“Oh, enough!” Bertrant exclaimed. “Can we come to a solution? And where the hell is Louis?”
“He doesn’t feel well,” Faremanne said in a low, worried tone. “I think he cracked up.”
“Well, I had noticed for a long time that he didn’t have both oars in the water,” Bertrant grumbled.
“Thank you, Bertrant,” Louis said, coming towards them, smiling.
“I spoke too fast,” Bertrant mumbled.
“Louis! What a pleasant surprise!” Faremanne welcomed Louis with open arms.
Selen gaped. His heart tightened. Louis embraced Faremanne, but his gaze was set on Selen. His eyes were hollow, and he was still mourning, but Selen understood that his friend was sorry. Selen felt blood come back to his cheeks and beamed.
“Faremanne told us that you had a moment of…weakness,” Bertrant said.
“I did. But if you want to get King Agroln’s head, you better have me on the team.” Louis smiled.
“Faremanne, could you explain the situation to your fellow captain?” Bertrant bid.
“Elye wants us to send a delegation. He claims he has something, a gift. One of us has to ride to Mighthorn with a party,” Faremanne said. Selen hoped his friend would let it pass this time, but he knew him too well.
“I volunteer,” Louis said.
“I was sure you would, but no, not you,” Bertrant said. “We need someone who has the right qualifications to negotiate with the count.” Selen presumed Bertrant meant someone with patience and diplomacy. “Faremanne for example.”
“Yes, of course, I would volunteer,” the captain said, surprised.
“Good. You ride as soon as you are ready. That is all for now. You can take your leave,” Bertrant ordered.
Selen strode to Faremanne and took him to the side. “Could I have a word with Louis in private? I would like to be sure that he feels better,” he whispered.
“Of course,” Faremanne answered. “Please, talk to him. We do need him with us.”
Selen left the pavilion and hurried back to his tent. He grabbed a box and headed to Louis’s tent. The inside had been cleaned up, as if nothing had happened. His friend sorted papers on the table. He saw Selen and squirmed.
“I made a mess of this place.” He put the papers down. Louis kept his head low. “I’m sorry for…”
“Don’t talk,” Selen whispered, as kindly as he could. “I have something to show you.” He presented the box. It was finely carved with arabesques and made of walnut. Selen went to a wooden trunk and knelt in front of it. He opened the box.
“Candles. They are beautiful,” Louis whispered.
“I found them in Millhaven.” Selen took a candle out of the box, fixed it on the trunk, and lit it. “In my land, when someone dear died, we used to offer libations and burn incense on an altar consecrated to the loved ones. I could not find incense, but I found these candles.” The orange flame burned brightly in the dimness of the tent. The light was comforting. Louis knelt beside him. “I lost someone in my world,” Selen carried on. “Someone I had never dared to confess to, but someone I cared about. I know he and I never received proper burials. So I pray for his soul to rest in peace. I know that what you felt was much deeper, and shared.” Selen paused. It hurt him to think of it. “It is good to mourn. Immortality lays in the continued remembrance of the dead. These candles will help us remember our lost ones and find peace in our hearts. You can keep them. I don’t need them anymore. My prayers will suffice.” Selen felt Louis’s hand reach for his and hold it tenderly.
“You have the same kindness in your heart,” Louis whispered. He carried Selen’s hand to his chest.
They heard alarming screams coming from outside. Louis rose, pulling him up. They went out. The sky on the horizon in the south burned red in the dusk of the day. Above it rose a gigantic cloud of black smoke. The air around them had the smell of wood and bacon.
“What is this?” Selen exclaimed in terror.
“A city burning,” Louis answered. “Breyburgh.”
“We have to do something. They may need help!” Selen shouted, looking at his friend.
“We don’t know what is happening there. If it’s the dragon, we are not ready. But we will help them. Come!” They hurried to the headquarters.
CHAPTER 45
“Burn! Burn them all!” Kraalh yelled.
