Decision made, Jerrol focused on the path ahead of him. He needed to get through the range before the guards reversed their direction. Amongst this sparse vegetation, there was nowhere to hide, and he would be exposed as he climbed the trail. At least he had a head start – in theory at least.
The narrow trail wound up into the foothills, past drystone walls edging empty fields. Some were ploughed, ready for late planting, the rich, red loamy soil drying in the breeze. Others were full of knee-high waving golden stalks of some crop or other.
Catching his breath, he looked down and out towards the city of Old Vespers. It was his home. For the past seven years, he had lived amongst the hodgepodge of buildings and spires, part of the royal court, comfortable in its rhythms. The solid golden towers of the Chapterhouse rose above the buildings, sturdy and practical, a counterpoint to the silvery spires of the palace. A movement caught his eye and he stiffened, but he couldn’t see what it was, and he hurried onwards.
Old Vespers thankfully passed from view as Jerrol entered the first of the dim, narrow passes that cut through the base of the hills and wound its way through to the Greenswatch. As he walked, all sound was deadened in the confining space, and the air was unnaturally still. His pack caught on the crowding rock as the trail narrowed and widened again. He hurried on, eager to leave the oppressive atmosphere behind. It echoed his thoughts.
The narrow walls of the trail finally opened onto a plateau, surrounded by tall pine trees providing a natural windbreak and an oasis of calm air, which felt pleasantly warm in the evening sun. It had taken all day to get through the pass.
After some searching, he found a small cave tucked up in the ridge. A wiry green-leafed bush disguised the entrance. He eased himself in, pushing his pack in front of him, glad for once that he was not a large man. There was a slight alkaline scent lingering after some creature had moved on.
He hunkered down in the dim light and, chewing on a strip of dried meat out of his travel rations, he contemplated his immediate future. He was poorly provisioned for any trip, let alone one travelling around the Watches for a month. His rations would last a few days; he would need to find food, especially if he was going on foot.
His mind spun with unease. He didn’t like leaving the King. Not that the King was unprotected; he had his guards and other rangers after all. But he was the only ranger who seemed concerned about the Chancellor’s sudden elevation or believed that he was up to no good. For him to be accused of treason and removed from the board so easily was worrying.
And then the King had tried to invoke the Oath. He wasn’t sure what the Oath did. No one had ever used it before. The fact that the King thought he needed it meant the King was concerned about something.
The King hadn’t completed the Oath; did that mean it wasn’t in force? Or was it? He was sure the words had flashed in the throne room. Could an oath be half sworn? He rehashed the scene in the throne room, not making it any clearer.
And who had helped him escape? And why? He couldn’t think of anyone he knew who would have taken such a risk, except maybe Jennery and he was still miles away. Exhaustion from stress as well as his flight finally caught up with him, and Jerrol dozed off.
Chapter 4
Greenswatch
Jerrol awoke at the rattle of stones outside his cave. Someone was searching nearby. Stiffening, he felt for his daggers, which were within easy reach. He waited, tense and alert, but no one tried to enter the cave, and after a while all sounds faded away. He relaxed his grip on his daggers and sat listening for the rest of the night. Before the sun came up, his meagre belongings were packed, and he left the cave, daggers at the ready.
After two days of trudging south towards the big river, Jerrol’s feet were blistered, his body ached, and his mood was tense and murderous. If Isseran stood before him now, Jerrol wouldn’t hesitate to take him down. He clenched his fists at the thought.
Someone was following him. He knew it. They kept their distance, but he couldn’t sleep. His senses were on high alert, keeping him tense and jittery. What were they waiting for? Maybe more reinforcements. If so, he couldn’t afford to wait for them to arrive.
On the third night, Jerrol set up camp. The gleam of the large river flickered through the trees that led down to the water’s edge. Following the routine of the previous two nights, he found a small copse of trees and bent them into a shelter with his bedroll. As darkness descended, he melted into the trees.
