by David Adams
“Either the Legion passed this way and burned it to keep the kingdoms from supporting one another, or the locals torched it to keep them from crossing,” Demetrius speculated.
“War is an odd thing,” Tala mused. “Both sides might contemplate the same act of destroying a lifeless object in the belief it will benefit their cause.”
“Buildings, castles, bridges,” Demetrius replied. “Tools that can be used, but if you no longer need them and the enemy might find them advantageous, it is best to take the option of use away from them.”
“Well, someone,” said Alexis, “be it friend or foe, has taken this option away from us. Let’s move on, unless we aim to build a raft from what little wood is left.”
If anyone had any thought about making a boat, they kept it to themselves.
A few miles further on they found another destroyed wooden bridge, although this one had been much smaller than the first, a few planks wide with ropes strung at chest-height to steady oneself—a small footbridge.
“Just as well,” Rowan said with a shrug. “I wouldn’t have trusted this one to hold the horses, and our journey is far too long to go on without them.”
They proceeded on, progressing only a few feet before Corson called out in a tone of mock disdain, “Will you look at that.”
Keeping the same distance as in days past, but now with a river between it and its marks, the Mist gazed at them from across the river.
“Well,” Corson continued, “we know it can shriek, but I bet it can’t laugh, otherwise it would be mocking us right now.”
“If only we could fly as it does,” said Tala.
“Any chance that you’ve been working on that levitation spell while we slept?” asked Rowan.
Tala laughed. “Even if I had, I still would not be able to lift a horse.”
“Or Lucien,” Corson added.
“If cut Corson into little pieces, maybe can send him across” Lucien answered. He pulled out his warblade and checked the sharpness of the edge.
“It would take too much time,” Tala said. “And I am not certain I could do a good job of reassembling him. The only incantation I know that might help is this one.” She spoke aloud to her mount, and it set off in search of the next bridge.
Another two hours’ journey brought them to a stone bridge, intact and undamaged. Whatever group had destroyed the wooden bridges had either decided doing the same to the stone one was too much effort, or had simply not ventured this far west. The group crossed quickly, as if concerned the bridge might tumble down at any moment. Once safely on the south bank of the Crystal River, Corson gave a mock salute to the Mist.
The party gathered together, and Demetrius asked Rowan, “Do you think we can move south from here, or should we go east first, since we had to take that little bridge-related detour?”
“South, without doubt, and even a bit more west, since we didn’t reach the confluence of the Crystal and Little rivers. If we’re fortunate, we’ll strike the main road around Humbold Bay, which goes through Bellford and then to Upper Cambry. The road will probably be snow-covered this far north, but the further south we go, the better chance we’ll have to use it.”
“Paved?” Alexis asked.
Rowan indicated it was. “Large stones and quite flat as well. Easy for horse or foot travel, or for drawing a cart for those who have them.”
“As long as that Mist follows us, none of our movement will be secret,” Demetrius said with a resigned sigh. “A road would be a nice change, and might shorten the trip somewhat.”
Delving was a land of gently rolling hills here in the north, with most of the land being open, occasional copses of oak or poplar dotting the landscape. It took six days for them to reach the road, a wide, deep depression that snaked along the shore of Humbold Bay. The bay itself was visible in the distance, its surface glazed over with a thin layer of ice. Demetrius asked if it could be crossed in winter.
“A man can walk out a short way in the northernmost part of the bay,” Rowan replied, “but it can’t be crossed. The winter here is rarely severe enough for that, and the ocean currents bring warmer water into the southern outlet. The bay doesn’t freeze over at all in the south.”
The road showed signs of recent use, densely packed footprints of both men and horses denting the snow. Demetrius dismounted to inspect the footfalls. “Both men and horses were properly shod. It doesn’t appear to be the Legion.”
The tracks made the road even easier to follow, and they did so for several days. The further south they ventured, the less deep the snow, and the night wind lost some of its bite even though it often howled with fury. Late one afternoon Lucien noticed Tala squinting to see something in the distance. “What is it?” he asked.
“A small party moving on the road, I think. Going south. They march on foot, so we will overtake them soon.”
They approached cautiously, and when they drew within shouting distance Rowan called out, indicating that they were friends. The others turned at the call and held their ground, but they did so with weapons drawn.
“They wear the red-and-white,” Rowan said, his shoulders sagging with relief. He tossed back his cloak to show he wore the colors of Delving just as they did, and then rode forward to meet them.
There were six men in the company. Their uniforms were dirty—they actually wore dull red-and-gray—and they had a gaunt, hollow look about them. But they were also well-trained soldiers, and there was a look in their eyes and a stiffness in their spine that indicated if battle was desired it would be given. At the sight of Rowan’s uniform the shortest of the group stepped forward, lowering but not sheathing his sword.
“You travel with interesting company, sir,” the man said, letting his gaze play across the riders behind Rowan.
“Good and loyal friends, all,” Rowan told him. “To myself and to Delving.”
The man took that in, rubbing a hand through his curly black hair. “Well, you seem alive enough.”
