Without a horse, Madrigail Bay was a lifetime away. Castle Svelte lay several days to the northwest. Surely King Malcolm would know what to do. At Castle Svelte, he would be able to commandeer a horse. He thought about Gritian to the southwest, farther away than the castle, but that was where Seafarer had said Silurian was headed. Whichever way he decided, getting to Redfire Path was his priority.
The day proved pleasant upon the rolling plains. The sun rose into a clear sky, quickly dispersing the morning chill. The farther he walked, the more the telltale signs of life reasserted itself upon the land—evidenced by the annoying buzz and occasional insect bite.
As night descended, he stumbled upon a clear stream tumbling its way toward the devastation in the east. He tested the water for its drinkability before deciding to camp for the night. He briefly thought about how his proximity to a water source made him more vulnerable to whatever hunted in the darkness but decided to remain there anyway. If something was out there, he’d know it soon enough.
He sat down upon a flat rock at the stream’s edge. Dropping his sack behind him, he removed his boots to enjoy the sensation of the cool breeze on his toes.
As he sat there dangling his feet in the cool water, he couldn’t help thinking that Helleden had become too powerful for anyone to deal with. Given the substantial losses the Zephyr army had suffered over the last two decades, the king’s forces would be hard pressed to thwart the sorcerer’s advance. The realm had lost a king and a queen during Helleden’s previous two sorties. If King Malcolm were to fall, the remainder of the known world would surely die with him.
Rook shuddered to think about the consequences the death of King Malcolm would have on Silurian.
Rook sighed with relief the next morning—he hadn’t been attacked or killed in his sleep by the brigands and vagabonds the Mid Savannah was notorious for. Perhaps the Innerworld’s destruction had driven their ilk westward, though that thought wasn’t reassuring as it was west he was headed.
A few days later, he stood atop an outcropping of rock, trying to ascertain his location. Judging by the sun, he still travelled southwest. He must’ve passed close to the Forgotten Shrine during the morning of the previous day. He thought briefly of visiting the broken building, but he didn’t want to waste the time it would require to actually find it.
It had been years since he’d travelled through Zephyr, but he knew the land well. He was pretty sure he now stood along the northern fringes of the Gritian Hills.
He took a steadying breath. The prospect of being surrounded by mankind again made him nervous.
Scanning the terrain for signs of predators or thieves, he laughed out loud. Thieves! With all the impending peril, thieves were the least of his worries. Other than his bow, and a scant collection of old arrows, what else did he have to offer? A broken wooden plate? A leaky wooden bowl? A moth eaten wool blanket? He shook his head at the ludicrousness of it all. Chuckling, he set off at a brisk pace.
As the day drew to an uneventful close, Redfire Path was nowhere in sight. He set up camp beneath a jag of rock, topped by long, drooping grass and a lone, scraggy, red maple. Close by, a slow running brook meandered southward.
While stowing his gear the following morning, beating wings grabbed his attention. A skinny goose landed upon the brook.
He grabbed his bow, and slithered an arrow from its quiver, careful not to make a noise. Crouching low, he waddled around the jag of rock, notched the arrow, eyed the target and let fly. He missed terribly.
The goose squawked its outrage and took flight.
He quickly loosed another arrow.
The bird emitted a mocking screech as the arrow fell short.
Watching the skinny bird grow smaller in the sky, Rook grimaced at the irony. The mighty Rook Bowman, leader of the Group of Five, and holder of five Royal Tournament archery championships, bested by a malnourished goose at close range. All while on a mission to deliver Zephyr from its ultimate bane, Helleden Misenthorpe.
Perhaps returning to the Innerworld and starting over might prove the wiser path.
Damn the Chamber
Alhena accompanied Silurian to his sleeping quarters in silence. Silurian ambled along dejectedly, shoulders slumped, and head hung low. The Chamber’s decision, although expected, had taken whatever spirit he had out of him.
Silurian sunk into a chair and buried his face in his palms. The Chamber’s shortsighted decision, had in all likelihood, set into motion the needless death of many people. Preventable deaths if they only appreciated the endgame. Surely the high warlord knew better. A small group of horsemen travelled faster and far less conspicuously than a large, armoured contingent.
“Damn the Chamber,” Silurian grumbled into his hands.
Alhena stared at the troubled warrior. Damn the Chamber? He nodded, a mischievous glint in his eyes. Aye. Damn the Chamber.
Taking a deep breath, he said quietly, “What if we left tonight?”
Silurian became still.
“Just you and I.”
Silurian peeked around his hands, a slow smile upturning the corners of his mouth.
Early morning dew glistened in the moonlight. The singsong of birds announced the imminent arrival of sunrise, still some time while away.
At the north end of Gritian, two figures darted about the stable yards, moving from shadow to shadow to avoid the posted guard—keeping to the eerie shadows cast by the waning moon. Scurrying toward the main stable from the side of a large hay barn, Alhena and Silurian ducked behind a smaller structure to catch their breath.
Alhena bent low, peering around the corner of the utility shed. A solitary guard leaned against the stable doors, peering into the shadows. Alhena ducked back out of sight.