The general jogged through the main street of Breyburgh towards the temple. Bodies were scattered along his path, some lying in pools of blood. His orcs ran through the alleys, holding torches. Kraalh had ordered them to burn all that would provoke arson. As the city was made of wood, it was an easy task. He could see the glow behind the windows. The flames licked at the ceilings. Kraalh heard wood and glass explode. The dry thatch roofs spluttered. The dust particles of the grey smoke tickled his nose. Flames, fanned by a steady wind, spread to the adjacent houses. Kraalh knew that they would need to leave before the place turned into an inferno.
In the meanwhile, his orcs had all liberty to sack. Furniture was thrown on the streets. Trunks were carried out of the burning houses and torn open, sometimes revealing gold jewelry, sometimes silver cutlery.
Kraalh tasted his revenge. He had fled Millhaven by the back door, filled with shame and hatred. His first act had been to gather as many of his soldiers as he could summon and form a front here, down south. The Rebellion would come after them, but they would only find ashes. He had sent messengers to Agroln and still waited for the answer. Yet, the final fight was coming. It was time to prepare the ground. Kraalh promised them a back draft right from hell.
The temple stood tall at the end of the street. Its white walls had turned yellow in the light of the flames. In the yard, the orcs had parked the inhabitants that had not succeeded in fleeing the city. Around six hundred men, women, and children were pressed in front of the huge oak doors. Kraalh gazed at their terrified faces. Women cried, men wailed like women.
“A flock of sheep,” Kraalh muttered. He picked an apple out of one of his pockets and took a bite. He paced around the prisoners, looking closer at their frightened eyes. He grimaced. “I have had enough. Take the children!”
The howls and squeals of the mothers were deafening. Hands held tight and arms clenched, but nothing resisted his soldiers. Blood was spilled, strident shrieks resounded, and eventually, two groups were formed.
“Take the children away and await my orders,” Kraalh brawled. “As for these ones, push them inside.” Kraalh savored his apple while the population of Breyburgh was crammed inside the temple. The doors were locked, and torches were thrown into the air. Soon, the sour taste of the apple juice in Kraalh’s mouth blended with a smoke of charred meat. The howling was music to his ears.
A couple of hours later, Kraalh heard the horses of the cavalry arrive their way. The ground shook. “Time to leave!” Kraalh yelled. He did not want to engage in the fight with the Rebellion. It was neither the right time nor the right place. Besides, he had left them a gift to enjoy and a message. He sneered and chewed on a new apple bite. His revenge tasted sweet.
CHAPTER 46
The captains, Bertrant, and Pembroke waited in the headquarters in a leaden atmosphere. They had sent troops to the city to help anyone who would flee in their direction and to report on the situation. Segar and Jamys were absent as usual. Josselin stood in a corner, arms crossed, observing the lords. Bertrant and Pembroke sat on their chairs, scratching their beards. In front of Faremanne, Selen sat livid and twitched his long fingers so hard his knuckles turned white. Louis paced between them in the center of the tent.
“Please, sit down, Louis. You’re getting on my nerves,” Faremanne said.
“I am stressed,” Louis responded. Yet, he turned his heels and sat down on a trunk, his hands against his temples. “I should have ridden with them,” he muttered.
“I said no,” Bertrant grumbled. “We wait and see.”
Faremanne thought the waiting would never end when a lieutenant rushed inside the
tent. “I come for the report, my lords!”
“Speak!” Bertrant and Pembroke cried out. Everyone in the pavilion rose from his seat.
“We met many refugees on the way to the city,” the man said. He was shaking, and his eyes were wide open, frantic. “We brought them back to the camp, in a separate section, near the infirmary. We rode to the city. There was no one to be saved. They…they had burned.”
“Burned?” Louis exclaimed.
“Yes, Captain. But there is worse… No, I can’t say. You must see for yourself.”
How could anything be worse than that? Faremanne wondered. The lieutenant ran out and came back, pushing an orc in front of him. The creature held a large bag.
“We caught him and a few others. The rest had left the city. The bags, my lords, there are many.” The lieutenant stepped back.
Louis approached the orc. “What is in that bag?” he asked. His face was tense.