Rowan smiled. “We are not of the Legion if that’s what you fear, though we’ve been on the road long enough that we might smell like it.”
The man laughed at that, as did his companions. “We’re not likely to be of better aroma. What brings you—”
“Look!” one of the men shouted, gesturing with his bow at the Mist that had just become visible to them after drifting over a small copse of trees.
Rowan turned almost casually to regard it, then addressed the leader once again. “A Mist. A servant of the Dark One. It has been following us for nearly a fortnight.”
“I know what it is,” said the man, his voice tense. “We’ve seen a half-dozen at least.”
“When?” asked Rowan, alarmed.
“A week ago, at most. They are the vanguard of the Legion. When you see the Mists, the Dead are not far behind.”
“This one only tracks us. We have seen no sign of the Dead, except for some bridges over the Crystal River that were burned. That may have been their work.”
The man shrugged. “I can’t speak to that. All I know is the Dead took Humbold, Whiton, and Lower Cambry months ago.”
Rowan face took on an ashen pallor. “I was there at Humbold and Whiton.”
“Then you know we fought valiantly, but had not the strength to break them. We held out at Lower Cambry for a short time—long enough for many to escape across the bay. Once we knew we couldn’t hold the remainder of our forces crossed and then went north. There was a force left north of Bellford, and the rest of us went around the bay to Humbold. The place was a ruin, but even rubble can be defended better than open plains. For a time we thought the Legion had gone elsewhere, or perhaps had simply crawled back into their graves, but then our advanced scouts said they were massing and moving back through Whiton.” The man stopped for a moment, glancing back at his companions. They nodded for him to continue. “Kylers, Orstead, and I were in a small force a mile or so down the road from Humbold. They came at dusk, the Mists screaming and howling. Lesser me
n would have run just from that sound, the way it works into your spine and makes you shiver. Then the Dead came up, their numbers bloated by all whom they had killed. Likely many a man I had fought side-by-side with were now in that host. We had no chance. We went back to Humbold to raise the alarm, and held for only a short time before the captain ordered a hasty retreat. We fought in the darkness at Humbold against an enemy that cares not whether they strike friend or foe, and a large part of their number wore the red-and-white. How could anyone hope to win such a battle?” He looked at Rowan, his eyes both pleading and defiant.
“The Dead make a formidable opponent,” Rowan said. “We have faced them in battle as well.”
“Then you all know what it’s like. But why do they do this? If Solek wants us to bend the knee, why does he not send a messenger to tell us so?”
“I think your suffering is what Solek wants, not your fealty. His armies have struck in all the kingdoms, and even in the goblin realm to the west. Never has he given terms for surrender.”
“Then what hope is there?”
“Whatever hope we can find or make for ourselves. As long as we breathe, we will fight him.”
“As will I,” the man responded, trying to draw himself up.
“Do you march to Bellford now?”
The man nodded, while a grim expression played across his face. “We’ll try to hold there as long as we can, to buy more time to build up the defenses around Upper Cambry.”
“Who commands at Bellford? The duke?”
“Duke Onsweys fell at Lower Cambry. The duchess rules now. Captain Sawdel commands in the field. He is already at Bellford, I imagine.”
“Captain Sawdel is a good man. He will slow the Legion as much as any man could.” Rowan turned to his companions. “We should stop at Bellford to speak with the captain. There may be traps and ambushes between here and Upper Cambry we’d best know of.” As he returned his attention to the soldier he saw one of the others whispering harsh advice in his ear, and looking at Rowan with unveiled contempt. This man had a ragged scar across one cheek, and nervous eyes that jittered about as he spoke.
“Keep your place,” the leader told him.
“Who are you to tell me what to do?” asked the man with the scar.
“I command here.”
The man laughed bitterly. “You can thank the Dead Legion for that. They killed a dozen men above you in rank in our company.”
“Which puts me in command. Now stand aside.”
“What’s the problem?” Rowan asked mildly.
“Dumfrey here’s the problem,” answered the leader. Dumfrey flushed but held his tongue, and the leader went on. “He’s not sure we should let you pass.”
This time when Rowan’s gaze returned to Dumfrey, the man’s tongue untangled. “You wear the red-and-white, that’s true enough, but there’s enough dead soldiers about that you could’ve gotten that anywhere. You travel with a goblin, an elf, a group of outlanders and a Mist. I noticed you haven’t stated your names. And we’re to let you walk right up to Bellford and Captain Sawdel. Might be you have a knife to plunge into his back. Might be you’re spies.” Dumfrey’s breath came short and sharp, as if he had just run a race.
Rowan calmly stated his name and introduced his fellow travelers.
“Blasey,” the leader said, tapping his chest with his index finger. “Sorry about Dumfrey. He’s a bit on edge.”
“We all are,” said Rowan.
“I still say we should take the horses and escort them to Bellford under guard,” Dumfrey said, no longer keeping his ideas between himself and Blasey. “Orstead thinks so, too.” He pointed at a young twig of a man, who had a sudden urge to study the ground.
