by Emmet Moss
With a determined set to his stance, Gavin tossed the bow aside and reached for his long sword. “Andros, get behind us. Caolte, to my left,” he said resolutely.
With a confidence born from fighting alongside one another countless times before, Caolte took his position, Drayen spear balanced lightly in his hands. Andros scrambled backwards, his eyes still wide with fear.
The first of the small Gath launched themselves forward, and both Fey’Derin backed up with haste, the fury of the attack something they had rarely encountered. The creatures lusted for blood and were ferocious in their thirst for it.
Slashing to his side, Gavin found himself on the defensive, unsure of his swordplay for one of the few times in his life. The Gath fought so unlike anything human. He quelled a momentary flicker of doubt, timing his next attack perfectly. Running his opponent through, Gavin spun and watched as Caolte pinned his own attacker against the ceiling with his long spear. These were no mercenaries fighting for coin, and the berserker rage that so consumed the Gath terrified the Fey’Derin captain. With composed precision, the first wave of attackers was dispatched.
During the following moments, they had little time in which to speak or even think of anything but the battle at hand. With a renewed frenzy the newest attackers clogged the hallway, each creature raging to reach the slowly retreating trio. Trampling one another in their haste, the Gath pushed forward, but were contained by the cramped quarters.
As he continued to fight, Gavin wondered what the three of them would have done had they been forced to fight the creatures on open ground. He was certain that the powerfully swift beasts would have wreaked havoc on any large company, let alone against a minuscule group of three. Such a scenario would need serious contemplation were they to win free of their current predicament.
With nearly a score of the Gath slain, Caolte and Gavin reached the end of the hall and swiftly ran up the stairwell to the top floor. Refusing to cede more ground, the two soldiers prepared to make a stand with the higher ground in their favour.
“Gavin!” Tel’Andros called out without warning. “You need to see this now!”
Caolte stepped to the top of the stairs and waved him onwards. “Go! I can hold for a time, if need be.”
With time running short before the next onslaught, Gavin sprinted down the hallway and joined Tel’Andros at the sentry window. As the mage lifted his arm to point at something in the distance, Gavin felt a sudden tightness in the air. With a startled cry, Andros was thrown violently backwards and slammed against the opposite wall of the hallway.
Gavin stared wordlessly at the mage’s twisted body. Running towards him, he crouched down and gingerly cradled the fallen man’s head. Tel’Andros was still breathing, but no matter what he tried Gavin could not find a way to revive his friend. The odds of surviving the encounter were now worrisome at best with an unconscious comrade to carry and only two defenders, he thought.
Gavin dragged Tel’Andros into an adjoining room. The small round chamber contained a relatively unscathed door. Before he could call out to Caolte, the grim veteran ran into the room, unhappily clutching a bleeding arm.
“One of the small bastards got past my guard,” the Drayenmark yelled angrily. Catching sight of the unconscious mage, a puzzled look crossed Caolte’s face. “And what happened to the mage?”
“That’s a good question,” Gavin replied as he slammed the chamber door shut, barricading the three men inside. “Whatever he wanted to show me may very well have struck him from afar. I had no time to investigate before pulling him inside.”
“It’s of no matter, Gavin,” Caolte commented. “We have enough problems as it is. There are another score of those demons already inside the tower. We have two rooms to work with and little ground left to give.”
“For the moment, tend to your wound. I’ll see if I can come up with something.” Gavin said hesitantly.
“Aye, sir,” Caolte replied, carrying Andros into the small back alcove.
A sudden tingling in Gavin’s neck caused him to pause. It was as if disembodied hands were running their fingers through his hair. The sensation was so unsettling that he froze.
You must prepare your companions, Silvares.
The words suddenly invaded his mind, but the thoughts were not his own. Gavin spun around, looking for the source of the strange voice. It had materialized so clearly, the whispering words so intimately invasive.
I am in the trees, Gavin, look for me not.
“But who are you? And how do you know my name?”