Circling back around his route, he paused, listening for his trackers. He heard a slight scuff off to his left and froze. The forest floor was carpeted by a soft layer of mulch and decaying leaves, muffling the sound of footsteps. He peered into the impenetrable gloom, but he couldn’t see anything.
He wasn’t sure what gave him away, maybe he was overtired, but he was on the defensive as a knife-wielding shadow attacked him. Allowing the momentum to take him back, he accepted the initial slash as his due and twisted into the man. Displacing his opponent, he attacked. They jostled for position, back and forth, daggers clashing and chinging off each other. Blades flickered between them until Jerrol saw the slightest opening and took it, committing himself to the move and the kill.
Gasping for breath and feeling a little lightheaded, he levered himself off the still body. He tensed, listening for the others. He knew they were out there; why had they dropped back and not charged him? He circled as he searched the deepening gloom and stumbled over a body. Frowning, he felt for a pulse, but the man was dead, though he couldn’t find a wound. Recent as well – one of his trackers? Had they had a falling out?
He spun as they rushed him all together, getting in each other’s way. They were larger and persistent, and although he disabled two of them, he began to tire. When an unexpected fifth man jumped him from behind, delivering a stunning blow to his head, he sagged, dazed.
The remaining men stood, sides heaving. “I never saw such a scrapper,” one of them said, a tinge of respect in his voice.
“Scrapper or no, he’s done for the ’atchet, we ain’t gonna get our money now,” a low voice complained.
“Yeah, stick ’im one and toss him in the river, no point dragging him back,” another rough voice agreed.
The men grunted in agreement and Jerrol was dragged across the ground, the matting of pine needles pricking his skin. From what felt like the bottom of a deep well, he heard a low-voiced argument going on around him as to who would get to stick ’im one. The voices echoed painfully in his temples.
A high thrum, a low curse, and one of his captors let go of him. An unexplained stumble and another man lost his balance, and they slipped and skidded down the steep slope. They flailed, trying to grab the thin saplings that bent under their weight, and they lost their grip on Jerrol. His body rolled the last few feet and splashed into the water, sucked under as the men watched. The water roiled and then calmed, returning to its smooth deep green flow, and continued on its way as if nothing untoward had happened, all traces of infamy gone. The men stared around them with caution before beginning the climb back up the steep bank.
Jerrol had a vague memory of rough handling and then the shock of being consumed by the cold water. He was sucked down by the current, out of sight and out of breath.
As he struggled to reach the surface, the realisation sank in that he wasn’t in the water, he was kneeling on solid land. He coughed out water and dragged in a breath. He sensed a presence and opened his eyes. Thin saplings grew in a curve up to the riverbank, blocking the sky and the moonlight, providing a dim glade lit by a soft green glow filtering through the leaves.
In the centre, a slender young woman stood in front of him, patiently waiting. “Where am I?” he asked, clearing his throat as his voice cracked. He wiped his face with his dripping sleeve.
The woman mused for a moment. “There is a place betwixt life and death where the essence of time shimmers like a mist and allows me to reach your soul and bespeak it.”
“Am I dead?” Jerrol aske
d, confused by her words.
“Not quite. You are my Captain, and you have yet to fulfil your duty.”
Jerrol stiffened and lifted his eyes to her face, taking in her flawless complexion and sparkling emerald-green eyes. He swallowed as he realised who stood before him, speaking of his death so casually. She was the Lady Leyandrii, the deity worshipped by at least three of the four kingdoms of Remargaren.
“The Ascendants grow bold,” she said.
“The Ascendants?”
“They return to finish the deed.”
“Deed? My Lady, why am I here?” Jerrol staggered to his feet and stood, swaying.
“Bend your head.” Stepping towards him, she reached out and placed her hands on either side of his face. Jerrol tensed as her power surged through him, almost dropping him to his knees, but he was held in place by her will alone. “You are my Captain,” she repeated. “You have the sight. You have the depths. Only you can find the truth. Restore the forgotten, heal the wounded.”
