Scrambling down a steep embankment, they reached the river’s edge and stopped long enough to replenish their water. They had barely dipped the waterskins in the river when the first of their pursuers slid down the side of the forested hill.
Rook kept his skin filling as he tried to ascertain where the Kraidics were coming at them from. A movement to the south decided their course. Taking a steadying breath, he corked his waterskin and led Alhena north.
Well into the insufferable heat of the afternoon, the Calder River veered west. Every so often an arrow splashed into the river nearby as one of the warriors caught sight of them and started whooping. The sound jarred Rook’s senses.
In the distance, a stone structure rose above the river—an impressive monolith connecting Redfire Path from north to south.
They were forced to skirt a marshy area along the eastern bank before they could head toward the bridge directly.
Alpheus’ Arch was by far the most ornate bridge in all of Zephyr. Towering corner stones of rearing horses flailed over the water. Instead of low walls along the sides of the flat stone bridge deck, over a hundred, child-sized gargoyles, depicting anything from naked people, to angry dogs, to axe wielding dwarves, lined its edges. At the bridge’s midpoint, two identical, godlike figures stood facing each other with arms folded, as if passing judgment over anyone who dared pass between them.
Rook and Alhena stopped at the footing of the northeastern cornerstone to refill their waterskins, relishing the brief respite from the sun that the bridge’s mass provided. Stepping quickly up to the bridge deck, they spared no time admiring the stone masons’ craft.
Passing between the central deities, Alhena stopped and pointed toward the south bank.
Three Kraidic warriors marched toward them from over a rise in the road south of the bridge.
Alhena and Rook spun about but the first of many warriors had already made their way around the wetland and were climbing the embankment below the cornerstone.
Rook thought briefly about jumping into the Calder to let the current carry them away, but aside from the real possibility of drowning in the swift moving water, they would risk becoming easy prey for the Kraidic archers.
Grabbing Alhena by the wrist, he ran south, across the remainder of Alpheus’ Arch, the distance between themselves and the fast-approaching warriors on Redfire Path, rapidly diminishing.
The Kraidic warriors approaching from the south were neither archers, nor fleet of foot, but they were still almost upon them as Rook and Alhena left the bridge deck.
Only one direction remained open to them now. West, across the Gritian Hills toward the Midland Grasslands. In the distance, the lofty heights of The Muse rose stark against the sky, their peaks highlighted in the afternoon sun.
Rook led them toward a hill southwest of their position. If they reached the Midland Grasslands above the Torpid Marsh, they might yet lose their pursuers. He almost laughed out loud. If they led the Kraidic band into the Torpid Marsh, that might help finish them off. The only problem with that idea was that they, too, would be susceptible to the creatures that lurked there. He’d rather turn and face the Kraidic warband.
The sound of heavy boots thudding across Alpheus’ Arch caused Rook to pick up his pace. Looking back, Alhena remained right behind him, the man’s white beard flowing over his shoulder while his black cloak and voluminous robes fluttered in his wake.
Rook relished a chance to send a few arrows at the dogged pursuit but didn’t think it wise to waste his meagre arrow supply on chance shots.
It wasn’t until darkness had enveloped the land that the rolling hills gave way to lush grasslands skirting the southeastern foothills of the Muse. Rook’s hope of using the tall grass as cover was dashed when he realized that their trail was clearly marked by the trodden foliage they left behind.
Their pace had dropped to a fast walk, and then a bleary stumble through the night. Every so often an errant arrow prompted them to move faster.
They had risked stopping to rest during the wee hours of the morning, but at the first sound of pursuit, they were off again, driven toward the foothills. When daylight pushed aside the night, an oppressive heat washed over the land.
They tried deviating southward, but the Kraidic warband had fanned out across the grassy plain and forced them deeper into the tough terrain abutting the base of the Muse. As the morning wore on, it became evident they were being herded toward the base of a cliff.
