by Logan Petty
Jatharr rose to his feet and exited the tent. Sawain was left alone with his thoughts. He could not stop thinking about his potential family in Alfhaven. He had been so focused on revenge against Hilmr that he never stopped to think about the thing that could truly make him happy. Soon, he could have something he never really had. Mistveil Farm was a prison. Dawn Star Manor was a training ground. Alfhaven could be called home.
Chapter Thirteen
Sawain did not remember falling asleep. He opened his eyes and the tent was dark. His sense of time had been skewed. He did not know how long he had been unconscious. He sat up and looked around. He was alone in the tent. The world outside was still and silent. He climbed out of the pile of blankets he was buried under and rose to his feet. The air was frigid with winter.
“Jatharr?”
He waited a moment, but there was no answer. Fear began to build in his throat. He walked to the tent’s entrance and pushed the flap aside. When he stepped out, he beheld a scene of utter horror. A dozen stone pillars stood in a circle. Fresh fallen snow whirled about them. The snow at the base of each pillar was crimson with blood. Each of the monoliths had a single halfling pinned to it, facing Sawain. They were pinned in the fashion of the gnoll effigy: with an iron rod through their sternums.
Sorrow and fear crashed over Sawain as he walked amidst the grotesque display. A large fire was burning in the center of the stones. It gave off a green light and no heat. Sawain reached out to touch it, but drew his hand back when he noticed the slumped figure of Jatharr in the flames.
What will you do now, Deathsbane? How will you save Hammerhold if you cannot save yourself.
The voice in his head was not his own. It was deep, dark, and dripped with decay. Sawain tried to say something in his defense, but he could not get words to form. A massive shadow rose from behind the green flames. It towered above him. He could not make out its features, but he knew it. Two glowing red eyes appeared in the shadow, then a smile that was illuminated like the green fire.
You will die, little Thrallborn. You and all those you hold dear. Nothing can escape my shadow. NOTHING!”
The slump figure of Jatharr jumped to life and pounced from the flames, hissing as it went. It tackled Sawain and he fell backwards. His fall lasted an eternity. When he hit the ground, it forced his eyes open. A pent up scream escaped his chest and he sat up quickly. Sitting up triggered a flash of searing pain from every bone in his torso. He winced as he looked around in panic.
He was back in the tent, it was dark still, and he was drenched in sweat. The tent flap flew open and Jatharr poked his head in looking worried.
“Everything alright in here, Sawain?”
Jatharr’s alright. It was just a dream.
A wave of relief washed over Sawain as he let out a quiet sigh to accompany it. He gave Jatharr a half grin.
“Just a bad dream. How long have I been out?”
Jatharr grinned, “Just a few days. I think you should refrain from fighting giants again.”
His stomach churned at Jatharr’s words.
I wish I could.
Jatharr noticed Sawain’s downcast countenance and spoke again, “Don’t let it get ye down. Any one of us would have been worn out after fighting a giant too. If yer hungry and you feel like trying to move around, come get some breakfast. Sun’s almost up, so it’ll be ready soon.”
The mention of food attuned Sawain to his empty stomach that was gnawing voraciously on itself. He grinned and placed a hand on it to keep it at bay.
“That’s a good idea. I’ll be out soon.”
Jatharr nodded, “Great, yer clothes are in that small chest on the other end. Might want to get dressed before braving the elements.
With that, Jatharr’s head disappeared and the tent flap closed again. Sawain got up, gritting his teeth as the aches in his body fought back. He crawled over to the chest. The tent was too short to stand in. He found a pair of trousers and the cotton tunic Tilly had given him. They appeared to be washed. There was also a leather belt in the chest. His boots sat beside the chest.
Once he was dressed, he clambered out of the tent. The sun was just rising over the hills in the shallow valley where the refugee camp was set up. Six of the refugees were sitting around a fire on rocks they had dragged to it. They were huddling close to the heat, talking to one another in low tones. The smell of cooking eggs rose from a black kettle that sat in the coals of the fire. Jatharr’s voice caused Sawain to jump, since he did not notice him sitting by the tent.
