by James Dale
"There is nothing." Eaudreuil replied, "No smell. No movement. Nothing!"
"Was it the wind?" Jack asked hopefully, even though he knew it hadn't been.
"No."
The moan suddenly began again, louder and more shrill.
"Judas Bloody Hell!" Jack hissed.
"Horse-brother!" Eaudreuil neighed at the same time.
It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, a wail full of despair and grief grew until it became deafening. Then from some dark corner of Jack's being, horrifying recognition came. Ulgog'rel! The tortured voices of countless thousands of lost souls crying out from beyond the grave, their misery so complete and desolate hell could no longer contain their sorrow. Braedan fell to his knees, dropping his sword as he covered his ears in a vain attempt to shut out the dreadful noise. But it was too late. The wail of Hell's Breath was inside him now, filling him completely. It was not long until his own voice joined the Bergaweld's wordless cry.
Sometime later, Braedan found himself lying on the cold ground, shivering uncontrollably, his body curled into a protective, fetal ball. He had no idea how long he'd suffered under the fury of the wail, but the eastern sky was beginning to turn a sullen gray and he knew dawn was not far off. His throat was raw from screaming and his heart pounded as if he had just finished running a marathon, yet even in this harried state it took him only a second to realize he was alone.
Eaudreuil was gone!
Braedan climbed unsteadily to his feet and tried to call out to the stallion, but could manage only a weak, pitiful croak. Reaching out for the Val'anna with his mind, he sent his thoughts roaming through the surrounding darkness, desperately searching the empty plains with his special sense until his head began to throb. But he could find no trace of the stallion. All he felt for countless miles was barren, empty wilderness. For the first time since he'd passed through the doorway which had brought him into this world, Jack Braedan was truly alone.
An hour later, when dawn finally came and the Val'anna had not returned, Jack was faced with a painful dilemma. The disappearance of the stallion had left him with three choices. He could stay here and hope Eaudreuil would return, assuming of course the horse had not been driven mad by the assault of Hell's Breath and would recover his senses enough to come looking for him. Or...he could backtrack, making his way west until he eventually rejoined Tereil and the rest of the villagers somewhere along his trail. Or...he could continue on his way eastward.
The first choice, though the least difficult of the three, was to Braedan also the least attractive. The thought of sitting here, idly passing the hours counting blades of grass in this haunted land hoping Eaudreuil would return, was not one he relished. Besides, if the Val'anna was still sane, he would have little trouble finding him if he moved away from this spot.
The second choice was one Braedan liked even less. He knew turning around now would spell the end of his resolve. If he hesitated, if he wavered for only a second, Braedan knew he would never again be able to resume this course. Having shouldered this burden, it had become too heavy to be set aside then picked up again later. Furthermore, although he'd told Tereil to select the new Gale-kindar quickly, there was no telling how long it would take for such an important task to be completed. By the time the Amarians had set out after him, he would most likely be beyond any earthly assistance they could give.
That left him with only one alternative, certainly the most dangerous and without a doubt the one choice with the least chance of success. He could cross over a hundred miles of barren plains, on foot, with only one stale biscuit and a single quart of water between him and starvation. If he survived the journey, which was doubtful, an ancient stronghold awaited him, where a trap was likely poised and ready to be sprung, manned by the powerful servants of the dark-King or perhaps even by a reawakened Graith himself.
Yet as hopeless as this path seemed, it was his only real option. He couldn't sit here indefinitely waiting for Eaudreuil to return. Given his own condition after last night's attack, the stallion had most likely been driven far away and was now wandering aimlessly across the plains. Nor could he realistically hope to rejoin Tereil and the villagers. The distance separating them was just too great. With grim resignation, Braedan made his choice. After eating the last stale biscuit and washing it down with a mouthful water, he rolled up one of the bearskin blankets, using the girth strap of Eaudreuil's saddle as a sling, and before he could change his mind, turned to face the east and began to walk.
