by J. S. Morin
To help banish the fearful remembrances of that night, he forced his thoughts down a more satisfying path. He pictured again his father’s bedroom, the blankets drenched in blood, his father’s eyes opened in one last split second of shocked horror. He saw in his mind’s eye the hand of a fourteen-year-old boy—still bruised from defending himself from a beating the day before at the hands of the same father that seconds later became a corpse—holding a knife meant for butchering chickens.
Those were his last thoughts for the night as sleep finally claimed him. Then he dreamed of freedom—and of vengeance of a different sort.
Chapter 6 - Flight from the Battlefield
What have I done? That was Brannis’s first thought as the realization of the battle’s end sunk in. All about him lay the unmoving bodies of the men he had shared a meal and tales with over the previous night’s dinner, intermingled with the scrawny forms of their goblin adversaries. There were few survivors of the battle on either side. With forces well matched and a fierce determination to prevail, both sides had fought to near annihilation. It was not until the goblins lost the last of their sorcerers, and presumably whoever had led them, that they realized that the remaining humans outmatched them, and they fled. Iridan’s pyrotechnics had been the final seal upon their decision to withdraw.
Iridan!
Quickly Brannis turned to regard the spot where his friend had fallen, wincing at the sharp pain the movement caused his right shoulder. The shoulder was not dislocated, he knew, for he still had some use of the arm, but the blast he had deflected with Massacre had wrenched it horribly. Brannis saw the few remaining men of his command congregating near a scorched spot on the ground, the center of which held Iridan’s still body. It was as if the sorcerer’s loss of control had created an artificial desert of parched and barren land around him, more than the length of two tall men in every direction. None of the soldiers or knights dared cross the “border” where the living grass gave way to the dead, scorched dust. They had all seen what happened before when one approached, for charred skeletons of former goblins lay alongside Iridan.
Brannis lost track of time in a blur, his thoughts churning. He was vaguely aware of running across the battlefield and pushing past his men. Next he knew, he was kneeling beside Iridan’s crumpled form, turning him and laying him flat on his back on the baked turf, which was still eerily warm to the touch. Iridan made no movement, and his limp limbs flopped helplessly as Brannis rolled him onto his back. Bending over Iridan’s body, Brannis put his ear to his friend’s nose. He could hear no breathing, but a rhythmic tickling of air brushed past his ear—Iridan yet lived. Brannis let out an audible sigh of relief.
“He is still alive,” he announced to the anxious men surrounding him.
With worries for his friend at least momentarily allayed, he turned his attention to the remains of his battalion.
“Any of you who are injured, see first to your own wounds. Those who are able, we must check to see if there are any who yet live among the fallen. And check the goblins, too, for it would not surprise me if some felt it prudent to impersonate a corpse rather than risk becoming one.”
Taking stock of his own health, Brannis found that he had suffered no worse than the shoulder injury, which nagged at him. His armor bore a scorched mark in the center where the goblin blast had struck him after Massacre had turned aside most of its strength. The sword bore no mark of the impact when he found it, lying several paces from where it had flown from his hand. The weeds and grass around where the sword had lain were all dead and withered, but the mist had ceased to fall from the blade. It had depleted its reserve of aether and would feel heavier and slower than it normally did, and the mist would not return until someone replenished the sword’s store of aether.
Brannis aided in the search for survivors, though he did his best not to stray far from the spot where Iridan lay. It was a grim task for all, to search among the faces of the fallen and see friends and comrades. The goblins, it seemed, had seen fit even in the heat of battle to spare a spear-thrust for a downed human. Knights were plentiful among the dead as well. The attention that a knight drew on the field of battle outstripped the extra protection his superior armor provided, and the joints between plates sheared spear tips easily when they were thrust between, as the goblins intended. Of all the knights, only Brannis and Lugren now remained. Sir Aric, made of tougher stuff than he would probably have wished, had been found still alive despite a blade broken in his side, and he had suffering greatly. Having neither the means to remove the blade nor carry him without further harming him, it was with a heavy heart that Brannis took it upon himself to carry out the older knight’s last request, gasped out between pained, shallow breaths. It was the first time Brannis had ever killed another human.
When it was determined that there were no more survivors among the fallen, Brannis took count of his men. Aside from himself and Sir Lugren, he had only ten soldiers left to his command. Estimates varied from man to man as to how many of the goblins had managed to escape, but all agreed that at least a handful of the little runts had managed to elude the fate of their comrades. There had been no chase, for goblins could outrun men easily enough, given how lightly they traveled.
As Brannis looked into the weary faces of his men, he took note of one whom he did not expect to see among them.
“Jodoul, when did you join the fighting? We gave you neither armor nor spear, and yet here you stand, both armored and bloodied from battle. How came you by that armor?”
Though Brannis felt obliged to ask, he dreaded the likely answer. The grim necessities of war oft require unsavory deeds, but the thought of stripping the dead left a poor taste in his mouth.