“Morning, lazy bones. Glad to see you’ve finally decided to rejoin the living.”
Sawain regained his composure and nodded, “Me too. What’s for breakfast?”
The others perked up and looked towards the two heroes and began chattering more lively. Jatharr gave them a soft half chuckle, then responded to Sawain’s query.
“Eggs. Last of them, too. You woke up just in time. We are going to need to get a move on and try to find some game to feed our camp with soon.”
Sawain’s heart sank as Jatharr looked at him hopefully. Sawain never was much of a hunter. He had only ever fired a bow a few times, but was terrible at it.
“I’m not much of a marksman, Jatharr. I couldn’t promise that I would be much use in hunting wild game.”
Jatharr grinned, almost mischievously, “You must be new to the wilds of Hammerhold, lad. Most of the game out here hunts you as much as you hunt it. You don’t need a bow. Any weapon will do.”
Sawain shrugged again, holding his empty palms upward, “The only weapon I had was destroyed in the fight against the giant.”
Jatharr grinned wider, “Worry not, friend, I managed to get out a few weapons before the tunnel collapsed. I was able to procure some axes. They aren’t the most efficient weapons around, but they’ll do in a pinch, I suspect.”
Sawain smiled at Jatharr, though on the inside, he was a writhing mass of nerves. Using the axes meant he could not rely on his divine powers without risking utter exhaustion again.
As long as we can steer clear of the Grey King’s forces, we should be fine. If they do show up somewhere, we could be in great trouble.
“That should do fine until we get to Alfhaven. Thank you, captain.”
Jatharr nodded, “Don’t thank me until we reach Alfhaven. Look sharp, yeh’ve got admirers.”
A young halfling girl and her younger brother were inching toward the two bashfully. They were mere feet away now. The little brother hid behind his sister, peeping around her arm. He could not be more than five years old. The girl was not much older than him, though she was taller. She stopped her advance when Sawain took notice of the two. The little brother bumped into her and withdrew his face from view.
Sawain gave them a friendly and warm smile, “Hello, there, little ones. What’s that you have there?”
The young girl had a clay bowl in her hands. She held it straight out in front of her once Sawain asked about it. Sawain knelt down and stretched his hands out, taking the bowl from her. He looked inside and there was a tiny portion of scrambled egg and a brass fork. It was a pitiful sight that made Sawain’s heart sink lower as he realized how dire their situation was. He smiled broadly at the two.
“For me? This looks delicious! Thank you so much!”
He picked up the fork and scooped the first of three bites worth of egg. He took an exaggerated bite and acted as if it was the best thing he had ever tasted, though it was really quite bland, since they had no seasonings available.
“Wow, this is really good! Did you make this?”
The young lad poked his head out with a wide grin on his pale face, “Nooo!”
Sawain acted surprised, “You didn’t? Are you sure?”
The girl giggled and folded her hands behind her back. She twirled her pale blue dress back and forth as she became more animated. Her brown eyes glistened with excitement at Sawain’s attention.
“My aunt made them.”
Sawain grinned, “Well, be sure to thank her for m
e!”
Her eyes lit up more and her smile broadened. She curtsied, then turned and ran back to the fire, nearly running over her brother in the process. He started to run after her, then, seemingly encouraged by Sawain’s kindness, he turned back to Sawain. The color was rising quickly in his cheeks. He piped up as loud as he could to make sure Sawain heard him.
“Thank you for saving us, mister hero! When I grow up, I’m gonna be a hero too, just like you!”
Sawain was taken aback. Something in his chest caught ablaze. It was not the familiar rage of hatred he was accustomed to fighting with. It was something new. All his life, he had only known hatred and fear. No one ever showed gratitude to him like this before. During his time in the Dawn Star company, everyone was so much more advanced than him that he spent his days wishing he could be like them, but never even felt on par with any of them, even Kyra.
The young boy bowed low, then turned and ran back too, leaving Sawain standing there with a bowl of eggs in his hand and his mouth half open. The feeling welled up inside of him. It warmed his entire body and made him feel like crying.