The creature smirked. Even condemned, the orc was still nasty and foul. He did not answer but kept showing his rotten teeth to Louis. Irritated, Louis grabbed the bag from the orc’s hands.
“Be careful,” Faremanne exclaimed.
Louis untied the rope around the neck of the bag and peeked inside from a distance. Louis’s eyes grew wide. His fingers dropped the bag, and he turned around to puke. Selen approached, picked the bottom corners of the bag, and pulled them up. What fell out contorted Faremanne’s stomach as Louis’s had. He felt bile come up in his mouth and threw up. In front of him, Selen’s shriek was piercing. The captain fell to his knees, his shaking hands over his eyes.
“What madness!” Bertrant shouted, stepping back.
In the middle of the tent, the heads of children rolled in the dust, their eyes frozen wide forever.
They all gazed at the tortured little faces in silence. Faremanne’s blood boiled in his veins. Selen stretched a trembling hand to one of the heads, picked it up, and cradled it.
“Why?” Selen sobbed.
“How many bags?” Louis asked, still sounding nauseous. The captain had tears in his eyes.
“A whole cart,” the lieutenant muttered.
Faremanne closed his eyes. Tears ran down his cheeks. They would pay. On his honour, they would pay.
“I’ve got a message,” the orc hissed with a grating voice. He sniggered. “Kraalh is not happy about Millhaven. He will kill and burn all. He will have your bodies on a spike. And he will have the she-knight.”
“The she-knight?” Bertrant asked, confused.
The orc raised a scrawny, filthy finger and pointed it at Selen. His chuckles grew louder.
In an instant, Selen was on him, screaming and smashing the orc’s head violently with his fist. He grabbed a stone and hit the orc’s face repeatedly. First, Faremanne heard the bones break, then it was only the sucking noises of a pulp mixed with slime. No one moved to stop Selen.
“Selen. He is dead,” Faremanne whispered.
Louis moved behind Selen and helped him get up. The captain whispered something in Selen’s ear. Faremanne noticed how tenderly Louis held his friend’s trembling arms. The men were a bit too close for his liking, but they were his companions. He would not judge.
“We will avenge these people,” Selen said.
“We will kill every orc in Trevalden,” Bertrant replied.
“I will ride to Elye’s castle tomorrow morning,” Faremanne said.
“While you are away, I suggest we take care of the refugees and check the ruins of the city for survivors,” Louis said.
“Let’s do that,” Bertrant said. “Now, I suggest we all get some rest. If we can.”
Faremanne got up early. On his bed, on the other side of the tent, Louis was still asleep. After such rough days, his companion was exhausted. Faremanne tried not to wake him up. He washed his face, put his armour on, and left the tent.
He would depart with a force of a hundred soldiers. In the cold morning mist, the men were already waiting for him. Their mounts pawed the ground. As Faremanne got on his horse, Bertrant walked towards him.
“It shouldn’t take you longer than a day’s ride. Don’t be away too long, and send us a crow as soon as you know what the man wants.”
“I will,” Faremanne said.
“I don’t feel comfortable with this,” Bertrant muttered.
“We have no choice. Send for me if I’m not back in a few days.” Faremanne kicked his horse. The riders turned their mounts and rode down the main alley to the border of the camp.
Faremanne had never met Elye. What Pembroke had said of the count made him feel uneasy. If the man was a weasel, they should not have sided with him, however powerful he might be. Maybe the man wanted to use the Rebellion for his own profit. Yet, they could not allow themselves to have several enemies. The orcs and the dragon were enough. Should Elye turn against them, the Rebellion would be trapped in a pincer movement, unable to move forward, unable to retreat, though Faremanne knew that his fellow captain did not tolerate the sound of this last word.
Faremanne wanted to fight, but he also wanted to live. He missed his family and children. He wondered if they would recognize him now, should he ever come back to the Windy Isles. He had looked like a lad when he had left, a foolish young knight ready to serve and protect his country. The three years had turned him into a man. He was sturdy, and his red hair was longer. He had grown a thick beard to mingle with the soldiers and assert his authority. No, Faremanne thought, now that things are turning better for the Rebellion, we need to play it wisely. They needed alliances, not cocky bravery. Running straight blindfolded would be madness. Yet, he did not hold the cards, and to have Louis change his mind was a lost cause. However, his companion would not be deaf to another tactic, should the result be the same.