I am the one you came to find, as are you the very same to me, Gavin. Your name is but a small matter, yet now that I know it, my heart is gladdened and my spirit bolstered.
“Gorimm…” Gavin breathed.
“Gavin?” Caolte asked as he entered from the back room where Andros lay unconscious. He had already cleaned and bandaged the deep gash on his forearm.
“Nothing. I was just talking to myself is all,” Gavin answered quickly.
You must be ready to depart ere I give you word. Your horses are tethered nearby, and I have calmed them sufficiently. The Silvaeri will be fine come morning, so you need not worry. The betrayer has been dispatched.
Silvaeri? Gavin asked silently.
The mage. Now listen, Greiyfois and I will be hard-pressed against this many Gath, and you will have scant time to move south.
Gavin’s thoughts were alive with a sudden plethora of questions that he so desperately wanted answered.
The time will come for us to meet again, Silvares. At that time, the veil will be lifted and your path laid before you.
Throughout the course of his life, Gavin was never one to be uncertain. In the matter of this unusual voice, it was no different. He could sense something lurking behind each phrase that convinced him that the voice spoke the truth. Without any further doubts, he decided to trust his invisible aide.
Acknowledging Caolte’s solid presence near the chamber entrance, Gavin spoke. “I need your trust now more than ever, my friend,” he said.
“You need not ask, Gavin. You have it.” Caolte replied solemnly.
Gripping his friend’s shoulder tightly, he made his request. “I need you to bear Andros’ weight upon those broad shoulders of yours. I will clear the way and you need only to follow.”
Outside, the sudden call of dozens of wolves overwhelmed even the growls and shrieks of the nearest Gath. Almost simultaneously the Gorimm’s voice resounded in his mind.
Go! And may your steps never falter.
“Now!” Gavin yelled and threw open the chamber door. The Gath horde came tumbling through the opening and into the hallway. Caolte was already sprinting back towards Tel’Andros, his spear now lying discarded on the cold stone floor. Like a man possessed, Gavin slashed at the first row of black fiends at a dizzying pace. The twisted beasts came at him from all sides. As he cleared the top floor, he glanced out the sentry window.
The scene in the clearing below was one of total chaos. A large pack of wolves had joined the fray, fangs and claws of their own clashing with those of the Gath. Standing alone inside the roiling mass of combatants, twin swords glowing in each hand, was a silver-haired warrior; their mysterious benefactor.
Gavin pulled his gaze away from the battle below and focused on his own difficult assignment. He met the next wave of attackers at the bottom of the stairwell and fought his way towards the second floor. Dodging the large sinewy forearm of the closest beast, he slid his sword deep into the Gath’s chest. Black blood sprayed across his face as he tore the weapon free, barely sweeping aside a trio of smaller foes intent on knocking him down. As the third fell, Gavin’s dagger lodged in its neck, a fiery pain lanced through his side.
Crouched among the various corpses, red blood now staining its claws, was a hidden Gath waiting to pounce. Cursing himself for missing the beast and knowing that he c
ould very well be dead because of such a mistake, Gavin hammered his fist into its face. He followed up with a brutal kick to the stunned creature’s head and spared it no further thought. Sliding under another with a wild stab to its chest, he finished the last enemy at hand and pressed onwards.
From the rare stolen glances out of the tower’s lower windows, Gavin could see that the wolf pack charge was rapidly being countered. Their opportunity to escape was slipping through their grasp, and even the graceful heroics of the cloaked stranger were beginning to falter.
As despair threatened to overwhelm the exhausted mercenary, Gavin stumbled as his feet landed not upon stone but on soft earth instead. Somehow he had found his way back through the Aliendal door and into the clearing. Pausing momentarily to help Caolte with his burden, Gavin realized that the wolves had fallen back to the north, leaving a significant gap between his position and the last remaining Gath.
His rescuer had sacrificed ground in order to clear the area where Gavin had emerged. Stunned by the sheer scope of the carnage that lay about, bloodied wolves and Gath alike, Gavin locked eyes across the battlefield for one brief moment with the warrior.