Hammer Fall
Silurian mounted up first the next morning. His black stallion stomped about, not the least bit impressed by their proximity to the mystical chapel—it had been a long night for the animals. Something about the desecrated shrine spooked them, but when sunlight broke across the Mid Savannah, nothing untoward had happened. It promised to be another sweltering day.
The Sacred Sword Voil now in hand, Silurian turned his mind to Madrigail Bay, knowing full well Avarick Thwart wasn’t happy that he’d actually retrieved his sword.
With sweat dripping off them and glistening on the horse’s flanks, they rode west, hopeful to reach Redfire Path by midday tomorrow. As sluggish as their pace was, their passage still kicked up a trail of dust.
By high sun the next day they came across a tributary feeding the Calder. Redfire wasn’t far off. The horses didn’t have to be urged into its gently flowing waters.
Avarick broke his usual silence, eyeing the hilt of the Sacred Sword Voil peeking over Silurian’s shoulder. “What did you do with your other sword.”
“I replaced this one with it.”
Avarick frowned. “You left it at the shrine?”
“Ya, I put it in the stone sheath I pulled this one out of.” Silurian offered the Enervator a smirk. “Should provide some interesting conversation if anyone else goes searching for this one, don’t you think?”
Avarick laughed, despite his apparent dislike of Silurian.
Bregens dismounted with a splash in the middle of the stream, nearly losing his footing. He caught his balance and went to grab the horse’s reins but stopped short.
Silurian caught himself smiling at Bregens’ antics until he saw the boy’s face turn ashen. He swiveled in his saddle. “Shit. Mount up!”
Avarick jockeyed his horse to face the near bank, and grinned.
A wide swath of dust approached them, merging with a smaller one from the south and another from the north.
Silurian waited for Bregens to mount before urging his horse across the wide stream. Bregens followed, but Avarick spun his mount around and galloped toward the rapidly advancing dust cloud.
Halting on the river’s far side, Silurian shook his head as the Enervator disappeared behind his own cloud of dust. The pace the high warlord must have driven his men was incredible.
Avarick, almost unrecognizable in the distance, made an abrupt turn, and charged back toward the stream ahead of the main group.
Bregens slowed beside Silurian, his eyes wild.
Silurian sighed. He didn’t have time for this. “Let’s move.” He kicked hard, not waiting for Bregens to respond.
“Sir Silurian, wait. Those aren’t the warlord’s men.” Bregens called out in a high-pitched voice.
Silurian reined in his horse and turned to face the river. Bregens still sat upon his horse in the centre of the stream as Avarick’s black stallion charged up to the far bank.
Before he hit the water, Avarick spun around, brandishing his serrated, black sword at a dozen strangely armoured horsemen who thundered up and circled him.
A long chain struck out from the end of a scorpion flail, ensnaring Avarick’s sword arm above the wrist. The man on the other end pulled the Enervator to the ground.
Silurian steadied his shying horse. “That’s not good.” He heeled his horse into action and plunged across the stream.
Bregens didn’t follow.
Two riders rode in from the north, while two more approached from the south, veering into the stream to engage Bregens.
Silurian ignored them, his focus on the man holding Avarick’s sword arm fast at the end of a long chain. He directed his horse out of the river and was on Avarick’s attacker in moments—the Sacred Sword Voil in hand. It felt oddly comforting to wield his old sword again.
The man holding the chain turned at the sound of his approach.
Avarick took advantage of the distraction—gripping the chain with his free hand and yanking for all he was worth.
The marauder fought to stay in his saddle.
Silurian never slowed. His sword arced through the air, lopping off the hand holding the flail.
Avarick stumbled backward as the chain went slack.
The injured man attempted to throw himself from his horse but Silurian’s sword took his head from his shoulders.
Silurian attacked so fast, the other horsemen didn’t have time to react. Old fighting instincts, practiced over and over again as a young man, came back to him in a rush. His control over his mount was masterful. He dodged around the fallen man’s horse and engaged the next marauder in line.
