Eventually, Trestan sat up and walked to the center of their camp. There was no campfire; instead, the center of camp simply consisted of packs and supplies piled in a heap. Trestan sat and stared at the shapes in the twilight. The passage of time left too many opportunities to get mired in the thoughts of how hopeless their struggle might be. The young man had a lot of nervous energy waiting for some kind of release, yet there was nothing to do but wait and brood on the capture of his friend. The moons rose, slowly banishing the light. Cat walked down and joined the young human. She looked at him with uncertainty, before finally deciding to put one arm around his shoulders. He could guess easily enough at the reasons for her hesitation. After such good times and close moments together, the actions of the previous night had hurt their relationship. He remained upset, but at the same time she was the closest friend he had nearby. He put a reassuring hand on her knee, and so they sat in silence for some time. Trestan finally felt the need to get up and move again.
“Cat?”
“Yes, Trestan?”
The young man stood and helped her to get to her feet. “I can’t put my mind at ease, and my muscles are all tense. Could you show me those exercises you do in the morning to loosen up?”
The half-elf nodded and began stretching with Trestan. They removed enough of their clothes to keep flexible but not be immodest, and Cat showed him routine after routine to stretch his muscles. They went through breathing exercises, flexibility moves, and mental discipline. Salgor watched as well but did not join in. Mel seemed to sleep the whole time. The routine relaxed the young man, working the knots out of his muscles. It set his mind at ease, focusing on every movement and word that was taught.
Afterward, Cat, Salgor and Trestan shared a drink around the pile of packs. Salgor took out a vintage he said was mellow to a dwarf, yet still had kick for a human. They handed the bottle around long enough for Mel to wake and join them.
Trestan asked them about their early adventuring careers. He asked them how they had reacted to fights when they were new to battle. Mel happily talked first, “It was actually quite embarrassing. The first thing I killed was when I accidentally blasted that rat tormenting my sister. That wasn’t a real battle, though it was a great surprise for me and the rat. I remember the first time I ended up in combat against an enemy ready to kill me. I was walking through the woods with some friends when suddenly a hail of goblin arrows flew at us. I remember getting off my Rat Blaster spell on one of them. He was only wounded, and a second or two later I blacked out in pain as an arrow hit me. I woke up maybe a few moments later with our cleric friend kneeling over me. She removed the arrow and healed the damage. The battle was still raging around us on the forest path. I got up and fired my crossbow at another goblin and missed. Then the same goblin that had originally shot me ran up and clubbed me in the head. I blacked out again. I’m glad my friends won because that’s all I remember from it.”
Salgor chuckled, “Heh, I can’t remember my first but I sure remember one similar to what Mel’s. Several friends and I ended up in this fight against a wizard and his followers. I figured I had to take out the wizard, so I charged right up to him. He used protective spells but I managed to hurt him. That cowardly guy couldn’t stand muscle to muscle with a dwarf warrior. He hit me with spells until I dropped. Then our healer came along and cast his miracles, and I got back on my feet. Then I went down, then back up, then I went down, again and again back up. That dang wizard and healer seemed to have nay end to their spells. Anyway, I’ve hated wizards ever since. We didn’t kill that one that day, but we hunted him down a couple months later and finished what we started.”
Trestan spoke, “I guess I already passed my first fight back with those goblins. I don’t know if you all noticed, but I kept shivering after the battle. I had gotten so worked up and excited quickly, but then I couldn’t calm down when things were over. Things kept going through my mind afterwards, and my hands shook from the excitement and terror of it. I guess there was also the battle on the street of my hometown, but I didn’t really get to play a part in it.”
Cat noted, “I hope your hands are steady in the morning, Trestan. We will need to fight perfectly to handle whatever comes up. If lucky, we’ll catch many of them with their pants down.”
They sat in silence in the darkness. Only the moons lit their faces, revealing grim expressions. Only Salgor seemed to welcome the upcoming battle and his chance for vengeance, but all of them were knowledgeable enough to know the risk. Trestan recalled something, and he asked about it. “There is this tune I have heard, played in the inn by adventurers that wander through town.”
The half-elf looked to him in the moonlight, “What kind of song?”
The smith thought it over a bit. “It’s kind of sad. It has a slow, melancholy tune to it. I’ve heard musicians play it with a solemn reverence. It has words…though I can’t remember them.”
Salgor prodded the young man, “Hum a few bars lad, perhaps I have heard this tune as well.”
Trestan hummed the tune as best he could remember. Even as he did, some of the words came back to him. Cat recognized it, “I know that song. Sir Carlund’s Lament.”
Salgor hummed a few bars along with Trestan. “Aye, I know this tune too, though the words change a bit depending on who performs it. Every adventurer knows this one.”
Trestan asked, “Tell me about it. I know something of the song, but not the whole story. I know it’s a sad song that many adventurers sing when faced with a battle.”