By mid-day when he stopped to take a short rest and drink another mouthful of water, his throat was as dry as dust and his eyes burned from the horrible sight of the Bloody Plains. There had been no sign of Eaudreuil all morning, neither had he been able to sense any other form of life. He might as well have been the last living creature on earth. By nightfall when Jack stumbled to a halt, he was almost blind from the illness of the endless crimson waves and his thirst was a raging desert. He allowed himself only a single swallow of water before unrolling his blanket and falling to the ground. There he lay shivering, as the sweat dried on his body and exhaustion overcame him.
This night his fitful sleep was not disturbed by the wailing of Ulgog'rel, but twice he was awakened by the pounding of thousands of marching feet and the faint, ghostly commands of captains and sergeants directing their phantom hosts. Braedan sat up quickly the first time they appeared and drew his sword, but he saw nothing of the passing of the dead armies, nor did any ghostly forms appear out of the night to trouble him. Compared to the terror of the Bergaweld's previous manifestation, this one was but a minor nuisance. Soon after they had passed and the noise of their tramping feet had faded back into nothingness, Jack returned to sleep. On their next appearance a few hours later he ignored the Bergaweld ghosts, rolling over and pulling his blanket tightly around his head as he tried to block out the noise.
The next day was a mirror image of the first, with Braedan stumbling blindly through the crimson wasteland. It ended with Jack's belly rumbling from hunger, only half a skin of water remaining and still no sign of the missing Eaudreuil. That night the spectral hosts of the Bergaweld gathered together and waged a terrible battle until just before dawn. By morning Jack's nerves were jagged scar. Long after the sun had risen he could still hear the pitiful cries of the dying and the faint ringing of steel in his ears.
Though weak from exhaustion and hunger, Braedan struggled to his feet and resumed his journey eastward into the heart of the Bergaweld. He began to drift in and out of a feverish daze, wandering across the crimson plains like an automaton, mechanically placing one foot in front of the other. Half the time he was unable to remember where he was or where he was going, recalling only some desperate need to keep moving east.
Always east.
When the sun slipped below the clouded horizon and darkness fell, Braedan gave its passing only cursory heed. On the verge of delirium, he continued on. Soon he began to see lights dancing on the edge of his vision, fleeting glimpses of orange and red, like torches moving in the distance. Even through the fog of exhaustion and dehydration, Jack knew immediately the source of the mysterious lights.
The armies of the Bergaweld had lighted their watch fires.
Tonight, he would not be alone.
Eventually the torches ceased to flicker, growing steadily brighter until Braedan was drawn to the nearest group of flames like a nocturnal insect seeking light. Before long, he found himself among the encamped army of the Whesguard Alliance. Men and Ailfar warriors of every nation of the west were gathered around these fires. He recognized among them the banner of Doridan and here and there saw the white and gold armor of the Knights of the White Horse. A small number of the ghostly warriors slept fitfully on the hard ground, wrapped in their cloaks, but most were gathered in groups of eight or ten around one of the numerous fires. There they sharpened swords or worried over some bit of armor or equipment needing repair before the coming battle. As they worked the soldiers talked, and soon
Jack began to make out faint snatches of the conversation.
"Ailfar scouts have sighted the vanguard of the dark-King's army," announced a ghostly archer, carefully waxing the string on his longbow.
"How far?" asked a man dressed in ragged peasant clothes, as he sharpened an old grain scythe with a whetstone.
"Not far," replied a knight in full plate armor. "We should make contact near sundown."
The peasant tested the blade of his scythe with a scared thumb, then smiled in grim satisfaction, "Then let the harvest begin at sundown."
Recognizing the consuming hatred burning the simple man's eyes, Jack quickly moved on. He soon found another group, this one composed of warriors dressed entirely in silver and black with a soaring hawk painted on their shields.
"Do you think he will be with them?" asked a young soldier, no older than eighteen or nineteen.
"Who?" another asked, even younger still.
"You know," replied a third youth. "Him."
