She turned about as Kari began calling out orders. Mole face and bird nose brushed past and trotted up the road after Adriel.
The silhouettes against the steel rain were not hills after all, but houses. Their thatch roofs shed water at steep angles into overflowing rain barrels. Their shuttered windows were sealed and barred; stables, barns, pens, and chicken coops locked tight against the rain. The narrow mud road that weaved between the small wattle and daub buildings was a mire as much as the wilderness beyond.
Adriel reined her mount up alongside a long, low building, made in much the same form as the rest of the village. She dismounted and nearly sank to her calves in mud. “Weslyn,” she breathed as she pried herself free, “go find out what you can. Jundhil, come with us.”
The bird-nosed man saluted before urging his horse back into the village. Mole face stepped forward and opened the door for the two Warriors.
They stepped into a tavern, or what passed for one anyway; it looked more like a stable than anything else. The thin beams sagged and the thatch leaked, letting steady raindrops plop on the sawdust and rushes. But two hearths on either end of the one room filled the dark walls with a soft glow that cut some of the damp chill from the air.
A few men and women sat around the tables, peering into mugs and cups. They glanced up as the door swung open to let in a draft of cold air, but they quickly returned to their brooding.
“We told you there’s just nothing left.” A wide man in a farmer’s leather jacket dropped a load of trays onto a barrel and waddled across the room toward them. “Not enough for you to take and us to survive that is.” He crossed his hairy arms and glared up at them, or at least what appeared to be a poor attempt at trying not to glare. “We’ve kept our word; just give us time and we’ll have more crops for you. What, with all this rain and…” His attempt at a smile slipped back into a frown.
“Are you Deryn Frenn?” Adriel asked as she lowered her hood and cowl.
“I am, my lady,” he said, offering a stiff bow.
Adriel squeezed the water from her matted locks. “I am Adriel Ivanne, Commander of the Vilant. I found some of your correspondences with the Acedens at the Gray Lands.”
This time the man fell to his knees. “My lady, forgive me. I had no choice. The Acedens, they came with demands, said that if we didn’t provide them with a share of our crops that they’d—”
Adriel raised a placating hand. “I know, they took some of your people. You did the right thing. Your people are safe now.”
“Thank you, my lady, thank you! So, the rumors are true then? You really did take the wall! I mean, not to say that I didn’t believe the rumors. I mean… bah, I will fetch us drinks!” He jumped up and clapped his hands. “Join us while we celebrate your victory!”
The room erupted with cheers and claps. The once quiet farmers all came up to shake Adriel’s hand. They bustled about the room, cheering and singing as they brought out drinks and instruments.
Jundhil gave a nod to Adriel before approaching a group of farmers still at their table in the corner. If he was going to pry their mouths open, Adriel chose the right man for the job. That mole would make anyone gape.
Isroc turned to Adriel. “How do you know this Frenn fellow?”
“The Acedens forced this village to surrender most of their goods and stores. All their trade would be sent to the wall or wherever the supplies were needed. Chickens, beef, wheat, oat. Not to mention whatever they wanted to take before a deal was struck. This village was required to send weekly shipments to the wall along with notes detailing any information they may have gathered on the Alliance and resistance fighters. This wasn’t the only village, either. I gathered a list of all the villages in the area that have been suppressed by the enemy, and I intend to visit them to see if we can unearth any useful information.”
Deryn soon returned with a tray of mugs, beaming. He bustled the two toward a wobbly square table near the door.
Isroc took one sip of the pale ale and almost choked. It tasted like swill, nothing like a proper Eriasan stout. It took the greater part of his will not to spit it over the table. A glimpse at Adriel showed she was faring worse.
“I would have offered food as well, but we are scraping our stores to rub two oats together. I couldn’t bear to offer you such a poor meal.”
Adriel gulped and set her mug down, forcing a smile. “You are quite alright, Deryn, we brought our own provisions. I’ll have some of my men bring your people a good meal.”
