by Scott Zamek
“Are we on the same path? We cannot read the runes—the Light is hidden to us.” Aerol watched Andreg’s crystal fade to black, and the torches once again cast their flickering yellow light upon the shadows of the clear-cut perimeter. The planked gate rattled open to the sound of heavy chains, and the two sentries returned to the safety of wooden walls.
“There is more to the Runes of Dunhelm than physical form,” said Andreg quietly. “They make themselves known in many ways.”
Aerol lowered his head. “You speak like one I knew before the dark days.”
Santee had stood silent and distracted, listening to the end of the conversation, and he wondered about those days. He had been there too, but the land had not always been at peace. “Strange to have a Far Rider here in our fort,” he said thoughtfully. “I fought with your kind once, at the Battle of Westergard, and it’s true that Far Rider’s are skillful warriors. But I have also heard the tall tales—the far-fetched stories of old that everyone knows have been . . . shall we say, embellished in the telling and retelling over time. Are we to believe the Far Riders were single-handedly responsible for the defense of Andioch . . . and the winning of the Battle of Fort Strand where the wildmen fell forever?”
“Fort Strand . . .” Aerol gazed over the walls into the forest.
“You know of it?” asked Andreg.
Aerol said nothing, but leaned his hands on the battlements and continued a blank gaze into the night.
“I have heard the story of Fort Strand as well,” put in Andreg. “But I know not what happened to the soldiers inside . . . if they survived the siege. That part of the tale is never told.”
Aerol turned to the mage. “You are quite a student of history of these lands of ours,” he replied, a bit sharply. It was not a subject he often discussed.
“I have traveled many miles and for quite some time, more years than you may suppose. Even you are older than you appear, for it is true that Far Riders are endowed with years beyond that of normal men.”
Aerol looked into the thick, watchful trees. “That was in the days of the First Land Wars, when the wildmen from the north came down along the Oystershell, and pressed in upon the Border Lands. In those early days, the men and women of Bordertown and Bridgehaven and the surrounding districts began migrating out onto the plains to establish homesteads. And the soldiers of Bridgehaven established a fort, way beyond the last settlement, out in the deserts of Torland near the Wayward Mountains to protect the settlers who were moving north and west along the Whiteshear. But the wildmen came down from the north, and they brought with them an army of hundreds, armed with spears and shields and those bows they once made out of saplings and sinew. They surrounded the fort for forty days, and those soldiers ran out of food and they ran out of water, so it was said, and the Far Riders were called upon to lead a relief column to break the siege.”
Aerol leaned on the battlements. A torch dimmed at his shoulder, and he lifted it from its seat and began wrapping new cloth around the end. Buckets of cloth and pitch were staged along the parapet for just such a purpose. He focused on the end of the torch, and spoke without looking up from his work. “We rode with fifty men against five hundred, the best warriors in the land, five Far Riders standing tall to lead them. And we rode swiftly, because we knew those men were dying in that fort. We rode across the desert . . . without stopping . . . without water . . . fifty miles a day. We came upon the siege line at night, and the wildmen were camped, most of them sleeping and unaware. We did not stop to rest, and we did not stop to organize, and we did not stop to eat or drink—we just kept on riding right into camp, swords drawn, and most of them were asleep. We swung our swords when the moon was just dipping below the horizon, and we swung our swords when the sun rose in the east, and we swung our swords when the sun was high at noon, and blood ran red, and the wildmen died, and we killed them all.”
Aerol dipped the torch into a bucket of pitch and withdrew it to examine his work, twirling it around in his hand to be sure the black tar coated the entire surface. “We lost but fifteen men, and we thought we had scored a great victory, until we entered the fort and found it empty . . . deserted. Every last man had long ago fled to the west, and we found out later they were all safe. The wildmen had not laid siege to the fort—they had just been camped there, perhaps peacefully, we did not know. We had been deceived by the lords of the Southern Lands, who merely wanted the wildmen dispatched to make way for their ambitions of war and domination. Since then, the Far Riders have done nothing but vow to protect the Light. We make no more alliances in the wars between men.”