The man turned in time to see the bloodied tip of Silurian’s sword dive for the gap between his plate armoured shoulders and metal helm. As he fell from his saddle, trying to stem the blood spurting from a fatal wound, his left leg entangled itself in its stirrup. His frightened horse bolted upstream, dragging him away.
Before Avarick had a chance to exchange blows with those nearest him, Silurian manoeuvred his horse between them. He couldn’t fight everybody on horseback at once, and Avarick certainly didn’t stand a chance fighting them from the ground, so Silurian quickly evened the odds. Instead of engaging the horsemen moving in on the Enervator, Silurian hamstrung and stabbed the three horses closest to Avarick. The injured animals reared up, or fell to their knees, rendering their riders helpless as they fell hard to the ground.
It pained Silurian to resort to such tactics but he only knew one way to fight, and that was to win.
Avarick wasted no time taking advantage of the brief reprieve. Before the three unhorsed men had time to recover, his jagged black sword had dispatched them.
The remaining seven marauders surrounded Silurian, jockeying for a turn to take a swing at him.
Silurian parried their advances like a madman, deflecting three separate weapons in quick succession.
Seeing Silurian’s fighting skills first hand, Avarick gained a grudging level of respect for the Queen Killer.
A marauder on a horse behind Silurian cocked a quarrel into a heavy crossbow balanced in his lap. He clicked the shaft home and levelled the cumbersome weapon at Silurian’s back.
Avarick’s hand suddenly held a throwing knife, procured from the folds of his sleeves. Faster than a cobra strike, the knife flew true to its mark, imbedding itself into the horse’s flank—the razor-sharp blade cutting deep.
The horse reared, and the bolt fired harmlessly away. The man flew from his saddle, hit the ground, and lost his breath. Before he took another, a second throwing knife embedded itself in his throat.
Avarick covered the distance separating them to ensure the man was dead. He spun in time to parry a spike-studded mace swinging at his head. He followed the block with a dagger stab to the passing horse’s haunch.
The horse whinnied in pain and charged blindly into another mounted man who had locked swords with Silurian. Both horses collapsed to their knees and fell onto their shoulders.
The original rider jumped free of his mount but was immediately stamped to death beneath the startled horse next to him. The second rider remained trapped beneath his collapsing mount, fighting to free himself from the floundering animal’s crushing weight. His eyes grew wide as Avarick’s black blade plunged in for the kill.
The next man in Silurian’s path made the mistake of watching Avarick dispatch the trapped man. He looked up to see the heel of Silurian’s leather boot kick him in the ribs. He fell screaming to the fate awaiting him on the ground.
The two remaining marauders broke off their attack and spurred their horses out of Silurian’s reach. They broke into a hard gallop and headed back the way they had come—a cloud of dust in their wake.
Silurian gave chase, but Avarick stopped him. “The boy!”
In the middle of the stream, two riders circled Bregens. The rider behind Bregens swung a warhammer at his head, knocking him from his saddle.
Before Silurian could respond, Bregens lay face down in the slow current, his limp body scudding along the gravel stream bed, following two other lifeless bodies that the farm boy had done battle with.
The two marauders responsible took one look at the carnage on the riverbank, met Silurian’s deadly glare as he charged his horse toward the riverbank, and spun their mounts around. They tore off upstream through the shallow water, before cutting a trail eastward, following the receding cloud of their now distant companions.
Silurian jumped from his saddle at the water’s edge and stumbled to his knees. Dropping the Sacred Sword Voil on the bank, he plunged into the river. He grabbed Bregens’ shoulder armour and pulled the boy’s bloody face from the water.
Avarick bent to gather Silurian’s discarded blade—the revered talisman, soiled, nicked and bloodied. He held it absently in his left hand, his own sword hanging forgotten in his right. Now was his chance to take the Queen Killer into custody and drag the wretch back to Gritian. For some reason he hesitated.
If he didn’t know better, he might have been able to convince himself that he watched the two in the river with empathy.