"Do ye be so anxious to meet him?" inquired a gray-haired veteran with a weary, beaten face. "Are his demon-generals and grim'Hiru and dragons not terrible enough?"
"I...I want to be the one," the young man who had spoken first whispered sheepishly.
"The one to what?" the old veteran laughed sharply, "Kill the dark-King? Leave that to Ljmarn and his sword or the Staffclave. Best you boys just concentrate on sticking close by me and trying to stay alive. You hear me?"
Castigated, the young warrior bowed his head, but obviously staying close to the experienced sergeant had not been enough to save the boy or any of his companions.
Jack moved on again, this time drawn to a group of blonde warriors, dressed all in forest colors of green and brown. There was an unearthly air about them, an alien quality he could not quite put a finger on, some subtle difference marking them as not quite...human. Unlike the Doridanians or the soldiers from Brydium, these warriors didn't smell of fear or uncertainty. Though they faced the same prospect of violent death, the same horror of another battle, these troops were filled with a serene calm which somehow allowed them to rise above the grimness of their situation. When they broke into quiet song, Braedan realized he was looking for the first time upon full blooded Ailfar.
Rial en na Ura'nune
ar dominan Ail'itharain.
Fira nen orch'lormalain
Reaghiel fi'r na liaon
Chruinna' en na serail
dos eru bhrin'elar.
Musicail na fhira ghrian
in fortuans Ailfara.
Er dominan Ail'itharain
Tir na ar'bhrinay.
Ta cail larandarail
dhrula en na mar.
Ithachaidh sinal ar'en
arinaha en bhrakal!
Though some of the words were unfamiliar to Braedan, the meaning of Ailfar song was painfully clear. It was a song of their homeland, the forest kingdom Ail'itharain, the land men called Goldenbriar. It was a song of hope, of new leaves in spring, of late summer fog and of maidens with long, flowing hair the color of molten gold. He could almost see the broken beams of sunlight filtering down into sleepy glades, could almost hear the musical laughter of the beautiful Ailfar maidens as they danced among the ancient trees. In the cold, lifeless place this land had become, the song was enough to break a mortal man's heart.
He quickly moved on.
From one watch fire to the next Braedan wandered, stopping for a short time at each to listen. But whether they were crowded by Ailfar or men, armored knight or peasant spearmen, it was always the same. He would inevitably see some look or gesture, hear some homesick warrior speak of a loved one left behind, or this thing or that which he planned to do as soon as the war over and he could finally return home and start anew, and he would be filled with sadness and have to move on once more. Braedan did not know which affected him more, the naive young men who expected to survive the coming battle or the tired veterans with empty eyes and death already written on their faces, resigned to the fact they would not survive to see another sunset.
He wanted to tell these brave men their sacrifices had not been in vain, that tomorrow they would break the back of the dark-King's army and that soon the evil they struggled against would be overthrown. But he was over eight hundred years too late. Like the Galekindar at the siege of Tanaevar, these men had died thinking they had failed their loved ones and all they held dear would soon be gone. Unlike the Hills of Amar however, there was no magic remaining in this cursed land capable of calling them back from beyond death to earn their redemption. Here, there was only the endless parade of years, and eternity spent reliving their last battle over and over and over again. When Jack could stand no more, he turned his back on the phantom warmth of the watch fires of the dead and was soon enveloped by the black veil of night.
Braedan stumbled blindly through the darkness, no longer aware of direction or destination. Yet somehow, he continued unerringly east, guided now by instinct or perhaps drawn by some malignant will towards whatever doom awaited him. As the night wore on his strength began to fail. A brief moment of lucidity found him no longer moving, halted by some wall or barrier hidden in the darkness. Only when he discovered the obstacle was covered by a thin carpet of grass and he smelled the pungent earth, did he realize he'd fallen and was lying face down on the ground.