Leyandrii raised Jerrol’s head and stared deep into his eyes as if she could see straight to his heart and his innermost self. He felt exposed to the core. “Soothe the Land and make her your ally. She misses us as we miss her. You have the knowledge, the courage, the heart and sight. What was sundered cannot be reformed, but a true heart may restore.”
She looked off into the distance, a small smile curving her lips. “Help is at hand. You are relieved of your immediate assailants, my Captain. You do seem to be able to put yourself in danger’s way. You should be more adept at avoiding trouble.”
Jerrol stared at her, stunned and confused. He had always followed the Lady, been hers to command, but this felt a bit more definite. She spoke in riddles; he was unsure what it all meant. Warmth suffused him as she stepped back. “Wake them. They will help you. There is one I cannot see, the deceiver. Watch for him, my Captain. He stirs. Be well,” she said as everything started to shimmer, and he felt himself spinning and tumbling against the current.
His shoulder glanced off a submerged rock, the shock making him inhale a mouthful of water. He choked. He was still in the river, close to drowning. He struck out, pushing himself back to the surface. Gasping for air, he treaded water as he frantically tried to see if anyone still haunted the riverbanks. It appeared that he was alone. The water calmed as his breathing slowed, his frantic panic subsiding.
The river deposited him on a small gritty beach, where he lay retching up water, his chest heaving. His stomach fluttered on the edge of panic, surprised that he was still alive, as the current tugged at his legs as if to coax him back in. His throat burned as he struggled to inhale air between retching up water, until at last he lay limp and exhausted.
Jerrol stirred as the cold seeped into his bones. His clothes clung to his blue-tinged skin. Sharp grit dug into the palms of his hands as he pushed himself up. The Lady’s assistance was double-edged, it seemed. He didn’t know where he was, and he had lost his pack and another sword — and, curse it, his daggers as well.
He sat up, groggily, and brushed the grit off his hands. He surveyed his surroundings. In front of him, the slow-moving mass of brooding darkness lapped at his feet and the exposed roots of leafy trees clung to the bank. Rank upon rank of trees rose from the water’s edge up the steep slopes on either side of the river, which was much broader here. He must have been swept some distance downstream, maybe even as far as Deepwater.
The only piece of good news that he could see was the fact that he was now on the other side of the river, though that must have been the most uncomfortable river crossing he had ever made, hopefully never to be repeated. He peered into the impenetrable darkness rising around him. The night air was thick and heavy. No lights shone to ease the depths. No sounds broke the stillness, not a leaf stirred. He shivered.
Jerrol began the climb up the riverbank, grabbing the thin trunks to help pull him up. As his feet slid on the decaying detritus, the noise of his passage reverberated in his ears. He slowed as he worked his way up through the trees; his breath was coming in gasps as his abused lungs struggled to cope.
He tried to figure out where he was, to find a landmark that would give him some indication of which direction he needed to go, but the trees were thickening ahead of him. His wet clothes made his skin clammy and chill, and he shivered in the cold night air. He wrung his shirt out, but it didn’t improve the situation much.
He kept moving. The Lady’s words filled his mind, but they made no more sense now than when she had said them. He couldn’t put this down to imagination, even if he had been hit over the head and half-drowned.
The ground levelled out and the trees grew sturdier, their thick trunks blocking his view. He paused and leaned against a huge tree, whose roots tangled in the undergrowth. He stared up through the leafy branches, thinking of Sentinals as he tried to catch his breath. His chest ached. If hadn’t imagined the Lady, then the silver-eyed man in the tree must be real too. He wondered where he was.
If he could recognise the stars, he might get a sense of direction. He cursed under his breath as he peered about him. The thick matrix of branches above him defeated his eyes, so he stared into the darkness ahead instead. Maybe he should stop until the sun came up.
He hesitated as he saw a pale shape in the lightening gloom. As he approached, he realised it was a horse. What was a horse doing here? It was a pure white mare, gleaming in the dim light, with elegant lines and a long swishing tail, tacked up with a saddle and bridle. Where was its rider?