Leap of Faith
Kraidic warriors were everywhere. Though Rook couldn’t see them from their vantage point on the rocky plateau, high above the grassland, he tracked their progress through the tall grasses by following the multiple lines of trampled foliage converging upon their position.
Behind Rook and Alhena, a spur of the Muse shot straight up, the peak of its accompanying mountain lost behind a dark cliff. Overhead, massive white clouds dominated the sky, creating great shadow ships that undulated across the grassland.
Alhena slumped to the ground and tried to squeeze a few drops of water from his empty waterskin. Rummaging through his tattered sack, he retrieved his knucklettes. “I guess this spot is as good as any to make a stand.”
Rook knelt at the edge of the steep embankment, clutching his loosely loaded bow. Several arrows were set into the ground around him.
He scanned the cliff face over his shoulder, his eyes coming to rest on a high ledge. He gauged the sheerness of the climb and made up his mind. He pulled his array of arrows from the ground and put them back in his quiver. “No, my friend, we’re not done yet.”
Alhena stopped adjusting the first set of knucklettes and followed Rook’s gaze to the heights. His opaque eyes darted from ledge to crevice to shale rockslide. “You are crazy, you know that?”
If Rook thought the first half-hour of climbing was next to impossible, he was ill prepared for what awaited them. Clinging desperately to the crumbling shale cliff face, he looked past his feet, far below, to a group of Kraidic warriors launching arrows at them from the plateau.
The volleys fell short, but one of the arrows embedded itself into the thigh of a Kraidic warrior who climbed after them. The man cried out, clutching the protruding shaft, and tumbled down the steep incline. On his way down, he took out a man ascending below.
Creeping his way higher, Rook wondered for the countless time how the Kraidic warriors, large as they were, and with all the equipment they carried, kept up the pace they did. They were relentless. The only thing preventing them from overtaking himself and Alhena on the crumbling rock face was the cascade of debris their passing precipitated.
Sweat rolled off Alhena’s nose in a stream. His wispy hair disheveled, his fingers dirty and bleeding, he never once complained. He just kept on doing whatever needed to be done. Every time Rook contemplated giving up, he drew strength from Alhena’s silent fortitude.
A pointed ledge on their left, abou
t thirty feet above, gave Rook hope. He pointed it out, but Alhena, too exhausted to reply, just nodded and searched for a way to clamber over to it. How he kept that walking stick in his hand while he climbed, Rook had no idea.
The Kraidic chieftain watched one of his crossbowmen climb within range of their elusive quarry, but before he got a shot off, the two men disappeared over a pointed ledge.
The chieftain made the daunting climb, following the rest of his patrol over the ledge. He had expected to be met with resistance but the two men were nowhere to be seen.
He grunted his disdain and surveyed the rugged mountainside. They stood at the foot of a gap between two high peaks. There was no way up the side of either cliff. The only way forward was through the gap—the trail rising steeply toward the upper reaches of the mountain.
The chieftain urged his men forward. Passing over a crest between the opposing cliff faces, the trail sloped steeply downward into the deep shadows of a narrow crevice that curved left and out of sight. The warriors scrambled into the crevice, navigating the remnants of several rockslides, but stopped short as they rounded the last bend in the trail.
Sunlight burst into the fissure from its far end. Shrouded in angelic light at the end of the pass stood a white-haired man bearing a staff and his green clad companion with bow raised.
An arrow zipped by the chieftain’s shoulder, claiming the man directly behind him. Before the Kraidic warriors were able to take evasive action, another man fell, clutching at an arrow protruding from his stomach.
The Kraidic patrol fell back to the curve in the pass to regroup. With shields held before them, bowstrings taut, crossbows cocked and javelins at the ready, the chieftain signaled their charge into the sunlight, but the wizard and the bowman were gone.
The Kraidic troop sprinted down the pass, fully expecting the path to veer left or right as there appeared to be nothing but a sheer drop straight ahead.
Soul Forge Page 14