“Well, I saw your sorcerer was unarmored as the fighting broke out and made no move to find it afore he started his spells. Well, in my company, our man Kelurian was always grumblin’ ’bout having to go about dressed like us grunts in heavy steel and all. I figured yours musta refused to wear his, and so I sneaked to his tent when things started getting hairy and nicked his mail shirt and cap.
“I couldn’t just sit on my arse while everyone else was fightin’.” He grinned sheepishly. “Sorry, sir.”
“But wait, there were no extra spears in camp, or shields,” Sir Lugren cut in. “That at least I am sure of. How did you not get torn to bits by goblin spears?”
“Well, sir, I took up one of the bows your folks kept around and made use of it like a club, see? As for the shield bit, well, I never exactly made my way to the shield wall with the other fellows. I sorta snuck ’round the side o’ the battle a bit and came up on them from behind, quiet like.”
“I see,” Brannis replied, intrigued despite his weariness. “Well, we shall talk of it later. Right now, we must get clear of this battlefield. If the survivors among the goblins manage to return with reinforcements, we had best not be here. Gather what supplies you can carry and assemble at the riverbank.”
There was an uneasy stirring among the men, and they hesitated before slowly moving to obey their commander. Brannis knew what they were thinking, and he understood their reluctance.
In a quiet voice, he added, “I know, it pains me as well. They are our friends and brothers in arms. To leave them here to be found by wolves and crows does not do these brave men justice, but neither would our deaths, and that is what remaining to burn them would bring. It is too great a task for so few to do in haste. Our duty lies in returning to the Empire with news of these battles and the strength of the goblin presence in Kelvie Forest. Each of us must remember that, for if anyone becomes the last survivor among us, he must carry on this task. Now make haste, for we cannot know when our enemies may return in strength!”
At this pronouncement, his men quickened to their chore, for they heard their own anguish echoing in Sir Brannis’s words. They knew that though the leaving of their comrades’ bodies was a callous thing to do, they did it for a greater duty that pressed on them.
The gathering o
f all that was fit to be carried took less time than Brannis would have thought, and for entirely the wrong reasons. Fire and blasts of aether had been hurled about with wanton savagery that it had left little unscathed among the provisions. There was food to be had and skins of water left undamaged, but there still was not enough to fill the packs of the men who were fit to carry them. The cookware had been flung far afield by Iridan’s magic, and lay blood splattered and dented in a wide swath of woods just outside of camp. Many tents were burnt and others flattened, and Brannis decided that they would leave them behind anyway as they were cumbersome to pack in haste. The bows and arrows that had been used for hunting were not to be found and were assumed to have been consumed utterly in magical fire, and even the bow that Jodoul had taken as a club had been snapped in twain in the line of duty.
So it was with little more than spears and what foodstuffs they could carry that the men of Brannis’s command gathered near the banks of the river. Brannis’s own pack clattered under the heavy burden of eight swords and as many signet rings—heirlooms of the knights that had fallen in battle and which needed to be brought to their kin. From tent poles and canvas, they had made a litter on which to carry the still form of Iridan, for until the gravest peril forced them otherwise, they would carry with them the fallen sorcerer who had saved their lives that day.
The fording of the river was a simple—if unpleasant—task, with only the concern for keeping Iridan from going beneath the water slowing their progress. The river was only some fifty paces from bank to bank and chest-deep at the middle. The current flowed at a leisurely pace that did little to hinder them as they crossed, though the bottom was muddy and tugged at their boots each time they lifted them.
* * * * * * * *
They were exhausted and still damp when they stopped at midday to rest and take a meal. Miles lay between them and the river, and they had traveled mainly north, bearing slightly eastward. The woods were lighter than they had been around the campsite, with warm, bright sunshine streaming down between the canopies of tall, thin trees that Brannis could not name. Several men removed their chain armor and the garments beneath to air them in the warm breeze and drive out the wetness that had clung to them since their fording of the river. The rest quickly followed suit, with even Sir Lugren and Brannis taking off their heavy armor and letting it dry in the wind.
“Well, now that we have run blindly north throughout the whole of the morning, it is time we made a plan,” Sir Lugren said. “We have put distance between ourselves and the goblins, and bought time enough to let cool heads decide our course.”
“I have already figured out our course,” Brannis replied easily. “My mind was not idle as we trekked through the woods. Had we turned south immediately after the battle, we could have made for Korgen and reached it in two days, perhaps. But our message needs to reach the high command so they can gather a force large enough to rout these goblins. A messenger from Korgen would either have to cross the Bay of Naran by boat, or turn back north and take the pass through the mountains. No, from here we turn our course eastward and make for the High Pass. We shall cross over there and get horses from the garrison at Tibrik. There we can leave those fatigued or suffering small injuries and send the rest ahead to Kadris to deliver news to the Sir Garibald and the high command.”
“I stand corrected then, for our flight was not so blind as I had thought,” said Lugren, who obviously had wrestled with concern for his commander’s prudence during their retreat northward but had kept his thoughts to himself until just then.