“Thank you, my lady. You are most kind.” He wrung his hands in excitement. “You really took the wall then? You saved all those poor people?”
“Yes. We’ve routed the Acedens from the wall, but not from the rest of Charun.”
“What will you do?”
“You know why I am here.”
His hands stopped. “I do believe so.”
“I need information. The Acedens kept you and your village on a tight leash because you’d given them problems in the past, that’s why they took some of your people. You fought them in your own way. Now, help me fight them my way. Tell me everything you know.”
The wide, little man opened and closed his mouth before swallowing. He peered around before continuing in a breathless whisper. “The king. It’s the king you’re after, isn’t it? We’re all right boiling about the whole situation. Everyone in Charun wants the son of a bitch’s head on a post.”
“Not surprising. I need to know everything you’ve heard and seen.”
Deryn nodded vigorously, his mug still untouched. “Of course, of course. I want the bastard dead just as much as you, but it’s still dangerous. The Acedens still own Charun. They have eyes and ears everywhere.” He glanced at the table in the corner where a group of farmers still sat in silence, watching the three from afar. “Not everyone thinks what Vanthe did is wrong. You just plain don’t know who to trust anymore.”
He paused, but one look at Adriel and he continued, “The truth is I don’t know anything about where King Vanthe is. But I know some that might. An old soldier retired from the Hammer Hand. I’ve written back and forth with him a few times. He’s a reclusive fellow, lives by himself on his horse farm outside the nearby village, Cresil. There’s a baker in Brandor; everyone likes her, she may have heard something from the Acedens that pass through. There’s also a weaver in Dayne, just up the road. And I’ve heard there’s a silversmith in Aaraciel that’s helping the resistance. He’s probably your best bet if someone’s to know where the king is, that city’s right firm under Aceden boots.”
“Thank you, Deryn. You have been most helpful. Those are places I would not have looked. I will see your friends, and hope that they can bear me fruit.”
Adriel brought her mug up before catching herself. Blinking, she tilted it to her lips and made a suspiciously satisfied gulp. “Now, Deryn, what else can you tell me?”
Silas listened to the clicks and clacks of wasters. Ah, it was music! He strolled between columns of Vilant, watching them duel in pairs. They learned quickly. He’d been surprised at how easily they picked up on what he taught, but he supposed passion and tenacity could accomplish a lot. They were still not soldiers, of course, but they could handle themselves in a pinch.
The Vilant had such fervor that he’d rarely seen before. They trained from sunrise to sunset, and many continued their practice well into the night. Two weeks in and he was already teaching them complex sword forms, something that normally shouldn’t have been taught for another few months. He tried to keep the smile off his face, but damn it, he was proud of them.
“Wedge!” At this, his class pulled from their sparring and gathered into an arrowhead formation. They were ready for a fight in moments, practice shields and swords raised.
“Phalanx!” The Vilant formed into a tightly-packed square, weapons bristling from their wall of shields.
“Line!” They formed into rows and fell into attention.
He liked to throw them off in the middle of th
eir training to see how quickly they reacted to pressure. They’d done well. Every class today had been a sight to behold.
Silas nodded his approval and the fifty Vilant saluted before running off to their makeshift barracks. He gazed up at the setting sun. Another day gone in a blink. He sighed and retired to his nearby officer’s tent—a large, pavilion-like tent with plenty of room for a cot and trunk and desk.
He peeled off his sweat-drenched tunic and tossed it on his desk before poking at the brazier to stir up some warmth from the bed of coals. It was bloody wet and cold, of course, but he didn’t mind; it was a welcome change after so many years spent in the sweltering heat of a furnace. He strode over to the washbasin and plunged his head in the cool water, scrubbing at his hair and face.
The flap to his tent flung open with a rustle of canvas. Silas reached for his belt knife and blinked away the water to see Shara standing in the opening, eyeing him. Framed by the pale dusk, she was little more than a dark outline in the entrance. Was that a smirk? No, a play of the shadows.
