Each one remained isolated in his own reflections. They marched on towards the high ground that separated the great plain from the forests of the Rotmandis. Halfway through the day, they reached a considerably high altitude. They had left the woods behind them and reached the high regions where only low shrubs resisted. It was difficult to imagine that this was the best way to go over the hills towards the forest. They consulted a simple but valuable map Marrhit had stolen in Solzhaz. It showed a pass they wanted to climb. They finally reached it after four hours and two attempts along the wrong trails. Marrhit observed the surrounding area, the rocky crests that rose up, the mountainous lines along the horizons. He nodded. It was the pass he had intercepted in the minds of the officials during his inspection the day before.
“They will come over this pass,” he confirmed, breaking a silence that had lasted since morning. “We must lie in wait. They will send a vanguard to verify the situation. We will stay hidden, me on the east side and you to the west. Our objective is one of the oldest Xàmvetems. He will be wearing one of those damned black cloaks which hides their old, consumed bodies.” The figure of the horrifying Hood of Death came to Selot’s mind. “I will not exclude they may have already picked up on the danger,” Marrhit continued. “I get very…confusing sensations here,” he said in a worried tone.
“Here? In what way?”
“Vetem faculties are part of the earth’s energy. Didn’t anyone teach you that?” Marrhit pointed out.
“No,” Selot simply replied.
“There are places where I am made more powerful and other places where I am muffled, up to the point of annihilation in some cases.”
“Janavel nor anybody else ever made mention of it.”
Marrhit looked at him dubiously. But there was no time for conversation right now.
“I trust your aim with the bow is better in precision than your ability to pull off acrobatic exercises I taught you.”
“I will do my best.”
“We must strike him repetitively. That won’t be enough, however. The cloak which covers him protects him in a formidable way. After weakening him, I will try and finish him off with the sword. You must cover me while I’m in action. We must not kill anymore than is necessary. There’s only two of us, and even if there are not many of them, some of them will escape anyway. Let’s carry out our mission, then we need to run fast. We must move swifter than news of the death of this member of the Congregation if we want to surprise the next one.”
He wrapped his head with a long black strip to cover his face. They split up, each one taking up their position on the rocky sides that bordered the pass. There weren’t many places to hide. Too few rocks stuck out of the ground which inclined sweetly and was covered in a carpet of soft, low grass. Marrhit found a hollow edged by blackberry bushes. Selot got down behind a boulder just big enough to conceal his outline. He crouched down with his legs bent. They stayed immobile and silent like that for hours. Then, four sentinels appeared on the trail that led to the pass. They were on high alert, as if they were expecting something. They did not stay there on the lower part of the trail, but went up to make sure no one was there. They went up the side where Marrhit was crouched down and they passed very close by, without being alarmed to his presence. They pushed on to the edge of the pass. Then they nodded as if to say the road was clear. A short while later, a full inspection patrol emerged. In the center, a black figure advanced quickly and surely on the terrain. Selot observed him with great attention. It had to be a Vetem with a still very vigorous body, despite its age. He waited for Marrhit’s signal. The rhythmic whistle of a marmot which his brother knew how to imitate identically was remarkable. The patrol advanced. Selot raised his bow. His arms were perfectly positioned, ready to release the arrow at a moment’s notice. The black figure was on the nocked arrow’s trajectory. The figure came forward. It appeared to Selot to be coming directly onto the same point as his arrow; he kept it perfectly aimed. The group proceeded and would shortly go beyond the ideal position for an ambush: his target would be too close and the angle of aim too sharp, drawing him out of his hiding place behind the big rock. He was at risk of being seen. In the last remaining instants, he asked himself what the devil Marrhit was waiting for. He waited till the very end, then slackened the hold of his bow and arrow, and crouched down once more in his place. Honing his sight, he could sense his brother behind his post, motionless. Lengthy minutes went by. Marrhit did not move and gave no signal whatsoever. He asked himself what was happening. The expedition group had reached the pass and disappeared behind the crossing place. Even when the last component was out of sight, Marrhit remained motionless at his post. Selot was afraid he was possibly ill, or perhaps victim to one of his attacks. Maybe he had lost his memory, or even worse. Perhaps he should go to him. He tried to reason. If that were so, he would have emerged from his hiding place with a lost look on his face. Maybe something far worse had occurred. Selot was very unsure, but in the end he decided to leave his position. He leaned against the boulder and stretched his legs which had become numb, bringing a little relief. He couldn’t ignore the discomfort due to the lack of circulation. It was right at that moment he saw another body of guards advance, made up of at least twice as many soldiers. He cursed. His movement, as small as it was, might have been noticed.
At the head of the group, a militia wearing a uniform he had never seen before, preceded an exact copy of the Hood of Death. It had almost the same ethereal manner of barely touching the terrain. Yes, that was certainly a Xàmvetem more than two hundred years old. The one before was only a stand-in. They had deceived him, but not Marrhit. Unfortunately, his movement had been intercepted. Two men of the escort had been drawn to the movement faraway to the left and made a sign of alert to the others. Six of them aimed their bows at the boulder where they had scanned the movement. It could be an animal, but there was something strange. Three of them launched themselves in that direction, while the other ten placed themselves in a circle around the Xàmvetem to face eventual dangers that might come from other directions.
