by Jocelyn Fox
He resisted the urge to simply slake his thirst from the first water skin he found. “Have to take inventory first,” he told himself hoarsely. Finnead’s faehal looked at him questioningly at the sound of his voice. Ramel smiled and patted the charger’s flank absently as he took stock of his supplies. He found two skins of water, one completely full and one about half; that would be enough to last him four or five days if he rationed himself strictly. There was also enough food in Finnead’s pack to last him the entire journey back to Darkhill, but it was the small, well-stocked healing kit that made him sigh with relief.
He debated for a few moments whether to dress his wounds now or after he’d Walked, but he decided that he wasn’t in imminent danger, just discomfort, so he took a few swallows of water and chewed on a piece of dried meat as he rubbed down his mount with a dry cloth. The charger shivered in pleasure and willingly accepted the few handfuls of feed from Ramel’s palm. He found a bowl and splashed water into it for the magnificent faehal. They would probably find water later in the day, but he needed his mount to keep up his speed in case the creatures attacked. He dug through the packs until he found a length of rope, and he set it on the ground in a neat coil.
After repacking his supplies, he unwrapped Finnead’s bow and strung it, buckling the quiver to his hip and slinging the bow over his shoulder. With a sigh, he pulled his short sword from its scabbard and cleaned it as best he could on the leaves of the forest floor. A glance at the trees around them offered a likely candidate that would be relatively easy to climb but would keep him well out of reach of any garrelnost. Sliding the coil of rope over his other shoulder, he steeled himself, eyeing the lowest branch. Then he paused and spoke over his shoulder to the faehal, which was watching him with liquid, intelligent eyes.
“If any of those creatures attack, run.” He smiled. “I’d appreciate it if you came back for me, if you could, but I’d understand if not.”
The black faehal huffed out a breath and watched Ramel steadily. He took that to mean that it understood and turned back to the task of climbing the tree. His chest erupted in fiery protest when he jumped and grabbed the lowest branch, pulling himself up with painful slowness. He clenched his jaw and steadily worked his way up the branches until he knew he was high enough to evade the reach of even the largest garrelnost that he could imagine. That meant that he was high enough in the tree that a fall would probably break bones, but it was a tradeoff he was willing to make.
Ramel soon found that the actual mechanics of tying himself securely to the tree were much more complex than he’d imagined. The trunk of the tree was too large to simply pass the rope around with his arms. He contemplated lying down on his branch and tying himself to the branch itself, but then thought better of the idea. Giving himself some slack, he tied the end of the long rope to one of the smaller branches jutting off his branch. Then he clambered painfully around the trunk of the tree, feeding the rope around the bole until he reached his starting point again.
“This is not as simple as I thought it would be,” he muttered to himself, catching his breath from the climbing. But he sat against the trunk and tied a passable harness into the rope, lashing himself to the trunk and then to the branch below him as a failsafe. With his heart in his mouth, he tested his work by slowly leaning all his weight to one side and then the other, carefully keeping hold of a nearby branch in case one of his knots gave way. The harness held firm, and he breathed a sigh of relief. It certainly wasn’t the most comfortable setup from which he’d ever Walked, but he was sure that his harness would hold him safely in the tree as his Walker-form journeyed back to Darkhill.
“Well, now or never,” he told himself brightly. He leaned back against the trunk of the tree and watched the sunlight illuminating the green leaves for a moment; he realized that he’d never taken the time to fully appreciate the delicate tracery of veins on every leaf, the graceful lines dark against the bright golden-green color. He promised himself that he’d take a few moments to watch them again when he returned. With that, he took a deep breath of the air, tasting the forest around him on his tongue, and then he closed his eyes and felt for the seam between the waking world and the ether, holding firm a picture of the Queen’s courtyard in Darkhill in his mind. He knew that the Walkers reported to the guild, but he’d never been there, and he’d settled on the courtyard as a place where he’d likely encounter someone able to relay the message to the Queen.
He felt a strange dual existence for an instant as his Walker-form peeled away from his physical body, and then he slipped into the ether. Lights that he’d once compared to stars whirled around him in the explosive grandeur of the place between places. He felt his Walker-form gaining speed as he directed his focus toward the image of the courtyard until he felt as though he hurtled through the ether with the speed and fury of a falling star. It had taken them weeks to travel through the forest to that little clearing, but Ramel covered all that distance in an instant, landing with an almost physical shock in the courtyard, blinking as his Walker-form materialized. The light seemed very bright for some reason, and though he could see enough to make out several people standing in the courtyard, he couldn’t distinguish their faces. Sounds came to him in strange, wavy snatches, as though he were underwater and then above water again. He tried to speak but found that his voice wasn’t working. A few of the figures moved closer and he heard pieces of their astonished voices.
“What do you think is the meaning…”
“Rude, but perhaps…”
“…not a member of the Guild, that’s certain…”
Ramel focused fiercely on forming words, even as the rest of his Walker-form wavered precariously on the brink of slipping back into the ether. He straightened and looked toward what he thought were the faces of the figures. “The Princess has been attacked,” he said.
One of the figures straightened in astonishment. “Did he say…Princess…attacked?”