“No, you were right that we went blindly. I kept our course facing northward by the sun alone. We had no map left after the battle that was in fit condition to guide our path, and I do not know precisely where we stand within Kelvie. It mattered little to my thinking, for the Cloud Wall Mountains lie east of here and cannot be missed. Once we break through the tree line and reach the foothills in the shadow of the mountains, we can reconnoiter and set our path aright. The High Pass lies just south of the Cradle Peaks, and I daresay we can judge those by sight.”
Brannis thought the plan simple enough. Even with no map, the Cradle Peaks were the two tallest points in the Cloud Wall, and could hardly be mistaken, for they rose up as a great pair among the lesser peaks.
Iridan had shown no sign of improvement since they carried him from the battlefield. His breathing was still shallow, and he had grown pale, even compared to his normally light complexion. They had not tried to rouse him to partake of their lunch, worrying that even if it was possible to revive him, it might do more harm than good. It was yet another dark cloud that hung over the mood of the weary soldiers.
* * * * * * * *
Brannis led his men northward through Kelvie Forest. After their meal and rest, he decided to hold their course northward until nightfall, turning eastward in the morning. He was hesitant to give away their eventual destination until he shook the nagging feeling that they were being followed. Of course, Brannis was not the only one among them who had such suspicions. Squirrels, birds, even the rustling of the wind in the leaves of the trees above them: all gave pause to those who feared pursuit by a stealthy adversary. Not every sound that was heard was so easily explained away, either. The hours wore on the nerves of Brannis’s troops.
It was near to dusk, and they were beginning to search for a spot to settle for the night, when a call was heard to the west.
“Hail, travelers!” called a human-sounding voice in a high alto, ringing clearly through the evening air.
Every one of them turned to see who spoke, and they saw a small figure approaching them. Through the trees and in back-lit twilight, it was hard to make out much about the man until he approached quite closely to the remains of the army. They took some comfort that his silhouette clearly showed his arms held wide in a show of peace, but still Brannis and the others clutched their weapons with suspicious caution.
When the shadow of one particular tree happened to cast the man’s form in less harsh a light, it provided enough relief so that his features could be seen clearly, and their tensions eased away. He was a small man, thin and of a stature similar to Iridan, who was the shortest among them. He was garbed in doeskin, unadorned and of inexpert make. His long hair hung loosely about his shoulders, of a blond so light that in the poor light, it looked nearly white. His face was smooth and pale, with angular features and eyes that were a washed-out blue like a hazy sky. His age was difficult to judge, though he appeared to be rather younger than most of the soldiers he approached.
“Who are you?” called Lugren before the man approached too closely.
“A resident of these parts, given to aiding refugees, it would seem. If you are men of Kadrin, I believe I have someone that belongs to you,” replied the stranger, smiling, still keeping his arms spread wide to show his harmlessness.
“What do you mean?” Brannis asked, curious whom the strange man could be referring to.
“Just last night, a man clad in armor such as yours came into my care, claiming to have fled a great slaughter. I did not put much faith in his claim, figuring he was a deserter, but it mattered not to me. Seeing you men in such a state, bloodied and dragging a wounded man along with you, lends some truth to his tale.”
“Who is he? Where is he now?”
Brannis was heartened at the thought that perhaps another man had survived the battle that Jodoul had spoken of the previous night. It would have been the best news he had gotten since discovering Iridan had survived his ordeal, and even that was a happiness mixed with concern. He had seen far too much killing that morning, and to find another of his countrymen alive after all the carnage would provide a welcome relief from the dull pain his heart felt.
“I have a small dwelling not far from here. It is my habit to walk about the woods by day, but your man wanted rest, and he declined my invitation to join in my daily stroll. He remains at my home,” he replied and, with a slight smile, added, “and if he is of any use at all, he will ha
ve managed a fire by now.”
“How far is it to your home from here? We are weary and were just now seeking a spot to make our camp for the night.”
“I do not pace about the woods counting my footsteps, but perhaps this might help. Do you see yonder those two trees growing so closely that their trunks almost touch?”
He pointed to the north and west. Brannis nodded that he did, for he did indeed see two trees matching the man’s description, some ways distant.
“I would call it thrice that distance and half again. If we go now it should be little trouble to reach it before the afterglow of dusk fails us.”
Brannis turned his attention from the stranger to take stock of his men. They looked a wreck, like ruined men all dirt-covered and bloody, with eyes weary from fatigue and grief. He hesitated to ask even that much more of his men for that night.
“I can take a look at that fallen man of yours as well, if that is agreeable to you. Lonely living in these reaches forces one to learn such skills if he wishes to survive,” the stranger said.
It was this last remark that firmed Brannis’s resolve. They all owed Iridan their lives, and they would bear a little more, himself included, to see that he was well tended. Their task could spare them this brief diversion to the west. At Brannis’s order, they followed the forest hermit to his home.
* * * * * * * *
“I see no wound of any consequence upon him. What befell?”
The hermit had led them to a small cottage among the trees, not even in a clearing but in a space among the trees. It looked well made but of a simple sort, logs forming the walls and thatch serving as roof. A small pond just behind the cottage was home to a large number of pink water-flowers that had the tended look of a garden about them.