Why does what that boy said make me sad? I just feel like crying, but crying is for sadness.
He thought back on the time he caught Axel wiping a tear away when he walked in on one of his strange songs. He asked him why it made him sad to sing it, and Axel told him he was not sad, but that the memories tied to the song made him very happy, and that tears could come when someone was truly happy.
That must be it. To have someone finally look up to me, to think that I am someone special. I am truly happy now.
He smiled as he watched the two children playing a childhood game near the campfire. He wiped away the rogue tear that sneaked down his cheek and thought of Axel again. He took a deep breath and reined in his emotions. Happy though he was, he still had a duty to perform as the hero of the camp. He pulled up a stone beside Jatharr and finished his bowl of eggs silently. After eating, he turned back to the captain.
“When do we break camp?”
Jatharr glanced over the scanty camp of two tents and a wheel barrow that was converted into a makeshift cart. He sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. He opened them, looking much older for a moment.
“Not much camp to break. I suppose our wounded are well enough to move now. Most are anyway. The one that’s not, we can probably tote in the barrow. Most suffered bumps on the head that knocked them out for a day or two. Miss Lennoir wasn’t so lucky, though. She narrowly made it out before the tunnel collapsed, but a piece of rubble tripped her up and broke her leg. It wasn’t an awful break, but still, a broken leg is nothing to scoff at, especially when you’re expected to trek across Hammerhold in the winter.”
Sawain nodded, “That is a bit too much to ask, but we have to get going soon. We have much working against us. As you said, it is winter, and I know full well how dangerous a snowstorm can be for the unprepared. We also have an army of undead to worry about, not to mention the gnoll clans that cause so much trouble here.”
Jatharr rose to his feet and dusted the frost from his tunic, “What are we waiting for? We should get moving, then. Help me break down this tent.”
After they broke down the tent Sawain had stayed in, Jatharr mobilized the rest of the camp into action. Within the next hour, everything was broken down, folded up, and distributed among the refugees to carry. Jatharr pushed the barrow, which had a dozing miss Lennoir and bundles of blankets in it. Sawain followed at his side, carrying one of the two tents that had been bundled up with tight efficiency.
They trekked eastward, over the rolling Fells. It was a grueling journey that wore on many, especially the young ones. The bitter cold was no help either. Sawain worried about the ones who shivered violently as the frozen wind cut through their thin Underfell Town garb. Some had made makeshift coats out of the sacks that once had supplies in them.
For all of their difficulties, Jatharr seemed in good spirit. The entire day, he talked with Sawain about his younger days. He really was much older than Sawain thought he was. He asked Sawain about his adventures and Sawain filled in all the details from the day he was taken from Mistveil Farm to when he arrived in Underfell Town, including becoming a champion of Turin and everything he knew about the Grey King. He did leave out the parts about being the illegitimate thrallborn son of a bloodthirsty tyrant. Jatharr spoke of old wars that Sawain had learned about during Syd’s history lessons. He told of the days when he lived in the southern Fells, near Jordborg.
“Back then, there was a fearsome tribe of Centaur called the Harthaz. They were renowned far and wide for their brutality in war. My clan and the Harthaz skirmished from time to time, but only went to war once.”
Sawain was interested in this history, since it took place close to where he grew up, on Mistveil Farm, “Why did you go to war with Centaur?”
Jatharr looked up at the feathery clouds in the sky as his mind drifted back.
“We always fought over little things, such as game or territorial boundaries. Truth be told, we were not enemies, more like bloody rivals. Our chief and theirs were actually friends before the war. It started as most wars do: over a woman.”
Sawain was puzzled by this, “Wait, you mean to tell me a halfling and a centaur fought over a woman?”