“Thank you,” he mouthed.
C’Aelis... the voice finished his thought. It is my name. Do not agonize over the deaths of my brothers of the wood. They would gladly do so again to win your freedom. Now go, Gavin Silvares, for time is short.
Nodding in deference, Gavin moved swiftly and led Caolte forward as they both took turns carrying the limp body of the Silveryn mage. Soon the sounds of battle faded into the distance.
Orn Surefoot had only been at the Fey’Derin encampment for a day before he found himself grumbling under his breath as he removed the heavy snow from blocking the gates. Although marked by Captain Silveron’s scathing comments in Dragon Mount, Orn had never imagined he would find himself working alongside the newest recruits in the company, and as their equal no less. Unperturbed, Ethan Shade would deviate not one inch from the specific instructions left by the captain.
Orn was treated as a new member of the group; no exceptions, no liberties. Until he had proven himself properly fit to once again take up the mantle of the company, he had been assigned this miserable existence. Of course he had no one to blame but himself, but that made things little better.
By the gods I need a drink.
Bending his back against the bitter wind, the lanky scout got back to work. The latest storm had left plenty of snow, and it wouldn’t be cleared on its own. Apart from the freezing weather, Sergeant Rockfar seemed determined to remind the scout of what it meant to be a recruit under his command. Orn obliged to every order as he would be damned before opening himself up to another opportunity for ridicule.
His return journey from the mountain fortress of the Silveryn mages had been difficult. With little more than the clothing on his back, he had made good time regardless. The events at Dragon Mount had opened his eyes somewhat to his foolishness. His injuries had slowed him, but he had persevered. Preferring to leave his past behind, as he had tried numerous times before, Orn Surefoot returned to his task.
Not long after, a ringing alarm rang out across the snow-covered compound. Leaning heavily on his shovel, Orn watched with some concern as a number of guards rushed atop the wall. Men soon called out for the gates to be opened, and Orn found a chance to slip unnoticed to a position up on the wall.
Looking down at the snow swept hills, his heart was suddenly filled with dread. Travelling with increased difficulty across the deep drifts left in the wake of the winter storm, were three riders. Even from that long distance, the men were recognizable, and all were slumped wearily in their saddles. From afar, it also seemed as though both Caolte and Gavin were favouring substantial wounds.
As the scout watched the slow procession, he fought the impulse to ride out and meet the men. Thankfully, others already had the same feelings and quickly acted upon them.
Ethan Shade, accompanied by a handful of his men, Bider included, galloped recklessly through the gates and across the snow. It was an exhilarating sight to see the Eagle Runners join the wounded travelers. Orn soon realized that his breach of conduct would not remain unnoticed for much longer. Grumbling to himself, he returned to the snowy courtyard, shovel in hand.
Spring, it seemed, could not arrive soon enough.
“There is no honour among the savages, only treachery and murder. It is what sets them apart from men.”
—General Liam Dresden “Savages”
Chapter XXV
Lok’Dal hie, The Wilds
The long days in the fields coupled with the late night spent in Lok’Dal hie with Auric had finally caught up with Leoric. A deep, dreamless slumber swept him away, carrying with it the cares and worries of a lifetime filled with tragedy.
Sharing a sleeping quarters with several of the other men, Leoric had learned to tune out the nighttime sounds that had interrupted his sleep so often during those first weeks in captivity. Angvald’s snoring alone was enough to disturb even the women, who were lodged some distance away on the other side of the building.
Although dreamily aware of muffled whispers, loud creaks, and heavy footsteps, Leoric didn’t wake from his slumber. It wasn’t until he felt someone approach and lean in close that he finally reacted. By then, it was far too late. Leoric flashed opened his eyes in a panic as a grimy hand covered his mouth, muffling his cry of alarm.
“Hoy now, don’t struggle, Leoric. Unless you’d rather be spitted like a hog here in your own bed,” sputtered a voice. The speaker’s hot breath in his ear made him shudder.
