He looked around, at a loss of what to do. Taren was unconscious beside him, his breathing shallow and skin feverish. The townsfolk were beginning to gather, shocked and horrified by what had occurred. A handful of locals lay still—either seriously hurt or killed in Taren’s initial onslaught. Their loved ones wept over them. Faces were rapidly turning hostile as they turned in Elyas’s direction.
“We need to get out of here.” He gathered up Taren in his arms. Seeing Yethri’s body, he wasn’t sure what to do about her, but knew Taren would want her given a proper burial.
Fortunately, Elyas spotted a small merchant cart nearby, which used to hold baked goods and had been knocked over in the battle, the owner having either fled or died. He righted the small cart. It had three bins with a few loaves of bread and pretzels and rolls that hadn’t yet fallen out. He lowered the hinged cover back over the bins, creating a flat top, and lifted Taren and laid him on the cart. Then he gently gathered up Yethri’s remains and laid them beside his cousin. He went around to the end with the two handles and gripped them and began pulling the cart as a horse or donkey would.
Townsfolk murmured angrily and pointed fingers in his direction. Others cursed at him, but none followed as he wheeled the cart down a side street. He sighed in relief when the scene was behind him, out of sight because of the twisting street. He knew that didn’t mean nobody would follow—a party of vengeful hunters might come after them, angered and heartbroken over the loss of loved ones. The more likely scenario, however, was that the remaining Nebaran troops would regroup and pursue them once they caught wind of what had occurred.
Some wooded hills lay to the northeast just outside town, and he made for those. As he rolled the cart past the last home and into a grassy field, he wondered about the destruction that Taren had wrought. He’d mentioned destroying the invisible monster back in Egrondel with magic, but Elyas had never suspected he could do anything on the scale of what he’d done in Ryedale.
Assuming he wakes anytime soon, he’ll have some explaining to do. That might have been wishful thinking, he realized after glancing back at his cousin, for Taren looked nearly as much a corpse as the poor burned woman beside him.
I’ll tend to Taren when we stop, but for now, I just need to focus on getting us to safety.
As Ryedale passed out of sight behind him with no sign of pursuit, he allowed himself to breathe more easily and was even pleased with his own quick thinking. He’d managed to transport both Taren and Yethri’s body while also acquiring some food for dinner. He was glad to have some small amount of good fortune to be able to focus on after such a disastrous day.
***
Taren writhed in the clutches of an awful dream. A line of tall wooden poles had been driven into the ground. Lashed to the poles were people Taren knew and loved. Wyat and Shenai were there, then Elyas and Gradnik, followed by Zylka and Aninyel, and finally Yethri. The line extended out of sight, and he recognized people from neighboring farms such as Vonn and Erwan and others, mere acquaintances, even many folks he’d seen about Swanford but didn’t know by name.
“Heretics! All shall feel the wrath of the Inquisition!” Inquisitor Tellast screamed to an audience of thousands, spittle flying from his mouth. “All shall fall before the might of the Empire!”
Lieutenant Riquier stood there with a line of soldiers, his sword still bloody with Wyat’s blood. The ogre Glurk, with a wide slobbering grin on his face, walked down the line with a burning torch, setting fire to the piles of kindling beneath the stakes.
All the people Taren cared about were lit on fire, screaming as their hair and skin burned away, melting and blackening flesh.
“Taren! Taren!” they screamed.
“Taren!” He was shaken awake to find Elyas’s worried face peering down at him. Night had fallen, and the sky was mostly cloudy with a few patches of stars and a waning crescent of moon visible. Reality slowly slipped in to replace his nightmare as he could still hear the crackling fire and smell the smoke and stench of burning flesh from his dream.
Elyas breathed a sigh of relief. “Are you well? Gods, you’ve been unconscious all day. You were crying out in your sleep.”
Taren struggled to regain his senses. All of them are dead, burned at the stake… wait, no, not all. Only Yethri. The rest had been spared that fate although many were dead. Fortunately, Tellast and Glurk were among those dead, killed by his nascent magic, that they might no longer torment the living.