Jatharr let out a sad chuckle, noticeably changing his countenance slowly, “Our chief was not a halfling. I belonged to a clan of mixed races that preferred living off the land and maintaining the old ways of the Lower Fells. Some called us raiders, or barbarians. Both unfair titles, truly. We only ever raided during the Anvilheim-Jordborg war twenty years ago. That’s another story, though. This war came before even that one. Like I said, the war started over a woman and a prophecy. The woman was my wife, Marran. She was a druid. Communed with nature and all that. I never really understood it, but she said it was what allowed her a degree of control over nature itself. Anyway, one night, during one of our most important festivals, a spirit fell over her and she made a prophecy. Said something about how the seed of our chief would bring great honor to his name. Said he would have a son that would unite two worlds. Chief boasted that his bloodline was next to rule as Segrammir, and that he would use that power to bring all the Fell-clans under his subjection. Of course, he made this boast among his own people, and at a moment of weakness, at the peak of the Celebration, but…”
Jatharr trailed off in the middle of his story. Sawain glanced over at him. Jatharr’s gaze dropped to the handles of the barrow he was pushing. Sawain was afraid to push the story further, and was content to leave it at that, though curious still. After a brief moment of silence, Jatharr cleared his throat and began to speak again.
“Anyway, the news of Torval’s boast reached Chief Gothur.”
Sawain stopped dead in his tracks. His blood ran cold and his mind went numb.
Torval. Torval.
Jatharr stopped mid sentence when he noticed Sawain stop, “You alright, friend? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost. What’s got you spooked?”
Sawain blinked the mix of rage and shock away and took a deep breath before he continued walking, “It’s nothing, I just got a little light headed. Must not be fully recovered yet.”
Jatharr gave him a concerned glance, “We can stop a while if ye need it.”
Sawain shook his head, “I’m fine, really. What happened when Chief Gothur found out your chief’s boast?”
Jatharr turned face forward and went back to pushing the barrow, “Well, he flew into a rage, as Centaur are apt to do. As prone to tantrums as they are, their judgment during those fits is equally infamous. He took this foolish boast as a declaration of war. It is common belief among the Harthaz that when a prophecy is made, it can be stopped by killing the one who made the prophecy. Something about the spirit and the prophet being bound together until the spirit has enough energy to manifest itself physically and thereby fulfill the prophecy. Bunch of superstitious filth, if you ask me. Either way, their… diplomats came to o
ur village one day. Demanded that we hand over the one who made the prophecy or face annihilation.”
Sawain’s hatred for his father’s foolishness was rekindled, “He handed her over?”
Jatharr shook his head, “Chief Torval was rash as a young man, but he was also fiercely loyal to our clan. He told the diplomats there was not going to be an execution of his people, nor annihilation. He slew one of the diplomats, beat the other within an inch of his life, then told him to tell his master that the Borsaal Clan would not be bullied by… a clan of half-breeds.”
Sawain spat on the ground. His father being unkind to half-breeds made too much sense in Sawain’s mind.
Jatharr continued, “Gothur’s forces bore down hard on us the next day. For all our might, theirs was greater. We were fortunate to have more in number, but it was not enough. Our people were slaughtered. To stop the fighting, my wife revealed herself as the prophetess. I… I tried to save her, but they were too much for me. Chief Torval had been gravely wounded and could not come to her aid in time either. Gothur cut her down unceremoniously, right in front of my eyes. A part of me was forever lost that day. As broken-hearted as I was, Chief Torval was the worst off. Once she was dead, the Harthaz pulled back, satisfied with leaving us for dead. Only, we did not die. Torval and I recovered, along with the remnants of our clan. There were not many of us left, but Torval vowed that the war was far from over.”
Sawain hated his father deeply, but he was not so hard hearted that he did not feel bad for the foolish old tyrant, “So, he did care for someone other than himself.”
Jatharr shot Sawain an odd look, “You speak as if you know Torval.”
“I know his kind. Wicked old tyrants who would rather cling to a dead and broken code than do what is truly right.”
Jatharr furrowed his brow, growing flush, “I’ll not have you talk about my old friend that way. You do not know him. He is a great war hero and he is an avenger of my bloodline.”
Sawain was unable to hold back his hatred. His distaste for Torval erupted violently, “He was a tyrant! There’s nothing heroic about enslaving others, especially not your true love. There’s nothing heroic about turning a blind eye while you wife mercilessly beats a young child, just for looking like her husband. Torval was a filthy old goat who deserved the death he was given!”