Shadow Of The Mountain
Page 9
His dark-haired friend was exceptional with the blade, gifted with superb reflexes, sharp eyes, and lightning-quick hands. The two of them had entered the famed Orantak Academy together at the age of eight and had grown as brothers the last eight years.
All of the students were closely knit. It was the way of the academies, the way of Amoria. To live together and stand together, and die together if need be.
Draz nearly fell but caught himself before losing his grip on the heavy stone. He clenched his jaw against the aches and pains, attempting to shut out the little voice inside that was telling him to drop the rock and sit down, catch his breath. Draz never listened to that voice and it only spoke to him when he had physically reached a place he’d never been before. None of them knew when this exercise would end and he decided that must be part of the challenge: the stress of uncertainty.
What other reason could there be? Orrik forgetting his shield wouldn’t typically incur such wrath. A public display of derision and a few lashes were the standard punishment for such an offense, but certainly not this.
So it would likely have to do with the battle, which made more sense. The conflict with the Volrathi in the southern flatlands occupied all of their minds, and not a single step or flashing thought went by without it returning to the forefront of their consideration. And now the instructors were trying to take their minds off it by grinding them into the ground.
Draz shook the thoughts away. One could go mad trying to dissect the motives of academy instructors. Best to stay away from such ruminations.
He ran at a trot and his mind continued to drift as it often did during such trials of endurance. He would one day be a soldier and this was his life.
***
The battle hung heavily upon all their hearts, adding to their already tiresome burdens. The Amorian army had advanced to the flatlands and the academy classes that were to receive their green cloaks at Goridai had been chosen. The lottery had been drawn, and much to the despair of Draz and his class, they were just three months shy of making the march. Had any of them enrolled in the summer class rather than the fall, so many years ago, they would now be on the battlefield.
Draz and the rest would have to wait for another opportunity to bloody their swords and trade their brown cloaks for green. It was enough to make one sick.
Fortunately he knew that Goridai wasn’t going to be the end of these Volrathi, but the beginning stages of an all-out war. Other battles would be waged and they would get their chance. Sooner or later, they all would. Everything was changing around them, the whole world maybe.
Before all this business with the Volrathi and the Amorian envoy, Draz had been having a good year. He was promoted to the first of his class the previous winter, which meant he was slated to become an officer. He would one day oversee his own phalanx in the Amorian infantry, and from there he was a few years away from the king’s light cavalry.
But what he was recently most proud of was his performance at an inter-academy sword tourney four weeks ago. The Kessland Academy had traveled to Orantak for five days, and all training had been suspended as every student was entered into the competition. In the end the tournament’s top three ranked students had all been from Orantak, with Jornan taking first, a smooth-footed tracker named Vextis taking second, and Draz finally rounding out with third. Even though he hadn’t taken the top prize, his victory had been celebrated throughout his class.
His final duel had been with a bear of a Kessland youth named Kole. Kole was fast and strong and, above all else, very, very good. After several close calls, Draz knocked a tooth out of him with an elbow and disarmed him with a slash from his sparring blade that broke two of the boy’s fingers. Cheers had washed over him then and he’d never felt more alive in his life.
If the larger student had been in pain from the damage to his hand, he hadn’t shown it. He had stared Draz down with blazing eyes, and for the rest of the afternoon Draz feared Kole might come looking for him to settle what he felt was an open debt.
But he hadn’t come, and Draz couldn’t remember being happier to see a group of boys leave the gates of Orantak. He could still recall the rush of excitement he felt at the victory. A fine moment indeed, much better than this miserable ordeal.
He ran harder, boots pounding the trail. There was no way of knowing when they’d get a rest and he was currently debating on whether or not to piss himself.
Draz continued to descend the backside of the slope, and traveling downhill almost felt like a holiday. He let a little steam out of his step, allowing the decline to do most of the work. Shifting the stone in his grip, he used his shoulder to wipe the sweat from his forehead.
After a minute, the decline leveled off into a thin valley for a ways. All around him were tall pines mixed in with trees of oak, elm, and spruce, with plots of thorn thickets and baris bushes piled up throughout the valley.
Far to his right, Draz caught a glimpse of instructor Trobe running smoothly through the forest with hood up, his green cloak trailing behind, occasionally obscuring him from sight, as if he could merge with the forest at will. Already he had passed them all. Draz cursed and urged his body forward.
This was such a terrible pain in the ass.
He pushed harder and in a few minutes was once again making his way up another climb, trudging along at a half run. With the pack at his back and stone to his chest, it was all he could muster. Risking a glance further up the rise, he saw Sorkan and Trobe at the top. The instructor had stopped the tall runner who now stood in place, holding his stone suspended above his head.
A break? Draz wondered. He sped up. Even to pause for a few moments holding the stone aloft would be a welcome respite. After having a piss, he needed about a week’s worth of rest, but this would be a start.