“You could not have known.” Andreg had traveled far and seen much in the affairs of kings. But this part of history had been well hidden.
Aerol shook his head as if he could rid himself of the memory. “When I came back out of the fort, I walked across the battlefield. Every last wildman was slaughtered—throats cut, or run through by spears, or dead by arrow, or just lying there, no wounds but dead just the same. By the time the fighting was all done, the sun was lowering in the western sky and we had long run out of water on the long ride across the barren desert. But the well water ran red with blood, and when we drew it up the water was red, but we were parched from the long ride and the long battle, and there was no water within a hundred miles of that desert outpost, so we drank the water and we drank it heartily. We had no choice. Some mixed it with wine from the stores in the fort so they could not taste the blood. Some did not drink, and died because of it.”
Aerol lit the torch in his hand and replaced it on the wall. The live flicker cast shadows on the log palisade. “To this day, when someone passes a pitcher of wine down the table, I pass it right on by.”
Andreg paused and looked at the torches along the ramparts. He gazed at the clearing and the surrounding forest beyond, and in the flickering lamplight, he could see the glimmer of eyes glazed wet with memory.
“Those Far Riders that led the mission to Fort Strand are now all dead,” said Aerol. “Dead trying to make it over the Far Mountains, and I cannot help but think that somehow we have reaped our punishment for what we did that day.”
“This time there can be no doubt,” insisted Andreg, letting out a deep sigh. “Your cause is just.”
“The cause is the destiny assigned to my people over the long ages. The Far Riders . . . the protectors of the Light. That is why I will give my last breath if need be.” And Aerol knew it to be true. All of it. He was there to restore the Light. But deep within his mind he knew there was another reason, a less tangible reason. In the end he was there, at long last, for the slightest hope of redemption.
ETHREAL AND FILBY sat motionless, crouched down in the thick underbrush beside the trail. Filby could hear his breath pulsing, the rustle of the leaves, and then the tamper of feet against the wet earth. A steady rain dripped from leaves and treetops and Filby felt as if he was gazing through a tattered curtain; hazy images of the path appeared in glimpses, where the wind parted leaves into watery peepholes. The band of troggs scurried toward their hiding place, grunting and snorting and kicking up mud in their haste. Ethreal’s knuckles whitened around the hilt of her sword.
The odd snuffling faded into the patter of rain, and Filby began to move, but Ethreal raised her hand. Filby crouched down and listened. A pelting rain obscured the sounds they were straining to hear, while the wind rose and bent the shrubs over their backs, cold rain soaking their clothes to the skin. Thunder pounded all other sounds into obscurity, but still they waited, breathless, motionless. Then Ethreal leaned toward Filby and whispered. “They will not be able to track us in this storm—we must abandon the path and move overland.” She withdrew into the forest holding her splinted arm tight to her body, and Filby followed.
The sky turned black and frightening as the forest grew dark. Lightning pelted the ground at odd angles, electrifying trees and blinking under dark clouds. Rain driven west by the wind became a solid mass, no longer raindrops, turning the gro
und into ankle-deep pools of dark brew. They climbed a muddy rise dotted with pines but Ethreal struggled; her injured leg gave way and she staggered, leaning on Filby. “We must find shelter,” Filby shouted over the wind. But Ethreal insisted; they needed to make some distance from the troggs while the storm masked their escape.
They bent their bodies forward. Filby strained to see Ethreal two feet ahead, like a shimmering, ghostly figure through a dark curtain of rain—but what he saw did not ease his fears. She was struggling, favoring her injured leg, bent over at the waist with her hair straggling down to the ground and streams of water flowing from the locks. Her face was spattered with mud. Filby grasped a slippery tree and pulled himself forward to help his companion, but a sapling in front of him arched sideways with the wind to block his way, then snapped straight like a spring—then whipped sideways yet again.
At last they came to a shoulder-high ledge and followed it south under some protection from the wind. The coming of night added its darkness to the darkness of storm clouds, but the night brought thunder and the sound of splintering treetops. Hail and branches and leaves fell to the ground. Ethreal and Filby gathered together under the cliff as darkness fell, where a small recess in the rock deflected the worst of the flying debris. Ethreal tried to light a fire, but it was beyond the skill of any to strike a flint to wet wood in the swirling winds and ceaseless rain.