“I trust I didn’t disturb you?” she asked.
Silas dabbed at his face with a rag. “I was just readying for bed.”
“Good, I worried I’d be interrupting your sleep.” Somehow Silas doubted that. She sat in his only camp chair and tossed him a flask. “Here.”
He sniffed at the stopper. “Brandy?”
“Of course.”
Silas smiled and took a swig of the strong drink before tossing it back to her. The two sat in silence for a time, sharing the flask.
“I’m sorry about Heric,” Silas said, breaking the quiet. Why’d he have to say a fool thing like that?
“He was a good man.” Shara took another sip. “A good friend.”
Back to uneasy quiet.
“You’re the talk of the camp,” she started. “Everyone brags about being trained by you. They all want to be trained by the great Warrior and Outrider; it’s all I can do to remind them that they have other teachers.”
Silas shrugged and caught the flask.
“Oh, don’t bother acting humble. You enjoy it. And you’re good at it.”
Damn it. He’d hoped the woman wouldn’t catch him smiling during his lessons. At first, he thought he’d hate it, but now, after two weeks of teaching so many classes, he’d found it as enjoyable as beating a good bar of steel. And that was certainly saying something.
“Oh, don’t hog it all now,” Shara waved for him to toss the flask.
“I thought it was for me?”
“Please. I wouldn’t waste that much brandy on you.” The two chuckled.
“Thank you, Shara. The kidnapping, the weeks of captivity. And watching all those men die… it was hard on me, if I’m being honest. You helped me find some sanity again. I finally feel like I’m doing something right here.”
Shara smiled. “I know you’ve been through a lot. Your brother… just know that we’re here for you.” She cleared her throat. “This is our fight, and we’ll win this together.” She took another swig from the flask. “I’m not good at this sort of thing.”
“What do you mean?”
In response, Shara stood, fingers reaching for her buttons. One button, then two, she slowly opened her shirt. Silas watched, uncertain of what to say. “I know that look in your eyes. Hopelessness. Anger. Fear. We can show the world that we won’t be broken.” A shrug of her shoulder, and her shirt fell to the floor. “We can fight. Together.”
Silas was all too aware of her striking amber eyes, her dark skin softly lit by threads of twilight. Of his own unsteady breathing.
Shara strode forward and raised the flask to his lips. He gulped down the strong drink and met her gaze.
And they kissed. Once, twice. A fervent urgency driving them into each other’s scratching, searching arms. Silas wrapped a hand around Shara’s neck, meeting her with another kiss before scooping her up and laying her over his desk. The two fell into each other’s arms, empty flask and sweaty shirt forgotten.
Black arrows bristled in the grass.
Ada’s white fur cloak drifted past, brushing the warm bodies and still-twitching men. He approached an Aceden officer who dragged himself away from Ada until his back met the side of a wagon.
“May Iscarius strike you down!” the officer spat. “May you rot—”
Ada yanked the arrow from the man’s chest and shot it through his eye. The body sagged to the side, streaking blood across the wagon.
Ada continued along the caravan, past the corpses sprawled over barrels and crates and wagons. He stopped beside a sobbing man with an arrow in the back and kicked him over with a boot. The Aceden gaped up at him with wide eyes, tears shining on his young face.
“Keys?” Ada growled.
The Aceden said nothing.
Ada grabbed a fistful of the man’s hair and hauled him through the dirt to the other side of a covered wagon. He cast the man away and pointed at the cells in the back of the massive wagon where dozens of civilians were chained.
The Aceden deigned it wise to finally speak up. “With the driver, the driver!”
“Thank you.” Ada ended his sniveling with an arrow to the throat.
He then moved to the front of the wagon where a driver sat, both hands pinned to the back of the seat with arrows through the palms. The man stopped his writhing as he noticed Ada.