His entire body was numb from the cold seeping up from the frozen earth and blackness darker than the night around him swirled at the edge of his vision. Beyond that waited the empty void, eager to draw him into its icy embrace and begin their eternal dance of death. All he had to do was close his eyes and sleep. Yet some small part of his mind realized this kind of sleep was not the rest he wanted. To accept this invitation would doom him to the ghostly afterlife of the Bergaweld where he would join the other restless souls haunting the night. Except he would find no conversation around watch fires to fend off the dark. His fate would be to wander this barren wasteland alone and friendless until the end of time.
Propelled into action by the horrible image of this eternal, solitary wandering, Braedan somehow found the necessary reserves to push himself up on his elbows. Using his sheathed sword as a crutch, he struggled slowly to his feet and lurched forward again into the dark.
For a long time, he went on this way, methodically devouring the leagues which lay between him and his unremembered goal. Eventually however, his strength began to give way, his iron will began to fail, and simple determination was no longer enough to sustain him. His feet became as heavy as lead and the muscles in his legs screamed in agony, pushed far beyond normal limits of endurance.
Twice Jack fell, and twice he somehow regained his feet. The third time however, spelled his doom. Though he struggled mightily to stand, he only had enough strength remaining to roll over onto his back, where finally, he collapsed in exhausted defeat. His breath rattled and wheezed in and out of his lungs and each tortured rise and fall of his chest threatened to be his last. Face upturned towards the black night sky, with frost slowly forming on the exposed flesh of his face and hands and his sweat soaked clothing beginning to crust over with ice, Jack Braedan closed his eyes and waited for the Bergaweld to claim him.
Fevered dreams soon began to assail him. He saw Tarsus, his face a white, bloodless mask of death, gripped in the terrible claws of a dragon as it winged its way far above the empty wasteland of the Bloody Plains. He saw Tereil leading thousands of despondent Amarians slowly away from the ruins of Tanaevar, their hopes and dreams shattered forever. He saw Annawyn standing in a darkened window of the Ellgereth palace, her beautiful, upturned face illuminated by the almost full moon and her eyes glistening with unshed tears. Braedan wondered briefly for whom those tears were shed? Would Annawyn cry if the she knew he was dead? Did she even remember him at all? He saw Yhswyndyr in its resting place beneath the Temple of the Sword, Sunheart in its cross-hilt forever dim now that he would never step forward to fill it with light. Finally, he saw his own body lying in frozen repose as grim'Hiru warr
iors gathered around him to argue over the despoiling of his corpse.
"Cuts him up for meat," one of the beast-men said in a guttural rape of the common tongue of the west. "I be hungry."
"No." the largest of the group replied in the same coarse speech. "This be him."
"How can you tells?" asked a third.
"Who else could it be ya brainless maggot?" replied the huge beast-man. "Alone, out in this place."
"What do it matter?" another cried. "He be dead. Cuts him up for meat like Rhegnar says. A whole week we been out here with the spooks and ghosts and nothing to eat but field rations and grub-worms. I be ready for fresh meat."
"No!" the largest one snarled, "They wants this one back at the Tower. Anyhow, he don't be dead. Look."
The grim'Hiru leader kicked him in the ribs with the toe of his iron tipped boot and pain shot through his chest. With sudden horror Jack realized it wasn't a dream! He tried to reach the sword at his hip, but the huge beast-man stamped down painfully on his hand.
"See!" he laughed, baring a mouth full of sharp, yellow fangs. "He be far from dead. For now."
"I still say we should cuts him up for meat," Rhegnar growled, eyeing the helpless man hungrily.
"You eats this meat and like as not you'll end up answering to the Right Hand." the huge grim’Hiru replied, "Maybe even to The One Who Sleeps. He don't be long from stirring. You wants to explain to Him why you et somebody one of his precious wizards sent us out here to fetch?"
"N-n-no," Rhegnar stammered.
"Then you do what Bkormar the Black says. I runs this outfit. There be a war coming soon lads. We gets this meat back alive and there might be a promotion in it for us. Might even get us outta the field and into the Tower where it be safe. Maybe torturing prisoners or something."