Cat clarified it for him, “When faced with a losing battle. On the other hand, it might be sung after having lost a friend. It’s a sad song, fit for the adventurer who faces death away from home. The original tune was a funeral dirge originating in lands to the east. Sir Carlund, a native of Tuskora, wrote the words. He was a knight of a holy order, and a man of good standing. From what little I know of his life, he was very popular before some internal strife exiled him from his country. His enemies caught up with him on the Island of Lar. On the eve of that battle, he sat down and put words to an old funeral dirge. He knew he would not survive the coming fight, and so he expressed his feelings through that song. He died bravely, and after his death his friends back home were able to justify his actions to the officials of the law. The man’s body was returned home to a hero’s welcome, and the tune he wrote was adopted by many.”
Trestan thought over the story. “Fitting if we could sing it tonight, I suppose? I don’t mean to imply the worst will happen, yet I am afraid of how tomorrow will turn out. I don’t know all the words but if one of you does, I would love to hear it.”
Cat looked to him, “I know the words, I’ll start and you can join in when you can.”
The half-elf started singing, her voice sounding almost enchanted as she recalled the tragic verse. Trestan sang when he could. Mel would have joined in, but he did not know the song at all. The gnome sat and smoked a pipe as the others voiced the lyrics. Salgor knew much of the song as well, and his voice added a deep quality to it. Together, they sang…
Look not for me, to return to my home;
I will die here, in strange lands I have roamed.
I now wear my finest, clothes worn through hard days;
Fitting to die with them, and ever so clothed I’ll lay.
My boots long stained, with the mud of long roads;
Long ways from my kin, how far did I go?
Look not for me, to return to my home;
I will die here, in strange lands I have roamed.
Wrinkles on my brow, the sun burns on my face;
Long have I endured, the passing of age.
I left as a young man, years of wisdom I passed;
Leaving far behind, many a lonely young lass.
Look not for me, to return to my home;
I will die here, in strange lands I have roamed.
Give me my sword, as honor is my right;
I shall not die, until one last fight.
Though many come, I fear not their blades;
They can’t destroy the worth of my days.
Look not for me, to return to my home;
I will die here, in strange lands I have roamed.
Remember my courage, remember my stand;
In this way, learn the measure of man.
Now some may grieve, and some never know;
But this was the path I chose to go.
Look not for me, to return to my home;
I will die here, in strange lands I have roamed.
They ended the song with Trestan in tears. He smiled at the end and thanked them. “Thank you for remembering that song with me this day. Thank you also for joining me on this quest, regardless of your reasons. I’ll try to get some rest now, for I foresee a terrible fight in the morning.”
CHAPTER 11
The eastern sky brightened as Liijay sank into the western hills. The woods around the camp remained dark as a handful of guards stirred life back into the cook fires in preparation for breakfast. Voices drifted from the ship, floating at anchor with masts furled. The early risers of the camp were given jobs of cooking, tearing down empty tents, or preparing the rowboats. They moved solemnly, many recovering from a drunken stupor. Last night the sailors committed their old captain to a funeral at sea. A new captain took his position in stride. Little did they know, eyes watched from the trees.
Trestan had sat in one place too long; he stretched some muscles while staying as quiet as possible. During the night Cat had led them, one by one, to their spots around the camp. With her help, they snuck close without thus far being discovered. She hadn’t agreed with Trestan’s chosen spot, but she respected his decision. The smith sat where he and Cat had spied on the camp the previous night. This put him at the opposite side of the camp as the tent with the prisoners, where Salgor was poised. Trestan chose the risky task of starting a diversion while Salgor charged to rescue the others from the opposite side. Cat and Mel positioned somewhere between, directly west of the camp and facing out towards the bluff and the shoreline beyond. When things started happening, hopefully their crossbows could assist either end with well-placed shots. Cat had wanted Trestan to stay back, or even try the rescue while Salgor made a diversion. Trestan wouldn’t accept it, arguing that he trusted Salgor with the tougher job of trying to rescue and guard two people at once. So now the young man sat, quarterstaff in hand and wearing his armor.
Some of the trees and tents blocked his view. It was easy to tell which tent held the prisoners due to two guards placed directly outside it. At least two other tents were being dismantled and packed away for transport. It seemed that if the companions had delayed much longer, the group on the bluff would be sailing away. A line of men hauled equipment back and forth between camp and rowboats. The busy haulers meant there were less guarding the camp than what they might have had. On the other hand, there were still a lot of them around the bluff. The smith recognized only one familiar face. The redheaded man warmed his hands over a fire, garbed in a new coat and hat, wearing them like a badge of office. Other men followed his orders when he barked commands. There was no sign of the four who had fought against his friends on the streets of Troutbrook.
Trestan remained nervous about everything. Although the camp area was relatively quiet, the sounds of coughing and throat-clearing were prevalent. The young man heard noises in the woods as well as the camp, and he could have sworn that not too long ago someone’s footsteps had gone near him. He studied everyone in the camp: their weapons, their lack of armor and the general way each of them moved. He gripped his quarterstaff with nervous hands as he considered his combat training and how it would be put to a severe test any moment. The elvish sword was safely slung over his back, ready for use the moment things started happening.