He tried to sit up but was as weak as a newborn calf, barely able to raise his head. His temples pounded with a wicked headache. Elyas helped him sit, and he saw a small campfire burning, the source of the smoke and crackling sound. Ryedale was gone, and surrounding him were trees and grassy hills. A rabbit was roasting on a spit over the flames, the smell of sizzling meat making his stomach rumble. He clutched his elven cloak tightly about his shoulders, chilled to the bone as if the life had been leeched from him. When he moved, a stabbing pain in his right shoulder reminded him he’d been hit with a quarrel. He saw the wound was bandaged up, the shaft removed.
“I tended to your wound,” Elyas said, watching him anxiously as though he’d keel over at any moment. “Luckily, it didn’t penetrate deeply, mostly just a graze. How does it feel?”
“It hurts, but so does my head.” And my heart. “Where are we?” Taren’s throat was dry, and his voice came out a croak.
Elyas handed him a water skin, and he drank gratefully. A wooden cart sat at the edge of the firelight. Upon it was a form shrouded in a cloak.
“We’re in the hills northeast of Ryedale. Balor’s balls, Taren, what happened? What did you do back there?”
“I made them pay,” he said grimly.
“Aye, that you did. But I was damn near run out of town. We’re lucky we weren’t stoned in the street. Townsfolk were hurt and killed… flung aside when you first attacked the inquisitors.”
Taren remembered the rush of power, the thrill as the magic filled him, buried beneath the tremendous rage and desperation. He had swept aside the crowd, the lot of them gaping stupidly as an innocent young woman was about to be burned alive, yet none even lifted a finger to intervene. He realized belatedly they’d been terrified and unable to resist the inquisitors for fear they’d be tied to their own stakes beside Yethri, but even so, the sight had made him furious.
They didn’t deserve to die for it. I killed people—good, simple people. I lost control, and they paid the price. What if it had been Elyas or Zylka or Aninyel caught up in my unbridled power? The guilt was a distant thing, far off but inexorable, like waves smashing against a coastline. Once he recovered more and had time to think on it, he knew it would gnaw at him insistently.
He sighed, leaning forward to warm his hands over the fire. “This magic is so new for me… I lost control, Elyas. I was so enraged by what they did—” He choked off with a sob as the memory of Yethri’s face returned. With some difficulty, he got his emotions in check. “I can’t allow that to happen again. I need to get to Nexus—I think my mother is the only one who can help me now.”
“I thought you’d want me to wait… to bury her. In case you wanted to say some words.” Elyas stared into the flames, face sorrowful. “I’m really sorry, Taren. I know you cared for her.”
“And I was just moments too late. Damn those bastards.” He clenched a fist, his gaze locked on Yethri’s shrouded remains as tears threatened again. “Thank you. I’ll say some words, and we can bury her in the morning. I feel so drained I can barely think right now.”
“Get some food in you, and you’ll feel better.” Elyas pulled a loaf of bread from a bin on the cart, tore it in half, and handed a portion to Taren. After a couple minutes, he pulled the spit from the fire and carved off a couple choice portions of the rabbit for Taren then ate the rest himself.
Taren barely had time to wash down the remains of the food with water from his skin before he fell back asleep.
***
The morning dawned gray and
chilly, dark clouds filling the sky. Taren awoke to the sounds of Elyas digging a grave in the soft earth a short distance from the fire. He was loosening dirt with his dagger and scooping it away with his hands.
Taren groaned as he got to his feet, his temples throbbing in time with his shoulder. He felt as if he’d been beaten up by a squad of soldiers, feeling weak and sore all over. He did feel slightly better than he had the previous night and managed to stumble over to Elyas under his own power.
“That should do,” Taren said, noting the shallow grave. “We can build a cairn over her grave so scavengers can’t get to her.”
“Aye.” Elyas wiped the dirt from his hands on the dewed grass. “How are you feeling?”