In his hiding place, Marrhit ran through every swear word he could think of. The target had not made it to the most favorable point to take aim, but the element of surprise had disappeared now. Action had to start in that precise moment. He released with fatal precision three arrows, one after the other. Each one had made their target. The darts filtered through the line of guards and hit the central figure cloaked in black, which crashed to the ground. In the meantime, Selot had taken up his bow and had released his arrows too; one hit its mark, a second hit a guard who had thrown himself against the Xàmvetem to protect him, while the third only grazed its target. Marrhit had already abandoned his post to launch his assault. Selot ran the distance that separated him from the armed men with a speed he did not know he had. They were two silent, black figures that came down from on high. They reunited at the first line of defense. Back to back, they whirled their swords with the coordination of two expert arms companions. That had been the moment he feared most. Not for himself, but for the mission. He tried not to get caught up in the deaths of the men who died around him. It was his weakest point, and hence, the weakest link in the mission. He knew it. He didn’t have that icy insensibility his brother enjoyed so much. Marrhit knew it too. And yet, he demonstrated his blind faith in him. He didn’t defend, leaving that duty entirely up to Selot. He focused on the Xàmvetem, sweeping away any obstacle that separated him from his objective. Many men parried to make a shield in front of the figure wrapped up in the cloak. Marrhit had a strength and a force that not even the elite-trained squad of the Congregation could withstand. Everyone of them thought the devil himself had materialized. Selot covered his back and sides. The bodyguards were experts in weapons, with many years of experience behind them. Apart from force, they were also astute and they attacked the two assassins who had come out of nowhere with incredible intelligence, forcing Selot to fight on three sides. Selot fought with two swords
, which obeyed him with impressive ease. The demon which lived within, soon came to the surface of his consciousness, and Selot was no longer the same person. He saw the movements of his adversaries in slow motion and he anticipated their every movement. He was aware of every single movement Marrhit made, and of the blows he could possibly receive. He used his own back, which was protected by the thick leather jacket and metal like a suit of armor, to oppose the blows he couldn’t parry as he defended his brother. The demon killed ruthlessly, without remorse. He had to be precise and every movement had to be fatal because there was no space for error or to go back and finish off an unfinished blow. Whoever fell was replaced by another. Marrhit was disdainful of his own safety, as he penetrated the bodyguards to eliminate anyone who stood in the way of him reaching his objective. He concentrated exclusively on advancing as close as possible; he had to come into contact with the Xàmvetem. Just like training, their spirits united in combat. Their movements became extremely fluid, coordinated, always more powerful and faster. They moved towards the center of the front line, by now half beaten, as if they were one warrior only. The enemies were disconcerted, but their training conceded them to not give into fear and to not retreat, despite the fact they were convinced they were standing before two devils. The Xàmvetem got up from the ground with much difficulty. He readied himself to face Marrhit. Selot sensed the old one had begun an attack using his Vetem capabilities; the arrows had made his fragile body stagger with the force with which they struck, but they had not wounded him. The cloak didn’t even have a tear. Selot felt Marrhit stiffen slightly. This was the most difficult moment. For several, lengthy seconds, Marrhit stood immobile, without striking with his weapons. The two Xàmvetems were battling it out, even though no one except Selot was aware of it. The guards saw him motionless and decided it had been because he’d been struck with an important blow; this gave them renewed vigor and they intensified their attack. The demon in Selot had no hesitation. He moved up against Marrhit’s back, almost touching it. He calculated every gesture and planned every movement. With three precise stabs of his knives he eliminated just as many adversaries who were converging on the sides. He dodged and parried blows. One of them lunged and almost got him on the side, luckily well-protected by his battle clothes. It resulted in a minor wound. He lowered himself to avoid another lunge, extracted a fourth knife and lodged it under the heart of an adversary who was about to strike, and drew it upwards.
He realized at that moment a guard had taken aim at Marrhit and was about to stab him in the heart. He was standing directly in front of him and could have delivered a fatal blow. Selot didn’t have time to extract the knife; that gesture, as fast as it might be, would not give him enough time: he changed the grip on his right sword, turning it into a spear, and he let it go with all his might. At such close range, the spear went right through the guard, who remained lifeless in his attempt to strike Marrhit, and he collapsed to the ground. Undefended on his right side, Selot was hit by a nearby adversary. Only a lightning speed twist of his upper body consented him to take the blow on his shoulder, protected by his light Uicic armor. The protective layer broke apart, leaving his shoulder wounded and uncovered. He had hoped Marrhit would finish the game and go back to fighting, and then they’d get out of there as quickly as possible. Marrhit however, was still entrenched in his silent battle. They were taking too much time. Between the clangs of metal and the screams of men, Selot had to defend Marrhit from the front now too, and he realized he wouldn’t be able to resist much longer. For some reason, the guards did not touch their general, and they didn’t move him from where he was positioned. They moved and fought as if he were a monolith embedded in the ground. This constituted an advantage for the two warriors because it limited the angle from which they could attack.