A songbird broke the silence of the morning. The men in the camp mostly ignored it, though some looked to the woods. Trestan heard Cat’s call and had almost been dreading it. It was his signal to begin anytime. Any later and the sun would rise over the eastern horizon, leaving Cat and Mel attempting to fire at targets passing near bright sunlight. Trestan looked over the closest men and planned his steps in his mind. He singled out a man dismantling a tent, not far from his hiding spot. The man left his scimitar lying to the side as he worked. That mercenary would be a tempting target if he could sneak up and hit before the man could react. Trestan Karok half-rose and prepared to move.
Footsteps crunched behind him. Still hidden from camp, and leaning back against a tree, Trestan froze as he considered the sound. The pace didn’t indicate that the person was trying to sneak around or charge. The steps were getting closer, as someone walked out of the woods towards the camp. At that moment the young smith wasn’t sure he could even swallow, but he had to chance a look back to see who was there. Turning his head and peering out from behind the tree, he slowly looked around the woods behind him.
The footsteps belonged to the dark abbess of DeLaris, Savannah! She was walking out of the deeper woods wearing her skull helm and armor, buckling her belt together and not really looking ahead. Apparently, Trestan hadn’t imagined the footsteps in the woods earlier, as the abbess had gone off to relieve herself in privacy. She was walking a path that would bring her right next to the hidden smith. It would be the perfect opportunity to take out a tough opponent at the very start of the fight, if she didn’t see him first and stop him with a single miraculous touch. Just the prospect of facing her made the young man’s knees shake. She started to look up, and Trestan ducked behind the tree. He considered the sword slung across his back, but it was too late to draw it forth without warning her. The quarterstaff was in his hands and ready, so that would have to suffice. The young man looked at the branches around him, and made sure he had room to make a swing without anything blocking the strike. He listened and waited for her to come closer.
Nervously, he called a prayer to Abriana. He dared not even speak it in a whisper, for fear of warning the dark cleric somehow. In the silence of his own mind, he prayed. “Dear Abriana, blessed mentor of my mentor. Guide me with strength and courage. Guide me not out of vengeance or the desire to take a life. Guide me for the desire to free my friends whom I love and thus save their lives. Take my own life in return if it must be done, but give me the chance to free them. Thank you.”
Footsteps drew nearer. Out of the corner of his eye Trestan watched the open area the cleric would walk through when she passed. Strong arms, used to long hours swinging a smithy hammer and pounding metal, tightened around the shaft of the staff. Everything Trestan hoped for might depend solely on this first swing against a terrifying opponent. Footfalls crunched next to him, and the first boot came into his field of vision. Trestan set his weight and started to swing. Savannah’s face lingered on the ground ahead of her in a daze, not paying full attention. The young man focused on the face of the woman who haunted his dreams. The cold, blue-eyed villain, who had so casually bent over him and pronounced her mastery over whether he lived or died, passed alongside without any awareness of his presence. Trestan directed his attack at that cruel visage, noting an opening at the base of the visor that didn’t totally protect the mouth or jaw. Anyone watching the staff follow its course could have sworn it bent with the force of that swing.
Savannah’s eyes widened in surprise as she saw the threat coming.
CRACK!
Trestan almost lost his balance, but his first impression was that he landed a powerful blow. The skull helm tumbled backwards across rocks and into the bushes, as the helmetless cleric fell like a rag doll. Even though the blonde woman went down quickly, fear drove the young man to swing a second strike. As he twirled the staff he realized something wasn’t right. The second swing missed, because the staff was missing a third of its length. Trestan looked at his broken staff in amazement.
A brief wave of panic hit as he realized his choice weapon was broken. He looked down at the cleric, lying motionless in a sprawled out position. Blood oozed from her mou
th and nose. His one swing might have been a fatal blow, but he didn’t spend much time contemplating her condition. The nearby camp awoke with noises and shouts.
Trestan turned towards the tents and saw that the closest man had been alerted. The mercenary grabbed his scimitar and moved to attack. He looked to be close to Trestan’s father’s age. A patch covered one eye, giving him a tough appearance. Trestan had to reach for his other weapon, though he had never hoped to actually have a need for it when it became his to wield.
He drew the Sword of the Spirit from its scabbard, holding the elvish blade of Sir Wilhelm before him in both hands. The bastard sword gleamed in the morning light, though the sun had yet to rise. The hilt accommodated both hands easily. The other man weaved his scimitar back and forth as they faced each other. Trestan accepted the challenge with a bit of fear, but fully accepting of whatever destiny chose. It was time to find out what kind of a swordsman he really was.
* * * * *
CRACK!
The sound of the breaking staff echoed across the top of the bluff, followed by the lesser noise of a metal skull helm rolling and bouncing over some rocks. Cat and Mel lay nestled in the bushes only a few feet apart. Their deadly crossbows leveled at their prime targets within the camp. Upon hearing the echoing sound, the half-elf concluded that Trestan had launched his diversion. Men around the tents and fires also looked that way, wondering what caused the noise.
The gnome half-turned to his taller companion and with raised eyebrows asked, “Now?”
“Now!” She hissed, and both crossbows clicked as they fired.
The Earthrin Stones 1 of 3: Inheritance of a Sword and a Path Page 24