“Yes!” Ramel said, feeling as though he were shouting but barely hearing his own voice. He poured his energy into his voice. “The Princess and her party were attacked by creatures in the forest!”
“Go fetch one of the Three, the first you can find,” said the figure who’d spoken before to one of the others. Ramel felt a vague sense of relief that at least part of the message had been understood. The voice of the figure sounded strangely familiar, but he couldn’t spare the thought to place it. His Walker-form tried to slide back into the ether but he held himself firmly in the courtyard. An ache started to build behind his eyes. He knew that Walkers could die by stretching themselves beyond their abilities, and he silently accepted that possibility. If that was what it took to fulfill Knight Finnead’s orders, he would gladly pour his life force into this one crucial journey.
“Tell me what happened,” said the figure firmly. As Ramel wrenched himself farther away from the edge of the ether, his Walker-form sharpened. The figure drew back in astonishment and then stepped closer. “Squire Ramel, lad, tell me what happened.”
“The Princess and her party were attacked by dark creatures last night in the forest,” Ramel said. His voice rang clearly through the courtyard even though every word sent a lance of pain into his head. “Walker Orin and Guard Halin are dead. The rest of the party was under siege, and we thought that the creatures were controlled by one who wished to capture the Princess. Knight Finnead ordered me to escape and bring word to Darkhill, because I have some small skill as a Walker.”
“Some small skill, indeed,” murmured the figure.
“Repeat my words,” Ramel ordered, not caring that he was probably overstepping his bounds with one of the great lords of the Court. “Tell me what I said. I must be sure I delivered the message.” His head felt like it was about to split open.
“Princess Andraste and her traveling party were attacked by creatures last night in the forest. Two of the party are dead, and the rest under siege when you were ordered to escape to bring word of the event here.”
> Ramel nodded. “And the creatures…are controlled by…a sorcerer, or someone of evil intent. We think.” It was becoming strangely hard to breathe, even in his ethereal form. He felt himself sway and drop to one knee.
“Lad?” said the figure in concern. He knew that voice, though he didn’t often hear it concerned.
“I don’t know…if I can stay…until one of the Three arrives,” Ramel managed, every word forced and painful.
“Are you wounded, lad? Do you need help?”
“Don’t worry about me,” he gritted out. “Knight Finnead and the Princess…”
“I’ll take that to mean yes,” said the figure in an annoyed yet fatherly fashion.
Ramel blinked, even as the courtyard wavered around him. For an instant, the figure’s face became clear in a rush of familiarity. Knight Balaron. He had been speaking to his training master all along. A rush of certainty that Balaron would relay the message with the appropriate urgency buoyed Ramel even as his grip on the courtyard slipped. The seam between the waking world and the ether widened. He felt the tug of his body, leagues away in the forest. A sharp pain split his head and he slipped into the ether with a sigh, secure at least that he’d fulfilled his mission from Knight Finnead, whatever the cost.
Chapter 30
Darkness.
He struggled to awaken, but this blackness wrapped oily tentacles around him. It was not sleep, of that much he was sure. He couldn’t remember what had landed him in this tar pit of unconsciousness. Had he taken a bad blow during a tournament match? Had his charger spooked and reared, throwing him from its back?
A flash of memory flared like a torch through the darkness. A burning tree, throwing day-bright light over a hellish scene of battle. Wolf-creatures, attacking in pairs, their slavering jaws snapping, the stench of death rolling off their mottled fur in a miasma of decay.
The scene faded, leaving him alone again in the blackness deeper than any starless night, but the memory touched a chord of fear within him. Who had been with him during that battle? There was something important he couldn’t remember. Someone important. He clawed his way closer to consciousness, threads of pain worming their way through him. He used the pain as his guide, fighting toward the grayness that was not quite light, but was different than the thick oily blackness that tried to envelop him.
There was something important. A duty, a task, a mission that he needed to remember. The hot sting of newly inflicted wounds welcomed him back to awareness of his body. Finn gave a shuddering gasp as the recollection of the battle slammed into him, more painful than his new wounds. Andraste. His mind screamed her name and he opened his eyes.
Dimness greeted him. He blinked, and his vision focused. Ignoring the rawness of his wounds – nothing too serious, or he’d be dead already, he told himself – he tested his ability to move. His hands were bound tightly behind him, the bonds biting cruelly into his wrists and burning with a strange sensation that he’d never felt before. He lay on his side, the ground rough and cold beneath him. When he swallowed, grit grated against his teeth and tongue. The air tasted cool and heavy.
For a moment, he lay still, listening, taking inventory of his strength. He heard two others breathing in the same space as him. His heart sank. Sorting through his memories, his head aching, he dredged up the reason for his dismay. Five had survived the battle with the garrelnost in the clearing. He remembered Guard Elias and Lady Guinna on one mount, Lady Rye and Princess Andraste on another. He’d sent Ramel on his charger to warn the Queen of the attack when he’d realized the overwhelming odds against them. The memory of the heartbreak on his squire’s face as he ordered him to abandon them wrenched Finn’s heart. He coughed a little into the dust.
“Finn?”