“Orstead says what you tell him to say,” Blasey said curtly. “If you want to take them by force, you’re welcome to try it. They’re mounted, and I’ve heard a goblin with a warblade is as good as a dozen men. If Rowan doesn’t have your head now, Captain Sawdel will if he hears you’re attacking friends and fellow countrymen.”
A tense silence fell. Dumfrey licked his lips, looking at each rider in turn as if calculating the odds. The leer of battle-lust on Lucien’s face finally cowed him. He grumbled and stalked off by himself, calling for Orstead to follow. Orstead looked from the retreating back of his angry friend to Blasey, then folded his arms, indicating he was staying.
“He fights well and bravely,” Blasey said of Dumfrey. “If he’d shut up he might be commanding this little troupe of mine. I’ll beg forgiveness for him.”
“Don’t concern yourself. It is hard to know where one can put trust in these dark days. If we have your leave, we should press on.”
“Of course,” said Blasey, “but go slow and careful. That Mist will be seen as a signal that you are the enemy. Most of our archers have learned not to waste shots on the Dead at a distance—or even up close—but nervous hands may fire where calmer ones would not.”
“We’ll be careful,” said Rowan. “Good luck to you. Perhaps we’ll stand side-by-side against our common foe in the days to come.”
“The Savior go with you, Rowan of Delving,” Blasey replied. “I see the cross you wear, and that’s something the Dead won’t abide, even on their rotting uniforms. I saw a couple tear it off after they were freshly…converted. Like it burns them or something. Might make you a target for them though.”
Rowan smiled at that. “No more than any other living being. Farewell.”
They reached Bellford six days later. While the weather could not be termed warm, the snow that blanketed the northern half of Arkania diminished and then disappeared as they moved further south. The grass that took its place was a dull tan color, perhaps a sign of the sickness they had seen in the fall, but they could convince themselves it had simply gone dormant for the winter. They passed more men of Delving traveling on the road, and started to reach those posted as sentries, and while some greeted them roughly and thought as Dumfrey did, most were apt to recognize them as friends as Blasey had. The Mist remained an ever-present, silent partner on their journey.
A mile from Bellford the road and surrounding countryside was blocked with felled trees, and rough-hewn abatis were positioned to slow any hostile advance. Here the guards refused them passage into the city itself, although they agreed to send a rider of their own to bring Captain Sawdel out to speak with them. The captain did not make them wait long, the Mist that followed them indicating they were no ordinary travelers.
Sawdel was a stocky man just past his fiftieth year. His long, flowing locks of golden hair recalled his youth, while the lines stress had etched into his face indicated his position of authority in time of crisis. To Rowan’s surprise, Sawdel greeted him by name, and gave him a warm smile and a brotherly hug.
“I was not aware you knew me, sir,” Rowan admitted.
“Jabel spoke well of you, and pointed you out to me during several training exercises. Did you know I had requested you be transferred to my command? To serve on the King’s Guard?”
“No, sir. I am honored.”
“You earned it. But that seems a lifetime ago now. The king and the duke are gone, and the Dead march to crush what remains of Delving’s strength.” He looked suddenly at Rowan’s companions. “I have forgotten my manners. I am Captain Sawdel, in service to Delving and the Duchess Onsweys.”
After the introductions were made, Sawdel motioned at the Mist. “And your other friend?”
“An uninvited guest that joined us as we passed through Ridonia.”
“Any particular reason it is interested in your party?”
Rowan nodded once but said nothing.
Sawdel understood the unspoken message. “Let’s go toward the city a way where we can speak in private.”
At Sawdel’s signal an opening was made in the obstructions and the group proceeded slowly toward Bellford. Once they were several hundred yards away from the men who still worked furiously to stiffen the city’s outer defenses, Sawdel reined up his horse.
“Far to the south,” said Tala. “Near the city but not in it.”
“And what do you wish of me?”
“Only your leave to go on,” said Rowan. “Provisions if you can spare them.”
“Provisions we will provide, although there is little enough to go around. I was hoping when I saw you that you would stay and fight with us. I now understand that is not your purpose, and that your quest must continue, but I do wonder if you turned back now whether the Legion might follow you rather than strike us.”
“Why do you think they would do that?”
“It might be coincidence that you need to move toward Upper Cambry, that a Mist follows you, and that the Legion comes as well. Then again, it may be that you are going where Solek wants you to go, and the Legion comes seeking you as a prize, rather than being concerned with the citizens of Delving.”
“Do you actually believe that?” Rowan asked, astonished. “That Solek has suddenly lost interest in destroying our people and cities?”
“No,” answered Sawdel without hesitation. “But if he has other priorities, it may give us more time to prepare. I will grant you passage regardless. If we have all the success we could hope for here it only delays Solek’s plans. Your success might mean his defeat. If I send you back and the Legion presses on, I’ve helped the enemy. Perhaps if you find the shard quickly and find yourselves led out of Delving next, the Legion may follow.”