“Do you think they miss us yet?” Silurian whispered, glancing back at the large hay barn. If anyone wandered about the yard they would easily be spotted.
“I hope not,” Alhena said, not taking his eyes from the corner of the building they hid against. He snuck another peek. The sentry was searching the shadows in the opposite direction.
Alhena motioned for Silurian to move and followed him to the stable’s side wall. Together they peered around the corner. The sentry still leaned against the stable doors, his breath visible in the night air.
Silurian pulled back. “What now?”
Alhena studied the grounds around the utility shed, scanning the darker shadows that clung to the large hay barn. There were no other guards in sight. He leaned out to check on the sentry.
Something thudded loudly upon Redfire Path, skipped off a rock, and rolled into a patch of dry leaves.
The sentry froze.
Alhena pulled back, eyes wide. “What the hell was that?” he said louder than he meant to.
The sentry started toward Redfire Path, but Alhena’s voice stopped him.
“Shhh,” Silurian whispered, crouching low. Standing up again he held out another rock, smiling.
Alhena couldn’t believe it. Silurian had probably put the entire compound on alert. He hazarded a peek around the corner. The sentry was slowly approaching their position with his sword drawn.
Alhena glared at Silurian. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”
Silurian ignored him, steadying himself for another throw. He pitched the rock high into the air. If he had been trying to send it over the stable, he missed terribly. The rock hit the side of the building with a hollow thud and fell back to the ground, nearly hitting Alhena.
“Shit,” Silurian cried, and made to follow Alhena’s dash toward the rear of the stable.
The guard’s hurried footsteps rounded the corner. “Hold!”
Alhena stopped and turned around. The sentry held a sword tip to Silurian’s chest.
“C-come out of there,” the sentry ordered, motioning for them to step out of the shadows.
Alhena feared Silurian might do something rash. A dead guard was the last thing they needed. Looking at the sentry’s face, he almost choked. “Bregen
s?”
At the same moment, Bregens’ eyes registered who stood at the point of his sword. Arguably the deadliest swordsman in Zephyr’s history. Bregens’ eyes almost popped from his head. Had the ground not caught the tip of his blade, he would’ve dropped it altogether.
“S-Sire Mintaka? What are you doing sneaking around in the shadows?”
Alhena held his hands up and walked into the moonlight. “Bregens, our good friend. We seek mounts to ride north.”
“But the quest doesn’t leave until sunrise.”
“Aye, but hear me out. The Chamber has appointed a large contingent of armed men to accompany us on a perilous quest.”
“Yes, so I was told.” Bregens eyes darted from one man to the other.
“I bet they neglected to tell you Silurian opposed that decision.”
“No, they never said anything like that.”
“Well, Silurian and I believe the Chamber’s decision is misguided. The warlord’s men will place the quest in peril. Their presence will slow us down and needlessly risk their lives.”
Bregens didn’t appear any less confused.
“Silurian must leave tonight. Not to disobey the Chamber’s wishes, certainly, but to save the lives of those appointed to protect him. Do you understand what I am saying? If we do not leave now, alone, the quest will fail.”
Bregens chewed on his lower lip.
Alhena knew the young guard didn’t have the authority to make such a weighty decision, but he persisted, “I ask you, knowing the lives of your peers are in the offing, to grant us this.” He lowered his voice, sounding as grave as possible, “Should we fail, Zephyr will fall. I do not think you would want to be the one blamed for not acting when you had the chance to make a difference. In the name of freedom, it is imperative that you allow us to leave on our own.”
“No, of course I wouldn’t want that. It’s just…I just don’t know. The Chamber has entrusted me with the security of the stables. High Warlord Archimedes will flay me alive.”
“You have been entrusted by the Chamber to protect its citizens. That is exactly what you will be doing. Bregens, hear me. Many lives hang in the balance.” He gave Bregens the most serious face he could muster. “If you fear the warlord, you may accompany us.”
Silurian glared at him.
Alhena ignored it. “We will respect your decision, but you must decide quickly.”
Bregens closed his eyes tight, visibly shaking. Opening them, he looked sheepishly at Silurian. “You are Silurian Mintaka. I would love nothing more than to honour what you ask, but I can’t go against the high warlord’s order.” His scrunched expression denoted the moral dilemma he fought—he appeared to be on the verge of crying. He said loudly to no one in particular, “Why me? This is my first official duty!” He closed his eyes and shook his head.
Alhena nodded knowingly at Silurian.
Bregens slapped his forehead with both palms. Dropping them to his sides, he muttered, “Okay.”
Alhena didn’t hear him. “I am sorry. What?”
“I said okay but make it quick.” Casting a glance around the yards, Bregens pulled the double stable doors open and motioned them inside. He scanned the shadows once more, took a heavy breath and followed on their heels, wagging his finger. “Don’t even think about taking Archimedes’ mount.”
Kraidics!
The sun sank low upon the western horizon, tucking in for the night. Rook kept walking in the ample light provided by a three-quarter moon.
Peculiar and unnerving sounds drew his attention to the deep shadows, some he recognized, others he didn’t. Imagining things lurking just out of sight, his pace slowed. He kept looking to the overcast sky, expecting the clouds to blacken.