All of a sudden, the cloak that had wrapped the general completely, floated to the ground. Marrhit let out a sigh. Selot did not hear it in the clamor of the battle, but he saw it out of the corner of his eye. He then saw his brother raise his sword and return to fighting, but his movements had slowed down. Selot remembered the fatigue that had paralyzed him after his encounter with the Hood of Death. He remembered he’d been motionless for a long time, collapsed to the ground. It was incredible that Marrhit was still on his feet, but also able to oppose the attacks to good effect. It was evident though, he was using up the last of his energy. He was clearly in difficulty; he shook his head as if he were trying to clear his vision and his blows were no longer precise, nor energetic.
In the meantime, the body of guards of the vanguard had returned. One of the soldiers must have reached them to summon them. Selot swore, he had not been aware of anything. Seeing the general on the ground, the guards were disconcerted. The two young Xàmvetems sensed their uncertainty and made the most of their weakest front and least convincing blows, to push through and escape. Selot concentrated on defending his brother. He created an opening between the adversaries and soon they had a way out. At that moment of indecision, Marrhit and Selot got moving. Five or six chosen guards ran on after them, but it was obvious the two assassins were far too quick. They stopped after a short while. Someone aimed an arrow in an attempt to hit them, but the two warriors were already far away; they moved with speed and at irregular trajectories, imposing the soldier from taking aim.
Selot and Marrhit ran breathlessly without looking back, even if they were sure the patrol could not reach them. They had to get down the valley, collect their horses and move quickly. Darkness was at the door. They had a long nocturnal ride ahead of them. In those hours, the survivors would have enough time to return to the military camp to raise the alarm. Selot knew the death of one of the Xàmvetem rebels would be known simultaneously by those of the Congregation. The next on the list had already been alerted. Details of the encounter were missing, as well as the particulars of the Vetems who had carried out the attack. That was the only slight advantage they had. They had to make it in time, before the efficient postal service of the army could supply all the units of the area and the general headquarters of Novok, with even the tiniest bit of information of the deadly ambush.
They made the most of going downhill; the descent was exciting as they slid over its slippery, icy terrain, taking giant leaps over impervious slopes, yielding to somersaults when they fell if it was impossible to stay balanced on their feet; they took advantage of the never-ending run-ups of the descent to get past ditches and obstacles in single leaps and bounds. Selot felt drunk from the mad dash that coursed through his veins. It was like flying. The ground under their feet flew by like a strip of continuous color with no details. When they got to their horses, it seemed impossible to have done it in such a short amount of time.
“Where to now?” he asked as he got into the saddle.
“Further north. To the most turbulent battle front against the Rotmandis.”
“Is there another?” asked a disbelieving Selot. He thought of the thousands of soldiers already camped out on the plains of Taur, thinking the sizable army was more than sufficient.
“There are a great number of army deserters on the northern front. There are a lot of them and they will be battle hardened. Many have started thinking this war is madness and an unjust abuse of power towards a peaceful people. That is where the kingdom is carrying out its fiercest offensive. The operations are under the control of our next target. There is a major concern though. The Kingdom of Kennan is only watching from the side-lines for now. Remember however, the first outposts of that kingdom are to the west of the lands of the Rotmandis. Dar is exterminating a peaceful population, even if it is rebellious and dangerous for the Vetem species. This particular front is at risk of becoming a battle zone between kingdoms.” A shiver ran up Selot’s spine. Marrhit glanced at him briefly, as he held the reins of his horse.
“You are useless. You committed a foolish error earlier. You’re not even able to keep your scratching under control. On any other occasion, it could have cost us dearly.” Selot
clenched his teeth.
“And your aim with the bow and arrow must improve drastically.” Selot did not answer. Both statements were true.
They began riding northwards, but it was evident that Marrhit was finding it difficult to stay in the saddle. Despite this, they covered about twenty miles. They took a narrow and unconnected cart track that ran alongside the forest, many miles east from the main roads that instead followed the placid and ample flow of the River Op. Selot followed his brother who proved to know the way well. He observed him worriedly. When they reached a divergence to the east, he realized Marrhit’s horse was slowing down. He reached him just in time to catch him as he fell from the saddle. He wrapped his arm around him, propping him up as he took the reins to bring Marrhit’s horse to a complete stop. Once they had both halted, Selot got down and let the full weight of his brother slide onto his shoulders. Marrhit was conscious, but drained of energy. Selot sat him down against the trunk of a tree.
“There’s something wrong,” Marrhit mumbled. Selot wasn’t sure he had understood. He only had water to give him. They were still covered in blood and dirt after their ferocious encounter. He thought it would be better to regain his energy by washing away the earlier battle before undertaking the arduous ride ahead.
He took his brother’s flask and offered it to him. Marrhit only looked at it, without raising his hand to take it. Selot removed the stopper and neared it to his lips. His brother swatted it away. He went back to saying with a tiny thread of voice which was barely audible:
“Something’s wrong.” That was when Selot began to worry. He was afraid for his brother’s lucidity.
“What’s wrong?” Marrhit shook his head.
The Creed Page 25