“As if I got trampled by a horse, but I’ll manage.” I hope… It’s a long road to Ammon Nor yet. He winced when he moved his right arm, the wound in his shoulder sending a spike of pain through him. It was stiff and sore but hadn’t bled any further. Elyas evidently knew what he was doing better than Taren when it came to tending such injuries.
He helped Elyas lift Yethri’s body into the grave although the big man did most of the work. Taren simply wanted to participate. He needed to feel he was doing the right thing for the girl, whose life had been been snuffed out much too soon. Her shrouded form, wrapped in Taren’s old cloak, lay still in the ground.
What shall I say? He thought Yethri had favored Etenia, from her dying words, but Taren didn’t know much about the Earth Mother, so he didn’t feel comfortable asking her blessing.
“Sabyl, I ask that you guide Yethri on her way to the afterlife. I didn’t know her as well as I would’ve liked, but the night we knew each other was a blessing to me, a night I’ll never forget, and now I’m forever cheated out of knowing her better. Yethri was a bright spark of life in a bitter, lonely world, and I hope she finds her peace in the afterlife.” He didn’t know what else to say so left it at that.
Elyas put a hand on his good shoulder, a comforting presence. “I didn’t know her, but I think she’d approve.”
“I hope so. Sad she didn’t have any loved ones there for her at the end.”
“You were there, Taren. She wasn’t alone at the end—that’s what matters.”
Taren thought on that for a time and nodded. He was glad for that small blessing, that she hadn’t been alone in her pain and terror when she passed. His sorrow was a heavy, smothering cloak, so much so he couldn’t even summon tears over her grave. He felt numb—and something else—angry. Angry and tired of running and being afraid.
“I have this talent, bequeathed on me by my mother or by the gods or whomever, yet I couldn’t save a loved one when it counted. What use is it?” He was aware of Elyas’s concerned look but ignored him, focused on Yethri’s shrouded form. Whom he was speaking to, he didn’t know—perhaps Yethri’s spirit or Sabyl. “I would see these invaders driven from our lands and peace brought back to Ketania. I will master this magic and use it to make things right again.”
To his ears, his words fell heavy in the somber air, weighted down by providence. He knew he was making a vow, one he wasn’t about to take lightly.
“You can fight back with your sword,” he said to Elyas, needing to fill the heavy silence somehow. “I’ll hone my magic into a weapon—one that won’t harm any more innocents. I’ll do right by Uncle Wyat, Yethri, and everyone else taken before their time by these bastards.”
Elyas remained silent, simply nodding his head in approval.
The moment passed, and he and Elyas filled in the grave. Then they gathered stones from around the area and stacked them atop the mound of dirt to form a cairn. By the time they were done, Taren felt weak and achy again.
They broke their fast with some leftover pretzels and salted meat. Elyas packed the remaining bread from the wagon into a sack and stowed it in his pack.
Taren told his cousin he needed a few moments to try something. He didn’t relish the thought of walking for days with a wounded, aching shoulder. When he’d tried to heal Yethri, he somehow knew his magic could provide some aid in that regard, for it was an instrument that he could shape as needed. However, in Yethri’s case, she had been too far gone—even a powerful cleric likely wouldn’t have been able to save her. A simple wound from a crossbow quarrel, though—that should be much easier.
He focused on the earth magic around him. At first, it was like grasping water, but eventually he coaxed a trickle of it into himself. He felt the ache in his shoulder, concentrated on it, and poured some of the magic into the wound, trying to mend and seal it.
After a tingling sensation, the ache faded. Taren cautiously removed the bandage and saw the wound was closed up, a knot of white scar tissue where it had been. He rotated his arm around, feeling some tightness and a dull ache, like a strained muscle, but nothing like the stabbing pain of earlier.
“How did you do that?” Elyas walked over and studied the results, nodding approvingly.
“Magic,” Taren said with a tired smile. He tried to stand up, but a wave of dizziness assailed him. He would’ve fallen, had Elyas not grabbed his arm to steady him.
“Easy there, mighty wizard. You’d best regain your strength before you perform any more miraculous spells.”