“Why kill us all?” the driver sputtered. “What do you want?”
“Keys.”
“Front pocket…”
Ada stepped forward and plucked a ring of iron keys from the man’s vest. “Where was your caravan headed?”
“I don’t know. Promise! I was told to just head south until I reached Meurig in Kaanos. They said I’d receive directions from there.”
“What were the slaves for?”
“The ones in the cage are masons and carpenters, we were given orders to keep a close eye on those. I don’t know what the others are for. Free labor, probably.”
Ada turned and walked away.
“Wait, you’re just going to leave me like this?” the driver called after him. “Come back! Wait!”
Ada unlocked the chains and shackles of the nearby slaves. Most of them immediately ran off into the plains but a few paused long enough to thank him. Others rushed the wagons and promptly relieved the Acedens of their provisions.
Ada unlocked the wagon’s cage and jumped inside. He moved to each of the slaves, dropping their chains with a thud on the planks. They each shook his hands and cried out their thanks. One man embraced him, tears running down his cheeks.
Ada watched them go, each of them cheering and grinning and calling his praise.
“Where do we go?” one woman asked him as he climbed out of the wagon.
“Anywhere but here. Gather supplies, stick together, and head north to the Gray Lands. Adriel Ivanne and her Vilant will welcome you with open arms.”
“And where will you go?”
Ada turned to the south. Wagon wheels rutted the earth for miles into the horizon. “I have work that needs to be done.”
The woman frowned at the dozens of bodies that surrounded them, arrows punching from gaping mouths and horror-filled eyes. “You’re the one they call the Black Arrow, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I was that man.”
“You still are by the looks of it.”
Ada gazed out over the carnage he’d wrought, and to the people he’d saved. They filled their bellies with cheers and hugged friends and family. He’d gained them their freedoms. He’d given them back their lives.
Adriel had told him to repay back every life he had taken. Perhaps it wasn’t about ending more lives to pay for his mistakes. Perhaps it was in the lives he saved that he would find his forgiveness.
“Gather your people,” he said to the woman. “Head north; the Acedens will be here soon once they get wind of what has happened.”
He collected his arrows and headed south, leaving behind the wrecked caravan and the people he had saved.
Their cheers spurred him on through the hills. The sun climbed to warm the smile on his face.
He would save as many lives as he could.
And he would end one more.
Ada followed the wagon tracks south towards Kaanos, and towards the death of Malleus Taraus.
Fated to the Sword
Finally, they were out of the Faeran! After weeks of dark, cold, and musty places, it felt like a new world. Cain held his face high, letting the chill of an early spring wind brush against him.
He still didn’t know for certain why the Faeran had left him alone after his vision, but he didn’t want to ask questions. He’d been firm in his resolve; a few sinister trees wouldn’t sway him from his path. Traveling through Amon Karash and the Faeran had easily been one of the worst decisions anyone had ever made, but they’d survived. And he’d come out stronger.
Ahead of them, the gray blue water of the Setlon meandered south through the hills. Small river boats cut up and down its smooth surface, their wide square sails rippling in the breeze. Tiny rowboats swept about them, fishing rods and lines cast out like lacing spider webs.
“We have to risk it,” Mithaniel said from behind.
Cain peered through the sprinkling rain to the city ahead, nearly a mile south and hard along the river bank. Brandor, Mithaniel had named it. The Setlon split the city in two, each half connected by arteries of canals and bridges. Brandor’s buildings were mostly of timber, with more tile roofs than thatch, many two stories and taller. The streets nearest the river were an organized grid, but many on the edges were a jumble, shooting off this way and that. New construction rose in spots, new homes and stores and taverns, but the bases of towers made their beginnings too. The new streets and construction were not uncommon—he’d seen his fair share of places attacked by arzecs forced to quickly rebuild like new growth after a forest fire. But the towers were a sight, and so too were the earthworks and ramparts being erected about the city.
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