They had been told to pack enough provisions for three days before leaving Orantak, and today was the morning of the third, though trying to measure the length of their misery by gauging supplies would be an exercise in futility. It was a common practice by the instructors to extend training well beyond their allotted rations, almost expected. There were no boundaries on these excursions, no laws. Hunger, thirst and exhaustion were skills that had to be harnessed and sharpened in much the same way as anything else.
Draz would constantly map their journey in his mind, despite all the miles of loops and backtracking Trobe had led them through. He knew they were somewhere west of Corda, twenty miles maybe, about a day’s hard run. They must be either making a stop at the capital or pushing north for the Gambit.
Draz hoped it was to be Corda. There was a girl he’d love to spend a few hours with back in Old Haven, near the original eastern wall. It’d been so long since he felt the warmth of a female and time off from Orantak had become almost nonexistent. All this training and conditioning could really get in the way of a bit of companionship, he reflected with amusement.
A bath with Nikki and a few honey cakes, now that would be some conditioning he could get behind! Her smile flashed into his mind, her hands, her hips…
He physically shook the thought away as if it were a hornet buzzing near his face. Damn girls. They were always sneaking into your brain.
The last time he had seen her was this past winter, after the tournament with Kessland. Nikki’s father had discovered her bedroom door locked early one morning and begun slamming his weight into it, certain she was with a boy. She was, of course, and Draz had been forced to climb out of her window, half-naked with one boot on and the other gripped in his teeth. The escape would’ve been much easier had Nikki not lived on the sixth floor of an apartment building.
Halfway down, her father had leaned out of the window and begun throwing dishes and pots at him, anything he could find. The man’s aim was poor, but Draz had almost slipped on several frosted window ledges trying to avoid the missiles. Nikki could be heard screaming from above.
Jornan had been on the street below at the time. They were to meet at dawn to make morning muster,
but Draz had overslept, which was part of the reason he’d found himself in such a predicament. Upon seeing the angry father trying to dislodge his friend, Jornan took to screaming at the man, threatening to enter the building and cut off his genitals. When Nikki’s father didn’t stop, Jornan tried the apartment’s front door. Finding it locked, he began kicking it savagely.
Around the third floor, Draz remembered dropping his boot and trying to calm Jornan below while at the same time attempting to reason with Nikki’s father above, but neither would have it. He’d climbed down carefully, knowing something so little as a sprained ankle might see him rolled to a later class.
Jornan had been seething mad when he reached him, but Draz was able to drag him away from the building before any city guards could show up. Instructors do not appreciate their students getting arrested for disturbing the peace while on leave, or for cutting off someone’s genitals.
Draz smiled. That was almost a year ago. He knew Nikki spent time with other boys, but that didn’t matter to him. Still, perhaps he should find another girl. One whose bedroom wasn’t so high above the ground.
He thought over the wooded path his class had traveled so far and decided a trip to the capital wasn’t in their future anyway. Corda would be a tense place right now, what with the column getting hit in the south and the battle raging in the flatlands.
No, the instructors will keep us busy with mindless and near suicidal tests of strength and stamina. It will be to the Gambit for them. Again.
He pictured the high-altitude refuge used by the academy, a hidden camp nestled within a mountain cavity to the north. To reach the elevated site meant traversing steep rock faces and tight mountain passages, all accomplished through the thin air of the mountain heights. The students would be forced to make the climb carrying makeshift stretchers or various supplies and, although the camp was always abundantly stocked, they would have to work together to overcome the challenging ascent.
The Gambit’s stores were laden with barrels of water and grain, dried meats, lumber for cooking fires and huts, loads of coal, blankets, clothes, and, of course, weapons. The secret camp boasted a massive armory of spears, swords, and old shields. There were bows and countless quivers of arrows, hunting traps, and various pieces of outdated armor. It was maintained by the army that two hundred men could hold those mountain passes against ten thousand, or even more. It was impregnable.
But what the Gambit didn’t need, Draz’s mind fumed, were these wretched stones! He had no wish for any of them to drag such useless weight up the Gambit’s mountain passes.
He scrambled through the free dirt of the next rise before finally reaching the top, out of breath and legs trembling. He wanted to collapse right there on the forest floor, but to do so would invite a storm of fury from Trobe. And he was better than that, stronger.
“Stones up,” the instructor ordered, as if Draz hadn’t already figured it out. The reward for the first two to reach the top was to hold their rocks high and wait for the rest.
He stood upright and lifted his stone above his head, trying to slow his heart and turbulent breath.
Trobe’s gaze settled on him, wide and fierce eyes of winter gray that sent chills down the spine during even the warmest weather. The old warrior had a crooked white scar that crawled across his throat, almost from ear to ear. All of the academy instructors were veterans of countless conflicts, hardened by battle and the elements, but Trobe was even harder.
No one really knew the truth of it, but at some point in his career, Trobe’s throat had been cut. His throat had been sliced open, and he hadn’t died.
“I have a surprise for you, little birds,” he told Draz with a devilish grin, pulling his hood back. Trobe nodded his head further into the forest, away from the hill they had just climbed.