He didn’t know whether to be joyous or despairing that it was Rye’s voice he heard. The two emotions tangled in his chest, along with the heavy feeling of failure. He hadn’t been able to protect them. He hadn’t been able to guide the Princess and her ladies to the White City. He swallowed painfully and tried to regain control of his emotions.
“Welcome back. I was afraid for a while that you wouldn’t wake up,” Rye said softly. He heard a sound like scuffling against the rocky ground, and when his eyes focused again he saw Rye sitting in front of him. He drew in a sharp breath at her appearance. A dark, mottled bruise consumed the left side of her face, the white of her eye glimmering from a nest of swollen flesh. Her lip had been split, but the wound looked to be healing. Finn wondered disjointedly how long he’d been unconscious.
“If you think I look bad, you should see yourself,” said Rye, smiling slightly with the right side of her mouth. “Do you want to sit up?”
Finn swallowed and nodded. The movement sent lances of pain from his head down his neck and he winced.
“We’ll have to take it slow. I was afraid they’d killed you, they hit you so hard, again and again.” Rye shook her head. She held up her hands, shackled at the wrists. “You and Elias they bound hand and foot, but since I’m a woman, I’m apparently such a small threat that shackles will do.”
Finn would have chuckled, but his lungs were already on fire and he was dizzy with the pain from his head.
“Easy now,” said Rye as she slid her shackled hands under his shoulder. Finn took a breath and held it, finding that his legs did indeed still work, though his ankles were bound together.
“To your knees first, and then we’ll ease back,” said Rye, her voice tight with her own pain.
When the darkness stopped swirling around him, Finn found that he sat against some sort of wall, made of the same cool material as the ground. “A cave,” he whispered.
“Yes,” said Rye. She held up a rough cup to his lips. The gritty water tasted sweeter to him than any wine.
“Andraste?” he whispered.
“Alive,” Rye replied. “They aren’t holding her here with us. I’ve seen her twice, and from what I can see she was unharmed.”
“Why?” Each word cost him dearly, but he needed to understand their situation. He needed to understand why he’d failed, what forces had converged against him.
“I have my suspicions,” said Rye, “but I don’t know for sure why they took her, or why they’re treating her so well. Guinna escaped. You and Elias took up so much of their attention…Elias jumped down and fought on foot, and Guinna escaped, though she was forced to ride in a different direction than your squire.” She lowered the cup after Finn finished the last swallow, sitting back on her heels in the dim light. Her good eye looked directly into his gaze. “What I do know is that they’re going to torture us, one by one. They took Rose first…they captured her after all, when she ran panicked into the darkness. Did you know Rose and Guinna are sisters? I didn’t know that.” She sighed slightly.
“And?” Finn whispered. A tiny spark of anger kindled in his chest. He held onto it, warming himself by its growing heat.
“She screamed for four days, and then it was silent.” Rye took a breath and glanced over her shoulder. “They took Elias yesterday, but brought him back at nightfall. I’ve been doing my best for him.”
Finn blinked against the shroud of pain blurring his vision. “Why?”
“Why are they torturing us?” Rye set the cup down on the ground. “Do you want to know what I know or what I think?”
“Both.” Finn swallowed with difficulty.
“What I know is that they’re keeping us alive for the moment, the three of us here. They let me move about and tend to you and Elias. There are at least five of them that I’ve seen. I don’t know what name to give them.” She shuddered but then took a breath and steeled herself. “I think they’re Northmen. Corrupted and enslaved by a dark power.”
“How?”
“You remember the whispers of a bone sorcerer,” said Rye.
Finn didn’t reply. The shiver that shook his body ignited a host of hot, pulsing points of agony throughout his body. He wondered idly how many ribs they’d broken with their beating, and
he remembered in a quick flash the feeling of being pulled from his faehal, his sword flashing and then caught in bone, wrenched from his grip. Andraste’s scream had echoed in his ears as he fought like a caged animal, striking out blindly until their blows overwhelmed him and he slid into darkness. His failure had not been graceful or stoic; it had been a thing of desperation and blood, flailing and ugly. He swallowed down hot shame that tasted like bile.
“What I think,” continued Rye quietly, “is that they are keeping us alive to use against her. I think they are forcing her to watch the torture.” She drew in a breath. “With some dark sorcery, some blood magic…there must be consent.”
Finn drew in a breath and gathered his strength. “I hope they kill all of us before she consents.”
“As do I,” said Rye grimly. “But I have not yet given up hope.” She held up her shackled wrists. “They have put iron in our bonds. It will weaken us day by day. But I have seen that they remove the bonds when they take one to be tortured.”
Finn shook his head slightly, trying to tell her that he didn’t understand the importance of such a fact. His head ached, and his body felt broken and useless.
“Listen to me, Finn,” Rye said, her voice low and intense. “We cannot give up. We owe it to Andraste, and to ourselves.” She placed a hand gently on his shoulder, and the comfort of her touch outweighed the ache of an awakened bruise.
He knew she was right, and he summoned every reserve of strength remaining to smile slightly at her. The gleam of hope in her eye warmed him as he slid back into the soft, welcoming darkness.