“It takes a lot out of me,” Taren admitted. Once he was up and the dizziness passed, he felt steadier although he could sense using the magic had weakened him further. “Let’s get moving. I don’t know how many miles I’ve got in me today.”
Not many, it turned out, although they made a start. Ryedale was behind them, and Ammon Nor lay ahead. They would make it there eventually if it took them a week or a month. Either way, Taren was pleased at how he’d been able to control the magic enough to seal his wound. He just needed to recover his strength in the event he needed to use his magic again, with much better results than before, he hoped.
Chapter 28
Summer faded, and autumn arrived in Llantry. Little news had come from the war, other than that the king’s forces were set to reinforce the garrison at the city of Ammon Nor in the south. There, they expected to march forth soon after and meet the empire’s armies on the field of battle just across the Black Channel.
Sianna was unable to focus on her studies with Master Aered. With a war soon to be fought and her father, brothers, and Sir Edwin in danger, studying poetry and classic literature seemed ridiculous. While Master Aered lectured, she sat and daydreamed, and she ignored the passages he assigned her to read.
Instead, when she was free of her dull classes with Master Aered, she focused her energy in training with Sir Colm and Rafe, on the occasions the guardsman attended. The old knight seemed to enjoy their sessions, which had become regular occurrences, and Sianna thought she was becoming an almost competent swordswoman.
Besides her studies and training with the sword, she also spent time sitting alongside her mother to learn how she handled the business of the kingdom. With two older brothers as heirs, Sianna was destined to marry a lord or a powerful knight some day, so she needn’t have concerned herself with the affairs of governing the castle too much. However, her mother, ever a practical woman, insisted she learn how to administer the law, arbitrate disputes, grant petitions, and handle all matters great and small that came with running a castle and a kingdom. As the lady of an estate, she could apply the same lessons learned, should she have to tend to the house’s affairs when her husband was away.
Even though weeks had passed, she couldn’t shake the premonition that had disturbed her on the day her father marched to war. Instead, the premonition seemed to grow stronger. She often awoke in the night from dreams of murder in the castle and slaughtered corpses on the battlefield filling her head.
Sianna also spent a good deal of time at the chapel, dutifully petitioning Sol for the safe return of her loved ones. On one blustery fall afternoon after her training with Sir Colm, she went to visit the chapel. Iris usually attended with her but had taken ill on that day. The heavy wooden door creaked when she pushed it
open, and a gust of wind and rain helped propel her into the dim interior. She closed the door behind herself and lowered the hood of her cloak, the water dripping off her and pattering on the floor in the chapel’s stillness.
The altar was brightly lit by dozens of candles ranging in size from only an inch or two in height to some as long as her arm. The golden sun disc of Sol gleamed brightly in the candlelight, chasing away the outside gloom and making her feel at peace. She sat in the first pew and focused on the disc, slipping into a routine prayer she’d been saying each day for the past couple months.
“Glorious Sol, I humbly beseech you to look after your faithful servants as they ride to do battle with the enemies of Ketania. Bless my father the king, Jerard, Dorian, Sir Edwin, Father Ethert, and all the others. Keep them safe in these dark times, and deliver strength to their swords that they may be victorious and bring glory to your name. Watch over your people in the southern lands, and protect them from the strife and suffering wrought by the Nebarans. Also, keep your servants safe here in Llantry. Grant Mother the wisdom to rule justly until Father’s return. For despite the darkness, dawn always follows, and with it, the purifying rays of the light make everything anew.”
Another voice echoed hers as she recited the last sentence. She opened her eyes and looked over to see Brother Horst seated on the pew opposite the aisle from her.
“Greetings, Princess. I hope you are well?” A kindly smile was on his boyish face. The young man was the sole cleric for the castle since Father Ethert had gone to war with her father.
“Hello, Brother Horst. I am well enough, I suppose, though this weather leaves much to be desired.”
“Ah, this is nothing compared to the storms that blow in off the ocean in Coldshore. When the storms really bring their fury, the city can get covered in ice as thick as your hand is wide.”
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