Draz shifted his gaze down into the woods, making sure to maintain his grip on the stone above. He saw a large group in the valley below and the murmuring of their voices carried up to him through the forest. They were academy students cloaked in brown, over a hundred of them, waiting for something.
Waiting for us, Draz realized.
“The Kessland boys wanted another shot at Orantak,” Trobe said, relishing the moment. He gave Draz a few seconds for it all to sink in. “I thought it might be a nice distraction to have another impromptu sword tourney.”
Draz couldn’t stop staring into the valley as Jornan fought up the slope behind him. His sword brother lifted his stone above his head as he came to a stop next to Draz. Instructor Trobe moved down the hill, urging the remaining students up at speed.
“Shit. Really?” Jornan said between breaths, staring down the slope. “He runs us to death and then shoves us into the circle? Do you think Kole is down there?” Draz’s stomach was one big knot.
“I‘m sure he is.”
The stone above his head seemed to tremble and grow heavier. There was hardly enough strength left in him to stand and nearly nothing left to carry him through a tournament. Draz knew Kole was down there and that they would meet in the circle. Looking below into the mass of students waiting for them, he knew it was inevitable. When last they met, Draz was well-rested and he had just barely scraped by with a win against the burly Kessland student.
Draz knew they’d cross blades in the tournament, because that’s what he was most afraid of.
“Do you think he’s still salty about the fingers?”
He let out a nervous laugh as more students lumbered up to see what awaited them.
“Yes,” Draz muttered with certainty. “I imagine he’s still salty about the fingers.”
Chapter 7
Trees ripped by Tenlon as Darkfire’s strength thundered him through Killian Forest. Afternoon sunlight poured down through the leaves, breathing life into the surrounding foliage with shafts of fluttering gold. He kept eyes on Kreiden to his immediate front and occasionally caught glimpses of Fenton in the far lead position over the champion’s shoulder. Accostas and Desik were on either side of him, riding half a length behind. The rest of the escort was trailing him and the rumbling of their hooves filled his ears, just like younger days at the races.
Tenlon began to think that perhaps Kreiden was wrong and their troop wouldn’t encounter any of the circling Volrathi. Apart from the far-off, sporadic howls that would reach them through the woods, the day had so far been uneventful.
Tenlon relaxed his bunched shoulders and tried to steady his thoughts. Hopefully Amorian luck was returning to them, even if it was just a sliver of it.
But then he heard a call that froze his blood.
“Wolves!” Fenton’s voice bellowed in the distance.
The surrounding warriors seemed to pull their swords in unison and the sharp steel snaked out to taste the air. Kreiden drew his heavy saber and it shimmered as the occasional ray of sunlight caught the polished blade.
Tenlon’s head twisted left and right in a frantic search for any of the fearsome creatures, desperate not to be surprised by a snarling attack. Darkfire began to sway back and forth, confusing his motions for intended direction.
“Easy, little mage,” Accostas ordered at his right. “Easy.”
There was no fear in the man’s voice and, when Tenlon glanced over, the tall warrior was looking at him with a smile. Out of place as it may have been, somehow it calmed him. He focused on the task at hand.
They came upon the black shape quickly, just in time to see Kreiden’s long sword swing down into the writhing creature on the ground, clawing at the dirt. Fenton’s spear was already jutting from its side as the champion’s heavy weapon cleaved into its shoulder and neck. The Blackwolf’s maw was open, its teeth long and terrifying. Accostas’s mount leapt to avoid the mortally-wounded beast, and then they were past it.
Long minutes slipped by without incident, but Tenlon was on high alert now. His fists held the reins in a white-knuckled grip, eyes always searching, scanning the heavy wood for threats. More of the creatures were sure to be nearby.
A human cry tore the air behind him, the sound of it so close that it couldn’t possibly be a deception of the woods. His head snapped back for a look…
And what he saw caused the icy fingers of fear to claw into his soul.
In that moment he spied an Amorian soldier on the forest floor, desperately reaching for his fallen sword as a black creature leapt up, closing its wide jaws onto his face, fangs tightening until the skull split and bloody pulp burst forth. The Amorian’s chestnut mare was on its knees behind him struggling to rise when two other beasts set upon it with horrifying speed.
Tenlon’s head spun back. The horse’s squeals followed him through the trees.
“Fool!” Desik barked. “Do not look back! Keep your eyes on the trail!”
Tenlon found himself out of breath. Frigid panic surged through his limbs. He did not want to die here. He could not die here.
More time passed, yet he could not say how much. Minutes were like hours when your mind was muddled with such terror. He was surprised to notice the sun had slid across the sky into late afternoon. They continued to ride hard and the land to their left sank downwards the further they climbed, allowing them to look out across the crowns of tall aspens, oaks, and pines.
The howls surrounding them grew in numbers, increasing along with the shadows, bounding through the forest in pursuit. Tenlon glanced about and could make out the forms of several beasts a short distance to their rear, with more running a little further away on the right.