They rode through forests and prairies at a steady pace. At the end of the day, Faremanne and his party were in sight of Mighthorn. In the distance, the city stood still in the shadow of the big stronghold on the hill. A troop of men rode their way, their mails glittering in the last rays of the sun. They were too numerous for a welcoming party. Something was amiss. The riders were on them in a moment. Their leader, a man, dressed in black robes with a cloak rimmed with grey fur, trotted towards him.
“I suppose you are Faremanne, Captain of the Rebellion,” the man said. “Let me introduce myself. I am Count Elye.”
The man had something queer in his bony face. Faremanne did not like his smile. It was more the premise of a rictus. He spotted an unpleasant light in the man’s beady, dark eyes.
“I am Captain Faremanne, indeed,” he said. “We have received your words, my lord. Yet, we do not understand them. You talk about a gift?”
“Hmm, straight to the point. I like resolute men.” The count approached his horse. “A gift indeed, but a gift that needs spice. You see, to attract the enemy you need something he holds dear. Then, you light the fuse. You know, the little spark of tension to motivate the hunt.” The man chuckled and wriggled on his saddle.
“Do you mean that you have something that belongs to Agroln?” Faremanne asked, confused.
“Well, not exactly…unless you are talking about his money. No, in this case, you are the enemy.” The count grinned with the most vicious smile.
The pain in his abdomen was as sharp as it was sudden. Faremanne looked down. The quarrel had hit him between two plates of his fauld. His vision blurred and was speckled with white. He heard his men draw their swords. Faremanne collapsed onto his horse’s collar.
“Arrest them!” Elye commanded. “If they resist, kill them. We don’t need that many.”
Faremanne grabbed his horse’s mane, pulled the reins, and kicked the beast which jerked forward. It surprised Elye’s mount, which reared. Faremanne rode through his men’s line. While they charged and engaged the count’s soldiers, Faremanne’s horse galloped back east. With his last strength, he held fast to his horse’s mane, letting his body bounce and jolt in the saddle.
CHAPTER 47
&n
bsp; “I promise to be careful,” Josselin said, “but the only thing that matters is that I succeed with my mission.”
Selen gave a faint smile. He felt sad for the young captain. It should not have been him. Actually, no one should undertake this mission. It was suicide and without the guarantee of success. Selen had doubts on the artifact. What did they have besides the false words of a vicious woman? They should have found another way.
“You make sure the beast eats it,” Louis gave the pouch to Josselin. The captain opened it and contemplated the artifact.
“Such a little thing,” Josselin whispered, “in such a giant monster.” He looked at Louis. “I will. You have my word.”
“And come back,” Louis said, one hand on the captain’s shoulder.
“If I don’t, have a bard write songs about me,” Josselin smiled. “The knight with the scar.”
“Who defeated the dragon,” Louis added seriously.
“Are you sure you don’t want a company with you?” Selen asked.
“I will travel faster by myself. I don’t think there is much danger in the east. The orcs are gathering south, and I don’t want to draw attention,” Josselin said.
“Good luck then.” Selen and Louis embraced the captain before he got on his horse.
“Kill the orcs for me,” Josselin told them. He kicked his horse and rode away east. Selen watched him disappear behind the tents.
“Men like him will be remembered,” Selen heard Louis say.
“A dead hero?” Selen whispered.
“It’s always better than a living coward,” Louis said.
“I only want to be a living hero.” Selen smiled, but it was only a façade.
Selen followed Louis to Bertrant’s pavilion. Leaning above the maps, the commander was in a conversation with Pembroke.
“Here you are,” Bertrant exclaimed. “Darn, I could count my captains on the hand of a leper.”
“I thought you had at least two more?” Pembroke asked, puzzled.
Rising from Dust (Light from Aphelion Book 1) Page 29