Filby tightened his cloak against the cold. He was thankful for the warm and watertight deerskin. “We’ll make east again in the morning,” said Ethreal, grimacing against the wind. “But we must stay off the path.” She adjusted her waterlogged splint and pressed against the cliff.
Dawn barley pierced the clouds when the rain slackened to an icy drizzle. Early fall gripped the land, and a cold mist clung to the forest floor. Filby wanted to build a fire and dry out their clothes before setting out, but Ethreal refused. “We must use care not to be seen,” she warned. “I cannot fight ten troggs with one arm.” And so they moved, leaving the ridge and bearing east yet again, their clothes damp and stiff from the forest night. Filby was grateful for movement; his limbs warmed and his clothes began to drape like wet laundry on a line. But he never felt completely dry; whenever he moved in an odd way a new surface of his clothes would sting his skin with a cold, damp jolt.
They climbed a long rise where pines tilted against the angled ground. Dense thickets closed in, and Ethreal leaned on Filby’s shoulder where the incline became too steep for her injured leg. It seemed to Filby that Ethreal’s pace was slowing and her limp becoming more pronounced. But she had dismissed his concerns before, and Filby knew she would merely do so again, so he said nothing and pushed forward through the clinging underbrush.
The ground continued its shallow ascent for another two miles before the trees gave way to bare ground. Ethreal and Filby found themselves on a bald hilltop with a clear view of the surrounding forest. Ahead, long and shallow hills rippled beyond the horizon, up and down and up and down and out of sight, each revealing a climb of a mile or more. To the west, a carpet of green treetops blanketed the land in all directions. “Look,” called Ethreal, pointing to the trees below. Filby strained his eyes into the forest and at first saw nothing. Then, the faint movement of underbrush where the trees parted in the wind; a band of troggs moved along the forest floor. “They are tracking us,” said Ethreal, intent on the sight below, “and now they have seen us to be sure.”
Ethreal turned and Filby followed her beyond the hilltop and out of sight. They made their way down the opposite side in haste, almost sliding where the descent angled steeply. “Five of them,” said Ethreal, panting as they fled. “We cannot defeat five.” Filby was sure about the number, but nothing else. All he had seen was five vague dots far below—too far to make out any detail. But they seemed to move at a fast and steady pace, and the underbrush did not deter them; they scurried right through as if running along open ground.
Filby reached the bottom and began the next long ascent. Ethreal’s pace slackened, and Filby noticed blood seeping through the bandage on her leg. “We must make haste,” she insisted, dismissing Filby’s concerns as they pushed east up the long-rising hill. A pale sun peered through the slate-gray sky to turn dry the mist of the morning, while a small mountain stream bubbled down from the heights. Filby filled their makeshift canteen and Ethreal broke out some supplies, but they stopped only briefly to eat a quick meal of pummakin and smoked deer meat, then continued on their slow way upward.
Ethreal leaned on her companion heavily throughout the climb, but Filby realized her hands were wet and feverish. The white bandage had turned red, a trickle of blood running steadily down her leg. They stopped again to rest and Ethreal tried in vain to move her splinted arm. “When I first came upon you and the Watcher,” she said weakly, a glistening sweat rising on her brow, “it took me all of a blink of an eye to dispatch three troggs with my bow. And now we are reduced to pitiful flight.”
The overcast cleared just as dusk arrived, a brief blue sky giving way to twilight gray. They crested the hill with a cold red sun floating down on the western horizon. Ethreal looked back to the valley, then quickly crouched behind a tree. “They are still with us,” she whispered, pointing below. Filby arched low and scanned the hillside. Five troggs—he could see them clearly now—scrambled through the brush toward the base of the rise. “No bows,” said Ethreal. “Just swords—and on foot. It is lucky they are on foot.”
“But they still gain,” moaned Filby. His body ached and he was constantly hungry. The effort required to continue another day was an unbearable thought.