Searching the surroundings, he tried to quiet his laboured breathing, but there was no movement except for the slight chink of the bridle as the mare chomped on the bit. He placed his hand on her neck and reached for the bridle. “Where did you come from?” he asked, his voice a soft murmur in the night. “Are you lost?”
She shook her head, her dark eyes gleaming as she watched him. She sighed and rolled her lips, and he couldn’t help the smile that crept over his face. Breathing in the musky scent of her skin, he felt a tension deep inside him ease at the familiar smell. He stroked her neck with long, firm strokes, enjoying the contact with another living creature that wasn’t trying to kill him.
Thanking whoever provisioned her, he rummaged through the saddlebags. A bedroll was tied on the back of her saddle, with a sword strapped in place. “Shall we see what treasures we have?” he murmured as the gloom began to lift. Pale streaks of grey light pierced the canopies and eased the darkness. “Hopefully, some money. Otherwise, you are going to have to make do with roadside grass.” He laughed at her expression and then sobered at the sound. It had been a long time since he’d had reason to laugh out loud.
The pack yielded not only a welcome, plump purse but also a cloth-wrapped sandwich. He inhaled the mouthwatering aroma and wondered who had provisioned her.
“Should we stay or go? Do you think it is safe here?” His voice echoed in the gloom as the mare shook her head. “I agree. We ought to go.” He rifled through the rest of the pack: dry clothes, a useful flick knife, a flint, and a canteen of water. He found a set of daggers, and he breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief. He hefted one in his hand; the balance was perfect.
Thankful for the dry clothes, he stripped off his wet ones. He hesitated at the fine texture of the shirt, before quickly dressing. The tension across his shoulders eased as the warmth from the clothes penetrated his chill skin. He strapped the sword around his waist, reassured by its familiar weight. Slipping the daggers into his belt, he wrapped the warm cloak around himself and reluctantly stamped back into his soggy boots; the wet clothes he wrung out and shoved into the saddlebag.
He led the mare out of the trees, towards a faint trail which he hoped led down to some sort of road. A road should help him get his bearings. As they reached the trail, he turned back to the mare. With a deep breath, he pulled himself up into the saddle, hissing at the deep ache in his shoulder and chest. He rubbed his side where the assassin had slashed at him not so long ago. Fortunately, the knif
e had not penetrated through to his skin. He had been lucky.
The chattering screech of rising birds in the trees behind him had Jerrol moving off with alacrity. He glanced back as the mare wended her way through the undergrowth, but the trees closed behind him, obscuring whatever had disturbed the birds.
Chapter 5
Marchwood Watch
He could have been anyone. A slight man, drably dressed in a muddy cloak and trousers, both of which had seen better days. The edges of his rough shirt were frayed and trapped the water dripping down the threads in the soft rain. His boots were thick with mud and well worn. A nondescript hat was pulled down over his face, offering some protection from the elements.
Over his shoulder was a burlap sack which might once have been waterproof but was now sadly waterlogged. His cloak, though, was dark and warm. How he had got hold of such a garment was yet to be told; it was the item of most value to those who stalked him.
The three commoners paused as they watched the man slog through the thick mud. He was an easy mark, a lonely figure who posed little threat and would not be missed, focused on keeping his feet in the treacherous conditions. In unison, they closed on him, daggers in hand, the squelching of mud betraying their position.
Forewarned, the man spun in one fluid move. The glint of steel carved an arc that sliced through the air. It came to a halt just in front of the lead man, a broad-chested, blond-haired man, who flailed desperately to avoid skewering himself on the vicious-looking blade. The man’s feet slid out from under him at his sudden change in momentum. He landed in the mud on his backside as the sword skimmed his lank hair and came to rest at his throat. The man gulped, the silver scar on his chin prominent, his blue eyes wide with fear.
Slate-grey eyes gleamed in the fading light and raked across the other two bandits as they slithered to an uncertain stop. “I could pierce you like a suckling pig.” The man’s voice was low and gravelly as if he hadn’t used it in a while. “If you were worth the effort.”
Sentinals Awaken: Book One of the Sentinals Series Page 3