He stopped and listened. An unnatural hoot sounded in the distance to the south. Whatever it was, it didn’t repeat itself.
He shook his head. His mind was playing tricks on him. And then he smelled it—the aroma of burning wood upon a breeze. It seemed to be coming from the south as well. Taking great care, he made his way up a steep knoll and scrambled down its far side.
Deep voices reached him upon the breeze. He stopped, fearing he had been spotted, but nothing moved. Creeping up the side of the adjoining rise, he peered over its top and froze. The unmistakable glow of a campfire flickered beyond the next hill, illuminating the trees along the ridge.
He scrambled down the slope and crept up the far hill, thankful for the thicket near its top.
If not for the sudden sound of trickling water from the other side of the brambles he crept through, he would’ve been spotted.
Espying the silhouette of a man much larger than himself, he held his breath.
Groaning with satisfaction, the man relieved himself. Once finished, he adjusted his garments, spun about, and walked over the crest of the hill, but before he disappeared from view, he stopped to inspect the thicket, as if sensing something.
The man stared right at him, but after a tense moment, he continued into the valley.
Daring to breathe, Rook fought to still his racing heart. He counted to a hundred before inching his way to the base of a large pine near the top of the hill. Crawling beneath the low hanging boughs he peered down at a large campsite.
A band of heavily armoured, wildly bearded men milled about a bonfire in the shallow ravine.
At first glance, Rook had no idea who these men were. They definitely weren’t the king’s men. Judging by their apparel, they weren’t Gritian militia either.
He tried to make out their conversations but could only hear unintelligible snatches. He started to slither from beneath the branches for a closer look.
Someone stepped away from the fire and pointed up the hill, shouting in a language he didn’t understand.
A loud voice shouted back, sounding like it was right on top of him. On the far side of the tree, a sentry stepped from the shadows and descended into the ravine.
Rook crept back beneath the pine’s prickly confines, careful not to disturb the bough scratching the back of his head.
The original man who had shouted met the other man halfway, exchanged a few words, and walked toward the pine—apparently, a changing of the guard.
The man walked up to where Rook lay—so close that Rook could reach out and grab his thick ankles. He followed the sentry’s progress around the tree, more by sound than by sight. The man’s footsteps drifted away, crunching and crackling into the distance down the far side of the slope behind him. It was a wonder he hadn’t been spotted earlier.
Satisfied the sentry hadn’t seen him, Rook crept to the edge of his cover and studied the men’s fur skinned garments, their long hair, and unkempt beards. One man in particular bent near the fire to retrieve a massive battle-axe. Everyone jumped to their feet as he circled the fire and disappeared into the only visible tent.
They all carried the same types of weapons. Axes and hammers. Rook’s eyes grew wide. The significance struck him as if he had been hit by one of their warhammers. Below him, deep in the heart of Zephyr, sat an encampment of Kraidic warriors. A savage race bent on pillaging, killing, and raping everything in sight. How they had gotten this far inland without opposition?
Perhaps they were in league with Helleden Misenthorpe. That made sense. Forming an alliance with the Kraidic Empire, the strongest nation north of Zephyr, Helleden’s army would be unstoppable.
Unsure of where the sentries might be posted, he lay beneath the relative safety of the pine throughout the night. He must have dozed off because when he opened his eyes again, the horizon was lightening in the east. It wouldn’t be long before the sun drove the gloom from the valley. When it did, the Kraidic warriors would have no trouble spotting him.
Companion Lost
Galloping three abreast, Silurian glanced across Alhena to where the young Farrier boy rode on the opposite side of the path. As the sun’s reddish glow lightened the eastern horizon, Silurian stewed over their inclusion of Bregens.
The day passed i
n silence; each man lost in their own thoughts while their mounts churned league after league of Redfire Path’s turf.
Silurian was thankful that the horses Bregens had recommended were performing better than they had a right to expect. They stopped twice at streams they encountered to water the horses and allow them to crop at the vegetation along the banks.
With the daylight fading, Silurian was surprised when they approached a road on their right that led southeast to the Forbidden Pass. They had covered a lot of ground in their effort to distance themselves from the inevitable pursuit.
If they wished to stop for the night, they needed to get off the roadway. Silurian was sure that High Warlord Clavius would drive his men mercilessly until they caught up with them.
Without warning, Silurian said, “Follow me,” and led them into a hilly forested area east of Redfire Path.
A short while later they approached a tributary of the Calder River. Silurian located a shallow stretch of river and led them across to the eastern bank.
Bregens walked his horse free of the stream and joined Alhena. Waiting for the horses to drink, he looked to the east. “Master Alhena? Why do they call it the Forbidden Swamp?”
Silurian overheard the question. His shoulders tensed.
Alhena’s colourless eyes studied the farm boy. “Two reasons, really. The inhabitants of the Forbidden Swamp are not people, they are animals. Animals that have, I don’t know, uh, banded together to form a community, you might say.”
“Banded together?”
“Aye. Well, not just like that, but anyway, as a community, the swamp denizens do not take kindly to outside interference. People, especially, are forbidden within their domain.”
“That’s weird.”
Soul Forge Page 11