“Less talk and more haste,” said Ethreal sternly. “We move or die.” She led the way down the opposite side of the hill—another long, slow descent—but soon lagged behind, slowed to a limp by a numb and useless leg. Filby doubled back and grabbed Ethreal by the waist; she put more and more weight on him as they slashed and inched their way through fallen trees and underbrush.
A horned moon rose white against the black sky. They traveled through a stand of dark pines, guided by nothing but the meager starlight that managed to filter down to the forest floor. A wide river appeared in their path, very shallow, the current creating silver peaks where the water ran over rocks and hidden depressions. Ethreal tilted against Filby and her skin was cold and wet and pale. Filby wanted to stop and change Ethreal’s bandages in the stream, but she refused and insisted upon haste. A short hill rose from the opposite bank, and it was put behind easily, but the next climb rose up and out of sight into the endless night above. The open pines disappeared and the thick black forest closed in again. Underbrush clutched and clawed at Filby’s deerskin while Ethreal gripped her companion’s shoulder and struggled forward, but Filby bore increasingly more of her weight as they climbed. Their progress slowed, yet they continued upward well through the night, a cold drizzle mingling with mud and leaves and slippery wet ground.
Morning pierced the east and Filby still struggled to pull Ethreal upward. The emerging light showed Ethreal’s leg streaming a steady trail of crimson onto the ground, and her entire pant leg was wet with blood. She had not spoken all night, and Filby did not ask. He knew she had spent every ounce of her energy on the effort of the climb.
The top came with a frosty dawn. Ethreal crumbled against Filby’s shoulder, and he laid his companion on the ground then kneeled next to her, cold breath fuming into the frigid morning air. “We cannot linger,” she said weakly. “Tell me what you see.” Filby slowly, reluctantly, crept to the edge of the hilltop and looked down on the valley. Thick fog bubbled knee-deep above the forest floor, where tangled underbrush appeared and disappeared in fading glimpses. But there, a chill gust swept in from the east to part the mist, and the troggs were there. Halfway up the mountain. Filby could see the leather straps around their swords, their wiry white hair; he could see their warped and sickly faces.
Ethreal crawled to the edge and looked down. She rolled over and sat up, a feverish sweat dripping from her
brow. “We cannot outrun them.” She untied the bowstring and began unwinding it from her splint, then tried to move her broken arm, but could not. “We must make a stand.” She removed the arms of her bow from the quiver and held them toward Filby. “You must string the bow.”
Filby looked on in dismay. He said nothing.
“We will descend to the next valley,” said Ethreal.
“Then they will surely catch us.” Filby’s strength was at an end; although proceeding downhill was possible, he was sure another ascent was not.
“Let them, but we let them catch us on ground of our choosing. We find a place where we can make ready, out of sight—you hidden on one side of the path, me on the other.” Ethreal raised her eyes and saw a look of dismay locked on Filby’s face, then calmed her voice. “You will have the bow and four arrows. You must take one trogg with your first shot as they approach. I will spring from the bushes on the opposite side as you fire, and take another before they know we are upon them.” Ethreal ripped a strip of cloth from her torn pant leg and wrapped it around the splint. She stretched it tight and tied the knot with her teeth.
“That will leave three,” said Ethreal. “But we will have lost the element of surprise and they will be on us. So we must take the remainder hand to hand, and you must assist, Redmont. You must unsheathe your sword.”
Filby looked to the ground and shivered. “But I’ve never lifted a sword. I’m just a farmer.”
“You are a Redmont.” Ethreal’s voice was frail and her eyes fluttered against a growing weakness. She thrust her arm straight, bow in hand. “You must take one with the bow.”
Filby stretched his arm out for the bow and the rest seemed like a haze to him. He strung the bow and slung the quiver behind his back. They made their way down the hill, Ethreal leaning heavily on him the entire descent. She could barely stand, and Filby wondered how she would lift a sword. Ethreal selected the ground: a small clearing, brush on each side, with a short, hidden rise where Filby could hide with the bow. A tall thicket on the opposite side provided perfect cover for Ethreal.