He felt the cold touch of a steel blade settle on his exposed neck as he struggled to make out the shadowy figure standing over him. It mattered little, he supposed, as it could only be one of Joram’s henchmen. Leoric could do nothing as his wrists were forcefully bound behind his back and his mouth gagged with a dirty cloth. Only then was he marched out into the cool night.
Sure enough, Joram was there to lead the procession. The camp’s resident tyrant couldn’t mask his obvious enjoyment of the situation. He cackled loudly once they were out of earshot of the homestead and entered one of the storehouses.
Ealston, Joram’s right hand man who rivalled even Angvald in size, toyed absently with a dagger as Leoric was dropped unceremoniously at his feet. The thug gave him a sadistic smile full of rotten teeth. The gruesome sight triggered a brief flicker of terror in Leoric’s mind. It chilled him to think that this man lived for moments such as this, where he could dominate another without any fear of reprisal. The realization strangely gave Leoric some measure of courage, and the disgust he felt for Ealston strengthened his resolve.
I am not like these people. I am better than them and so I am a threat. He repeated this to himself in order to maintain his composure.
“I have a few questions that need answering,” Joram sneered. “If I don’t like the answers, you will be punished. And trust me, Ealston is anything but gentle.”
The other men roared their approval. A dangerous glint of madness glowed in Joram’s eyes as he stepped forward and tore the filthy cloth from Leoric’s mouth. Snickering, Ealston leaned over, spat in Leoric’s face, and gave his head a brutal yank forward.
“Give him the wrong answers, mate,” the man whispered. “I want to enjoy playing with you in more ways than one”
“I’d rather die than have you touch me, you bastard.” Leoric was defiant.
“Now, now, there’s no need to worry. Ealston will treat you right,” Joram laughed.
“Curse you!” Leoric retorted angrily.
Ealston lashed out with a vicious punch. Leoric cried out in pain, hoping he would call attention to his plight. As the first blows rained down, he rolled into a tight ball.
Joram motioned for the others to join in the beating. Fists and feet landed unmercifully against his body until finally
the pummeling stopped and Leoric was left lying semi-conscious. Blood filled his mouth as he tried to regain his feet, but it was to no avail. In disgrace, he slumped back down to the floor.
“Now let’s try this again,” Joram chuckled. “And remember your answers will determine what I might let Ealston do with you.”
A strangled cry caused everyone to look quickly to the entrance of the storehouse. In the dim light and through matted and bloody hair, Leoric watched two men enter the torchlit area.
Angvald swore under his breath as he moved into the light. He held the arm of the thug who had been guarding the entrance firmly behind the man’s back.
“You touch another hair on his head and I’ll snap this man’s arm like a twig,” Angvald threatened, maneuvering his way nearer to his fallen friend.
“There are four of us and one of you, foreigner,” Joram mocked. “You’re lying.”
With an audible crack, Angvald wasted no time snapping his captive’s arm. With a terrible scream, the crony fell forward clutching the break. Even Joram couldn’t hide the momentary flicker of shock that crossed his swarthy face.
“A Kaleenian never lies. Now let’s try this again,” Angvald said. “Leave him alone.”
“Are you mad?!” Joram shouted angrily. “You think I care about that fool? There are still enough of us to finish the two of you! You’ll die for this!”
“I don’t care about the other two, Joram,” Angvald replied. “I’ll take you out before I go down. My ancestors will look favourably upon such a sacrifice.”
Silence reigned as Angvald held his stare. Joram twitched as he weighed his options. He would certainly know about the Kaleenian’s military background and reputation as a soldier. Angvald felt he had risked much by issuing the challenge but he was depending on Joram’s cowardly nature to work in his favour. It was imperative to save Leoric from his current situation. He would have to deal with the consequences of his perceived insolence another day. That hammer would fall sooner or later, but given some time and creativity, they might find some options. With Leoric’s life at stake, Angvald decided to press the issue and took one step closer to Joram.
