reassured him. He put a clean cloth on the wound to stop the bleeding. “Hold it while I fetch some thyme tincture.” The monk disappeared behind a shelf and came back with a flask and a cloth. “I had hoped to see you today, Folc.”

  “You know my name?” Folc asked, intrigued.

  “Your friend told me about you.” Brother Benedict smiled. He removed the cloth and applied the lotion. “I have a mission for you, but you will have to keep it to yourself and do it at once.”

  “Why should I stay silent?” Folc didn’t know if he could even trust the man.

  “Because it may be dangerous, and your friends won’t approve.” Brother Benedict lectured him as if he should not have asked the question. The monk put a clean bandage around Folc’s hand.

  “So why would I do it?” Folc insisted.

  “Because it may be the key to all our problems.” Brother Benedict leaned towards him.

  Folc stayed silent and listened to the monk attentively.

  “I was in the forest the other day, wildcrafting ingredients for the infirmary. Though I knew that part of the wood, I wandered further away than usual. I found myself in a darker part of the forest. This is where I found the shack.” The monk stared at him. “There is more in this world than the mind can conceive. Men don’t believe in these things anymore, but you are young and full of hopes. Do you believe in magic?”

  “I believe in dragons. Everything is possible in this world. What was in the shack, Brother?” Folc asked curiously.

  “A seer,” the monk whispered with excitement.

  “And? What is a seer?”


  “The seers live in communion with nature. They know things, things from the future sometimes. Maybe this one could help us against the dragon.”

  “Did you ask him?” Folc inquired.

  “Me? No!” the man exclaimed. “I’m a monk! I can’t talk to seers. But you can. You are pure and your heart is true.”

  “I still don’t understand. Why me? Why not Selen? I can’t hardly have a purer heart than his.”

  “In your heart and body,” Brother Benedict insisted. “It’s the only way to enter in communication with a seer.”

  Folc pondered the information and understood. Still, he wondered how the monk could know such things about him and his friend. “Where will I find it?” he sighed. The monk explained the way for him.

  Folc had left the camp unnoticed. Once in the forest, he followed Brother Benedict’s instructions. The path was not too complicated to find. He only needed to follow the river upstream and head west at the first falls.

  He had walked for two hours when he noticed the first changes in the forest around him. It was more difficult to step through the fens. The moss hid deep holes. Sometimes, what looked like moss was duckweed, and his foot would pass through it with a loud splash. The air was rancid. It stank of decay. The ground turned into a bog. Folc sloshed through it and hoped that the leeches would not feast on his legs. The chirping of the birds had stopped. Folc had heard tales about the Ebony Forest and thought that the forest may be similar to these woods. The bark on the trees looming over him was black and mossy. No wind blew through the greenish beard lichens hanging from the branches. Though it was only the middle of the day, there was mist in the air. Folc heard the bubble of the gas rising from the water to the surface. He wondered which kind of creature would want to live here.

  He saw the shack at a distance and squelched towards it. The house was built of stone on an islet. The roof was rotten thatch. He knocked on the door. If the owner was a witch, he could end up as her supper. He thought of Selen. “I should have left a note,” he whispered. The door opened with a creak.